Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (51 page)

Which old friend?
I didn’t think Christian had any old friends, except … her. I frown at the screen. Why does he have to still see her? Searing, green, bilious jealousy courses through me
unexpectedly. I want to hit something, preferably Mrs. Robinson. Switching the laptop off in a temper, I clamber into bed.

I should really respond to his long e-mail from this morning, but I’m suddenly too angry. Why can’t he see her for what she is—a child molester? I switch off the light, seething, staring into the darkness. How dare she? How dare she pick on a vulnerable adolescent? Is she still doing it? Why did they stop? Various scenarios filter through my mind: If he had had enough, then why is he still friends with her? Ditto her—is she married? Divorced? Jeez—does she have children of her own?
Does she have Christian’s children?
My subconscious rears her ugly head, leering, and I’m shocked and nauseated at the thought. Does Dr. Flynn know about her?

I struggle out of bed and fire the mean machine up again. I am on a mission. I drum my fingers impatiently waiting for the blue screen to appear. I hit Google images and enter “Christian Grey” into the search engine. The screen is suddenly littered with images of Christian: in black tie, be-suited, jeez—José’s pictures from the Heathman, in his white shirt and flannel trousers. How did they get on the Internet? Boy, he looks good.

I move quickly on: some with business associates, then picture after glorious picture of the most photogenic man I know intimately.
Intimately? Do I know Christian intimately?
I know him sexually, and I figure there’s a lot more to discover there. I know he’s moody, difficult, funny, cold, warm … jeez, the man is a walking mass of contradictions. I click to the next page. He’s still on his own in all these photographs, and I remember Kate mentioning that she couldn’t find any photographs of him with a date, prompting her gay question. Then, on the third page, there’s a picture of me, with him, at my graduation. His only picture with a woman, and it’s me.

Holy cow! I’m on Google!
I stare at us together. I look surprised by the camera, nervous, off balance. This was just before I agreed to try. For his part, Christian looks impossibly handsome, calm and collected, and he’s wearing
that tie
. I gaze at him, such
a beautiful face, a beautiful face that could be staring at Mrs. Damned Robinson right now. I save the picture in my favorites and click through all eighteen pages of search results … nothing. I won’t find Mrs. Robinson on Google. But I have to know if he’s with her. I type a quick e-mail to Christian.

I press “send” and climb despondently back into bed, resolving to ask Christian about his relationship with that woman. Part of me is desperate to know more, and another part wants to forget he ever told me. And my period has started, so I must remember to take my pill in the morning. I quickly program an alarm into the calendar on my BlackBerry. Setting it aside on the bedside table, I lie down and eventually drift into an uneasy sleep, wishing that we were in the same city, not twenty-five hundred miles apart.

After a morning of shopping and an afternoon back at the beach, my mother has decreed we should spend the evening in a bar. Abandoning Bob to the TV, we find ourselves in the upscale bar of Savannah’s most exclusive hotel. I am on my second Cosmopolitan. My mother is on her third. She is offering more insights into the fragile male ego. It’s very disconcerting.

“You see, Ana, men think that anything that comes out of a woman’s mouth is a problem to be solved. Not some vague idea that we’d like to kick around and talk about for a while and then forget. Men prefer action.”

“Mom, why are you telling me this?” I ask, failing to hide my exasperation. She’s been like this all day.

“Darling, you sound so lost. You’ve never brought a boy home. You never even had a boyfriend when we were in Vegas. I thought something might develop with that guy you met in college, José.”

“Mom, José’s just a friend.”

“I know, sweetheart. But something’s up, and I don’t think you’re telling me everything.” She gazes at me, her face etched with motherly concern.

“I just needed some distance from Christian to get my thoughts straight … that’s all. He tends to overwhelm me.”

“Overwhelm?”

“Yeah. I miss him, though.” I frown.

I have not heard from Christian all day. No e-mails, nothing. I am tempted to call him to see if he’s okay. My worst fear is that he’s been in a car accident; my second worst fear is that Mrs. Robinson has gotten her evil claws into him again. I know it’s irrational, but where she’s concerned, I seem to have lost all sense of perspective.

“Darling, I have to visit the restroom.”

My mother’s brief absence allows me another chance to check my BlackBerry. I have been trying surreptitiously to check my e-mail all day. Finally—a response from Christian!

He
was
having dinner with her. My scalp prickles as adrenaline and fury lance through my body, all my worst fears realized.
How could he?
I am away for two days, and he runs off to that evil bitch.

I press “send” as my mother returns.

“Ana, you’re so pale. What’s happened?”

I shake my head.

