“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve seen the bruises. And the answer’s no.” His voice is firm, and he kisses my forehead.
I squirm. “Christian,” I whine.
“No. Get into bed.” He sits up.
“Bed?”
“You need rest.”
“I need you.”
He closes his eyes and shakes his head as if it’s a great effort of will. When he opens them again, his eyes are bright with his resolve. “Just do as you’re told, Ana.”
I’m tempted to take off all my clothes, but then I remember the bruises and know I won’t win that way.
Reluctantly, I nod. “Okay.” I deliberately give him an exaggerated pout.
He grins, amused. “I’ll bring you some lunch.”
“You’re going to cook?” I nearly expire.
He has the grace to laugh. “I’m going to heat something up. Mrs. Jones has been busy.”
“Christian, I’ll do it. I’m fine. Jeez, I want sex—I can certainly cook.” I sit up awkwardly, trying to hide the flinch caused by my smarting ribs.
“Bed!” Christian’s eyes flash, and he points to the pillow.
“Join me,” I murmur, wishing I were wearing something a little more alluring than sweatpants and a T-shirt.
“Ana, get into bed. Now.”
I scowl, stand up, and let my pants drop unceremoniously to the floor, glaring at him the whole time. His mouth twitches with humor as he pulls the duvet back.
“You heard Dr. Singh. She said rest.” His voice is gentler. I slip into bed and fold my arms in frustration. “Stay,” he says, clearly enjoying himself.
My scowl deepens.
MRS. JONES’S CHICKEN STEW is, without doubt, one of my favorite dishes. Christian eats with me, sitting cross-legged in the middle of the bed.
“That was very well heated.” I smirk and he grins. I’m replete and sleepy. Was this his plan?
“You look tired.” He picks up my tray.
“I am.”
“Good. Sleep.” He kisses me. “I have some work I need to do. I’ll do it in here if that’s okay with you.”
I nod … fighting a losing battle with my eyelids. I had no idea chicken stew could be so exhausting.
IT’S DUSK WHEN I wake. Pale pink light floods the room. Christian is sitting in the armchair, watching me, gray eyes luminous in the ambient light. He’s clutching some papers. His face is ashen.
Holy cow! “What’s wrong?” I ask immediately, sitting up and ignoring my protesting ribs.
“Welch has just left.”
Oh shit. “And?”
“I lived with the fucker,” he whispers.
“Lived? With Jack?”
He nods, his eyes wide.
“You’re related?”
“No. Good God, no.”
I shuffle over and pull the duvet back, inviting him into bed beside me, and to my surprise he doesn’t hesitate. He kicks off his shoes and slides in alongside me. Wrapping one arm around me, he curls up, resting his head in my lap. I’m stunned. What’s this?
“I don’t understand,” I murmur, running my fingers through his hair and gazing down at him. Christian closes his eyes and furrows his brow as if he’s straining to remember.
“After I was found with the crack whore, before I went to live with Carrick and Grace, I was in the care of Michigan State. I lived in a foster home. But I can’t remember anything about that time.”
My mind reels. A foster home? This is news to both of us.
“For how long?” I whisper.
“Two months or so. I have no recollection.”
“Have you spoken to your mom and dad about it?”
“No.”
“Perhaps you should. Maybe they could fill in the blanks.”
He hugs me tightly. “Here.” He hands me the papers, which turn out to be two photographs. I reach over and switch on the bedside light so I can examine them in detail. The first photo is of a shabby house with a yellow front door and a large gabled window in the roof. It has a porch and a small front yard. It’s an unremarkable house.
The second photo is of a family—at first glance, an ordinary blue-collar family—a man and his wife, I think, and their children. The adults are both dressed in dowdy, overwashed blue T-shirts. They must be in their forties. The woman has scraped-back blonde hair, and the man a severe buzz-cut, but they are both smiling warmly at the camera. The man has his hand draped over the shoulders of a sullen teenage girl. I gaze at each of the children: two boys—identical twins, about twelve—both with sandy blond hair, grinning broadly at the camera; there’s another boy, who’s smaller, with reddish blond hair, scowling; and hiding behind him, a copper-haired gray-eyed little boy. Wide-eyed and scared, dressed in mismatched clothes, and clutching a child’s dirty blanket.
