Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (145 page)

“Will you wear your … er … other jeans?”

He frowns down at me. “Other jeans?”

“The ones you used to wear in here.”

“Those jeans?” he murmurs, blinking with perplexed surprise.

“You look very hot in them.”

“Do I?”

“Yeah … I mean, really hot.”

He smiles shyly. “Well, for you, Mrs. Grey, maybe I will.” He bends to kiss me, then grabs the small bowl on the table that contains the butt plug, the tube of lubricant, the blindfold, and my panties.

“Who cleans these toys?” I ask as I follow him over to the chest.

He frowns at me, as if not understanding the question. “Me. Mrs. Jones.”

“What?”

He nods, amused and embarrassed, I think. He switches off the music. “Well—um …”

“Your subs used to do it?” I finish his sentence. He gives me an apologetic shrug.

“Here.” He hands me his shirt and I put it on, wrapping it around myself. His scent still clings to the linen, and my chagrin about butt plug washing is forgotten. He leaves the items on the chest. Taking my hand, he unlocks the playroom door, then leads me out and downstairs. I follow him meekly.

The anxiety, the bad mood, the thrill, fear, and excitement of the car chase have all gone. I’m relaxed—finally sated and calm. As we enter our bathroom, I yawn loudly and stretch … at ease with myself for a change.

“What is it?” Christian asks as he turns on the faucet.

I shake my head.

“Tell me,” he asks softly. He spills jasmine bath oil into the running water, filling the room with its sweet, sensual scent.

I flush. “I just feel better.”

He smiles. “Yes, you’ve been in a strange mood today, Mrs. Grey.” Standing, he pulls me into his arms. “I know you’re worrying about these recent events. I’m sorry you’re caught up in them. I don’t know if it’s a vendetta, an ex-employee, or a business rival. If anything were to happen to you because of me—” His voice drops to a pained whisper. I curl my arms around him.

“What if something happens to you, Christian?” I voice my fear.

He gazes down at me. “We’ll figure this out. Now let’s get you out of this shirt and into this bath.”

“Shouldn’t you talk to Sawyer?”

“He can wait.” His mouth hardens, and I feel a sudden pang of pity for Sawyer. What’s he done to upset Christian?

Christian helps me out of his shirt, then frowns as I turn to him. My breasts still bear faded bruises from the love bites he gave me during our honeymoon, but I decide not to tease him about them.

“I wonder if Ryan has caught up with the Dodge?”

“We’ll see, after this bath. Get in.” He holds his hand out for me. I climb into the hot, fragrant water and sit tentatively.

“Ow.” My ass is tender, and the hot water makes me wince.

“Easy, baby,” Christian warns, but as he says it, the uncomfortable sensation melts away.

Christian strips and climbs in behind me, pulling me against his chest. I nestle between his legs, and we lie idle and content in the hot water. I run my fingers down his legs, and gathering my braid in one hand, he twirls it gently between his fingers.

“We need to go over the plans for the new house. Later this evening?”

“Sure.” That woman is coming back again. My subconscious gazes up from volume three of
The Complete Works of Charles Dickens
and glowers. I’m with my subconscious. I sigh. Unfortunately, Gia Matteo’s designs are breathtaking.

“I must get my things ready for work,” I whisper.

He stills. “You know you don’t have to go back to work,” he murmurs.

Oh no … not this again. “Christian, we’ve been through this. Please don’t resurrect that argument.”

He tugs my braid so my face tilts up and back. “Just saying …” He plants a soft kiss on my lips.

I PULL ON SWEATPANTS
and a camisole and decide to fetch my clothes from the playroom. As I make my way across the hallway, I hear Christian’s raised voice from his study. I freeze.

“Where the fuck were you?”

Oh shit
. He’s shouting at Sawyer. Cringing, I dash upstairs to the playroom. I really don’t want to hear what he has to say to him—I still find shouty Christian intimidating. Poor Sawyer. At least I get to shout back.

I gather up my clothes and Christian’s shoes, then notice the small porcelain bowl with the butt plug still on top of the museum chest.
Well … I suppose I should clean it
. I add it to the pile and make my way back downstairs. I glance nervously through the great room, but all is quiet. Thank heavens.

