Текст книги "Fifty Shades Freed"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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behind us. We pass a tree-covered square where three old men, one wearing a traditional beret in spite of the heat, are playing boules. It’s quite crowded with

tourists, but I feel comfortable tucked under Christian’s arm. There is so much to see—little alleys and passageways leading to courtyards with intricate stone fountains, ancient and modern sculptures, and fascinating little boutiques and shops.

In the first gallery, Christian gazes distractedly at the erotic photographs in front of us, sucking gently on the arm of his aviator specs. They are the work of

Florence D’elle—naked women in various poses.

“Not quite what I had in mind,” I mumble disapprovingly. They make me think of the box of photographs I found in his closet, our closet. I wonder if he ever did

destroy them.

“Me neither,” Christian says, grinning down at me. He takes my hand, and we stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me. My

inner goddess nods frantically with approval.

The next display is by a female painter who specializes in figurative art—fruit and vegetables super close up and in rich, glorious color.

“I like those.” I point to three paintings of peppers. “They remind me of you chopping vegetables in my apartment.” I giggle. Christian’s mouth twists as he tries

and fails to hide his amusement.

“I thought I managed that quite competently,” he mutters. “I was just a bit slow, and anyway”—he pulls me into an embrace—“you were distracting me. Where

would you put them?”

“What?”

Christian is nuzzling my ear. “The paintings—where would you put them?” He bites my earlobe and I feel it in my groin.

“Kitchen,” I murmur.

“Hmm. Nice idea, Mrs. Grey.”

I squint at the price. Five thousand euros each. Holy shit!

“They’re really expensive!” I gasp.

“So?” He nuzzles me again. “Get used to it, Ana.” He releases me and saunters over to the desk where a young woman dressed entirely in white is gaping at him.

I want to roll my eyes, but turn my attention back to the paintings. Five thousand euros . . . jeez.

We have finished lunch and are relaxing over coffee at the Hotel Le Saint Paul. The view of the surrounding countryside is stunning. Vineyards and fields of

sunflowers form a patchwork across the plain, interspersed here and there with neat little French farmhouses. It’s such a clear, beautiful day we can see all the way

to the sea, glinting faintly on the horizon. Christian interrupts my reverie.

“You asked me why I braid your hair,” he murmurs. His tone alarms me. He looks . . . guilty.

“Yes.” Oh, shit.

“The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream.”

Whoa! His birth mom.

He gazes at me, his expression unreadable. My heart leaps into my mouth. What do I say when he says things like this?

“I like you playing with my hair.” My voice is hesitant.

“I like you playing with my hair.” My voice is hesitant.

He regards me with uncertainty. “Do you?”

“Yes.” It’s the truth. I grasp his hand. “I think you loved your birth mother, Christian.” His eyes widen and he stares at me impassively, saying nothing.

Holy shit. Have I gone too far? Say something, Fifty—please. But he remains resolutely mute, gazing at me with fathomless gray eyes while the silence stretches

between us. He looks lost.

He glances down at my hand on his and he frowns.

“Say something,” I whisper, because I cannot bear the silence any longer.

He shakes his head, exhaling deeply.

“Let’s go.” He releases my hand and stands. His expression guarded. Have I overstepped the mark? I have no idea. My heart sinks and I don’t know whether to

say anything else or just let it go. I decide on the latter and follow him dutifully out of the restaurant.

In the lovely narrow street, he takes my hand.

“Where do you want to go?”

He speaks! And he’s not mad at me—thank heavens. I exhale, relieved, and shrug. “I am just glad you’re still speaking to me.”

“You know I don’t like talking about all that shit. It’s done. Finished,” he says quietly.

No, Christian, it isn’t. The thought saddens me, and for the first time I wonder if it will ever be finished. He’ll always be Fifty Shades . . . my Fifty Shades. Do I

want him to change? No, not really—only insofar as I want him to feel loved. Peeking up at him, I take a moment to admire his captivating beauty . . . and he’s

mine. And it’s not just the allure of his fine, fine face and his body that has me spellbound. It’s what’s behind the perfection that draws me, that calls to me . . . his

fragile, damaged soul.

