fifty shades darker (27 page)

I retort.

“I could easily demonstrate that is not the case, should you so wish.” Christian drags a large, cream, cable-knit sweater out of his bag and drapes it artfully over his shoulders.

With his white T-shirt and jeans, his artfully rumpled hair, and now this, he looks as if he’s stepped out of the pages of a high-end glossy magazine.

No one should look this good. And I don’t know if it’s the momentary distraction of his sheer perfect looks or the knowledge that he loves me, but his threat no longer fills me with dread. This is my Fifty Shades; this is the way he is.

As I reach for the hairdryer, a tangible ray of hope blossoms. We will find a middle way. We just have to recognize each other’s needs and accommodate them.
I can do that,
surely?

I gaze at myself in the dresser mirror. I’m wearing the pale blue shirt that Taylor bought and had packed for me. My hair is a mess, my face flushed, my lips swollen—I touch them, remembering Christian’s searing kisses, and I can’t help a small smile as I stare.
Yes, I do,
he said.

“Where are we going exactly?” I ask as we wait in the lobby for the parking valet.

Christian taps the side of his nose and winks at me conspiratorially, looking like he’s desperately trying to contain his glee. Frankly, it’s very un-Fifty.

He was like this when we went gliding—perhaps that’s what we’re doing. I beam back at him. He stares down his nose at me in that superior way he has with his lopsided grin.

Leaning down, he kisses me gently.

“Do you have any idea how happy you make me feel?” he murmurs.

“Yes . . . I know exactly. Because you do the same for me.”

The valet zooms up in Christian’s car, wearing a face-splitting grin. Jeez, everyone is so happy today.

“Great car, sir,” he mumbles as he hands over the keys. Christian winks and gives him an obscenely large tip.

I frown at him. Honestly.

As we cruise through the traffic, Christian is deep in thought. A young woman’s voice comes over the loudspeakers; it has a beautiful, rich, mellow timbre, and I lose myself in her sad, soulful voice.

“I need to make a detour. It shouldn’t take long,” he says absentmindedly, distracting me from the song.

Oh, why?
I’m intrigued to know the surprise. My inner goddess is bouncing about like a five-year-old.

“Sure,” I murmur. Something is amiss. Suddenly, he looks grimly determined.

He pulls into the parking lot of large car dealership, stops the car, and turns to face me, his expression wary.

“We need to get you a new car,” he says. I gape at him.

Now?
On a Sunday? What the hell? And this is a Saab dealership.

“Not an Audi?” is, stupidly, the only thing I can think of to say, and bless him, he actually flushes.

Holy cow—Christian, embarrassed. This is a first.

“I thought you might like something else,” he mutters. He’s almost squirming.

Oh, please . . .
This is too valuable an opportunity not to tease him. I smirk. “A Saab?”

“Yeah. A 9-3. Come.”

“What is it with you and foreign cars?”

“The Germans and the Swedes make the safest cars in the world, Anastasia.”

Do they?
“I thought you’d already ordered me another Audi A3?”

He gives me a darkly amused look. “I can cancel that. Come.” Climbing smoothly out of the car, he strolls gracefully to my side and opens my door.

“I owe you a graduation present,” he says softly and holds his hand out for me.

“Christian, you really don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do. Please. Come.” His tone says he’s not to be trifled with.

I resign myself to my fate. A Saab? Do I want a Saab? I quite like the Audi Submissive Special. It was very nifty.

Of course, now it’s under a ton of white paint . . . I shudder. And she’s still out there.

I take Christian’s hand, and we wander into the showroom.

Troy Turniansky, the salesman, is all over Fifty like a cheap suit. He can smell a sale.

Weirdly his accent sounds mid-Atlantic, maybe British? It’s difficult to tell.

“A Saab, sir? Pre-owned?” He rubs his hands with glee.

“New.” Christian’s lips set into a hard line.

New!

“Did you have a model in mind, sir?” And he’s smarmy, too.

“9-3 2.0T Sport Sedan.”

“An excellent choice, sir.”

“What color, Anastasia?” Christian inclines his head.

“Er . . . black?” I shrug. “You really don’t need to do this.”

He frowns. “Black’s not easily seen at night.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake.
I resist the temptation to roll my eyes. “You have a black car.”

He scowls at me.

“Bright canary yellow then.” I shrug.