Taylor will be back tomorrow evening, and Christian is generally calmer when he’s around. Taylor is spending some quality time today and tomorrow with his daughter. I wonder idly if I’ll ever get to meet her.

Mrs. Jones comes out of the utility room. We startle each other.

“Mrs. Grey—I didn’t see you there.”
Oh, I’m Mrs. Grey now!

“Hello, Mrs. Jones.”

“Welcome home and congratulations.” She smiles.

“Please call me Ana.”

“Mrs. Grey, I wouldn’t feel comfortable doing that.”

Oh! Why must everything change just because I have a ring on my finger?

“Would you like to run through the menus for the week?” she asks, looking at me expectantly.

Menus?

“Um …” This is not a question I have ever anticipated being asked.

She smiles. “When I first worked for Mr. Grey, every Sunday evening I would run through the menus for the upcoming week with him and list anything he might need from the grocery store.”

“I see.”

“Shall I take those for you?”

She holds out her hands for my clothes.

“Oh … um. Actually I haven’t finished with these.”
And they are hiding the bowl with the butt plug in it!
I turn crimson. It’s a
wonder I can look Mrs. Jones in the eye. She knows what we do—she cleans the room. Jeez, it’s just weird having no privacy.

“When you’re ready, Mrs. Grey. I’d be more than happy to run through things with you.”

“Thank you.” We are interrupted by an ashen-faced Sawyer; he stalks out of Christian’s study and briskly crosses the great room. He gives us both a brief nod, not looking either of us in the eye, and slinks into Taylor’s study. I’m grateful for his intervention, as I don’t wish to discuss menus or butt plugs with Mrs. Jones right now. Offering her a brief smile, I scurry back to the bedroom. Will I ever get used to having domestic staff at my beck and call? I shake my head … one day, maybe.

I dump Christian’s shoes on the floor and my clothes on the bed, and take the bowl with the butt plug into the bathroom. I eye it suspiciously. It looks innocuous enough, and surprisingly clean. I don’t want to dwell on that, and I wash it quickly with soap and water. Will that be enough? I’ll have to ask Mr. Sexpert if it should be sterilized or something. I shudder at the thought.

I LIKE THAT CHRISTIAN
has turned the library over to me. It now houses an attractive white wooden desk I can work at. I take out my laptop and check my notes on the five manuscripts I read on our honeymoon.

Yep, I have everything I need. Part of me dreads going back to work, but I can never tell Christian that. He’d seize on the opportunity to make me quit. I remember Roach’s apoplectic reaction when I told him I was getting married and to whom, and how, shortly afterward, my position was confirmed. I realize now it was because I was marrying the boss. The thought is unwelcome. I am no longer acting editor—I am Anastasia Steele, editor.

I haven’t yet plucked up the courage to tell Christian that I am not going to change my name at work. I think my reasons are solid. I need some distance from him, but I know there will be a fight when he finally realizes that. Perhaps I should discuss this with him tonight.

Sitting back in my chair, I start my final chore of the day. I glance at the digital clock on my laptop, which tells me it’s seven in the evening. Christian still hasn’t emerged from his study, so I have time. Taking the memory card out of the Nikon camera, I load it into the laptop to transfer the photographs. As the pictures upload, I reflect on the day. Is Ryan back? Or is he still on his way to Portland? Has he caught up with the mystery woman? Has Christian heard from him? I want some answers. I don’t care that he’s busy; I want to know what’s going on, and I suddenly feel a tad resentful that he’s keeping me in the dark. I rise, intending to go and confront him in his study, but as I do the photos from the last few days of our honeymoon pop up onscreen.

Holy crap!

Picture after picture of me. Asleep, so many of me asleep, my hair over my face or fanned out across the pillow, lips parted … shit—sucking my thumb. I haven’t sucked my thumb for years! So many photos. I had no idea he’d taken these. There are a few candid long shots, including one of me leaning over the rail of the yacht, staring moodily into the distance. How did I not notice him taking this? I smile at the photos of me curled up beneath him and laughing—my hair flying as I struggle, fighting his tickling, tormenting fingers. And there’s the one of him and me on the bed in the master cabin that he took at arm’s length. I am cuddled on his chest and he gazes at the camera, young, wide-eyed … in love. His other hand cups my head, and I am smiling like a love-struck fool, but I cannot take my eyes off Christian. Oh, my beautiful man, his ruffled just-fucked hair, his gray eyes glowing, his lips parted and smiling. My beautiful man who cannot bear to be tickled, who could not bear to be touched just a short while ago, yet now he tolerates my touch. I must ask him if he likes it, or whether he lets me touch him for my pleasure rather than his.

