Текст книги "Fifty shades darker"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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Текущая страница: 29 (всего у книги 29 страниц)

excuse me, I have much better things to do than waste my time with you.”

“Not so fast, missy,” she hisses, leaning against the door, effectively blocking it. “What

on earth do you think you’re doing, consenting to marry Christian? If you think for one

minute you can make him happy, you’re very much mistaken.”

“What I’m consenting to do with Christian is none of your concern.” I smile with sar-

castic sweetness. She ignores me.

“He has needs—needs you cannot possibly begin to satisfy,” she gloats.

“What do you know of his needs?” I snarl. My sense of indignation flares brightly,

burning inside me as adrenaline surges through my body. How dare this fucking bitch

preach to me? “You’re nothing but a sick child molester, and if it was up to me, I’d toss

you into the seventh circle of hell and walk away smiling. Now get out of my way—or do

I have to make you?”

“You’re making a big mistake here, lady.” She shakes a long, skinny, finely manicured

finger at me. “How dare you judge our lifestyle? You know nothing, and you have no idea

what you’re getting yourself into. And if you think he’s going to be happy with a mousy

little gold-digger like you . . .”

That’s it!I throw the rest of my lemon martini in her face, drenching her.

“Don’t you dare tell me what I’m getting myself into!” I shout at her. “When will you

learn? It’s none of your goddamned business!”

She gapes at me, horror struck, wiping the sticky drink off her face. I think she’s about

to lunge at me, but she’s suddenly shunted forward as the door opens.

Christian is standing in the doorway. It takes him a nanosecond to assess the situa-

tion—me ashen and shaking, her soaked and livid. His lovely face darkens and contorts

with anger as he comes to stand between us.

“What the fuck are you doing, Elena?” he says, his voice glacial and laced with men-

ace.She blinks up at him. “She’s not right for you, Christian,” she whispers.

“What?” he shouts, startling both of us. I can’t see his face but his whole body has

tensed, and he radiates animosity.

“How the fuck do you know what’s right for me?”

“You have needs, Christian,” she says her voice softer.

“I’ve told you before—this is none of your fucking business,” he roars. Oh crap—Very

Angry Christian has reared his not-so-ugly head. People are going to hear.

“What is this?” He pauses, glaring at her. “Do you think it’s you? You? You think

you’re right for me?” His voice is softer but drips contempt, and suddenly I don’t want to

be here. I don’t want to witness this intimate encounter. I’m intruding. But I’m stuck—my

limbs unwilling to move.

Elena swallows and seems to draw herself upright. Her stance changes subtly, becomes

more commanding, and she steps toward him.

“I was the best thing that ever happened to you,” she hisses arrogantly at him. “Look

at you now. One of the richest, most successful, entrepreneurs in the US—controlled, driv-

en—you need nothing. You are master of your universe.”

He steps back as if he’s been struck and gapes at her in outraged disbelief.

“You loved it, Christian, don’t try and kid yourself. You were on the road to self-de-

struction, and I saved you from that, saved you from a life behind bars. Believe me, baby,

that’s where you would have ended up. I taught you everything you know, everything you

need.”

Christian blanches, staring at her in horror. When he speaks, his voice is low and in-

credulous.

“You taught me how to fuck, Elena. But it’s empty, like you. No wonder Linc left.”

Bile rises in my mouth. I should not be here. But I’m frozen to the spot, morbidly fas-

cinated as they eviscerate each other.

“You never once held me,” Christian whispers. “You never once said you loved me.”

She narrows her eyes. “Love is for fools, Christian.”

“Get out of my house.” Grace’s implacable, furious voice startles us. Three heads

swing rapidly to where Grace stands on the threshold of the room. She is glaring at Elena,

who pales beneath her St. Tropez tan.

Time seems suspended as we collectively take a deep gasping breath, and Grace stalks

deliberately into the room. Her eyes blaze with fury, never once leaving Elena, until she

stands before her. Elena’s eyes widen in alarm, and Grace slaps her hard across the face,

the sound of the impact resounding off the walls of the dining room.