Fuck. “This is you,” I whisper, my heart lurching into my throat. I know Christian was four when his mother died. But this child looks much younger. He must have been severely malnourished. I stifle a sob as tears spring to my eyes. Oh, my sweet Fifty.
Christian nods. “That’s me.”
“Yes. I don’t remember any of this.” His voice is flat and lifeless.
“Remember being with foster parents? Why should you? Christian, it was a long time ago. Is this what’s worrying you?”
“I remember other things, from before and after. When I met my mom and dad. But this … It’s like there’s a huge chasm.”
My heart twists and understanding dawns. My darling control freak likes everything in its place, and now he’s learned he’s missing part of the jigsaw.
“Is Jack in this picture?”
“Yes, he’s the older kid.” Christian’s eyes are still screwed shut, and he’s clinging to me as if I’m a life raft. I run my fingers through his hair while I gaze at the older boy, who is glaring, defiant and arrogant, at the camera. I can see it’s Jack. But he’s just a kid, a sad eight- or nine-year-old, hiding his fear behind his hostility. A thought occurs to me.
“When Jack called to tell me he had Mia, he said if things had been different, it could have been him.”
Christian closes his eyes and shudders. “That fucker!”
“You think he did all this because the Greys adopted you instead of him?”
“Who knows?” Christian’s tone is bitter. “I don’t give a fuck about him.”
“Perhaps he knew we were seeing each other when I went for that job interview. Perhaps he planned to seduce me all along.” Bile rises in my throat.
“I don’t think so,” Christian mutters, his eyes now open. “The searches he did on my family didn’t start until a week or so after you began your job at SIP. Barney knows the exact dates. And, Ana, he fucked all his assistants and taped them.” Christian closes his eyes and tightens his grip on me once more.
Suppressing the tremor that runs through me, I try to recall my various conversations with Jack when I first started at SIP. I knew deep down he was bad news, yet I ignored all my instincts. Christian’s right—I have no regard for my own safety. I remember the fight we had about me going to New York with Jack. Jeez—I could have ended up on some sordid sex tape. The thought is nauseating. And in that moment I recall the photographs Christian kept of his submissives.
Oh shit. “We’re cut from the same cloth.” No, Christian, you’re not, you’re nothing like him. He’s still curled around me like a small boy.
“Christian, I think you should talk to your mom and dad.” I am reluctant to move him, so I shift and slide back into the bed until we are eye to eye.
A bewildered gray gaze meets mine, reminding me of the child in the photograph.
“Let me call them,” I whisper. He shakes his head. “Please,” I beg. Christian stares at me, pain and self-doubt reflected in his eyes as he considers my request. Oh, Christian, please!
“I’ll call them,” he whispers.
“Good. We can go to see them together, or you can go. Whichever you prefer.”
“No. They can come here.”
“Why?”
“I don’t want you going anywhere.”
“Christian, I’m up for a car journey.”
“No.” His voice is firm, but he gives me an ironic smile. “Anyway, it’s Saturday night, they’re probably at some function.”
“Call them. This news has obviously upset you. They might be able to shed some light.” I glance at the radio alarm. It’s almost seven in the evening. He regards me impassively for a moment.
“Okay,” he says, as if I’ve issued him a challenge. Sitting up, he picks up the bedside phone.
I wrap my arm around him and rest my head on his chest as he makes the call.
“Dad?” I register his surprise that Carrick has answered the phone. “Ana’s good. We’re home. Welch has just left. He found out the connection … the foster home in Detroit … I don’t remember any of that.” Christian’s voice is almost inaudible as he mutters the last sentence. My heart constricts once more. I hug him, and he squeezes my shoulder.
“Yeah … You will? … Great.” He hangs up. “They’re on their way.” He sounds surprised, and I realize that he’s probably never asked them for help.
“Good. I should get dressed.”
Christian’s arm tightens around me. “Don’t go.”
