CHAPTER NINE

When I wake before the alarm the following morning, Christian is wrapped around me like ivy, his head on my chest, his arm around my waist, and his leg between mine. And he’s on my side of the bed. It’s always the same, if we argue the night before, this is how he ends up, coiled around me, making me hot and bothered.

Oh, Fifty. He is so needy on some level. Who would have thought? The familiar vision of Christian as a dirty, wretched little boy haunts me. Gently, I stroke his shorter hair and my melancholy recedes. He stirs, and his sleepy eyes meet mine. He blinks a couple of times as he wakes.

“Hi,” he murmurs and smiles.

“Hi.” I love waking to that smile.

He nuzzles my breasts and hums appreciatively deep in his throat. His hand travels down from my waist, skimming over the cool satin of my nightgown.

“What a tempting morsel you are,” he mutters. “But, tempting though you are,” he glances at the alarm, “I have to get up.” He stretches out, untangles himself from me, and rises.

I lie back, put my hands behind my head, and enjoy the show—Christian stripping for his shower. He is perfect. I wouldn’t change a hair on his head.

“Admiring the view, Mrs. Grey?” Christian arches a sardonic brow at me.

“It’s a mighty fine view, Mr. Grey.”

He grins and throws his pajama pants at me so they almost land on my face, but I catch them in time, giggling like a schoolgirl. With a wicked grin, he pulls the duvet off, puts one knee on the bed, grabs my ankles, and drags me toward him so that my nightdress rides up. I squeal, and he crawls up my body, trailing little kisses on my knee, my thigh … my … oh … Christian!

“GOOD MORNING, MRS. GREY,” Mrs. Jones greets me. I flush, embarrassed, remembering her tryst with Taylor the night before.

“Good morning,” I respond as she hands me a cup of tea. I sit on the barstool beside my husband, who just looks radiant: freshly showered, his hair damp, wearing a crisp white shirt and that silver-gray tie. My favorite tie. I have fond memories of that tie.

“How are you, Mrs. Grey?” he asks, his eyes warm.

“I think you know, Mr. Grey.” I gaze up at him through my lashes.

He smirks. “Eat,” he orders. “You didn’t eat yesterday.”

Oh, bossy Fifty!

“That’s because you were being an arse.”

Mrs. Jones drops something that clatters into the sink, making me jump. Christian seems oblivious to the noise. Ignoring her, he stares at me impassively.

“Arse or not—eat.” His tone is serious. No arguing with him.

“Okay! Picking up spoon, eating granola,” I mutter like a petulant teenager. I reach for the Greek yogurt and spoon some onto my cereal, followed by a handful of blueberries. I glance at Mrs. Jones and she catches my eye. I smile, and she responds with a warm smile of her own. She has provided me with my breakfast of choice, which was introduced to me on our honeymoon.

“I may have to go to New York later in the week.” Christian’s announcement interrupts my reverie.

“Oh.”

“It’ll mean an overnight. I want you to come with me.”

“Christian, I won’t get the time off.”

He gives me his oh-really-but-I’m-the-boss stare.

I sigh. “I know you own the company, but I’ve been away for three weeks. Please. How can you expect me to run the business if I’m never there? I’ll be fine here. I’m assuming you’ll take Taylor with you, but Sawyer and Ryan will be here—” I stop, because Christian is grinning at me. “What?” I snap.

“Nothing. Just you,” he says.

I frown. Is he laughing at me? Then a nasty thought pops into my mind. “How are you getting to New York?”

“The company jet, why?”

“I just wanted to check if you were taking Charlie Tango.” My voice is quiet, and a shiver runs down my spine. I remember the last time he flew his helicopter. A wave of nausea hits me as I recall the anxious hours I spent waiting for news. That was possibly the lowest point in my life. I notice Mrs. Jones has stilled, too. I try to dismiss the idea.

“I wouldn’t fly to New York in Charlie Tango. She doesn’t have that kind of range. Besides, she won’t be back from the engineers for another two weeks.”

Thank heavens. My smile is partly from relief, but also the knowledge that the demise of Charlie Tango has occupied a great deal of Christian’s thoughts and time over the last few weeks.

“Well, I’m glad she’s nearly fixed, but—” I stop. Can I tell him how nervous I’ll be when he flies next time?

“What?” he asks as he finishes his omelet.

I shrug.

“Ana?” he says, more sternly.

“I just … you know. Last time you flew in her … I thought, we thought, you’d—” I can’t finish the sentence, and Christian’s expression softens.