“Take your filthy paws off my son, you whore, and get out of my house—now!” she

hisses through gritted teeth.

Elena clutches her reddening cheek and stares in horror for a moment, shocked and

blinking at Grace. Then she hurries from the room, not bothering to close the door behind

her. Grace turns slowly to face Christian and a tense silence settles like a thick blanket over

us as Christian and Grace stare at each other. After a beat, Grace speaks.

“Ana, before I hand him over to you, would you mind giving me a minute or two alone

with my son?” Her voice is quiet, husky, but oh-so-strong.

“Of course,” I whisper, and exit as quickly as I can, glancing anxiously over my shoul-

der. But neither of them look at me as I leave. They continue to stare at each other, their

unspoken communication blaringly loud.

In the hallway, I am momentarily lost. My heart pounds and my blood races through

my veins . . . I feel panicked and out of my depth. Holy fuck, that was heavy and now Grace

knows. Crap. I can’t think what she’s going to say to Christian, and I know it’s wrong, I

know, but I lean against the door trying to listen.

“How long, Christian?” Grace’s voice is soft. I can barely hear her.

I cannot hear his reply.

“How old were you?” Her voice is more insistent. “Tell me. How old were you when

this all started?” Again I can’t hear Christian.

“Everything okay, Ana?” Ros interrupts me.

“Yes. Fine. Thank you. I . . .”

Ros smiles. “I’m just going to fetch my purse. I need a cigarette.”

For a brief moment, I contemplate joining her.

“I’m off to the bathroom.” I need to gather my wits and my thoughts, to process what

I’ve just witnessed and heard. Upstairs seems the safest place to be on my own. I watch

Ros stroll into the drawing room, and I bolt two stairs at a time to the second floor, then up

to the third. There’s only one place I want to be.

I open the door to Christian’s childhood bedroom and shut it behind me, taking a huge

gulping breath. Heading for his bed, I flop onto it and stare at the plain white ceiling.

Holy cow. That has to be, without doubt, one of the most excruciating confrontations

I’ve ever had to endure, and now I feel numb. My fiancé and his ex-lover—no would-be

bride should have to see that. Having said that, part of me is glad she’s revealed her true

self, and that I was there to bear witness.

My thoughts turn to Grace. Poor Grace, to hear all that. I clutch one of Christian’s pil-

lows. She’ll have overheard that Christian and Elena had an affair—but not the nature of

it. Thank heavens. I groan.

What am I doing? Perhaps the evil witch had a point.

No, I refuse to believe that. She’s so cold and cruel. I shake my head. She’s wrong. I am

right for Christian. I am what he needs. And in a moment of stunning clarity, I don’t ques-

tion howhe’s lived his life until recently—but why.His reasons for doing what he’s done to countless girls—I don’t even want to know how many. The how isn’t wrong. They were all

adults. They were all—how did Flynn put it?—in safe, sane, consensual relationships. It’s

the why. The why was wrong. The why was from his place of darkness.

I close my eyes and drape my arm over them. But now he’s moved on, left it behind,

and we are both in the light. I’m dazzled by him and he by me. We can guide each other. A

thought occurs to me. Shit!A gnawing, insidious thought and I’m in the one place where I

can lay this ghost to rest. I sit up. Yes, I must do this.

Shakily I get to my feet, kick off my shoes, walk over to his desk, and examine the pin

board above it. The photos of young Christian are all still there—more poignant than ever

as I think of the spectacle I’ve just witnessed between him and Mrs. Robinson. And there

in the corner is the small black and white photo—his mother, the crack whore.

I switch on the desk lamp and focus the light on her picture. I don’t even know her

name. She looks so much like him but younger and sadder and all I feel, looking at her sor-

rowful face, is compassion. I try to see the similarities between her face and mine. I squint

at the picture, getting really, really close, and see none. Except maybe our hair, but I think

hers is lighter than mine. I don’t look like her at all. It’s a relief.