He gives me that look, down his nose, half amused, half wary, wholly sexy then tucks me under his arm, and we make our way through the tourists toward the

spot where Philippe/Gaston has parked the roomy Mercedes. I slip my hand back into the back pocket of Christian’s shorts, grateful that he isn’t mad. But, honestly,

what four-year-old child doesn’t love his mom, no matter how bad a mom she is? I sigh heavily and hug him closer. I know behind us the security team lurks, and I

wonder idly if they’ve eaten.

Christian stops outside a small boutique selling fine jewelry and gazes in the window, then down at me. He grasps my free hand and runs his thumb across the

faded red line of the handcuff mark, inspecting it.

“It’s not sore.” I reassure him. He twists so that my other hand is freed from his pocket. He clasps that hand, too, turning it gently over to examine my wrist. The

platinum Omega watch he gave me at breakfast on our first morning in London obscures the red line. The inscription still makes me swoon.

Anastasia

You are my More

My Love, My Life

Christian

In spite of everything, all his Fiftyness, my husband can be so romantic. I gaze down at the faint marks on my wrist. Then again, he can be savage sometimes.

Releasing my left hand, he tilts my chin up with his fingers and scrutinizes my expression, his eyes troubled.

“They don’t hurt,” I repeat. He pulls my hand to his lips and plants a soft apologetic kiss on the inside of my wrist.

“Come,” he says and leads me into the shop.

“Here,” Christian holds open the platinum bracelet he’s just purchased. It’s exquisite, so delicately crafted, the filigree in the shape of small abstract flowers with

small diamonds at their heart. He fastens it around my wrist. It’s wide and cuff-like and hides the red marks. It also cost around thirty thousand euros, I think,

though I couldn’t really follow the conversation in French with the sales assistant. I have never worn anything so expensive.

“There, that’s better,” he murmurs.

“Better?” I whisper, gazing into luminous gray eyes, conscious that the stick-thin sales assistant is staring at us with a jealous and disapproving look.

“You know why,” Christian says uncertainly.

“I don’t need this.” I shake my wrist and the cuff moves. It catches the afternoon light streaming through the boutique window and small sparkling rainbows

dance off the diamonds all over the walls of the store.

“I do,” he says with utter sincerity.

Why? Why does he need this? Does he feel guilty? About what? The marks? His birth mother? Not confiding in me? Oh, Fifty.

“No, Christian, you don’t. You’ve given me so much already. A magical honeymoon, London, Paris, the Cote D’Azur . . . and you. I’m a very lucky girl,” I

whisper and his eyes soften.

“No, Anastasia, I’m a very lucky man.”

“Thank you.” Stretching up on tiptoes, I put my arms around his neck and kiss him . . . not for giving me the bracelet but for being mine.

Back in the car he’s introspective, gazing out at the fields of bright sunflowers, their heads following and basking in the afternoon sun. One of the twins—I think it’s

Gaston—is driving and Taylor is beside him up front. Christian is brooding about something. I clasp his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He glances at me

before releasing my hand and caressing my knee. I’m wearing a short, full, blue and white skirt, and a blue, fitted, sleeveless shirt. Christian hesitates, and I don’t

know if his hand is going to travel up my thigh or down my leg. I tense with anticipation at the gentle touch of his fingers and my breath catches. What’s he going to

do? He chooses down, suddenly grasps my ankle and pulls my foot on to his lap. I swivel my backside so I am facing him in the back of the car.

“I want the other one, too.”

I glance nervously toward Taylor and Gaston, whose eyes are resolutely on the road ahead, and place my other foot on his lap. His eyes cool, he reaches over

and presses a button located in his door. In front of us, a lightly tinted privacy screen slides out of a panel, and ten seconds later we are effectively on our own.

Wow . . . no wonder the back of this car has so much legroom.