Christian makes a face—canary yellow is obviously not his thing.

“What color do you want me to have?” I ask as if he’s a small child, which he is in many ways. The thought is unwelcome—sad and sobering at once.

“Silver or white.”

“Silver, then. You know I’ll take the Audi,” I add, chastened by my thoughts.

Troy pales, sensing he’s losing a sale. “Perhaps you’d like the convertible, ma’am?” he asks, clapping his hands with enthusiasm.

My subconscious is cringing in disgust, mortified by the whole buying-a-car business, but my inner goddess tackles her to the floor.
Convertible? Drool!

Christian frowns and peers at me. “Convertible?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I flush. It’s like he has a direct hotline to my inner goddess, which of course, he has. It’s most inconvenient at times. I stare down at my hands.

Christian turns to Troy. “What are the safety stats on the convertible?”

Troy, sensing Christian’s vulnerability, heads in for the kill, reeling off all manner of statistics.

Of course, Christian wants me safe. It’s a religion with him, and like the zealot he is, he listens intently to Troy’s well-honed patter. Fifty really does care.

Yes. I do.
I remember his whispered, choked words from this morning, and a melting glow spreads like warm honey through my veins. This man—God’s gift to women—loves me. I find myself grinning goofily at him, and when he glances down at me, he’s amused yet puzzled by my expression. I just want to hug myself, I am so happy.

“Whatever you’re high on, I’d like some, Miss Steele,” he murmurs as Troy heads off to his computer.

“I’m high on you, Mr. Grey.”

“Really? Well you certainly look intoxicated.” He kisses me briefly. “And thank you for accepting the car. That was easier than last time.”

“Well, it’s not an Audi A3.”

He smirks. “That’s not the car for you.”

“I liked it.”

“Sir, the 9-3? I’ve located one at our Beverly Hills dealership. We can have it here for you in a couple of days.” Troy glows with triumph.

“Top of the range?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” Christian produces his credit card, or is it Taylor’s? The thought is unnerving. I wonder how Taylor is, and if he’s located Leila in the apartment. I rub my forehead.

Yes, there’s all of Christian’s baggage, too.

“If you’ll come this way, Mr.”—Troy glances at the name on the card—“Grey.”

Christian opens my door, and I climb back into the passenger seat.

“Thank you,” I say when he’s seated beside me.

He smiles.

“You’re most welcome, Anastasia.”

The music starts again as Christian starts the engine.

“Who’s this?” I ask.

“Eva Cassidy.”

“She has a lovely voice.”

“She does, she did.”

“Oh.”

“She died young.”

“Oh.”

“Are you hungry? You didn’t finish all your breakfast.” He glances quickly at me, disapproval outlined on his face.

Uh-oh.
“Yes.”

“Lunch first, then.”

Christian drives toward the waterfront then heads north along the Alaskan Way. It’s another beautiful day in Seattle. It’s been uncharacteristically fine for the last few weeks, I muse.

Christian looks happy and relaxed as we sit back listening to Eva Cassidy’s sweet, soulful voice and cruise down the highway. Have I ever felt this comfortable in his company before? I don’t know.

I am less nervous of his moods, confident that he won’t punish me, and he seems more comfortable with me, too. He turns left, following the coast road, and eventually pulls up in a parking lot opposite a vast marina.

“We’ll eat here. I’ll open your door,” he says in such a way that I know it’s not wise to move, and I watch him move around the car. Will this ever get old?

We stroll arm in arm to the waterfront where the marina stretches out in front of us.

“So many boats,” I murmur in wonder. There are hundreds of them in all shapes and sizes, bobbing up and down on the calm, still waters of the marina. Out on the Sound there are dozens of sails in the wind, weaving to and fro, enjoying the fine weather. It’s a wholesome, outdoorsy sight. The wind has picked up a little, so I pull my jacket around me.

“Cold?” he asks and pulls me tightly against him.

“No, just admiring the view.”

“I could stare at it all day. Come, this way.”

Christian leads me into a large seafront bar and makes his way to the counter. The dé-

cor is more New England than West Coast—white-limed walls, pale blue furnishings, and boating paraphernalia hanging everywhere. It’s a bright, cheery place.

“Mr. Grey!” the barman greets Christian warmly. “What can I get you this afternoon?”

“Dante, good afternoon.” Christian grins as we both slip onto bar stools. “This lovely lady is Anastasia Steele.”