“Okay.” I snuggle into his side again, stunned by the fact that he’s just told me a great deal about himself—entirely voluntarily.
AS WE STAND AT the threshold of the great room, Grace wraps me gently in her arms.
“Ana, Ana, darling Ana,” she whispers. “Saving two of my children. How can I ever thank you?”
I blush, touched and embarrassed in equal measure by her words. Carrick hugs me, too, kissing my forehead.
Then Mia grabs me, squashing my ribs. I wince and gasp, but she doesn’t notice. “Thank you for saving me from those assholes.”
Christian scowls at her. “Mia! Careful! She’s in pain.”
“Oh! Sorry.”
“I’m good,” I mutter, relieved when she releases me.
She looks fine. Impeccably dressed in tight black jeans and a pale pink frilly blouse. I’m glad I’m wearing my comfortable wrap dress and flats. At least I look reasonably presentable.
Racing over to Christian, Mia curls her arm around his waist.
Wordlessly, he hands Grace the photo. She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth to contain her emotion as she instantly recognizes Christian. Carrick wraps his arm around her shoulders as he, too, examines it.
“Oh, darling.” Grace caresses Christian’s cheek.
Taylor appears. “Mr. Grey? Miss Kavanagh, her brother, and your brother are coming up, sir.”
Christian frowns. “Thank you, Taylor,” he mutters, bemused.
“I called Elliot and told him we were coming over.” Mia grins. “It’s a welcome-home party.”
I sneak a sympathetic glance at my poor husband as both Grace and Carrick glare at Mia in exasperation.
“We’d better get some food together,” I declare. “Mia, will you give me a hand?”
“Oh, I’d love to.”
I usher her toward the kitchen area as Christian leads his parents into his study.
KATE IS APOPLECTIC WITH righteous indignation that’s aimed at me and Christian, but most of all Jack and Elizabeth.
“What were you thinking, Ana?” she shouts as she confronts me in the kitchen, causing all eyes in the room to turn and stare.
“Kate, please. I’ve had the same lecture from everyone!” I snap back. She glares at me, and for one minute I think I’m going to be subjected to a Katherine Kavanagh how-not-to-succumb-to-kidnappers lecture, but instead she folds me in her arms.
“Jeez—sometimes you don’t have the brains you were born with, Steele,” she whispers. As she kisses my cheek, there are tears in her eyes. Kate! “I’ve been so worried about you.”
“Don’t cry. You’ll set me off.”
She stands back and wipes her eyes, embarrassed, then takes a deep breath and composes herself. “On a more positive note, we’ve set a date for our wedding. We thought next May? And of course I want you to be my matron of honor.”
“Oh … Kate … Wow. Congratulations!” Crap—Little Blip … Junior!
“What is it?” she asks, misinterpreting my alarm.
“Um … I’m just so happy for you. Some good news for a change.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her into a hug. Shit, shit, shit. When is Blip due? Mentally I calculate my due date. Dr. Greene said I was four or five weeks. So—sometime in May? Shit.
Elliot hands me a glass of champagne.
Oh. Shit.
Christian emerges from his study, looking ashen, and follows his parents into the great room. His eyes widen when he sees the glass in my hand.
“Kate,” he greets her coolly.
“Christian.” She is equally cool. I sigh.
“Your meds, Mrs. Grey.” He eyes the glass in my hand.
I narrow my eyes. Dammit. I want a drink. Grace smiles as she joins me in the kitchen, collecting a glass from Elliot on the way.
“A sip will be fine,” she whispers with a conspiratorial wink at me, and lifts her glass to clink mine. Christian scowls at both of us, until Elliot distracts him with news of the latest match between the Mariners and the Rangers.
Carrick joins us, putting his arms around us both, and Grace kisses his cheek before joining Mia on the sofa.
“How is he?” I whisper to Carrick as he and I stand in the kitchen watching the family lounge on the sofa. I note with surprise that Mia and Ethan are holding hands.