“I want to look at your ankles,” Christian offers his quiet explanation. His gaze is anxious. The cuff marks? Jeez . . . I thought we’d dealt with this. If there are

marks, they are hidden by the sandal straps. I don’t recall seeing any this morning. Gently, he strokes his thumb up my right instep, making me wriggle. A smile

plays on his lips and deftly he undoes one strap, and his smile fades as he’s confronted with the darker red marks.

“Doesn’t hurt,” I murmur. He glances at me and his expression is sad, his mouth a thin line. He nods once as if he’s taking me at my word while I shake my

sandal loose so it falls to the floor, but I know I’ve lost him. He’s distracted and brooding again, mechanically caressing my foot while he turns away to gaze out the

car window once more.

“Hey. What did you expect?” I ask softly. He glances at me and shrugs.

“I didn’t expect to feel like I do looking at these marks,” he says.

Oh! Reticent one minute and forthcoming the next? How . . . Fifty! How can I keep up with him?

Oh! Reticent one minute and forthcoming the next? How . . . Fifty! How can I keep up with him?

“How do you feel?”

Bleak eyes gaze at me. “Uncomfortable,” he murmurs.

Oh, no. I unbuckle my seatbelt and scoot closer to him, leaving my feet in his lap. I want to crawl into his lap and hold him, and I would, if it were just Taylor in

the front. But knowing Gaston is there cramps my style despite the glass. If only it were darker. I clutch his hands.

“It’s the hickeys I don’t like,” I whisper. “Everything else . . . what you did”—I lower my voice even further—“with the handcuffs, I enjoyed that. Well, more

than enjoyed. It was mind-blowing. You can do that to me again anytime.”

He shifts in his seat. “Mind-blowing?” My inner goddess looks up startled from her Jackie Collins.

“Yes.” I grin. I flex my toes into his hardening crotch and see rather than hear his sharp intake of breath, his lips parting.

“You should really be wearing your seat belt, Mrs. Grey.” His voice is low, and I curl my toes around him once more. He inhales and his eyes darken, and he

clasps my ankle in warning. Does he want me stop? Continue? He pauses, scowls then fishes his ever-present BlackBerry out of his pocket to take an incoming call

while glancing at his watch. His frown deepens.

“Barney,” he snaps.

Crap. Work interrupting us again. I try to remove my feet, but he tightens his fingers around my ankle.

“In the server room?” he says in disbelief. “Did it activate the fire suppression system?”

Fire! I take my feet off his lap and this time he lets me. I sit back in my seat, buckle my seat belt, and fiddle nervously with the fifteen-thousand-euro bracelet.

Christian presses the button in his door armrest again and the privacy glass slides down.

“Anyone injured? Damage? I see . . . When?” Christian glances at his watch again then runs his hand through his hair. “No. Not the fire department or the police.

Not yet anyway.”

Holy crap! A fire? At Christian’s office? I gape at him, my mind racing. Taylor shifts so he can hear Christian’s conversation.

“Has he? Good . . . Okay. I want a detailed damage report. And a complete rundown of everyone who had access over the last five days, including the cleaning

staff . . . Get hold of Andrea and get her to call me . . . Yeah, sounds like the argon is just as effective, worth its weight in gold.”

Damage report? Argon? It rings a distant bell from chemistry class—an element, I think.

“I realize it’s early . . . E-mail me in two hours . . . No, I need to know. Thank you for calling me.” Christian hangs up, then immediately punches a number into

the BlackBerry.

“Welch . . . Good . . . When?” Christian glances at his watch yet again. “An hour then . . . yes . . . Twenty-four-seven at the off-site data store . . . good.” He

hangs up.

“Philippe, I need to be onboard within the hour.”

“Monsieur.”

Shit, it’s Philippe, not Gaston. The car surges forward.

Christian glances at me, his expression unreadable.

“Anyone hurt?” I ask quietly.

Christian shakes his head. “Very little damage.” He reaches over and clasps my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Don’t worry about this. My team is on it.” And

there he is, the CEO, in command, in control and not flustered at all.

“Where was the fire?”

“Server room.”

“Grey House?”

“Yes.”

His responses are clipped, so I know he doesn’t want to talk about it.

“Why so little damage?”