“Welcome to SP’s Place.” Dante gives me a friendly smile. He’s black and beautiful, his dark eyes assessing me and not finding me wanting, it seems. One large diamond stud winks at me from his ear. I like him immediately.

“What would you like to drink, Anastasia?”

I glance at Christian, who regards me expectantly. Oh, he’s going to let me choose.

“Please, call me Ana, and I’ll have whatever Christian’s drinking.” I smile shyly at Dante. Fifty’s so much better at wine than I am.

“I’m going to have a beer. This is the only bar in Seattle where you can get Adnam’s Explorer.”

“A beer?”

“Yes.” He grins at me. “Two Explorers, please, Dante.”

Dante nods and sets up the beers on the bar.

“They do a delicious seafood chowder here,” Christian says.

He’s asking me.

“Chowder and beer sounds great.” I smile at him.

“Two chowders?” Dante asks.

“Please.” Christian grins at him.

We talk through our meal, as we never have before. Christian is relaxed and calm—he looks young, happy, and animated despite all that transpired yesterday. He recounts the history of Grey Enterprises Holdings, and the more he reveals, the more I sense his passion for fixing problem companies, his hopes for the technology he’s developing, and his dreams of making land in the third world more productive. I listen enraptured. He’s funny, clever, philanthropic, and beautiful, and he loves me.

In turn, he plagues me with questions about Ray and my mom, about growing up in the lush forests of Montesano, and my brief stints in Texas and Vegas. He demands to know my favorite books and films, and I’m surprised by how much we have in common.

As we talk, it strikes me that he’s turned from Hardy’s Alec to Angel, debasement to high ideal in such a short space of time.

It’s after two when we finish our meal. Christian settles the tab with Dante, who wishes us a fond farewell.

“This is a great place. Thank you for lunch,” I say as Christian takes my hand and we leave the bar.

“We’ll come again,” he says, and we stroll along the waterfront. “I wanted to show you something.”

“I know . . . and I can’t wait to see it, whatever it is.”

We wander hand in hand along the marina. It is such a pleasant afternoon. People are out enjoying their Sunday—walking dogs, admiring the boats, watching their kids run along the promenade.

As we head down the marina, the boats are getting progressively larger. Christian leads me on to the dock and stops in front of a huge catamaran.

“I thought we’d go sailing this afternoon. This is my boat.”

Holy cow.
It must be at least forty, maybe fifty feet. Two sleek white hulls, a deck, a roomy cabin, and towering over them a very tall mast. I know nothing about boats, but I can tell this one is special.

“Wow . . . ,” I murmur in wonder.

“Built by my company,” he says proudly and my heart swells. “She’s been designed from the ground up by the very best naval architects in the world and constructed here in Seattle at my yard. She has hybrid electric drives, asymmetric dagger boards, a square-topped mainsail—”

“Okay . . . you’ve lost me, Christian.”

He grins. “She’s a great boat.”

“She looks mighty fine, Mr. Grey.”

“That she does, Miss Steele.”

“What’s her name?”

He pulls me to the side so I can see her name:
The Grace.
I’m surprised. “You named her after your mom?”

“Yes.” He cocks his head to one side, quizzical. “Why do you find that strange?”

I shrug. I am surprised—he always seems ambivalent in her presence.

“I adore my mom, Anastasia. Why wouldn’t I name a boat after her?”

I flush. “No, it’s not that . . . it’s just . . .” Shit, how can I put this into words?

“Anastasia, Grace Trevelyan saved my life. I owe her everything.”

I gaze at him, and let the reverence in his softly spoken admission wash over me. It’s obvious to me, for the first time, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strained ambivalence toward her?

“Do you want to come aboard?” he asks, his eyes bright, excited.

“Yes, please.” I smile.

He looks delighted and delightful in one yummy scrumptious package. Grasping my hand, he strides up the small gangplank and leads me aboard so that we are standing on deck beneath a rigid canopy.

To one side there’s a table and a U-shaped banquette covered in pale blue leather, which must seat at least eight people. I glance through the sliding doors to the interior of the cabin and jump, startled when I spy someone there. The tall blond man opens the sliding doors and emerges—all tanned, curly-haired and brown-eyed—wearing a faded pink short-sleeved polo shirt, shorts, and deck shoes. He must be in his early thirties.