“Politics and economics.”
“So, she’s rich?” Ana is fixated on Elena’s loan to me.
“She was a bored trophy wife, Anastasia. Her husband was wealthy—big in timber.” This always makes me smile. I give Ana a sideways smirk. Lincoln Timber. What an unpleasant asshole he turned out to be. “He wouldn’t let her work. You know, he was controlling. Some men are like that.”
“Really? A controlling man?” Ana sounds scornful. “Surely a mythical creature.” Sarcasm drips off every word. She’s in a sassy mood, but her response makes me grin.
“She lent you her husband’s money?”
She sure did.
“That’s terrible.”
“He got his own back.”
The asshole.
My thoughts take a dark turn. He nearly killed his wife because she was fucking me. I shudder to think what he’d have done to her if I hadn’t shown up. Fury surges through my body and I clutch the steering wheel as we wait for the Escala garage barrier to open. Blood drains from my knuckles. Elena was in the hospital for three months and she refused to press charges.
Control yourself, Grey.
I relax my hold on the steering wheel.
“How?” asks Ana, as curious as ever, wanting to know about Linc’s revenge.
I’m not telling her that story. I shake my head and park in one of my allotted spaces and turn off the ignition. “Come—Franco will be here shortly.”
In the elevator, I glance down at her. The little v is there between her brows. She’s pensive, maybe processing what I told her—or is it something else?
“Still mad at me?” I ask.
“Very.”
“Okay.” At least I know.
Taylor has returned from visiting Sophie, his daughter. He greets us when we arrive in the foyer.
“Good afternoon, sir,” he says quietly to me.
“Has Welch been in touch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“Everything’s arranged.”
“Excellent. How’s your daughter?”
“She’s fine, thank you, sir.”
“Good. We have a hairdresser arriving at one—Franco De Luca.”
“Miss Steele,” Taylor greets Ana.
“Hi, Taylor. You have a daughter?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How old is she?”
“She’s seven.”
Ana looks confused.
“She lives with her mother,” Taylor explains.
“Oh, I see,” she says, and he gives her a rare smile.
I turn and head into my living room. I’m not sure I appreciate Taylor charming Miss Steele or vice versa. I hear Ana behind me.
“Are you hungry?” I ask.
She shakes her head and her eyes scan the room. She hasn’t been here since the awful day she left me. I want to tell her I’m glad she’s back, but she’s mad at me right now.
“I have to make a few calls. Make yourself at home.”
“Okay,” she says.
IN MY STUDY, on my desk, I find a large cloth bag. Inside is a stunning silver mask with navy plumes for Ana. Beside it there’s a small Chanel bag containing a red lipstick. Taylor has done well. However, I don’t think Ana will be too impressed with my lipstick idea—at least not at the moment. I place the mask on a shelf and pocket the lipstick, then sit down at my computer.
It was an enlightening and diverting morning with Anastasia. She’s been as challenging as ever since we woke, whether it was about the check for her death trap of a Beetle, my relationship with Elena, or who pays for breakfast.
Ana’s fiercely independent and still doesn’t seem interested in my money. She doesn’t take, she gives; but then she’s always been that way. It’s refreshing. All of my submissives used to love their gifts. Grey, who are you kidding? They said they did, but perhaps that was because of the role they were playing.
I put my head in my hands. This is difficult. I’m on an uncharted course with Ana.
Her anger toward Elena is unfortunate. Elena is a friend.
Is Ana jealous?
I can’t help my past, and after all that Elena has done for me, it’s going to be awkward dealing with Ana’s hostility.
Is this what my life will be like from now on, mired in this uncertainty? It will make an interesting topic to discuss with Flynn the next time I see him. Perhaps he can coach me through this.
Shaking my head, I activate the iMac and check my e-mails. Welch has sent through a copy of Leila’s forged concealed-weapons license. She’s using the name Jeanne Barry and an address in Belltown. The photograph is her likeness, though she looks older, thinner, and sadder than she did when I knew her. It’s depressing. The woman needs help.
I print out a couple of spreadsheets from SIP— P&Ls for the last three years that I will examine later. Then I review the résumés of the additional close protection team that Taylor has approved; two of them are ex-Feds and two are ex–Navy Seals. But I have yet to broach the subject of additional security with Ana.
One step at a time, Grey.
WHEN I’VE FINISHED RESPONDING to a few work e-mails, I go in search of Ana.
She’s not in the living room or my bedroom but while there I collect a couple of condoms from my bedside and continue my search. I want to go upstairs to check whether she’s in the sub’s room, but I hear the elevator doors and Taylor greeting someone. My watch reads 12:55. Franco must have arrived.
The doors of the foyer open, and before Taylor opens his mouth I say, “I’ll fetch Miss Steele.”
“Very good, sir.”
“Let me know as soon as the security detail gets here.”
“Will do, Mr. Grey.”
“And thanks for the mask and lipstick.”
“You’re welcome, sir.” Taylor closes the door.
Upstairs, I can’t see her, but I hear her.
Ana’s talking to herself in the closet.
What the hell is she doing in there?
Taking a deep breath, I open the door and she’s sitting cross-legged on the floor. “There you are. I thought you’d run off.”
She holds up a finger and I realize that she’s on the phone, and not talking to herself at all. Leaning against the doorjamb, I watch as she tucks her hair behind her ear and starts winding a strand around her index finger.
“Sorry, Mom, I have to go. I’ll call again soon…” She’s jittery. Do I make her feel that way? Perhaps she’s hiding in here to get away from me. She needs some space? The thought is disheartening.
“Love you, too, Mom.” She hangs up and turns to me, her expression expectant.
“Why are you hiding in here?” I ask.
“I’m not hiding. I’m despairing.”
“Despairing?” Anxiety pricks my skin. She is thinking of running.
“Of all this, Christian.” She gestures toward the dresses hanging in the closet.
The clothes? She doesn’t like them?
“Can I come in?” I ask.
“It’s your closet.”
My closet. Your clothes, Ana.
Slowly I sink to the floor opposite her, trying to gauge her mood. “They’re just clothes. If you don’t like them, I’ll send them back.” I sound resigned rather than conciliatory.