Grey (43 page)
Authors: E L James
“Yes, sir.” And there's a hint of amusement in his voice.
WEDNESDAY, JUNE 1, 2011
I
t'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 Georgiaâat 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 Steeleâvia e-mail or phone, I've yet to decide whichâon 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.”
“They'll do anytime from six a.m.”
“Even better. Have them ready from then. Send me the address.”
“Will do.”
There's a knock on the doorâmy luggage and room service have arrived simultaneously. The food smells delicious: fried green tomatoes and shrimp and grits. Well, I'm in the South.
While I eat I contemplate my strategy with Ana. I could pay a visit to her mom's tomorrow at breakfast. Bring bagels. Then take her soaring. That's probably the best plan. She hasn't been in touch all day, so I guess she's mad. I reread her last message once I've finished dinner.
What the hell has she got against Elena? She knows nothing about our relationship. What we had happened a long time ago and now we're just friends. What right does Ana have to be mad?
And if it wasn't for Elena, God knows what would have happened to me.
There's a knock on the door. It's Taylor.
“Good evening, sir. Happy with your room?”
“Yes, it's fine.”
“I have the paperwork for the Brunswick Soaring Association here.”
I scan the hire agreement. It looks fine. I sign it and give it back to him. “I'll drive myself tomorrow. I'll see you there?”
“Yes, sir. I'll be there from six.”
“I'll let you know if anything changes.”
“Shall I unpack for you, sir?”
“Please. Thanks.”
He nods and takes my suitcase into the bedroom.
I'm restless, and I need to get what I'm going to say to Ana clear in my mind. I glance at my watch; it's twenty past nine. I've left this really late. Perhaps I should have a quick drink first. I leave Taylor to unpack and decide to check out the hotel bar before I speak to Ros again and write to Ana.
The rooftop bar is crowded, but I find a seat at the end of the counter and order a beer. It's a hip, contemporary place, with moody lighting and a relaxed vibe. I scan the bar, avoiding eye contact with the two women sitting next to meâ¦and a movement captures my attention: a frustrated flip of glossy mahogany hair that catches and refracts the light.
It's Ana. Fuck.
She's facing away from me, seated opposite a woman who could only be her mother. The resemblance is striking.
What are the fucking odds?
In all the gin jointsâ¦
Jesus.
I watch them, transfixed. They're drinking cocktailsâCosmopolitans, by the look of them. Her mother is stunning: like Ana, but older; she looks late thirties, with long, dark hair, and eyes that are Ana's shade of blue. She has a bohemian vibe about herâ¦not someone I'd automatically associate with the golf club set. Perhaps she's dressed that way because she's out with her young, beautiful daughter.
This is priceless.
Seize the day, Grey.
I fish my phone out of my jeans pocket. It's time to e-mail Ana. This should be interesting. I'll test her moodâ¦and I get to watch.
From:
Christian Grey
Subject:
Dinner Companions
Date:
June 1 2011 21:40 EST
To:
Anastasia Steele
Yes, I had dinner with Mrs. Robinson. She is just an old friend, Anastasia.
Looking forward to seeing you again. I miss you.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Her mother looks earnest; maybe she's concerned for her daughter, or maybe she's trying to extract information from her.
Good luck, Mrs. Adams.
And for a moment I wonder if they're discussing me. Her mother stands; it looks like she's visiting the restroom. Ana checks her purse and pulls out her BlackBerry.
Here we goâ¦
She begins to read, her shoulders hunched over, her fingers flexing and drumming on the table. She starts tapping furiously at the keys. I can't see her face, which is frustrating, but I don't think she's impressed with what she's just read. A moment later she abandons the phone on the table in what appears to be disgust.
That's not good.
Her mother returns and signals one of the waiters for another round of drinks. I wonder how many they've had.
I check my phone, and sure enough, there's a response.
From:
Anastasia Steele
Subject:
OLD Dinner Companions
Date:
June 1 2011 21:42 EST
To:
Christian Grey
She's not just an old friend.
Has she found another adolescent boy to sink her teeth into?
Did you get too old for her?
Is that the reason your relationship finished?
What the hell?
My temper simmers as I read.
Isaac is in his late twenties.
Like me.
How dare she?
Is it the drink talking?
Time to declare yourself, Grey.
From:
Christian Grey
Subject:
Carefulâ¦
Date:
June 1 2011 21:45 EST
To:
Anastasia Steele
This is not something I wish to discuss via e-mail.
How many Cosmopolitans are you going to drink?
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
She studies her phone, sits up suddenly, and looks around the room.
Showtime, Grey.
I deposit ten bucks on the counter and saunter over to them.
Our eyes meet. She blanchesâshocked, I thinkâand I don't know how she'll greet me, or how I'll contain my temper if she says anything else about Elena.
She tucks her hair behind her ears with restless fingers. A sure sign that she's nervous. “Hi,” she says, her voice strained and high-pitched.
“Hi.” I lean down and kiss her cheek. She smells amazing, even if she does tense as my lips brush her skin. She looks lovely; she's caught some sun, and she's not wearing a bra. Her breasts are straining against the silky material of her top, but hidden by her long hair.
For my eyes only, I hope.
And even though she's mad, I'm glad to see her. I've missed her.
“Christian, this is my mother, Carla.” Ana gestures to her mom.
“Mrs. Adams, I am delighted to meet you.”
Her mom's eyes are all over me.
Shit!
She's checking me out
. Best ignore it, Grey.
After a longer-than-necessary pause, she reaches out to shake my hand. “Christian.”
“What are you doing here?” Ana asks, her tone accusatory.
“I came to see you, of course. I'm staying in this hotel.”
“You're staying here?” she squeaks.
Yes. I can't quite believe it, either.
“Well, yesterday you said you wished I was here.” I'm trying to gauge her reaction. So far there's been: nervous fidgeting, tensing, an accusatory tone, and a strained voice. This is not going well. “We aim to please, Miss Steele,” I add, deadpan, hoping to put her in a good mood.
“Won't you join us for a drink, Christian?” Mrs. Adams says graciously, and catches the eye of the waiter.
I need something stronger than beer. “I'll have a gin and tonic,” I tell the waiter. “Hendrick's, if you have it, or Bombay Sapphire. Cucumber with the Hendrick's, lime with the Bombay.”
