Shit.
Ana swerves suddenly. I shout, but I’m too late, and we’re both bucked off the craft and into the Mediterranean. The water closes over my head, into my eyes and my mouth, but I kick up and surface immediately, shaking my head and looking for Ana. The Jet Ski bobs, lifeless and harmless, not far from us, and Ana is wiping the water from her eyes. I swim toward her, relieved she’s surfaced. “You okay?” I ask when I get close.
“Yes,” she croaks. And she’s grinning from ear to ear.
Why is she smiling? She just catapulted us into the cold sea.
I pull her into my wet embrace and hold her face between my palms, checking to see that she wasn’t hit by the Jet Ski.
“See, that wasn’t so bad!” she gushes, and I know she’s okay.
“No, I guess it wasn’t. Except I’m wet.”
“I’m wet, too.”
“I like you wet.” I leer at her.
“Christian!” She admonishes me for my lewd look, and I can’t help myself. I kiss her.
No.
I consume her. We’re both winded when I pull away.
“Come. Let’s head back. We have to shower. I’ll drive.” I swim over to the Jet Ski, vault onto it, and pull her up behind me.
“Was that fun, Mrs. Grey?”
“It was. Thank you.”
“No, thank you. Shall we go home now?”
“Yes. Please.”
Anastasia is sipping champagne and reading off her iPad as we sit in the Concorde lounge at Heathrow and wait for our connecting flight to Seattle. This is one of the things I loathe about traveling on a scheduled flight: the waiting. But Ana seems happy enough. Occasionally, from the corner of my eye, I notice her surreptitious glances in my direction.
Inside, I’m dancing. I love that she’s watching me.
I’m reading the Financial Times. It makes for sober reading. The global markets are still skittish in the wake of the recent budget deficit issues and Black Monday. The dollar is sinking. Also there’s an article on whether the rich should pay more tax; Warren Buffett seems to think we should, and maybe he’s right.
Ana takes a photograph, with the flash on, surprising me. I blink the blur of the bright lights out of my eyes and watch as she switches the flash off.
“How are you, Mrs. Grey?” I ask.
“Sad to be going home.” She pouts. “I like having you to myself.”
I take her hand and kiss her knuckles in turn. “Me, too,” I whisper.
“But?” she asks.
Damn. She heard my unspoken doubt. Her eyes narrow, shrewd and interrogative. She’s not going to let this go until I tell her. I sigh. “I want this arsonist caught and out of our lives.”
“Oh.”
Exactly.
“I’ll have Welch’s balls on a platter if he lets anything like that happen again.” My tone sounds cold and sinister, even to me.
But this has gone on too long. We need to catch the fucker.
Ana gapes at me, then raises the camera and takes a quick shot. “Gotcha.”
I smile, relieved that she’s lightened the mood. “I think it’s time to board our flight. Come.”
“Sawyer, can we go through the front?” I ask, and he pulls the Audi up to the curb outside Escala. Taylor climbs out and opens my door. Ana is fast asleep.
“Thanks, Taylor,” I say as I stretch my legs. “It’s good to be back.”
“It is, sir.”
“I’ll wake Ana.” Opening her door, I lean over her. “Hey, sleepyhead, we’re home.” I unbuckle her seat belt.
“Hmm,” she hums, and I lift her into my arms. “Hey, I can walk,” she grumbles sleepily.
Oh, no, baby. “I need to carry you over the threshold.”
She puts her arms around my neck. “Up all thirty floors?”
“Mrs. Grey, I am very pleased to announce that you’ve put on some weight.”
“What?”
“So, if you don’t mind, we’ll use the elevator.”
Taylor opens the doors to the Escala lobby and smiles. “Welcome home, Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey.”
“Thanks, Taylor,” I answer.
We head into the lobby. “What do you mean I’ve put on weight?” Ana glares at me.
She’s pissed.
“Not much.” I grin to reassure her. Tightening my hold on her as I walk to the elevator, I recall how she looked when I picked her up from SIP, after we split up. How thin and sad she was. The memory is sobering.
“What is it?” she asks.
“You’ve put on some of the weight you lost when you left me.” My answer is quiet. That was me. I was responsible for her sadness.
I never want to see her like that again.
I press the call button.
“Hey.” Ana caresses my face and her fingers entwine in my hair. “If I hadn’t gone, would you be standing here, like this, now?”
And just like that, she pours oil on my troubled waters.
“No.” I smile. Because it’s true. I step into the elevator, holding my wife, and lightly brush my lips over hers. “No, Mrs. Grey, I wouldn’t. But I would know I could keep you safe, because you wouldn’t defy me.”
“I like defying you,” she says with her coquettish smile.
I chuckle. “I know. And it’s made me so happy.”
“Even though I’m fat?” She pouts.
I laugh. “Even though you’re fat.” My lips capture hers once more, and she tightens her hold on my hair as we lose ourselves in each other.
The elevator pings, and we are back at Escala for the first time as husband and wife. “Very happy,” I whisper, my body stirring. I carry her into the foyer and I want to bypass everything and everyone and take her to bed. “Welcome home, Mrs. Grey.” I kiss her once more.
“Welcome home, Mr. Grey.” Her face is alight with joy.
I carry her into the main living room and set her down on the kitchen island. From the cupboard, I take down two champagne flutes, and from the fridge I retrieve a chilled bottle of Grand Année Bollinger, our favorite rosé. Opening the bottle with a quick twist of the cork, I pour the pale pink sparkling liquid into each glass. I hand one to Ana, who’s still sitting on the counter, and stand between her legs. “Here’s to us, Mrs. Grey.”