Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (115 page)

“Did you think of your subs as lovers?”

Christian’s brow creases once more, but this time he’s thinking. He turns the Saab smoothly north once again.
Where are we going?

“No. They were sexual partners,” he murmurs, his voice cautious again. “You’re my only lover. And I want you to be more.”

Oh … there’s that magical word again, brimming with possibility. It makes me smile, and inside I hug myself, trying to contain my joy.

“I know,” I whisper, trying hard to hide my excitement. “I just need some time, Christian. To get my head around these last few days.” He glances at me oddly, perplexed, his head inclined to one side.

After a beat, the traffic light we’re stopped at turns green. He nods and turns the music up, and our discussion is over.

Van Morrison is still singing—more optimistically now—about it being a marvelous night for moondancing. I gaze out the windows at the pines and spruce dusted gold by the fading light of the sun, their long shadows stretching across the road. Christian has turned onto a more residential street, and we’re heading west toward the Sound.

“Where are we going?” I ask again as we turn onto a road. I catch a road sign—9
TH
A
VE
NW. I am baffled.

“Surprise,” he says and smiles mysteriously.

C
hristian continues to drive past single-story, well-kept clapboard houses where kids play basketball in their yards or cycle and run around in the street. It all looks affluent and wholesome with the houses nestling among the trees. Perhaps we’re going to visit someone? Who?

A few minutes later, Christian turns sharply left, and we’re confronted by two ornate white metal gates set in a six-foot-high sandstone wall. Christian presses a button on his door handle and the electric window hums quietly down into the doorframe. He punches a number into the keypad and the gates swing open in welcome.

He glances at me, and his expression has changed. He looks uncertain, even nervous.

“What is it?” I ask, and I can’t mask the concern in my voice.

“An idea,” he says quietly and eases the Saab through the gates.

We head up a tree-lined lane just wide enough for two cars. On one side the trees ring a densely wooded area, and on the other there’s a vast area of grassland where a once-cultivated field has been left fallow. Grass and wildflowers have reclaimed it, creating a rural idyll—a meadow, where the late evening breeze softly ripples through the grass and the evening sun gilds the wildflowers. It’s lovely, utterly tranquil, and suddenly I imagine myself lying in the grass and gazing up at a clear blue summer sky. The thought is tantalizing, yet makes me feel homesick for some strange reason. How odd.

The lane curves around and opens into a sweeping driveway in front of an impressive Mediterranean-style house of soft pink sandstone. It’s palatial. All the lights are on, each window brightly
illuminated in the dusk. There’s a smart black BMW parked in front of the four-car garage, but Christian pulls up outside the grand portico.

Hmm … I wonder who lives here. Why are we visiting?

Christian glances anxiously at me as he switches off the car engine.

“Will you keep an open mind?” he asks.

I frown.

“Christian, I’ve needed an open mind since the day I met you.”

He smiles ironically and nods. “Fair point well made, Miss Steele. Let’s go.”

The dark wood doors open, and a woman with dark brown hair, a sincere smile, and a sharp lilac suit stands waiting. I’m grateful I changed into my new navy shift dress to impress Dr. Flynn. Okay, I’m not wearing killer heels like her—but still, I’m not in jeans.

“Mr. Grey.” She smiles warmly and they shake hands.

“Miss Kelly,” he says politely.

She smiles at me and holds out her hand, which I shake. Her isn’t-he-dreamily-gorgeous-wish-he-were-mine flush does not go unnoticed.

“Olga Kelly,” she announces breezily.

“Ana Steele,” I mutter back at her. Who is this woman? She stands aside, welcoming us into the house. It’s a shock when I step in. The place is empty—completely empty. We find ourselves in a large entrance hall. The walls are a faded primrose yellow with scuff marks where pictures must once have hung. All that remains are the old-fashioned crystal light fixtures. The floors are dull hardwood. There are closed doors to either side of us, but Christian gives me no time to assimilate what’s happening.

“Come,” he says, and taking my hand, he leads me through the archway in front of us into a larger inner vestibule. It’s dominated by a curved, sweeping staircase with an intricate iron balustrade, but still he doesn’t stop. He takes me through to the main living area, which is empty save for a large faded gold rug—the
biggest rug I have ever seen. Oh—and there are four crystal chandeliers.

