Ana is bundled up in a robe fresh from her swim, sipping tea and reading one of her SIP manuscripts as we’re served breakfast on deck. “I could get used to this,” she says, dreamily.
“Yes. She’s a fine, fine vessel.” I stare at Ana and swallow the last of my espresso. Ana quirks an eyebrow, but before she can respond, our steward Rebecca sets a plate of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon in front of each of us.
“Breakfast,” Rebecca says with a warm smile. “Can I get you anything else?”
“This is great.” I return her smile.
“I’m good, thank you,” Ana says.
“Let’s go to the beach today,” I suggest.
Rarely do I get the opportunity to read so much. But on my honeymoon I’ve devoured two thrillers, two books on climate change, and now I’m reading Morgenson and Rosner’s tome on how greed and corruption led to the 2008 financial crisis, while Ana is dozing beneath a parasol at the Beach Plaza Monte Carlo. Stretched out on a sunbed in the afternoon sun, she’s wearing a rather fetching turquoise bikini that leaves very little to the imagination.
I’m not sure I approve.
I’ve asked Taylor and his two French cohorts, the Ferreux twins, to keep a lookout for any photographers. The paparazzi are parasites who will stop at nothing to invade our privacy. For some bizarre reason, probably since the Star ran its gossip piece on Ana, the press are thirsty for pictures of us. Why, I don’t know or understand—it’s not like we’re celebrities, and it makes me mad. I don’t want my wife appearing on Page Six wearing practically nothing just because it’s a slow news day.
The sun has shifted so Ana is under its full glare, and it’s been a while since I applied her sunscreen. I lean over and whisper in her ear, “You’ll burn.”
She startles awake and grins. “Only for you.”
My heart beats a little faster.
How does she do that with just three short words and a smile?
With a swift tug, I drag her bed into the shade. “Out of the Mediterranean sun, Mrs. Grey.”
“Thank you for your altruism, Mr. Grey.”
“My pleasure, and I’m not being altruistic at all. If you burn, I won’t be able to touch you.”
Ana curls her lips in a smirk.
I narrow my eyes. “But I suspect you know that, and you’re laughing at me.”
“Would I?” She bats her lashes, trying, and frankly failing, to look innocent.
“Yes, you would, and you do. Often.” I kiss her. “It’s one of the many things I love about you.” I nibble at her lower lip.
“I was hoping you’d rub me down with more sunscreen.”
Deep joy.
“It’s a dirty job, but that’s an offer I can’t refuse. Sit up.”
I love this. Touching her. Out here. In public.
She presents her front to me, and I squirt some sunscreen on my fingers, then slowly and thoroughly, so as not to miss a spot, massage it into her skin. Her shoulders, her neck, her arms, the tops of her breasts, her belly. “You really are very lovely. I’m a lucky man.”
“Yes, you are, Mr. Grey.” Her coy demeanor stirs my blood.
“Modesty becomes you, Mrs. Grey. Turn over. I want to do your back.”
She lies down and I undo the strap of her bikini.
“How would you feel if I went topless, like the other women on the beach?” she asks, her voice soft and languid, like the day.
I squirt more sunscreen on my hand and rub it into her skin.
“Displeased. I’m not very happy about you wearing so little right now.” I don’t want some sleazy fucking pap ogling my wife through a lens while she’s relaxing on the beach. They’re everywhere. Like vermin.
Ana looks defiant.
I lean down and whisper in her ear. “Don’t push your luck.”
“Is that a challenge, Mr. Grey?”
“No. It’s a statement of fact, Mrs. Grey.”
This isn’t a game, Ana.
Her back and legs are done. I slap her backside. “You’ll do, wench.”
My phone buzzes. I glance at the screen. It’s Ros with her morning report.
It’s early in Seattle. I hope she’s okay.
“My eyes only,” I warn Ana half-jokingly, and slap her ass once more before I take the call. Ana wriggles her backside provocatively, and closes her eyes while I talk to Ros.
“Hi, Ros, why so early?” I ask.
“I can’t sleep, and I can get work done when the house is quiet.”
“Anything wrong?”
“No. It’s all good. Yesterday after we spoke, I got a call from Bill. We’re being pressured by the Detroit Brownfield Redevelopment Authority. You need to make a decision.”
My heart sinks.
Detroit. Damn. “Okay. Okay. Of the three sites that Bill sent through, the second was the best.”
“The Schaefer Road site?” she asks.
“That’s the one.”
“Okay. I’ll push on that. There’s one more thing. Woods.”
Hell. He’s still on our list of suspects. “What’s that asshole doing now?”
Ros ignores my epithet. “He’s rattling his ex-employees.”
“Poisoning the well?”
“Yes. I think they need a visit,” she says.
“You should go.”
“Not from me. You.”
“Hmm…something to consider when I get back.”
“I think so.”
“I fancy a trip to New York. Take the wife.”
I hear her smile. “How’s the Côte d’Azur?”
My gaze lingers on my dozing wife…and her pert backside. “It’s beautiful. Especially the view here.”
“Great. Enjoy it. I’ll get on with this.”
“You do that, Ros.”
“You know, I think with you gone, I’m all fired up.”
I laugh. “Don’t get too used to it. I’ll be back.”
“Believe it or not, I’m missing you.”
I open my mouth to respond, but I’m stumped and don’t know what to say.
“Afternoon, Christian.” She hangs up, and I stare at my phone, wondering if she’s okay.