My subconscious tuts at me, arms crossed, glaring over her half-moon glasses. Why

are you torturing yourself? You’ve said yes. You’ve made your bed.I purse my lips at her.

Yes I have, gladly so. I want to lie in that bed with Christian for the rest of my life. My in-

ner goddess, sitting in the lotus position, smiles serenely. Yes. I’ve made the right decision.

I must find him—Christian will be worried. I have no idea how long I’ve been in his

room; he’ll think that I’ve fled. I roll my eyes as I contemplate his overreaction. I hope that

he and Grace have finished. I shudder to think what else she might have said to him.

I meet Christian as he climbs the stairs to the second floor, looking for me. His face

is strained and weary—not the carefree Fifty I arrived with. As I stand on the landing, he

stops on the top stair so that we are eye to eye.

“Hi,” he says cautiously.

“Hi,” I answer warily.

“I was worried—”

“I know,” I interrupt him. “I’m sorry—I couldn’t face the festivities. I just had to get

away, you know. To think.” Reaching up, I caress his face. He closes his eyes and leans his

face into my hand.

“And you thought you’d do that in my room?”

“Yes.”

He reaches for my hand and pulls me into an embrace, and I go willingly into his arms,

my favorite place in the whole world. He smells of fresh laundry, body wash, and Chris-

tian—the most calming and arousing scent on the planet. He inhales with his nose in my

hair.“I’m sorry you had to endure all that.”

“It’s not your fault, Christian. Why was she here?” He gazes down at me, and his

mouth curls apologetically.

“She’s a family friend.”

I try not to react. “Not any more. How’s your mom?”

“Mom is pretty fucking mad at me right now. I’m really glad you’re here, and that

we’re in the middle of a party. Otherwise I might be breathing my last.”

“That bad, huh?”

He nods, his eyes serious, and I sense his bewilderment at her reaction.

“Can you blame her?” My voice is quiet, cajoling.

He hugs me tightly and he seems uncertain, processing his thoughts.

Finally he answers. “No.”

Whoa! Breakthrough.“Can we sit?” I ask.

“Sure. Here?”

I nod and we both sit at the top of the stairs.

“So, how do you feel?” I ask, anxiously clutching his hand and gazing at his sad, seri-

ous face.

He sighs.

“I feel liberated.” He shrugs, then beams—a glorious, carefree Christian smile, and the

weariness and strain present moments ago have vanished.

“Really?” I beam back. Wow, I’d crawl over broken glass for that smile.

“Our business relationship is over. Done.”

I frown at him. “Will you liquidate the salon business?”

He snorts. “I’m not that vindictive, Anastasia,” he admonishes me. “No. I’ll gift them

to her. I’ll talk to my lawyer Monday. I owe her that much.”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “No more Mrs. Robinson?” His mouth twists in amusement

and he shakes his head.

“Gone.”

I grin.

“I’m sorry you lost a friend.”

He shrugs then smirks. “Are you?”

“No,” I confess, flushing.

“Come.” He stands and offers me his hand. “Let’s join the party in our honor. I might

even get drunk.”

“Do you get drunk?” I ask as I take his hand.

“Not since I was a wild teenager.” We walk down the stairs.

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

Oh crap.

“No.”

“Well you should. From the look and smell of Elena, that was one of my father’s lethal

cocktails you threw over her.” He gazes at me, trying and failing to keep the amusement

off his face.

“Christian, I—”

He holds up his hand.

“No arguing, Anastasia. If you’re going to drink—and throw alcohol over my exes—

you need to eat. It’s rule number one. I believe we’ve already had that discussion after our

first night together.”

Oh yes. The Heathman.

Back in the hallway, he pauses to caress my face, his fingers skimming my jaw.

“I lay awake for hours and watched you sleep,” he murmurs. “I might have loved you

even then.”

