He’s thorough. He checks under the four-poster bed, the table, and even the couch in the playroom. He does the same in the sub’s room and in each of the spare rooms. No sign of any intruder. He proceeds into his and Mrs. Jones’s quarters, and I head downstairs. My bathroom and walk-in closet are clear, as is my bedroom. Standing in the middle of the room, I feel like a fool, but I squat down and check under the bed.
Nothing.
Not even dust. Mrs. Jones is doing a stellar job.
The balcony door is locked, but I open it. Outside, the breeze is cool and the city is laid out, dark and somber, at my feet. There’s the hum of distant traffic and the faint moan of the wind, but that’s it. Inside again, I lock the door.
Taylor comes back downstairs. “She’s not here,” he says.
“You think it’s Leila?”
“Yes, sir.” His mouth forms a hard, flat line. “Do you mind if I search your room?”
Though I’ve already done this, I’m too tired to argue. “Sure.”
“I want to check all the closets and cupboards, sir,” he says.
“Fine.” I shake my head at the preposterous situation we’re in, and I open the foyer doors to find Ana. Sawyer brandishes his gun but lowers it when he sees it’s me.
“All clear,” I tell him. He holsters his pistol and stands aside. “Taylor is overreacting,” I say to Ana. She looks exhausted, and she doesn’t move—she just stares at me pale-faced, and I realize she’s scared. “It’s all right, baby.” I fold her in my arms and kiss her hair. “Come on, you’re tired. Bed.”
“I was so worried,” she says.
“I know. We’re all jumpy.”
Sawyer has disappeared, presumably into the apartment.
“Honestly, your exes are proving to be very challenging, Mr. Grey,” she asserts.
“Yes. They are.” They really are. I lead her into the living room. “Taylor and his crew are checking all the closets and cupboards. I don’t think she’s here.”
“Why would she be here?” Ana sounds bewildered, and I reassure her that Taylor is thorough and that we’ve searched everywhere, including the playroom. To calm her, I offer her a drink, but she declines. She’s tired. “Come. Let me put you to bed. You look exhausted.”
In my bedroom, she empties the contents of her evening bag on top of the chest of drawers. “Here.” She passes Elena’s note to me. “I don’t know if you want to read this. I want to ignore it.”
I scan the note.
Anastasia,
I may have misjudged you. And you have definitely misjudged me. Call me if you need to fill in any of the blanks—we could have lunch. Christian doesn’t want me talking to you, but I would be more than happy to help. Don’t get me wrong, I approve, believe me—but so help me, if you hurt him…He’s been hurt enough. Call me: (206) 279-6261.
Mrs. Robinson
It provokes my temper.
Is this one of Elena’s games?
“I’m not sure what blanks she can fill in.” I put the note in my pants pocket. “I need to talk to Taylor. Let me unzip your dress.”
“Are you going to call the police about the car?” she asks, as she turns around. I move her hair out of the way and pull down the zipper.
“No. I don’t want the police involved. Leila needs help, not police intervention, and I don’t want them here. We just have to double our efforts to find her.” I kiss her shoulder. “Go to bed.”
IN THE KITCHEN, I pour myself a glass of water.
What the hell is going on? My world seems to be imploding. Just when I’m beginning to get back on track with Ana, my past is coming back to haunt me: Leila and Elena. I wonder for a moment if they might be colluding with each other, but then I realize that I’m being paranoid. What an absurd notion. Elena is not that crazy.
I rub my face.
Why would Leila be targeting me?
Is it jealousy?
She wanted more. I didn’t.
But I would have been happy to continue our relationship as it was…She was the one who ended it.
“Master. May I speak freely?” Leila says. She’s sitting at my right at the dinner table, wearing a fetching lacy La Perla one-piece.
“Of course.”
“I have developed feelings for you. I had hoped you would collar me and that I would stay by your side forevermore.”
Collar? Forevermore? I think to myself. What’s this once-upon-a-time bullshit?
“But I think that is beyond my dreams,” she continues.
“Leila. You know that’s not for me. We’ve discussed this.”
“But you’re lonely. I can see it.”
“Lonely? Me? I don’t feel that way. I have my work. My family. I have you.”
“But I want more, Master.”
“I can’t give you more. You know this.”
“I see.” She raises her face to look at me, her amber eyes scrutinizing me. She’s broken the fourth wall—she has never looked at me without permission. But I don’t scold her.
“I can’t. It’s not within me.” I’ve always been honest with her. This is nothing that she doesn’t know.
“It is within you, Sir. But maybe I’m not the person to make you realize it.” She sounds sad. She looks back down at her clean plate. “I’d like to terminate our relationship.”
She’s caught me by surprise. “Are you sure? Leila, this is a big step. I’d like to continue our arrangement.”
“I can’t do this anymore, Master.” Her voice cracks on the last word, and I don’t know what to say. “I can’t,” she whispers, clearing her throat.
“Leila—” I stop, bewildered by the emotion I hear in her voice. She’s been an impeccable sub. I thought we were compatible. “I’ll be sorry to see you go,” I say, because it’s true. “I’ve really enjoyed our time together. I hope you have, too.”
“I’ll be sorry, too, Sir. I’ve more than enjoyed everything. I had hoped…” Her voice trails off and she gives me a sad smile.
“I wish I felt differently.” But I don’t. I have no need of a permanent relationship.
“You’ve never given me any indication that you would.” Her voice is quiet.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. Let’s end this as you wish. It’s for the best, especially if you’ve developed feelings for me.”
TAYLOR AND THE SECURITY team arrive back in the kitchen. “There’s no sign of Leila in the apartment, sir,” Taylor says.
“I didn’t think there would be, but I appreciate you checking. Thanks.”
“We’re going to monitor the cameras in turn. Ryan first. Sawyer and Reynolds are going to sleep.”
“Good. As you should.”
“Yes, Mr. Grey. Gentlemen.” Taylor dismisses the three men.
“Good night.”
Once they’ve left, Taylor turns to me. “The car’s a mess, sir.”
“Write-off?”
“I think so. She’s done a real number on it.”
“That’s if it’s Leila.”