THURSDAY, JUNE 9, 2011
I SIT. WAITING. My heart is thumping. It’s 5:36 and I stare through the tinted glass of my Audi at the front door of her building. I know I’m early, but I’ve been looking forward to this moment all day.
I’m going to see her.
I shift in my seat in the rear of the car. The atmosphere feels stifling, and though I’m trying to remain calm, the anticipation and anxiety are knotting my stomach and pressing down on my chest. Taylor sits in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead, wordless, looking his usual composed self, while I can barely breathe. It’s irritating.
Damn it. Where is she?
She’s inside—inside Seattle Independent Publishing. Set back beyond a wide, open sidewalk, the building is shabby and in need of renovation; the company’s name is etched haphazardly in the glass, and the frosted effect on the window is peeling. The business behind those closed doors could be an insurance company or an accounting firm; they’re not displaying their wares. Well, that’s something I can rectify when I take control. SIP is mine. Almost. I’ve signed the heads of agreement.
Taylor clears his throat and his eyes dart to mine in the rearview mirror. “I’ll wait outside, sir,” he says, surprising me, and he climbs out of the car before I can stop him.
Maybe he’s more affected by my tension than I thought. Am I that obvious? Maybe he’s tense. But why? Apart from the fact that he’s had to deal with my ever-changing moods this past week, and I know I’ve not been easy.
But today has been different. Hopeful. It’s the first productive day I’ve had since she left me, or so it feels. Optimism spurred me through my meetings with enthusiasm marred only by my constant need to check the time. Ten hours until I see her. Nine. Eight. Seven … My patience was tested by the clock as it ticked closer to my reunion with Miss Anastasia Steele.
And now that I’m sitting here, alone and waiting, the determination and confidence I’ve enjoyed all day is evaporating.
Perhaps she’s changed her mind.
Will it be a reunion? Or am I just the free ride to Portland?
I check my watch again.
5:38.
Shit. Why does time move so slowly?
I contemplate sending her an e-mail to let her know I’m outside, but as I fumble for my phone, I realize I don’t want to take my eyes off the front door. Leaning back, I run through her recent e-mails in my mind. I know them by heart; all of them friendly and concise, but without a hint that she’s been missing me.
Maybe I am the free ride.
I dismiss the thought and stare at the doorway, willing her to appear.
Anastasia Steele, I’m waiting.
The door opens and my heart soars into overdrive, but then quickly stutters with disappointment. It’s not her.
Damn.
She has always kept me waiting. A humorless smile tugs at my lips: waiting at Clayton’s, at the Heathman after the photo shoot, and again when I sent her the Thomas Hardy books.
Tess …
I wonder if she still has them. She wanted to give them back to me; she wanted to give them to a charity.
“I don’t want anything that will remind me of you.”
The image of Ana leaving surfaces in my mind’s eye: her sad, ashen face stricken with hurt and confusion. The memory’s unwelcome. Painful.
I made her that miserable. I took everything too far, too quickly. And it fills me with remorse. Despair has become all too familiar since she left. Closing my eyes, I try to center myself, but I’m confronted by my deepest, darkest fear: She’s met someone else. She’s sharing her little white bed and her beautiful body with some fucking stranger.
Damn it. Stay positive, Grey.
Don’t go there. All is not lost. You’ll be seeing her shortly. Your plans are in place. You are going to win her back. Opening my eyes, I stare at the front door through the Audi’s darkened glass that now reflects my mood. More people leave the building, but still no Ana.
Where is she?
Taylor is pacing outside and glancing toward the front door. Christ, he looks as nervous as I feel. What the hell is it to him?
My watch says 5:43. She’ll be out in a moment. I take a deep breath and tug at my cuffs, then try to straighten my tie only to find I’m not wearing one. Hell. Raking my hand through my hair, I try to dismiss my doubts, but they continue to plague me. Am I just a free ride to her? Will she have missed me? Will she want me back? Is there someone else? I have no idea. This is worse than waiting for her in the Marble Bar, and the irony is not lost on me. I thought that was the biggest deal I’d ever negotiate with her. I frown—that didn’t turn out the way I expected. Nothing turns out as I expect with Miss Anastasia Steele. Panic knots my stomach once more. Today, I get to negotiate a bigger deal.
I want her back.