“The server room is fitted with a state-of-the-art fire suppression system.”

Of course it is.

“Ana, please . . . don’t worry.”

“I’m not worried,” I lie.

“We don’t know for sure that it was arson,” he says, cutting to the heart of my anxiety. My hand clutches my throat in fear. Charlie Tango and now this?

What next?

I’m restless. Christian has been holed up in the onboard study for over an hour. I have tried reading, watching TV, sunbathing—fully dressed sunbathing—but I

can’t relax, and I can’t rid myself of this edgy feeling. After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I remove the ludicrously expensive bangle and go to find Taylor.

“Mrs. Grey,” he says, startled from his Anthony Burgess novel. He’s sitting in the small salon outside Christian’s study.

“I’d like to go shopping.”

“Yes ma’am.” He stands.

“Yes ma’am.” He stands.

“I’d like to take the Jet Ski.”

His mouth drops open. “Erm.” He frowns, lost for words.

“I don’t want to bother Christian with this.”

He represses a sigh. “Mrs. Grey . . . um . . . I don’t think Mr. Grey would be very comfortable with that, and I’d like to keep my job.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake! I want to roll my eyes at him, but I narrow them instead, sighing heavily and expressing, I think, the right amount of frustrated indignation

that I am not mistress of my own destiny. Then again, I don’t want Christian mad at Taylor—or me, for that matter. Striding confidently past him, I knock on the

study door and enter.

Christian is on his BlackBerry, leaning against the mahogany desk. He glances up. “Andrea, hold please,” he mutters down the phone, his expression serious.

His gaze is politely expectant. Shit. Why do I feel like I’ve entered the principal’s office? This man had me in handcuffs yesterday. I refuse to be intimidated by him,

he’s my husband damn it. I square my shoulders and give him a broad smile.

“I’m going shopping. I’ll take security with me.”

“Sure, take one of the twins and Taylor, too,” he says, and I know that whatever’s happening is serious because he doesn’t question me further. I stand staring at

him, wondering if I can help.

“Anything else?” he asks. He wants me gone. Crap.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask. He smiles his sweet shy smile.

“No, baby, I’m good,” he says. “The crew will look after me.”

“Okay.” I want to kiss him. Hell, I can—he’s my husband. Strolling purposefully forward, I plant a kiss on his lips, surprising him.

“Andrea, I’ll call you back,” he mutters. He puts the BlackBerry down on the desk behind him, pulls me into his embrace, and kisses me passionately. I am

breathless when he releases me. His eyes are dark and needy.

“You’re distracting me. I need to sort this, so I can get back to my honeymoon.” He runs an index finger down my face and caresses my chin, tilting my face up.

“Okay. I’m sorry.”

“Please don’t apologize, Mrs. Grey. I love your distractions.” He kisses the corner of my mouth.

“Go spend some money.” He releases me.

“Will do.” I smirk at him as I exit his study. My subconscious shakes her head and purses her lips. You didn’t tell him you were going on the Jet Ski, she chastises

me in her singsong voice. I ignore her . . . Harpy.

Taylor is patiently waiting.

“That’s all cleared with high command . . . can we go?” I smile, trying to keep the sarcasm out of my voice. Taylor doesn’t hide his admiring smile.

“Mrs. Grey, after you.”

Taylor patiently talks me through the controls on the Jet Ski and how to ride it. He has a calm, gentle authority about him; he’s a good teacher. We are in the motor

launch, bobbing and weaving on the calm waters of the harbor beside the Fair Lady. Gaston looks on, his expression hidden by his shades, and one of the Fair

Lady’s crew is at the controls of the motor launch. Jeez—three people with me, just because I want to go shopping. It’s ridiculous.

Zipping up my life jacket, I give Taylor a beaming grin. He holds out his hand to assist me as I climb onto the Jet Ski.

“Fasten the strap of the ignition key around your wrist, Mrs. Grey. If you fall off, the engine will cut out automatically,” he explains.

“Okay.”

“Ready?’

I nod enthusiastically.