I frown, gazing down at his image, suddenly overwhelmed by my feelings for him. Someone out there wants to harm him—first
Charlie Tango
, then the fire at GEH, and that damned car chase. I
gasp, putting my hand to my mouth as an involuntary sob escapes. Abandoning my computer, I leap up to find him—not to confront him now—just to check that he’s safe.

Not bothering to knock, I barge into his study. Christian is sitting at his desk and talking on the phone. He looks up in surprised annoyance, but the irritation on his face disappears when he sees it’s me.

“So you can’t enhance it further?” he says, continuing his phone conversation, though he doesn’t take his eyes off me. Without hesitation, I walk around his desk, and he turns in his chair to face me, frowning. I can tell he’s thinking,
What does she want?
When I crawl onto his lap, his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. I put my arms around his neck and cuddle into him. Gingerly, he puts his arm around me.

“Um … yes, Barney. Could you hold one moment?” He cups the phone against his shoulder.

“Ana, what’s wrong?”

I shake my head. Tipping my chin up, he gazes into my eyes. I pull my head free from his hold, tuck it beneath his chin, and curl up smaller on his lap. Bemused, he wraps his free arm more tightly around me and kisses the top of my head.

“Okay, Barney, what were you saying?” He continues, wedging the phone between his ear and his shoulder, and taps a key on his laptop. A grainy black-and-white CCTV image appears on the screen. A man with dark hair wearing pale coveralls comes on the screen. Christian presses another key, and the man walks toward the camera, but with his head bowed. When the man is closer to the camera, Christian freezes the frame. He’s standing in a bright white room with what looks like a long line of tall black cabinets to his left. This must be GEH’s server room.

“Okay Barney, one more time.”

The screen springs to life. A box appears around the head of the man in the CCTV footage and suddenly we zoom in. I sit up, fascinated.

“Is Barney doing this?” I ask quietly.

“Yes,” Christian answers. “Can you sharpen the picture at all?” he says to Barney.

The picture blurs, then refocuses moderately sharper on the man consciously gazing down and avoiding the camera. As I stare at him, a chill of recognition sweeps up my spine. There is something familiar in the line of his jaw. He has scruffy short black hair that looks odd and unkempt … and in the newly sharpened picture, I see an earring, a small hoop.

Holy crap! I know who it is
.

“Christian,” I whisper. “That’s Jack Hyde.”

Y
ou think?” Christian asks, surprised.

“It’s the line of his jaw.” I point at the screen. “And the earrings and the shape of his shoulders. He’s the right build, too. He must be wearing a wig—or he’s cut and dyed his hair.”

“Barney, are you getting this?” Christian puts the phone down on his desk and switches to hands-free. “You seem to have studied your ex-boss in some detail, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs, sounding none too pleased. I scowl at him, but I’m saved by Barney.

“Yes, sir. I heard Mrs. Grey. I’m running face recognition software on all the digitized CCTV footage right now. See where else this asshole—I’m sorry ma’am—this man has been within the organization.”

I glance anxiously at Christian, who ignores Barney’s expletive. He’s studying the CCTV picture closely.

“Why would he do this?” I ask Christian.

He shrugs. “Revenge, perhaps. I don’t know. You can’t fathom why some people behave the way they do. I’m just angry that you ever worked so closely with him.” Christian’s mouth presses into a hard, thin line and he encircles my waist with his arm.

“We have the contents of his hard drive, too, sir,” Barney adds.

“Yes, I remember. Do you have an address for Mr. Hyde?” Christian says sharply.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Alert Welch.”

“Sure will. I’m also going to scan the city CCTV and see if I can track his movements.”

“Check what vehicle he owns.”

“Sir.”

“Barney can do all this?” I whisper.

Christian nods and gives me a smug smile.

“What was on his hard drive?” I whisper.

Christian’s face hardens and he shakes his head. “Nothing much,” he says, tight-lipped, his smile forgotten.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Was it about you, or me?”

“Me.” He sighs.