“Shaken,” Carrick murmurs to me, his brow furrowing, his face serious. “He remembers so much of his life with his birth mother; many things I wish he didn’t. But this—” He stops. “I hope we’ve helped. I’m glad he called us. He said you told him to.” Carrick’s gaze softens. I shrug and take a hasty sip of champagne.
“You’re very good for him. He doesn’t listen to anyone else.”
I frown. I don’t think that’s true. The unwelcome specter of the Bitch Troll looms large in my mind. I know Christian talks to Grace, too. I heard him. Again I feel a moment’s frustration as I try to fathom their conversation in the hospital, but it still eludes me.
“Come and sit down, Ana. You look tired. I’m sure you weren’t expecting all of us here this evening.”
“It’s great to see everyone.” I smile. Because it’s true, it is great. I’m an only child who has married into a large and gregarious family, and I love it. I snuggle up next to Christian.
“One sip,” he hisses at me and takes my glass from my hand.
“Yes, Sir.” I bat my lashes, disarming him completely. He puts his arm around my shoulders and returns to his baseball conversation with Elliot and Ethan.
“MY PARENTS THINK YOU walk on water,” Christian mutters as he drags off his T-shirt.
I’m curled up in bed watching the floorshow. “Good thing you know differently.” I snort.
“Oh, I don’t know.” He slips out of his jeans.
“Did they fill in the gaps for you?”
“Some. I lived with the Colliers for two months while Mom and Dad waited for the paperwork. They were already approved for adoption because of Elliot, but the wait’s required by law to see if I had any living relatives who wanted to claim me.”
“How do you feel about that?” I whisper.
He frowns. “About having no living relatives? Fuck that. If they were anything like the crack whore …” He shakes his head in disgust.
Oh, Christian! You were a child, and you loved your mom.
He slides on his pajamas, climbs into bed, and gently pulls me into his arms.
“It’s coming back to me. I remember the food. Mrs. Collier could cook. And at least we know now why that fucker is so hung up on my family.” He runs his free hand through his hair. “Fuck!” he says, suddenly turning to gape at me.
“What?”
“It makes sense now!” His eyes are full of recognition.
“What?”
“Baby Bird. Mrs. Collier used to call me Baby Bird.”
I frown. “That makes sense?”
“The note,” he says, gazing at me. “The ransom note that fucker left. It went something like ‘Do you know who I am? Because I know who you are, Baby Bird.’ ”
This makes no sense to me at all.
“It’s from a kid’s book. Christ. The Colliers had it. It was called … Are You My Mother? Shit.” His eyes widen. “I loved that book.”
Oh. I know that book. My heart lurches—Fifty!
“Mrs. Collier used to read it to me.”
I am at a loss as to what to say.
“Christ. He knew … that fucker knew.”
“Yes. I will. Christ knows what Clark will do with that information.” Christian shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “Anyway, thank you for this evening.”
Whoa. Gear change. “For what?”
“Catering for my family at a moment’s notice.”
“Don’t thank me, thank Mia. And Mrs. Jones, she keeps the pantry well stocked.”
He shakes his head as if in exasperation. At me? Why?
“How are you feeling, Mrs. Grey?”
“Good. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine.” He frowns … not understanding my concern.
Oh … in that case. I trail my fingers down his stomach to his oh-so-happy trail.
He laughs and grabs my hand. “Oh no. Don’t get any ideas.”
I pout, and he sighs. “Ana, Ana, Ana, what am I going to do with you?” He kisses my hair.
“I have some ideas.” I squirm beside him and wince as pain radiates through my upper body from my bruised ribs.
“Baby, you’ve been through enough. Besides, I have a bedtime story for you.”
Oh?
“You wanted to know …” He trails off, closes his eyes, and swallows.
All the hair on my body stands on end. Shit.
He begins in a soft voice. “Picture this, an adolescent boy looking to earn some extra money so he can continue his secret drinking habit.” He shifts onto his side so that we’re lying facing each other, and he’s gazing into my eyes.
“So I was in the backyard at the Lincolns’, clearing some rubble and trash from the extension Mr. Lincoln had just added to their place …”
Holy fuck … he’s talking.