But Christian’s intention is now clear as we head across the room and outside through open French doors to a large stone terrace. Below us there’s half a football field of manicured lawn, but beyond that is the view.
Wow
.

The panoramic, uninterrupted vista is breathtaking—staggering even: twilight over the Sound. In the distance lies Bainbridge Island, and farther still on this crystal-clear evening, the setting sun sinks slowly, glowing blood and flame orange, beyond Olympic National Park. Vermilion hues bleed into the cerulean sky, with opals and aquamarines, and meld with the darker purples of the scant wispy clouds and the land beyond the Sound. It is nature’s best, a visual symphony orchestrated in the sky and reflected in the deep, still waters of the Sound. I am lost to the view—staring, trying to absorb such beauty.

I realize I’m holding my breath in awe, and Christian is still holding my hand. As I reluctantly turn my eyes away from the view, he’s gazing anxiously at me.

“You brought me here to admire the view?” I whisper.

He nods, his expression serious.

“It’s staggering, Christian. Thank you,” I murmur, letting my eyes feast on it once more. He releases my hand.

“How would you like to look at it for the rest of your life?” he breathes.

What?
I whip my face back to his, startled blue eyes to pensive gray. I think my mouth drops open, and I gape at him blankly.

“I’ve always wanted to live on the coast. I sail up and down the Sound coveting these houses. This place hasn’t been on the market long. I want to buy it, demolish it, and build a new house—for us,” he whispers, and his eyes glow, translucent with his hopes and dreams.

Holy cow
. Somehow I remain upright. I’m reeling.
Live here! In this beautiful haven! For the rest of my life …

“It’s just an idea,” he adds cautiously.

I glance back to assess the interior of the house. How much is it worth? It must be what—five, ten million dollars? I have no idea. Holy shit.

“Why do you want to demolish it?” I ask, looking back at him. His face falls.
Oh no
.

“I’d like to make a more sustainable home, using the latest ecological techniques. Elliot could build it.”

I gaze back at the room again. Miss Olga Kelly is on the far side, hovering by the entrance. She’s the Realtor, of course. I notice the room is huge and double height, a little like the great room at Escala. There’s a balcony above—that must be the landing on the second floor. There’s a huge fireplace and a whole line of French doors opening onto the terrace. It has an old-world charm.

“Can we look around the house?”

He blinks at me. “Sure.” He shrugs, puzzled.

Miss Kelly’s face lights up like Christmas when we head back in. She’s delighted to take us on a tour and gives us the spiel.

The house is enormous: twelve thousand square feet on six acres of land. As well as the main living room, there’s the eat-in—no, banquet-in—kitchen with family room attached—
family!
—a music room, a library, a study and, much to my amazement, an indoor pool and exercise suite with sauna and steam room attached. Downstairs in the basement there’s a cinema—
jeez
—and game room. Hmm … what sort of games could we play in here?

Miss Kelly points out all sorts of features, but basically the house is beautiful and was obviously at one time a happy family home. It’s a little shabby now, but nothing that some TLC couldn’t cure.

As we follow Miss Kelly up the magnificent main stairs to the second floor, I can hardly contain my excitement … this house has everything I could ever wish for in a home.

“Couldn’t you make the existing house more ecological and self-sustaining?”

Christian blinks at me, nonplussed. “I’d have to ask Elliot. He’s the expert in all this.”

Miss Kelly leads us into the master suite, where full-height windows open onto a balcony, and the view is still spectacular. I could sit in bed and gaze out all day, watching the sailing boats and the changing weather.

There are five additional bedrooms on this floor.
Kids!
I push the thought hastily to one side. I have too much to process already. Miss Kelly is busily suggesting to Christian how the grounds could accommodate riding stables and a paddock.
Horses!
Terrifying images of my few riding lessons flash through my mind, but Christian doesn’t appear to be listening.

“The paddock would be where the meadow is now?” I ask.

“Yes,” Miss Kelly says brightly.

To me the meadow looks like somewhere to lie in the long grass and have picnics, not for some four-legged fiend of Satan to roam.