She said she loved me …
My heart rate spikes as adrenaline floods my body.
No. No. Don’t think about that. She can’t feel that way about me.
Calm down, Grey. Focus.
I glance once more at the entrance to Seattle Independent Publishing and she’s there, walking toward me.
Fuck.
Ana.
Shock sucks the breath from my body like a kick to the solar plexus. Beneath a black jacket she’s wearing one of my favorite dresses, the purple one, and black high-heeled boots. Her hair, burnished by the early evening sun, sways in the breeze as she moves. But it’s not her clothing or her hair that holds my attention. Her face is pale, almost translucent. There are dark circles beneath her eyes, and she’s thinner.
Thinner.
Pain and guilt lance through me.
Christ.
She’s suffered, too.
My concern at her appearance turns to anger.
No. Fury.
She hasn’t been eating. She’s lost, what, five or six pounds in the last few days? She glances at some random guy behind her and he gives her a broad smile. He’s a good-looking son of a bitch, full of himself. Asshole. Their carefree exchange only fuels my rage. He watches her with blatant male appreciation as she walks toward the car, and my wrath increases with each of her steps.
Taylor opens the door and offers her his hand to help her climb inside. And suddenly she is sitting beside me.
“When did you last eat?” I snap, struggling to hold on to my temper. Her blue eyes peer up at me, unmasking me, stripping me bare and leaving me as raw as they did the first time I met her.
“Hello, Christian. Yes, it’s nice to see you, too,” she says.
What. The. Fuck.
“I don’t want your smart mouth now,” I growl. “Answer me.”
She stares at her hands in her lap, so that I’ve no idea what she’s thinking, then trots out some lame excuse about eating a yogurt and a banana.
That’s not eating!
I try, really try, to keep a rein on my temper.
“When did you last have a real meal?” I press her, but she ignores me, looking out the window. Taylor pulls away from the curb, and Ana waves to the prick who followed her out of the building.
“Who’s that?”
“My boss.”
So that’s Jack Hyde. I recall the employee details I flipped through this morning: from Detroit, scholarship to Princeton, worked his way up at a publishing firm in New York, but has moved on every few years, working his way across the country. He never retains an assistant—they don’t last more than three months. He’s on my watch list, and Welch will find out more.
Focus on the matter at hand, Grey.
“Well? Your last meal?”
“Christian, that really is none of your concern,” she whispers.
And I’m in free fall.
I’m the free ride.
“Whatever you do concerns me. Tell me.” Don’t write me off, Anastasia. Please.
She sighs in frustration and rolls her eyes to piss me off. And I see it—a soft smile pulling at the corner of her mouth. She’s trying not to laugh. She’s trying not to laugh at me. After all the heartache I’ve suffered, it’s so refreshing that it cracks through my anger. It’s so Ana. I find myself mirroring her, and I try to mask my smile.
“Well?” I ask, my tone much gentler.
“Pasta alla vongole, last Friday,” she answers, her voice subdued.
Jesus H. Christ, she’s not eaten since our last meal together! I want to pull her across my knee, right now, here in the back of the SUV—but I know I can’t ever touch her like that again.
What do I do with her?
She looks down, examining her hands, her face paler and sadder than it was before. And I drink her in, trying to fathom what to do. An unwelcome emotion blooms in my chest, threatening to overwhelm me. Disregarding it, I gaze at her and it becomes achingly clear to me that my biggest fear is unfounded. I know she didn’t get drunk and meet someone. Looking at how she is now, I know she’s been on her own, tucked up in her bed, weeping her heart out. The thought is at once comforting and distressing. I’m responsible for her misery.
Me.
I’m the monster. I did this to her. How can I ever win her back?
“I see,” I mutter, trying to dampen my feelings. “You look like you’ve lost at least five pounds, possibly more. Please eat, Anastasia.” I’m helpless. What else can I say to this precious young woman to get her to eat?
She doesn’t look at me, so I have time to study her profile. She’s as elfin and sweet and as beautiful as I remember. I want to reach out and stroke her cheek. Feel how soft her skin is … check that she’s real. I turn my body toward her, itching to touch her.
“How are you?” I ask, because I want to hear her voice.
“If I told you I was fine, I’d be lying.”
Damn. I’m right. She’s been suffering—and it’s all my fault. But her words give me a modicum of hope. Perhaps she’s missed me. Maybe? Desperate, I cling to that thought.
