Ana
P.S. Was it Mrs. Robinson?
Shit.
This is the perfect excuse. This is going to need an answer in person.
I buzz Taylor and tell him I’m going to need Stephan and the Gulfstream in the morning.
“Very good, Mr. Grey. Where are you going?”
“We’re going to Savannah.”
“Yes, sir.” And there’s a hint of amusement in his voice.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 1, 2011
* * *
It’s been an interesting morning. We left Boeing Field at 11:30 PST; Stephan is flying with his first officer, Jill Beighley, and we’re due to arrive in Georgia at 19:30 EST.
Bill has managed to arrange a meeting with the Savannah Brownfield Redevelopment Authority tomorrow, and I might be meeting them for a drink this evening. So if Anastasia is otherwise occupied, or doesn’t want to see me, the journey won’t be a complete waste of time.
Yeah, yeah. Tell yourself that, Grey.
Taylor has joined me for a light lunch and is now sorting through some paperwork, and I have a whole lot of reading to do.
The only part of the equation I’ve yet to solve is arranging to see Ana. I’ll see how that goes once I arrive in Savannah; I’m hoping some inspiration will come to me on the flight.
I run my hand through my hair, and for the first time in a long while I lie back and doze as the G550 cruises at thirty thousand feet, bound for Savannah/Hilton Head International. The drone of the engines is soothing, and I’m tired. So tired.
That would be the nightmares, Grey.
I don’t know why they are worse at the moment. I close my eyes.
“This is how you will be with me. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
She runs a scarlet fingernail across my chest.
I flinch and pull against the restraints as the darkness surfaces, burning my skin in the wake of her touch. But I don’t make a sound.
I don’t dare.
“If you behave, I’ll let you come. In my mouth.”
Fuck.
“But not yet. We’ve got a long way to go before then.”
Her fingernail blazes down my skin, from the top of my sternum to my navel.
I want to scream.
She grabs my face, squeezing open my mouth, and kisses me.
Her tongue demanding and wet.
She brandishes the leather flogger.
And I know this will be tough to endure.
But I have my eye on the prize. Her fucking mouth.
As the first lash falls and blisters across my skin, I welcome the pain and the endorphin rush.
“Mr. Grey, we’ll be landing in twenty minutes,” Taylor informs me, startling me awake. “Are you okay, sir?”
“Yeah. Sure. Thanks.”
“Would you like some water?”
“Please.” I take a deep breath to bring my heart rate down, and Taylor passes me a glass of cold Evian. I take a welcome sip, glad that it’s just Taylor on board. It’s not often I dream about my heady days with Mrs. Lincoln.
Out of the window the sky is blue, the sparse clouds pinking with the early-evening sun. The light up here is brilliant. Golden. Tranquil. The sinking sun reflecting off the cumulus clouds. For a moment I wish I were in my sailplane. I bet the thermals are fantastic up here.
Yes!
That’s what I should do: take Ana soaring. That would be more, wouldn’t it?
“Taylor.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like to take Anastasia soaring in Georgia—at dawn tomorrow, if we can find somewhere to do that. But later would be fine, too.” If it’s later I’ll have to move my meeting.
“I’ll get on it.”
“Never mind the cost.”
“Okay, sir.”
“Thanks.”
Now I just have to tell Ana.
THERE ARE TWO CARS waiting for us when the G550 comes to a halt on the tarmac near the Signature Flight Support terminal at the airport. Taylor and I step out of the plane and into the suffocating heat.
Hell, it’s sticky, even at this time.
The rep hands the keys for both cars to Taylor. I raise a brow at him. “Ford Mustang?”
“It’s all I could find in Savannah at short notice.” Taylor looks sheepish.
“At least it’s a red convertible. Though in this heat I hope it has AC.”
“It should have everything, sir.”
“Good. Thanks.” I take the keys from him and, grabbing my messenger bag, leave him to unload the rest of the luggage from the plane into his Suburban.
I shake hands with Stephan and Beighley and thank them for a smooth flight. In the Mustang, I cruise out of the airport and onward to downtown Savannah, listening to Bruce on my iPod through the car sound system.
ANDREA HAS BOOKED ME into a suite at the Bohemian Hotel, which looks out over the Savannah River. It’s dusk and the view from the balcony is impressive: the river is luminous, reflecting the graduated colors of the sky and the lights on the suspension bridge and the docks. The sky is incandescent, the colors shaded from deep purple to a rosy pink.
It’s almost as striking as twilight over the Sound.
But I don’t have time to stand here and admire the view. I set up my laptop, crank the air-conditioning to full blast, and call Ros for an update.
“Why the sudden interest in Georgia, Christian?”
“It’s personal.”
She huffs down the phone. “Since when have you let your personal life interfere with business?”
Since I met Anastasia Steele.
“I don’t like Detroit,” I snap.
“Okay.” She backs off.
“I might meet the Savannah Brownfield liaison for a drink later,” I add, attempting to placate her.
“Whatever, Christian. There are a few other things we need to talk about. The aid has arrived in Rotterdam. Do you still want to go ahead?”
“Yes. Let’s get it done. I made a commitment at the End Global Hunger launch. This needs to happen before I can face that committee again.”
“Okay. Any further thoughts on the publishing acquisition?”
“I’m still undecided.”
“I think SIP has some potential.”
“Yeah. Maybe. Let me think about it for a while longer.”
“I’m seeing Marco to discuss the Lucas Woods situation.”
“Okay, let me know how that goes. Call me later.”
“Will do. Bye for now.”
I’m avoiding the inevitable. I know this. But I decide it would be better to tackle Miss Steele—via e-mail or phone, I’ve yet to decide which—on a full stomach, so I order dinner. While I’m waiting there’s a text from Andrea letting me know my drinks appointment is off. I’m fine with that. I’ll see them tomorrow morning, provided I’m not soaring with Ana.
Before room service arrives, Taylor calls.
“Mr. Grey.”
“Taylor. Are you checked in?”
“Yes, sir. Your luggage will be on its way up in a moment.”
“Great.”
“The Brunswick Soaring Association has a glider free. I’ve asked Andrea to fax through your flying credentials to them. Once the paperwork’s signed, we’re good to go.”
“Great.”