Back in the main room, Miss Kelly discreetly disappears, and Christian leads me out once more onto the terrace. The sun has set and lights from the towns on the Olympic peninsula are twinkling on the far side of the Sound.

Christian pulls me into his arms and tips my chin up with his index finger, staring intently down at me.

“Lot to take in?” he asks, his expression unreadable.

I nod.

“I wanted to check that you liked it before I bought it.”

“The view?”

He nods.

“I love the view, and I like the house that’s here.”

“You do?”

I smile shyly. “Christian, you had me at the meadow.”

His lips part as he inhales sharply, then his face transforms with a grin, and his hands are suddenly thrusting into my hair and his mouth is on mine.

BACK IN THE CAR
as we head for Seattle, Christian’s mood has lifted considerably.

“So, you’re going to buy it?” I ask.

“Yes.”

“You’ll put Escala on the market?”

He frowns. “Why would I do that?”

“To pay for …” My voice trails off—of course. I flush.

He smirks at me. “Trust me, I can afford it.”

“Do you like being rich?”

“Yes. Show me someone who doesn’t,” he says darkly.

Okay, get off that subject quickly.

“Anastasia, you’re going to have to learn to be rich, too, if you say yes,” he says softly.

“Wealth isn’t something I’ve ever aspired to, Christian.” I frown.

“I know. I love that about you. But then again, you’ve never been hungry,” he says simply. His words are sobering.

“Where are we going?” I ask brightly, changing the subject.

“To celebrate.” Christian relaxes.

Oh!
“Celebrate what, the house?”

“Have you forgotten already? Your acting editor role.”

“Oh yes.” I grin. Unbelievably, I had forgotten.

“Where?”

“Up high at my club.”

“Your club?”

“Yes. One of them.”

THE MILE HIGH CLUB
is on the seventy-sixth floor of Columbia Tower, higher even than Christian’s apartment. It’s very trendy and has the most head-spinning views over Seattle.

“Cristal, ma’am?” Christian hands me a glass of chilled champagne as I sit perched on a barstool.

“Why, thank you,
Sir
.” I stress the last word flirtatiously, batting my eyelashes at him deliberately.

He gazes at me and his face darkens. “Are you flirting with me, Miss Steele?”

“Yes, Mr. Grey, I am. What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m sure I can think of something,” he says, his voice low. “Come—our table’s ready.”

As we approach the table, Christian stops me, his hand on my elbow.

“Go and take your panties off,” he whispers.

Oh?
A delicious tingle runs down my spine.

“Go,” he commands quietly.

Whoa, what?
He’s not smiling—he’s dead serious. Every muscle below my waistline tightens. I hand him my glass of champagne, turn sharply on my heel, and head for the restroom.

Shit. What’s he going to do? Perhaps this club is aptly named.

The restrooms are the height of modern design—all dark wood, black granite, and pools of light from strategically placed halogens. In the privacy of the stall, I smirk as I divest myself of my underwear. Again I’m grateful I changed into the navy blue shift dress. I thought it appropriate attire to meet the good Dr. Flynn—I hadn’t expected the evening to take this unexpected course.

I am excited already. Why does he affect me so? I slightly resent how easily I fall under his spell. I know now that we won’t be spending the evening talking through all our issues and recent events … but how can I resist him?

Checking my appearance in the mirror, I am bright-eyed and flushed with excitement.
Issues, schmissues
.

I take a deep breath and head back out into the club. I mean, it’s not as if I haven’t gone pantyless before. My inner goddess is draped in a pink feather boa and diamonds, strutting her stuff in fuck-me shoes.

Christian stands politely when I return to the table, his expression unreadable. He looks his usual perfect, cool, calm, and collected self. Of course, I now know differently.

“Sit beside me,” he says. I slide into the seat and he sits. “I’ve ordered for you. I hope you don’t mind.” He hands me my half-finished glass of champagne, regarding me intently, and under his scrutiny, my blood heats anew. He rests his hands on his thighs. I tense and part my legs slightly.

The waiter arrives with a dish of oysters on crushed ice.
Oysters
. The memory of the two of us in the private dining room at
the Heathman fills my mind. We were discussing his contract. Oh, boy. We’ve come a long way since then.