Oh.

He leans down and kisses me softly, and I melt everywhere, all the tension of the last

hour or so seeping languidly from my body.

“Eat,” he whispers.

“Okay,” I acquiesce because right now I’d probably do anything for him. Taking my

hand, he leads me toward the kitchen where the party is in full swing.

“Goodnight, John, Rhian.”

“Congratulations again, Ana. You two will be just fine.” Dr. Flynn smiles kindly at us,

standing arm in arm in the hallway as he and Rhian take their leave.

“Goodnight.”

Christian closes the door and shakes his head. He gazes down at me, his eyes suddenly

bright with excitement.

What’s this?

“Just the family left. I think my mother has had too much to drink.” Grace is singing

karaoke on some game console in the family room. Kate and Mia are giving her a run for

her money.

“Do you blame her?” I smirk at him, trying to keep the atmosphere between us light.

I succeed.

“Are you smirking at me, Miss Steele?”

“I am.”

“It’s been quite a day.”

“Christian, recently, every day with you has been quite a day.” My voice is sardonic.

He shakes his head. “Fair point well made, Miss Steele. Come—I want to show you

something.” Taking my hand, he leads me through the house to the kitchen where Car-

rick, Ethan, and Elliot are talking Mariners, drinking the last of the cocktails, and eating

leftovers.

“Off for a stroll?” Elliot teases suggestively as we make our way through the French

doors. Christian ignores him. Carrick frowns at Elliot, shaking his head in a silent rebuke.

As we make our way up the steps to the lawn, I take off my shoes. The half-moon

shines brightly over the bay. It’s brilliant, casting everything in myriad of shades of gray

as the lights of Seattle twinkle sweetly in the distance. The lights of the boathouse are on,

a soft glowing beacon in the cool cast of the moon.

“Christian, I’d like to go to church tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“I prayed you’d come back alive and you did. It’s the least I could do.”

“Okay.”

We wander hand in hand in a relaxed silence for a few moments. Then something oc-

curs to me.

“Where are you going to put the photos José took of me?”

“I thought we might put them in the new house.”

“You bought it?”

He stops to stare at me, and his voice full of concern. “Yes. I thought you liked it.”

“I do. When did you buy it?”

“Yesterday morning. Now we need to decide what to do with it,” he murmurs, relieved.

“Don’t knock it down. Please. It’s such a lovely house. It just needs some tender loving

care.”

Christian glances at me and smiles. “Okay. I’ll talk to Elliot. He knows a good archi-

tect; she did some work on my place is Aspen. He can do the remodeling.”

I snort, suddenly remembering the last time we crossed the lawn under the moonlight

to the boathouse. Oh, perhaps that’s what we’re going to do now. I grin.

“What?”

“I remember the last time you took me to the boathouse.”

Christian chuckles quietly. “Oh, that was fun. In fact . . .” He suddenly stops and

scoops me over his shoulder, and I squeal, though we don’t have far to go.

“You were really angry, if I remember correctly,” I gasp.

“Anastasia, I’m always really angry.”

“No you’re not.”

He swats my behind as he stops outside the wooden door. He slides me down his body

back to the ground and takes my head in his hands.

“No, not anymore.” Leaning down, he kisses me, hard. When he pulls away, I’m

breathless and desire is racing round my body.

He gazes down at me, and in the glow of the strip of light coming from inside the

boathouse, I can see he’s anxious. My anxious man, not a white knight or a dark knight, but

a man—a beautiful, not-quite-so-fucked-up man—whom I love. I reach up and caress his

face, running my fingers through his sideburns and along his jaw to his chin, then let my

index finger touch his lips. He relaxes.

“I’ve something to show you in here,” he murmurs and opens the door.

The harsh light of the fluorescents illuminates the impressive motor launch in the dock,

bobbing gently on the dark water. There’s a row boat beside it.

