“You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia,” he breathes. “But even in my T-shirt you look beautiful.”
Oh, an unexpected compliment. “I missed you. Come to bed.”
He rises slowly out of the chair still in his white shirt and black dress pants. But now his eyes are shining and full of promise . . . but there’s a trace of sadness, too. He stands in front of me, staring intently but not touching me.
“Do you know what you mean to me?” he murmurs. “If something happened to you, because of me . . .” His voice trails off, his brow creasing, and the pain that flashes across his face is almost palpable. He looks so vulnerable—his fear very much apparent.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I reassure him, my voice soothing. I reach up and stroke his face, running my fingers through the stubble on his cheek. It’s unexpectedly soft. “Your beard grows quickly,” I whisper, unable to hide the wonder in my voice at this beautiful, fucked-up man who stands before me.
I trace the line of his bottom lip then trail my fingers down his throat, to the faint smudge of lipstick at the base of his neck. He gazes down at me, still not touching me, his lips parted. I run my index finger along the line, and he closes his eyes. His soft breathing quickens. My fingers reach the edge of his shirt, and I run them down to the next fastened button.
“I’m not going to touch you. I just want to undo your shirt,” I whisper.
His eyes open wide, regarding me with alarm. But he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t stop me. Very slowly I unfasten the button, holding the material away from his skin, and move tentatively down to the next button, repeating the process—slowly, concentrating on what I am doing.
I don’t want to touch him. Well, I do . . . but I won’t. On the fourth button, the red line reappears, and I smile shyly up at him.
“Back on home territory.” I trace the line with my fingers before undoing the final button. I pull his shirt open and move to his cuffs, removing his black polished stone cufflinks one at a time.
“Can I take your shirt off?” I ask, my voice low.
He nods, eyes still wide, as I reach up and pull his shirt over his shoulders. He frees his hands so he’s standing in front of me naked from the waist up. With his shirt off, he seems to recover his equilibrium. He smirks down at me.
“What about my pants, Miss Steele?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“In the bedroom. I want you in your bed.”
“Do you now? Miss Steele, you are insatiable.”
“I can’t think why.” I grab his hand, pull him from his study, and lead him to his bedroom. The room is chilly.
“You opened the balcony door?” he asks, frowning down at me as we arrive in his room.
“No.” I don’t remember doing that. I recall scanning the room when I woke. The door was definitely closed.
Oh shit . . . All the blood rushes from my face, and I stare at Christian as my mouth falls open.
“What?” he snaps, glaring at me.
“When I woke . . . there was someone in here,” I whisper. “I thought it was my imagination.”
“What?” He looks horrified and dashes to the balcony door, peers out, then steps back into the room and locks the door behind him. “Are you sure? Who?” he asks his voice tight.
“A woman, I think. It was dark. I’d only just woken up.”
“Get dressed,” he snarls at me on his way back in. “Now!”
“My clothes are upstairs,” I whimper.
He pulls open one of the drawers in his chest of drawers and fishes out a pair of sweatpants.
“Put these on.” They are far too big, but he is not to be argued with.
He swipes a T-shirt, too, and quickly pulls it over his head. Grabbing the bedside phone, he presses two buttons.
“She’s still fucking here,” he hisses down the phone.
Approximately three seconds later, Taylor and one of the other security guys, burst into Christian’s bedroom. Christian gives them a précis of what has happened.
“How long ago?” Taylor demands, staring at me all businesslike. He’s still wearing his jacket. Does this man ever sleep?
“About ten minutes,” I mutter, for some reason feeling guilty.
“She knows the apartment like the back of her hand,” says Christian. “I am taking Anastasia away now. She’s hiding here somewhere. Find her. When is Gail back?
“Tomorrow evening, sir.”
“She’s not to return until this place is secure. Understand?” Christian snaps.
“Yes, sir. Will you be going to Bellevue?”
“I’m not leading this problem to my parents. Book me somewhere.”
“Yes. I’ll call you.”
“Aren’t we all overreacting slightly?” I ask.
Christian glowers at me. “She may have a gun,” he growls.