“Me, too. I miss you,” I confess, and I reach for her hand because I can’t live another minute without touching her. Her hand feels small and ice-cold engulfed in the warmth of mine.
“Christian. I—” She stops, her voice cracking, but she doesn’t pull her hand from mine.
“Ana, please. We need to talk.”
“Christian. I. Please. I’ve cried so much,” she whispers, and her words, and the sight of her fighting back tears, pierce what’s left of my heart.
“Oh, baby, no.” I tug her hand and before she can protest I lift her into my lap, circling her with my arms.
Oh, the feel of her.
She’s too light, too fragile, and I want to shout in frustration, but instead I bury my nose in her hair, overwhelmed by her intoxicating Ana scent. It’s reminiscent of happier times: an orchard in the fall. Laughter at home. Bright eyes, full of humor and mischief … and desire. My sweet, sweet Ana.
Mine.
At first she’s stiff and resistant, but after a beat she relaxes against me, her head resting on my shoulder. Emboldened, I take a risk, and, closing my eyes, I kiss her hair. She doesn’t struggle out of my hold, and it’s a relief. I’ve yearned for this woman. But I must be careful. I don’t want her to bolt again. I hold her, enjoying the feel of her in my arms, and this simple moment of tranquility.
But it’s a brief interlude—Taylor reaches the Seattle downtown helipad in record time.
“Come.” With reluctance, I lift her off my lap. “We’re here.”
Perplexed eyes search mine.
“Helipad—on the top of this building,” I explain. How did she think we were getting to Portland? It would take at least three hours to drive. Taylor opens her door and I climb out on my side.
“I should give you back your handkerchief,” she says to Taylor with a coy smile.
“Keep it, Miss Steele, with my best wishes.”
What the hell is going on between them?
“Nine?” I interrupt, not just to remind him what time he’ll pick us up in Portland, but to stop him from talking to Ana.
“Yes, sir,” he says quietly.
Damn right. She’s my girl. Handkerchiefs are my job. Not his.
Flashes of her vomiting on the ground, me holding back her hair, run through my head. I gave her my handkerchief then. And later that night I watched her sleep beside me.
Stop. Now. Grey.
Taking her hand—the chill has gone, but her hand is still cold—I lead her into the building. As we reach the elevator, I recall our encounter at the Heathman. That first kiss.
Yeah. That first kiss.
The thought wakes my body.
But the doors open, distracting me, and reluctantly I release her to usher her inside.
The elevator is small, and we’re no longer touching. But I sense her. All of her. Here.
Now.
Shit. I swallow.
Is it because she’s so near? Darkening eyes look up at mine.
Oh, Ana.
Her proximity is arousing. She inhales sharply and looks at the floor.
“I feel it, too,” I whisper, and reach for her hand again and caress her knuckles with my thumb. She peers up at me, her fathomless blue eyes clouding with desire.
Fuck. I want her.
She bites her lip.
“Please don’t bite your lip, Anastasia.” My voice is low, full of longing. Will it always be like this with her? I want to kiss her, press her into the elevator wall like I did during our first kiss. I want to fuck her, here, and make her mine again. She blinks, her lips gently parted, and I suppress a groan. How does she do this? Derail me with a look? I am used to control—and I’m practically drooling over her because her teeth are pressing into her lip.
“You know what it does to me,” I murmur. And right now, baby, I want to take you in this elevator, but I don’t think you’ll let me.
The doors slide open and the rush of cold air brings me back to the now. We’re on the roof, and although the day has been warm, the wind has picked up. Anastasia shivers beside me. I wrap my arm around her and she huddles into my side. She feels too slight against me, but her petite frame fits perfectly under my arm.
See? We fit together so well, Ana.
We head out onto the helipad toward Charlie Tango. The rotors are spinning gently—she’s ready for liftoff. Stephan, my pilot, runs toward us. We shake hands, and I keep Anastasia tucked under my arm.
“Ready to go, sir. She’s all yours!” he roars above the sound of the helicopter engines.
“All checks done?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll collect her around eight-thirty?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Taylor’s waiting for you out front.”
“Thank you, Mr. Grey. Safe flight to Portland. Ma’am.” He salutes Anastasia and heads to the waiting elevator. We duck down under the rotors and I open the door, taking her hand to help her climb aboard.