“Press the ignition when you’ve drifted about four feet away from the boat. We’ll follow you.”

“Okay.”

He pushes the Jet Ski away from the launch, and it floats gently into the main harbor. When he gives me the okay sign, I press the ignition button and the engine

roars into life.

“Okay, Mrs. Grey, easy does it!” Taylor shouts. I squeeze the accelerator. The Jet Ski lurches forward then stalls. Crap! How does Christian make it look so

easy? I try again, and once again, I stall. Double crap!

“Just steady on the gas, Mrs. Grey,” Taylor calls.

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I mutter under my breath. I try once more, very gently squeezing the lever, and the Jet Ski lurches forward—but this time it keeps going.

Yes! It goes some more. Ha ha! It still keeps going! I want to shout and squeal in excitement, but I resist. I cruise gently away from the yacht into the main harbor.

Behind me, I hear the throaty roar of the motor launch. When I squeeze the gas further, the Jet Ski leaps forward, skating across the water. With the warm breeze in

my hair and a fine sea spray on either side of me, I feel free. This rocks! No wonder Christian never lets me drive.

Rather than head for the shore and curtail the fun, I veer around to do a circuit of the stately Fair Lady. Wow—this is so much fun. I ignore Taylor and the crew

behind me and speed around the yacht for a second time. As I complete the circuit, I spot Christian on deck. I think he’s gaping at me, though it’s difficult to tell.

Bravely, I lift one hand from the handlebars and wave enthusiastically at him. He looks like he’s made of stone, but finally he raises his hand in the semblance of a

stiff wave. I can’t work out his expression, and something tells me I don’t want to, so I head to the marina, speeding across the blue water of the Mediterranean that

shimmers in the late afternoon sun.

At the dock, I wait and let Taylor pull up ahead of me. His expression is bleak, and my heart sinks, though Gaston looks vaguely amused. I wonder briefly if

something has happened to chill Gallic-American relations, but deep down I suspect the problem is probably me. Gaston leaps out of the motorboat and ties it to the

moorings while Taylor directs me to come alongside. Very gently I ease the Jet Ski into position beside the boat and line up beside him. His expression softens a

little.

“Just switch off the ignition, Mrs. Grey,” he says calmly, reaching for the handlebars and holding out a hand to help me into the motorboat. I nimbly climb

aboard, impressed that I don’t fall in.

“Mrs. Grey,” Taylor blinks nervously, his cheeks pink once more. “Mr. Grey is not entirely comfortable with you riding on the Jet Ski.” He’s practically

squirming with embarrassment, and I realize he’s had an irate call from Christian. Oh, my poor, pathologically overprotective husband, what am I going to do with

you?

I smile serenely at Taylor. “I see. Well, Taylor, Mr. Grey is not here, and if he’s not entirely comfortable, I’m sure he’ll give me the courtesy of telling me himself

when I’m back on board.”

Taylor winces. “Very good, Mrs. Grey,” he says quietly, handing me my purse.

As I climb out of the boat, I catch a glimpse of his reluctant smile, and it makes me want to smile, too. I cannot believe how fond I am of Taylor, but I really don’t

appreciate being scolded by him—he’s not my father or my husband.

Crap, Christian’s mad—and he has enough to worry about at the moment. What was I thinking? As I stand on the dock waiting for Taylor to climb up, I feel my

Crap, Christian’s mad—and he has enough to worry about at the moment. What was I thinking? As I stand on the dock waiting for Taylor to climb up, I feel my

BlackBerry vibrate in my purse and fish it out. Sadé’s “Your Love is King” is my ring tone for Christian—only for Christian.

“Hi,” I murmur.

“Hi,” he says.

“I’ll come back on the boat. Don’t be mad.”

I hear his small gasp of surprise. “Um . . .”

“It was fun, though,” I whisper.

He sighs. “Well, far be it for me to curtail your fun, Mrs. Grey. Just be careful. Please.”

Oh my! Permission to have fun! “I will. Anything you want from town?”

“Just you, back in one piece.”

“I’ll do my best to comply, Mr. Grey.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Mrs. Grey.”

