asks, his voice mild, his
gray eyes glowing.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey,” I reply politely.
“Well, let’s go see the boy’s photos.” He holds his
hand out to me and taking it, I climb out of Charlie Tango.
A gray-haired man with a beard walks over to meet
us, smiling broadly, and I recognize him as the old-timer
from the last time we were here.
“Joe.” Christian smiles and releases my hand to shake
Joe’s warmly.
“Keep her safe for Stephan. He’ll be along around
eight or nine.”
“Will do, Mr. Grey. Ma’am,” he says, nodding at me.
“Your car’s waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator’s
out of order; you’ll need to use the stairs.”
“Thank you, Joe.”
Christian takes my hand, and we head to the
emergency stairs.
“Good thing for you this is only three floors, in those
heels,” he mutters to me in disapproval.
No kidding.
“Don’t you like the boots?”
“I like them very much, Anastasia.” His gaze darkens
and I think he might say something else, but he stops.
“Come. We’ll take it slow. I don’t want you falling and
breaking your neck.”
We sit in silence as our driver takes us to the gallery. My
anxiety has returned full force, and I realize that our time in
Charlie Tango has been the eye of the storm. Christian is
quiet and brooding . . . apprehensive even; our lighter
mood from earlier has dissipated. There’s so much I want
to say, but this journey is too short. Christian stares
pensively out the window.
“José is just a friend,” I murmur.
Christian turns and gazes at me, his eyes dark and
guarded, giving nothing away. His mouth—oh, his mouth is
distracting, and unbidden. I remember it on me—
everywhere. My skin heats. He shifts in his seat and
frowns.
“Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face,
Anastasia. Please tell me you’ll eat.”
“Yes, Christian, I’ll eat,” I answer automatically, a
platitude.
“I mean it.”
“Do you now?” I cannot keep the disdain out of my
voice. Honestly, the audacity of this man—this man who
has put me through hell over the last few days. No, that’s
w
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