As I strap her into the seat, her breath hitches. The sound travels straight to my groin.
I cinch the straps extra-tight, trying to ignore my body’s reaction to her.
“This should keep you in your place,” I mutter. “I must say, I like this harness on you. Don’t touch anything.”
She flushes. Finally, some color stains her pale face—and I can’t resist. I run the back of my index finger down her cheek, tracing the line of her blush.
Lord, I want this woman.
She scowls, and I know it’s because she can’t move. I hand her some headphones, take my seat, and buckle up.
I run through my preflight checks. All instruments are in the green with no advisory lights. I roll the throttles to “fly,” set the transponder code, and confirm that the anti-collision light is on. It all looks good. I don my headphones, switch on the radios, and check the rotor rpm.
When I turn to Ana, she’s watching me intently. “Ready, baby?”
“Yes.”
She’s wide-eyed and excited. I can’t help my wolfish grin as I radio the tower to make sure that they’re awake and listening.
Once I have permission to take off I check the oil temperature and the rest of the gauges. They’re all in normal operating range, so I increase the collective, and Charlie Tango, elegant bird that she is, rises smoothly into the air.
Oh, I love this.
Feeling a little more confident, as we gain altitude, I glance at Miss Steele beside me.
Time to dazzle her. Showtime, Grey.
“We’ve chased the dawn, Anastasia. Now the dusk.” I smile, and I’m rewarded with a shy smile that illuminates her face. Hope stirs in my chest at her expression. I have her here, with me, when I thought all was lost. She seems to be enjoying herself and she looks happier than she did when she walked out of her office. I might just be the free ride, but I’m going to try to enjoy every damn minute of this flight with her.
Dr. Flynn would be proud.
I’m in the moment. And I’m optimistic.
I can do this. I can win her back.
Baby steps, Grey. Don’t get ahead of yourself.
“As well as the evening sun, there’s more to see this time,” I say. “Escala’s over there. Boeing there—and you can just see the Space Needle.”
She cranes her slim neck to look, curious as ever. “I’ve never been,” she says.
“I’ll take you. We can eat there.”
“Christian, we broke up,” she exclaims, dismay in her voice.
That is not what I want to hear, but I try not to overreact. “I know. I can still take you there. And feed you.” I give her a pointed look and she blushes a lovely pale rose.
“It’s very beautiful up here. Thank you,” she says, and I note that she’s changed the subject.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” I never get tired of this view.
“Impressive that you can do this.” Her compliment surprises me.
“Flattery from you, Miss Steele? But I’m a man of many talents,” I tease.
“I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Grey,” she says tartly, and I can imagine what she’s referring to. I suppress a smirk. This is what I’ve missed: her impertinence, disarming me at every turn.
Keep her talking, Grey.
“How’s the new job?”
“Good, thank you. Interesting.”
“What’s your boss like?”
“Oh. He’s okay.” She sounds less than enthusiastic about Jack Hyde, and a frisson of apprehension runs through me. Has he tried anything with her?
“What’s wrong?” I ask. I want to know—has that prick done anything inappropriate? I will fire his ass if he has.
“Aside from the obvious, nothing.”
“The obvious?”
“Oh, Christian, you really are obtuse sometimes.” She eyes me with amused disdain.
“Obtuse? Me? I’m not sure I appreciate your tone, Miss Steele.”
“Well, don’t, then,” she quips, pleased with herself, making me grin. I like that she mocks and teases me. She can make me feel two feet tall or ten feet tall with just a look or a smile—it’s refreshing, and unlike anything I’ve known before.
“I’ve missed your smart mouth, Anastasia.” An image of her on her knees in front of me pops into my mind and I shift in my seat.
Shit. Concentrate, Grey, for heaven’s sake. She looks away, concealing her smile, and stares down at the passing suburbs while I check the heading—all is well. We’re on track for Portland.
She’s quiet, and I steal the occasional glance at her. Her face is alight with curiosity and wonder as she gazes out at the passing landscape and the opal sky. Her cheeks are soft and glowing in the evening light. And in spite of her pallor and the dark circles beneath her eyes—evidence of the suffering I’ve caused her—she’s stunning. How could I have let her walk out of my life? What was I thinking?