“We aim to please,” I respond with a giggle.

I hear his smile in his voice. “I have another call—laters, baby.”

“Laters, Christian.”

He hangs up. Jet Ski crisis averted, I think. The car is waiting, and Taylor holds the door open for me. I wink at him as I climb in, and he shakes his head in

amusement.

In the car, I fire up the e-mail on my BlackBerry.

From: Anastasia Grey

Subject: Thank You

Date: August 17, 2011 16:55

To: Christian Grey

For not being too grouchy.

Your loving wife

xxx

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Trying to Stay Calm

Date: August 17, 2011 16:59

To: Anastasia Grey

You’re welcome.

Come back in one piece.

This is not a request.

x

Christian Grey

CEO & Overprotective Husband, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

His response makes me smile. My control freak.

Why did I want to come shopping? I hate shopping. But deep down I know why, and I walk determinedly past Chanel, Gucci, Dior, and the other designer

boutiques and eventually find the antidote to what ails me in a small, overstocked, touristy store. It’s a little silver ankle bracelet with small hearts and little bells. It

tinkles sweetly and it costs five euros. As soon as I’ve bought it, I put it on. This is me—this is what I like. Immediately I feel more comfortable. I don’t want to lose

touch with the girl who likes this, ever. Deep down I know that I’m not only overwhelmed by Christian himself but also by his wealth. Will I ever get used to it?

Taylor and Gaston follow me dutifully through the late afternoon crowds, and I soon forget they are there. I want to buy something for Christian, something to

take his mind off what’s happening in Seattle. But what do I buy for the man who has everything? I pause in a small modern square surrounded by stores and gaze

at each one in turn. When I spy an electronics store, our visit to the gallery earlier today and our visit to the Louvre come back to me. We were looking at the Venus

de Milo at the time . . . Christian’s words echo in my head, “We can all appreciate the female form. We love to look whether in marble or oils or satin or film.”

It gives me an idea, a daring idea. I just need help choosing the right one, and there’s only one person who can help me. I wrestle my BlackBerry out of my purse

and call José.

“Who . . . ?” he mumbles sleepily.

“José, it’s Ana.”

“Ana, hi! Where are you? You okay?” He sounds more alert now, concerned.

“I’m in Cannes in the South of France, and I’m fine.”

“South of France, huh? You in some fancy hotel?”

“Um . . . no. We’re staying on a boat.”

“A boat?”

“A big boat.” I clarify, sighing.

“I see.” His tone chills . . . Shit, I should not have called him. I don’t need this right now.

“José, I need your advice.”

“My advice?” He sounds stunned. “Sure,” he says, and this time he’s much more friendly. I tell him my plan.

Two hours later, Taylor helps me out of the motor launch onto the steps up to the deck. Gaston is helping the deckhand with the Jet Ski. Christian is nowhere to be

seen, and I scurry down to our cabin to wrap his present, feeling a childish sense of delight.

“You were gone some time.” Christian startles me just as I am applying the last piece of tape. I turn to find him standing in the doorway to the cabin, watching

me intently. Holy shit! Am I still in trouble over the Jet Ski? Or is it the fire at his office?

“Everything in control at your office?” I ask tentatively.

“More or less,” he says, an annoyed frown flitting across his face.

“I did a little shopping,” I murmur, hoping to lighten his mood, and praying his annoyance is not directed at me. He smiles warmly, and I know we’re okay.

“I did a little shopping,” I murmur, hoping to lighten his mood, and praying his annoyance is not directed at me. He smiles warmly, and I know we’re okay.

“What did you buy?”

“This,” I put my foot up on the bed and show him my ankle chain.

“Very nice,” he says. He steps over to me and fondles the tiny bells so that they jingle sweetly around my ankle. He frowns again and runs his fingers lightly

along the mark, sending tingles up my leg.

“And this.” I hold out the box, hoping to distract him.

“For me?” he asks in surprise. I nod shyly. He takes the box and shakes it gently. He grins his boyish, dazzling smile and sits down beside me on the bed.