“Christian, she was standing at the end of the bed. She could have shot me then, if that’s what she wanted to do.”
Christian pauses for a moment to rein in his temper, I think. In a menacingly soft voice he says, “I’m not prepared to take the risk. Taylor, Anastasia needs shoes.”
Christian disappears into his closet while the security guy watches me. I can’t remember his name, Ryan maybe. He looks alternately down the hall and to the balcony windows. Christian emerges a couple of minutes later with a leather messenger bag, wearing jeans and his pinstriped blazer. He drapes a denim jacket around my shoulders.
“Come.” He clasps my hand tightly, and I have to practically run to keep up with his long strides into the great room.
“I can’t believe she could hide somewhere in here,” I mutter, staring out the balcony doors.
“It’s a big place. You haven’t seen it all yet.”
“Why don’t you just call her . . . tell her you want to talk to her?”
“Anastasia, she’s unstable, and she may be armed,” he says irritably.
“So we just run?”
“For now—yes.”
“Supposing she tries to shoot Taylor?”
“Taylor knows and understands guns,” he says with distaste. “He’ll be quicker with a gun than she is.”
“Ray was in the army. He’s taught me to shoot.”
Christian raises his eyebrows and for a moment looks utterly bemused. “You, with a gun?” he says incredulously.
“Yes.” I am affronted. “I can shoot, Mr. Grey, so you’d better beware. It’s not just crazy ex-subs you need to worry about.”
“I’ll bear that in mind, Miss Steele,” he answers dryly, amused, and it feels good to know that even in this ridiculously tense situation, I can make him smile.
Taylor meets us in the foyer and hands me my small suitcase and my black Converse. I am stunned that he’s packed me some clothes. I smile shyly at him with gratitude, and his returning smile is swift and reassuring. Before I can stop myself—I hug him, hard. He’s taken by surprise, and when I release him, he’s pink in both cheeks.
“Be careful,” I murmur.
“Yes, Miss Steele,” he mutters.
Christian frowns at me and then looks questioningly at Taylor, who smiles very slightly and adjusts his tie.
“Let me know where I’m going.” Christian says.
Taylor reaches into his jacket, pulls out his wallet, and hands Christian a credit card.
“You might want to use this when you get there.”
Christian nods. “Good thinking.”
Ryan joins us. “Sawyer and Reynolds found nothing,” he says to Taylor.
“Accompany Mr. Grey and Miss Steele to the garage,” Taylor orders.
The garage is deserted. Well, it is nearly three in the morning. Christian ushers me into the passenger seat of the R8 and puts my case and his bag in the trunk at the front of the car. The Audi beside us is a complete mess—every tire slashed, white paint splattered all over it. It’s chilling and makes me grateful that Christian is taking me somewhere else.
“A replacement will arrive on Monday,” Christian says bleakly when he’s seated beside me.
“How could she have known it was my car?”
He glances anxiously at me and sighs. “She had an Audi A3. I buy one for all my submissives—it’s one of the safest cars in its class.”
Oh. “So, not so much a graduation present, then.”
“Anastasia, despite what I hoped, you have never been my submissive, so technically it is a graduation present.” He pulls out of the parking space and speeds to the exit.
Despite what he hoped. Oh no . . . my subconscious shakes her head sadly. This is what we come back to all the time.
“Are you still hoping?” I whisper.
The in-car phone buzzes. “Grey,” Christian snaps.
“Fairmont Olympic. In my name.”
“Thank you, Taylor. And, Taylor, be careful.”
Taylor pauses. “Yes, sir,” he says quietly, and Christian hangs up.
The streets of Seattle are deserted, and Christian roars up Fifth Avenue toward the I-5. Once on the interstate, he floors the gas pedal, heading north. He accelerates so quickly I’m momentarily thrown back in my seat.
I peek at him. He’s deep in thought, radiating a deadly brooding silence. He hasn’t answered my question. He glances frequently at the rearview mirror, and I realize he’s checking that we’re not being followed. Perhaps that’s why we’re on the I-5. I thought the Fairmont was in Seattle.
