by E. L. James
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.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
You 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.
“What sort of things? About your lifestyle?”
Christian shakes his head and puts his index finger against my lips to silence me. I scowl at him. But he narrows his eyes, and it’s a clear warning that I should hold my tongue.
“It’s a 2006 Camaro. I’ll send the license details to Welch, too,” Barney says excitedly from the phone.
“Good. Let me know where else that fucker has been in my building. And check this image against the one from his SIP personnel file.” Christian gazes at me skeptically. “I want to be sure we have a match.”
“Already done, sir, and Mrs. Grey is correct. This is Jack Hyde.”
I grin. See? I can be useful. Christian rubs his hand down my back.
“Well done, Mrs. Grey.” He smiles, his earlier rancor forgotten. To Barney he says, “Let me know when you’ve tracked all his movements at HQ. Also check out any other GEH property he may have had access to, and let the security teams know so they can make another sweep of all those buildings.”
“Sir.”
“Thanks, Barney.” Christian hangs up.
“Well, Mrs. Grey, it seems that you are not only decorative, but useful, too.” Christian’s eyes light up with wicked amusement. I know he’s teasing.
“Decorative?” I scoff, teasing him back.
“Very,” he says quietly, pressing a soft, sweet kiss on my lips.
“You’re much more decorative than I am, Mr. Grey.”
He grins and kisses me more forcefully, winding my braid around his wrist and wrapping his arms around me. When we come up for air, my heart is racing.
“Hungry?” he asks.
“No.”
“I am.”
“What for?”
“Well—food actually.”
“I’ll make you something.” I giggle.
“I love that sound.”
“Of me offering you food?”
“Your giggling.” He kisses my hair, then I stand.
“So what would you like to eat, Sir?” I ask sweetly.
He narrows his eyes. “Are you being cute, Mrs. Grey?”
“Always, Mr. Grey … Sir.”
He smiles a sphinxlike smile. “I can still put you over my knee,” he murmurs seductively.
“I know.” I grin. Placing my hands on the arms of his office chair, I lean down and kiss him. “That’s one of the things I love about you. But stow your twitching palm—you’re hungry.”
He smiles his shy smile and my heart clenches. “Oh, Mrs. Grey, what am I going to do with you?”
“You’re going to answer my question. What would you like to eat?”
“Something light. Surprise me,” he says, mirroring my words from the playroom earlier.
“I’ll see what I can do.” I sashay out of his study and into the kitchen. My heart sinks when I see Mrs. Jones is there.
“Hello, Mrs. Jones.”
“Mrs. Grey. Are you ready for something to eat?”
“Um …”
She is stirring something in a pot on the stove that smells delicious.
“I was going to make subs for Mr. Grey and me.”
She pauses for a heartbeat. “Sure,” she says. “Mr. Grey likes French bread—there is some in the freezer cut to sub length. I’d be happy to make it for you, ma’am.”
“I know. But I’d like to do this.”
“I understand. I’ll g
ive you some room.”
“What are you cooking?”
“This is a Bolognese sauce. It can be eaten anytime. I’ll freeze it.” She smiles warmly and turns the heat right down.
“Um—so what does Christian like in a, um … sub?” I frown, struck by what I’ve just said. Does Mrs. Jones understand the inference?
“Mrs. Grey, you could put just about anything in a sandwich, and as long as it’s on French bread, he’ll eat it.” We grin at each other.
“Okay, thank you.” I skip to the freezer and find the French bread cut to size in Ziploc bags. I place two of them on a plate, pop them in the microwave, and set it to defrost.
Mrs. Jones has disappeared. I frown as I return to the fridge to search for ingredients. I suppose it will be up to me to set the parameters by which Mrs. Jones and I will work together. I like the idea of cooking for Christian on the weekends. Mrs. Jones is more than welcome to do it during the week—the last thing I’ll want to do when I come home from work is cook. Hmm … a bit like Christian’s routine with his submissives. I shake my head. I mustn’t overthink this. I find some ham in the fridge, and in the crisper a perfectly ripe avocado.
As I am adding a touch of salt and lemon to the mashed avocado, Christian emerges from his study with the plans for the new house in his hands. He puts them on the breakfast bar, saunters toward me, and wraps his arms around me, kissing my neck.
“Barefoot and in the kitchen,” he murmurs.
“Shouldn’t that be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?” I smirk.
He stills, his whole body tensing against me. “Not yet,” he declares, apprehension clear in his voice.
“No! Not yet!”
He relaxes. “On that we can agree, Mrs. Grey.”
“You do want kids though, don’t you?”
“Sure, yes. Eventually. But I’m not ready to share you yet.” He kisses my neck again.
Oh … share?
“What are you making? Looks good.” He kisses me behind my ear, and I know it’s to distract me. A delicious tingle travels down my spine.
“Subs.” I smirk, recovering my sense of humor.
He smiles against my neck and nips my earlobe. “My favorite.”
I poke him with my elbow.
“Mrs. Grey, you wound me.” He clutches his side as if in pain.
“Wimp,” I mutter disapprovingly.
“Wimp?” he utters in disbelief. He slaps my behind, making me yelp. “Hurry up with my food, wench. And later I’ll show you how wimpy I can be.” He slaps me playfully once more and goes to the fridge.
“Would you like a glass of wine?” he asks.
“Please.”
CHRISTIAN SPREADS GIA’S PLANS out over the breakfast bar. She really has some spectacular ideas.
“I love her proposal to make the entire downstairs back wall glass, but …”
“But?” Christian prompts.
I sigh. “I don’t want to take all the character out of the house.”
“Character?”
“Yes. What Gia is proposing is quite radical, but … well … I fell in love with the house as it is … warts and all.”