Leaning over, he grasps my chin and kisses me.

“Thank you,” he says with shy delight.

“You haven’t opened it yet.”

“I’ll love it, whatever it is.” He gazes down at me, his eyes glowing. “I don’t get many presents.”

“It’s hard to buy you things. You have everything.”

“I have you.”

“You do.” I grin at him. Oh, you so do, Christian.

He makes short work of the wrapping paper. “A Nikon?” He glances up at me, puzzled.

“I know you have your compact digital camera but this is for . . . um . . . portraits and the like. It comes with two lenses.”

He blinks at me, still not understanding.

“Today in the gallery you liked the Florence D’elle photographs. And I remember what you said in the Louvre. And of course, there were those other

photographs.” I swallow, trying my best not to recall the images I found in his closet.

He stops breathing, his eyes widening as realization dawns, and I continue hurriedly before I lose my nerve.

“I thought you might, um . . . like to take pictures of . . . me.”

“Pictures. Of you?” He gapes at me, ignoring the box on his lap.

I nod, desperately trying to gauge his reaction. Finally he gazes back down at the box, his fingers tracing over the illustration of the camera on the front with

fascinated reverence.

What is he thinking? Oh, this is not the reaction I was expecting, and my subconscious glares at me like I’m a domesticated farm animal. Christian never reacts

the way I expect. He looks back up, his eyes filled with what, pain?

“Why do you think I want this?” he asks, bemused.

No, no, no! You said you’d love it . . .

“Don’t you?” I ask, refusing to acknowledge my subconscious who is questioning why anyone would want erotic photographs of me. Christian swallows and

runs a hand through his hair, and he looks so lost, so confused. He takes a deep breath.

“For me, photos like those have usually been an insurance policy, Ana. I know I’ve objectified women for so long,” he says and pauses awkwardly.

“And you think taking pictures of me is . . . um, objectifying me?” All the air leaves my body, and the blood drains from my face.

He scrunches up his eyes. “I am so confused,” he whispers. When he opens his eyes again, they are wide and wary, full of some raw emotion.

Shit. Is it me? My questions earlier about his birth mom? The fire at his office?

“Why do you say that?” I whisper, panic rising in my throat. I thought he was happy. I thought we were happy. I thought I made him happy. I don’t want to

confuse him. Do I? My mind starts racing. He hasn’t seen Flynn in nearly three weeks. Is that it? Is that the reason he’s unraveling? Shit, should I call Flynn? And

in a possibly unique moment of extraordinary depth and clarity, it comes to me—the fire, Charlie Tango, the Jet Ski . . . He’s scared, he’s scared for me, and seeing

these marks on my skin must bring that home. He’s been fussing about them all day, confusing himself because he’s not used to feeling uncomfortable about

inflicting pain. The thought chills me.

He shrugs and once more his eyes move down to my wrist where the bangle he bought me this afternoon used to be. Bingo!

“Christian, these don’t matter.” I hold up my wrist, revealing the fading welt. “You gave me a safe word. Shit—yesterday was fun. I enjoyed it. Stop brooding

about it—I like rough sex, I’ve told you that before.” I blush scarlet as I try to quash my rising panic.

He gazes at me intently, and I have no idea what he’s thinking. Maybe he’s measuring my words. I stumble on.

“Is this about the fire? Do you think it’s connected somehow to Charlie Tango? Is this why you’re worried? Talk to me, Christian—please.”

He stares at me, saying nothing and the silence expands between us again as it did this afternoon. Holy fucking crap! He’s not going to talk to me, I know.

“Don’t overthink this Christian,” I scold quietly, and the words echo, disturbing a memory from the recent past—his words to me about his stupid contract. I

reach over, take the box from his lap, and open it. He watches me passively as if I’m a fascinating alien creature. Knowing that the camera is prepped by the overly

helpful salesman in the store, and ready to go, I fish it out of the box and remove the lens cap. I point the camera at him so his beautiful anxious face fills the frame. I

press the button and keep it pressed, and ten pictures of Christian’s alarmed expression are captured digitally for posterity.