“Hey.” He caresses my face with the backs of his knuckles. “That was sabotage.” A dark expression crosses his face, and for a moment I wonder if he knows who was responsible.

“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” I murmur.

“Five people have been fired because of that, Ana. It won’t happen again.”

“Five?”

He nods, his face serious.

Holy crap!

“That reminds me. There’s a gun in your desk.”

He frowns at my non sequitur and probably at my accusatory tone, though I don’t mean it that way.

“It’s Leila’s,” he says finally.

“It’s fully loaded.”

“How do you know?” His frown deepens.

“I checked it yesterday.”

He scowls at me. “I don’t want you messing with guns. I hope you put the safety back on.”

I blink at him, momentarily stupefied. “Christian, there’s no safety on that revolver. Don’t you know anything about guns?”

His eyes widen. “Um … no.”

Taylor coughs discreetly from the entrance. Christian nods at him.

“We have to go,” Christian says. He stands, distracted, and slips on his gray jacket. I follow him into the hallway.

He has Leila’s gun. I am stunned by this news and briefly wonder what’s happened to her. Is she still in—where is it? East somewhere. New Hampshire? I can’t remember.

“Good morning, Taylor,” Christian says.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey.” He nods at us both, but he’s careful not to look me in the eye. I’m grateful, recalling my state of undress when we bumped into each other last night.

“I am just going to brush my teeth,” I mutter. Christian always brushes his teeth before breakfast. I don’t understand why.

“YOU SHOULD ASK TAYLOR to teach you how to shoot,” I say as we travel down in the elevator. Christian gazes down at me, amused.

“Should I now?” he says dryly.

“Yes.”

“Anastasia, I despise guns. My mom has patched up too many victims of gun crime, and my dad is vehemently antigun. I grew up with their ethos. I support at least two gun control initiatives here in Washington.”

“Oh. Does Taylor carry a gun?”

Christian’s mouth thins.

“Sometimes.”

“You don’t approve?” I ask, as Christian ushers me out of the elevator on the ground floor.

“No,” he says, tight-lipped. “Let’s just say that Taylor and I hold very different views with regard to gun control.” I’m with Taylor on this.

Christian holds the foyer door open for me and I head out to the car. He has not let me drive alone to SIP since he found out that Charlie Tango was sabotaged. Sawyer smiles pleasantly, holding the door open for me as Christian and I climb into the car.

“Please.” I reach across and grasp Christian’s hand.

“Please what?”

“Learn how to shoot.”

He rolls his eyes at me. “No. End of discussion, Anastasia.”

And again I am a child to be scolded. I open my mouth to say something cutting, but decide I don’t want to start my workday in a bad mood. I fold my arms instead and glimpse Taylor regarding me in the rearview mirror. He looks away, concentrating on the road in front, but shakes his head a little, in obvious frustration.

Hmm … Christian drives him crazy, too, sometimes. The thought makes me smile, and my mood is saved.

“Where is Leila?” I ask as Christian gazes out of his window.

“I told you. She’s in Connecticut with her folks.” He glances at me.

“Did you check? After all, she does have long hair. It could have been her driving the Dodge.”

“Yes, I checked. She’s enrolled in an art school in Hamden. She started this week.”

“You’ve spoken to her?” I whisper, all the blood draining from my face.

Christian whips his head around at the tone of my voice.

“No. Flynn has.” He searches my face for a clue to my thoughts.

“I see,” I murmur, relieved.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

Christian sighs. “Ana. What is it?”

I shrug, not wanting to admit to my irrational jealousy.

Christian continues, “I’m keeping tabs on her, checking that she stays on her side of the continent. She’s better, Ana. Flynn has referred her to a shrink in New Haven, and all the reports are very positive. She’s always been interested in art, so …” He stops, his face still searching mine. And in that moment I suspect that he is paying for her art classes. Do I want to know? Should I ask him? I mean, it’s not as if he can’t afford it, but why does he feel the obligation? I sigh. Christian’s baggage hardly compares to Bradley Kent from biology class and his half-assed attempts to kiss me. Christian reaches for my hand.

“Don’t sweat this, Anastasia,” he murmurs, and I return his reassuring squeeze. I know he’s doing what he thinks is right.

MIDMORNING I HAVE A break in meetings. As I pick up the phone to call Kate, I notice an e-mail from Christian.

I melt reading it.

Hoplophobe? What the hell is that?

His response makes me giggle.