Christian’s brow furrows as if this is anathema to him.
“I kind of like it the way it is,” I whisper. Is this going to make him mad?
He regards me steadily. “I want this house to be the way you want. Whatever you want. It’s yours.”
“I want you to like it, too. To be happy in it, too.”
“I’ll be happy wherever you are. It’s that simple, Ana.” His gaze holds mine. He is utterly, utterly sincere. I blink at him as my heart expands. Holy cow, he really does love me.
“Well”—I swallow, fighting the small knot of emotion that catches in my throat—“I like the glass wall. Maybe we could ask her to incorporate it into the house a little more sympathetically.”
Christian grins. “Sure. Whatever you want. What about the plans for upstairs and the basement?”
“I’m cool with those.”
“Good.”
Okay … I steel myself to ask the million-dollar question. “Do you want to put in a playroom?” I feel the oh-so-familiar flush creep up my face as I ask. Christian’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Do you?” he replies, surprised and amused at once.
I shrug. “Um … if you want.”
He regards me for a moment. “Let’s leave our options open for the moment. After all, this will be a family home.”
I’m surprised by the stab of disappointment I feel. I guess he’s right … although when are we going to have a family? It could be years.
“Besides, we can improvise.”
“I like improvising,” I whisper.
He grins. “There’s something I want to discuss.” Christian points to the master bedroom, and we start a detailed discussion on bathrooms and separate walk-in closets.
WHEN WE FINISH, IT’S nine thirty in the evening.
“Are you going back to work?” I ask as Christian rolls up the plans.
“Not if you don’t want me to.” He smiles. “What would you like to do?”
“We could watch TV.” I don’t want to read, and I don’t want to go to bed … yet.
“Okay,” Christian agrees willingly, and I follow him into the TV room.
We have sat here three, maybe four times total, and Christian usually reads a book. He’s not interested in television at all. I curl up beside him on the couch, tucking my legs beneath me and resting my head against his shoulder. He switches on the flat-screen television with the remote and flicks mindlessly through the channels.
“Any specific drivel you want to see?”
“You don’t like TV much, do you?” I mutter sardonically.
He shakes his head. “Waste of time. But I’ll watch something with you.”
“I thought we could make out.”
He whips his face to mine. “Make out?” He gazes at me as if I’ve grown two heads. He stops the endless flicking, leaving the TV on an overlit Spanish soap opera.
“Yes.” Why is he so horrified?
“We could go to bed and make out.”
“We do that all the time. When was the last time you made out in front of the TV?” I ask, shy and teasing at the same time.
He shrugs and shakes his head. Pressing the remote again, he flicks through another few channels before settling on an old episode of The X-Files.
“Christian?”
“I’ve never done that,” he says quietly.
“Never?”
“No.”
“Not even with Mrs. Robinson?”
He snorts. “Baby, I did a lot of things with Mrs. Robinson. Making out was not one of them.” He smirks at me and then narrows his eyes with amused curiosity. “Have you?”
I flush. “Of course.” Well, kind of …
“What! Who with?”
Oh no. I do not want to have this discussion.
“Tell me,” he persists.
I gaze down at my knotted fingers. He gently covers my hands with one of his. When I glance up at him, he’s smiling at me.
“I want to know. So I can beat whoever it was to a pulp.”
I giggle. “Well, the first time …”
“The first time! There’s more than one fucker?” He growls.
I giggle again. “Why so surprised, Mr. Grey?”
He frowns briefly, runs a hand through his hair, and looks at me as if seeing me in a completely different light. He shrugs. “I just am. I mean—given your lack of experience.”
I flush. “I’ve certainly made up for that since I met you.”
“You have.” He grins. “Tell me. I want to know.”
I gaze into patient gray eyes, trying to gauge his mood. Is this going to make him mad, or does he genuinely want to know? I don’t want him sulking … he’s impossible when he’s sulking.
“You really want me to tell you?”
He nods slowly once, and his lips twitch with an amused, arroga
nt smile.
“I was briefly in Texas with Mom and Husband Number Three. I was in tenth grade. His name was Bradley, and he was my lab partner in physics.”
“How old were you?”
“Fifteen.”
“And what’s he doing now?”
“I don’t know.”
“What base did he get to?”
“Christian!” I scold—and suddenly he grabs my knees, then my ankles, and tips me up so I fall back onto the couch. He slides smoothly on top of me, trapping me beneath him, one leg between mine. It’s so sudden that I cry out in surprise. He grabs my hands and raises them above my head.
“So, this Bradley—did he get to first base?” he murmurs, running his nose down the length of mine. He plants soft kisses at the corner of my mouth.
“Yes,” I murmur against his lips. He releases one of his hands so that he can clasp my chin and hold me still while his tongue invades my mouth, and I surrender to his ardent kissing.
“Like this?” Christian breathes when he comes up for air.
“No … nothing like that,” I manage as all the blood in my body heads south.
Releasing my chin, he runs his hand down over my body and back up to my breast.
“Did he do this? Touch you like this?” His thumb skims over my nipple, through my camisole, softly, repeatedly, and it hardens under his expert touch.
“No.” I writhe beneath him.
“Did he get to second base?” he murmurs in my ear. His hand moves down across my ribs, past my waist to my hip. He takes my earlobe between his teeth and gently tugs.
“No,” I breathe.
Mulder blurts from the television something about the FBI’s most unwanted.
Christian pauses, leans up, and presses “mute” on the remote. He gazes down at me.
“What about Joe Schmo number two? Did he make it past second base?”
His eyes are smoldering hot … angry? Turned on? It’s difficult to say which. He shifts to my side and slides his hand beneath my sweatpants.
“No,” I whisper, trapped in his carnal gaze. Christian smiles wickedly.