“Nothing. Let’s have another drink,” I mutter mulishly.

Her brow furrows, but she glances up and attracts the attention of one of the waiters, pointing to our glasses. He nods. He understands the universal language of “another round, please.” As she does, I quickly glance at my BlackBerry.

Holy fuck, he’s here
.

I
glance nervously around the bar but cannot see him.

“Ana, what is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“It’s Christian, he’s here.”

“What? Really?” She glances around the bar, too.

I have neglected to mention Christian’s stalker tendencies to my mom.

I see him. My heart leaps, beginning a jittery thumping beat as he makes his way toward us.
He’s really here—for me
. My inner goddess leaps up cheering from her chaise longue. Moving smoothly through the crowd, his hair glints burnished copper and red under the recessed halogens. His bright gray eyes are shining with—anger? Tension? His mouth is set in a grim line, jaw tense.
Oh, holy shit … no
. I am so mad at him right now, and here he is. How can I be angry with him in front of my mother?

He arrives at our table, gazing at me warily. He’s dressed in his customary white linen shirt and jeans.

“Hi,” I squeak, unable to hide my shock and awe at seeing him here in the flesh.

“Hi,” he replies, and leaning down, he kisses my cheek, taking me by surprise.

“Christian, this is my mother, Carla.” My ingrained manners take over.

He turns to greet my mom. “Mrs. Adams, I am delighted to meet you.”

How does he know her name?
He gives her the heart-stopping, Christian Grey–patented, full-blown, no-prisoners smile. She doesn’t have a hope. My mother’s lower jaw practically hits the table.
Jeez, get a grip, Mom
. She takes his proffered hand, and they
shake. My mother hasn’t replied. Oh, complete dumbfounded speechlessness is genetic—I had no idea.

“Christian,” she manages finally, breathlessly.

He smiles knowingly at her, his gray eyes twinkling. I narrow my eyes at them both.

“What are you doing here?” My question sounds more brittle than I mean, and his smile disappears, his expression now guarded. I am thrilled to see him but completely thrown off balance, my anger about Mrs. Robinson simmering through my veins. I don’t know if I want to shout at him or throw myself into his arms—but I don’t think he’d like either—and I want to know how long he has been watching us. I’m also a little anxious about the e-mail I just sent him.

“I came to see you, of course.” He gazes down at me impassively.
Oh, what is he thinking?
“I’m staying in this hotel.”

“You’re staying here?” I sound like a sophomore on amphetamines, too high pitched even for my own ears.

“Well, yesterday you said you wished I was here.” He pauses, trying to gauge my reaction. “We aim to please, Miss Steele.” His voice is quiet with no trace of humor.

Crap—is he mad?
Maybe the Mrs. Robinson comments? Or the fact that I am on my third, soon to be fourth, Cosmo? My mother is glancing anxiously at the two of us.

“Won’t you join us for a drink, Christian?” She waves to the waiter, who is at her side in a nanosecond.

“I’ll have a gin and tonic,” Christian says. “Hendricks if you have it, or Bombay Sapphire. Cucumber with the Hendricks, lime with the Bombay.”

Holy hell
 … only Christian could make a meal out of ordering a drink.

“And two more Cosmos, please,” I add, looking anxiously at Christian. I am drinking with my mother—no way can he be angry about that.

“Please pull up a chair, Christian.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Adams.”

Christian pulls a nearby chair over and sits gracefully down beside me.

“So you just happen to be staying in the hotel where we’re drinking?” I ask, trying hard to keep my tone light.

“Or you just happen to be drinking in the hotel where I’m staying,” Christian replies. “I just finished dinner, came in here, and saw you. I was distracted, thinking about your most recent e-mail, and I glance up and there you are. Quite a coincidence, eh?” He cocks his head to one side, and I see a trace of a smile.
Thank heavens
—we may be able to save the evening after all.

“My mother and I were shopping this morning and on the beach this afternoon. We decided on a few cocktails this evening,” I mutter, feeling that I owe him some sort of explanation.

“Did you buy that top?” He nods at my brand-new green silk camisole. “The color suits you. And you’ve caught some sun. You look lovely.”

I flush, speechless at his compliment.

“Well, I was going to pay you a visit tomorrow. But here you are.”

He reaches over, takes my hand, and squeezes it gently, running his thumb across my knuckles to and fro … and I feel the familiar pull. The electric charge zapping beneath my skin under the gentle pressure from his thumb, firing into my bloodstream and pulsing around my body, heating everything in its path. It’s been more than two days since I saw him.
Oh my
 … I want him. My breath hitches. I blink at him, smiling shyly, and see a smile play on his lips.