While we race above the clouds in our bubble, high in the sky, my optimism grows and the turmoil of the last week recedes. Slowly, I begin to relax, enjoying a serenity I’ve not felt since she left, now that she’s here with me.
But as we near our destination my confidence falters. I hope to God that my plan works. I need to take her somewhere private. To dinner, maybe. Damn it. I should have booked somewhere.
She needs feeding. If I get her to dinner, then all I’ll need to do is find the right words. These last few days have shown me that I need someone—I need her. I want her, but will she have me? Can I convince her to give me a second chance?
Time will tell, Grey—just take it easy. Don’t frighten her off again.
WE LAND ON PORTLAND’S only helipad fifteen minutes later. As I bring Charlie Tango’s engines to idle and switch off the transponder, fuel, and radios, the uncertainty I’ve felt since I resolved to win her back resurfaces. I need to tell her how I feel, and that’s going to be hard—because I don’t understand my feelings toward her. I know that I’ve missed her, that I’ve been miserable without her and that I’m willing to try a relationship her way. But will it be enough for her? Will it be enough for me?
Time will tell, Grey.
Once I’ve unbuckled my harness I lean across to undo hers and catch a trace of her sweet fragrance. She smells good. She always smells good. Her eyes catch mine in a brief, furtive glance, as if she’s having some inappropriate thought, and as usual I would love to know what she’s thinking.
“Good trip, Miss Steele?” I ask, ignoring her look.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey.”
“Well, let’s go and see the boy’s photos.” I open the door, jump down, and hold my hand out for her.
Joe, the manager of the helipad, is waiting to greet us. He’s an antique: a veteran of the Korean War, but still as spry and acute as a man in his fifties. His bright eyes miss nothing. They light up as he gives me a craggy smile.
“Joe, keep her safe for Stephan. He’ll be along around eight or nine.”
“Will do, Mr. Grey. Ma’am. Your car’s waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator’s out of order. You’ll need to use the stairs.”
“Thank you, Joe.”
As we head for the emergency stairwell, I eye Anastasia’s high heels and remember her less than dignified fall into my office.
“Good thing for you this is only three floors—in those heels.” I hide my smile.
“Don’t you like the boots?” she asks, looking down at her feet. A pleasing vision of them hooked over my shoulders springs to mind.
“I like them very much, Anastasia,” I mutter, hoping my expression doesn’t betray my lascivious thoughts. “Come. We’ll take it slow. I don’t want you falling and breaking your neck.”
Snaking my arm around her waist, I’m thankful that the elevator is out of order—it gives me a plausible excuse to hold her. I pull her to my side and we descend the stairs.
In the car on the way to the gallery my anxiety doubles; we’re about to attend the show of her so-called friend. The man who, last time I saw him, was trying to push his tongue into her mouth. Perhaps over the last few days they’ve talked; perhaps this is a long-anticipated rendezvous between them.
Fuck, I hadn’t considered that before. I sure as hell hope it’s not.
“José is just a friend,” Ana says softly.
What? She knows what I’m thinking? Am I that obvious? Since when?
Since she stripped me of all my armor. Since I discovered that I needed her.
She stares at me and my stomach tightens. “Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Anastasia. Please tell me you’ll eat.”
“Yes, Christian, I’ll eat,” she replies, her voice laced with frustration.
“I mean it.”
“Do you, now?” Her tone is sarcastic, and I almost have to sit on my hands. It’s time to declare myself.
“I don’t want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want you back, and I want you healthy.” I’m honored with her shocked, wide-eyed look.
“But nothing’s changed,” she says, her expression turning to a frown.
Oh, Ana, it has—there’s been a seismic shift in me. We pull up at the gallery and I have no time to explain before the show.
“Let’s talk on the way back. We’re here.”
Before she can say she’s not interested, I exit the car, walk around to her side, and open the door. She looks mad as she exits.
“Why do you do that?” she exclaims, exasperated.
“Do what?” Fuck—what’s this?
“Say something like that and then just stop.”
That’s it—that’s why you’re mad?
“Anastasia, we’re here. Where you want to be. Let’s do this and then talk. I don’t particularly want a scene in the street.”
She presses her lips together in a petulant pout, then gives me a begrudging “Okay.”
Taking her hand, I move swiftly into the gallery, and she scrambles behind me.