“Come.” Christian takes my hand and leads me up the wooden stairs. Opening the door

at the top, he steps aside to let me in.

My mouth drops to the floor. The attic is unrecognizable. The room is filled with flow-

ers . . . there are flowers everywhere. Someone has created a magical bower of beautiful

wild meadow flowers mixed with glowing fairy lights and miniature lanterns that glow soft

and pale round the room.

My face whips round to meet his, and he’s gazing at me, his expression unreadable.

He shrugs.

“You wanted hearts and flowers,” he murmurs.

I blink at him, not quite believing what I’m seeing.

“You have my heart.” And he waves toward the room.

“And here are the flowers,” I whisper, completing his sentence. “Christian, it’s lovely.”

I can’t think of what else to say. My heart is in my mouth as tears prick my eyes.

Tugging my hand, he pulls me into the room, and before I know it, he’s sinking to one

knee in front of me. Holy hell . . . I did not expect this!I stop breathing.

From his inside jacket pocket he produces a ring and gazes up at me, his eyes bright

gray and raw, full of emotion.

“Anastasia Steele. I love you. I want to love, cherish, and protect you for the rest of my

life. Be mine. Always. Share my life with me. Marry me.”

I blink down at him as my tears fall. My Fifty, my man. I love him so, and all I can say

as the tidal wave of emotion hits me is, “Yes.”

He grins, relieved, and slowly slides the ring on my finger. It’s beautiful, an oval dia-

mond in a platinum ring. Jeez—it’s big . . .Big, but oh-so-simple and stunning in its sim-

plicity.

“Oh, Christian,” I sob, suddenly overwhelmed with joy, and I join him on my knees,

my fingers fisting in his hair as I kiss him, kiss him with all my heart and soul. Kiss this

beautiful man, who loves me as I love him; and as he wraps his arms around me, his hands

moving to my hair, his mouth on mine. I know deep down I will always be his, and he will

always be mine. We’ve come so far together, we have so far to go, but we are made for each

other. We are meant to be.

The cigarette end glows brightly in the darkness as he takes a deep pull. He blows the

smoke out in a long exhale, finishing with two smoke rings that dissolve in front of him,

pale and ghostly in the moonlight. He shifts in his seat, bored, and takes a quick shot of

cheap bourbon from a bottle wrapped in shabby brown paper before resting it back be-

tween his thighs.

He can’t believe he’s still on the trail. His mouth twists in a sardonic sneer. The heli-

copter had been a rash and bold move. One of the most exhilarating things he’d ever done

in his life. But to no avail. He rolls his eyes ironically. Who would have thought the son-of-

a-bitch could actually fly the fucker?

He snorts.

They have underestimated him. If Grey thought for one minute he’d go whimpering

quietly into the dusk, that prick didn’t know jack shit.

It had been the same all his life. People constantly underestimating him—just a man

who reads books. Fuck that! A man with a photographic memory who reads books. Oh,

the things he’s learned, the things he knows. He snorts again– Yeah, about you, Grey. The

things I know about you.

Not bad for a kid from the gutter end of Detroit.

Not bad for the kid who won a scholarship to Princeton.

Not bad for the kid who worked his ass off through college and got into publishing.

And now all of that’s fucked, fucked because of Grey and his little bitch. He scowls

at the house as if it represents everything he despises. But there’s nothing doing. The only

drama had been the stacked, blond broad in black, teetering down the driveway in tears

before she climbed into the white CLK and fucked off.

He chuckles mirthlessly, then winces. Fuck, his ribs. Still sore from the swift kicking

Grey’s henchman delivered.

He replays the scene in his mind. “You fucking touch Miss Steele again, I’ll fucking

kill you.”

That motherfucker will get it good, too. Yeah—get what’s coming to him.

He settles back in his seat. Looks like it’s going to be a long night.He’ll stay, watch,

and wait. He takes another toke of his Marlboro red. His chance will come. His chance will

come soon.

End of Part Two . . .