o let Christian enter the
apartment then shuts the door behind him and stands in
front of it, staring impassively down at me.
Holy shit. Christian! All manner of horrific outcomes
run through my mind, but all I can do is stand and wait.
Sawyer talks into his sleeve again.
“Taylor, Mr. Grey has entered the apartment.” He flinches
and grabs the earpiece, pulling it out of his ear, presumably
receiving some powerful invective from Taylor.
Oh no—if Taylor is worried . . .
“Please let me go in,” I plead.
“Sorry, Miss Steele. This won’t take long.” Sawyer
holds both hands up in a defensive gesture. “Taylor and
the guys are just coming into the apartment now.”
Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock-still, I listen
Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock-still, I listen
a一vidly for the slightest sound, but all I hear is my
aggra一vated breathing. It’s loud and shallow, my scalp
prickles, my mouth is dry, and I feel faint. Please, let
Christian be okay, I pray silently.
I ha一ve no idea how much time passes, and still we hear
nothing. Surely no sound is good—there are no gunshots. I
begin pacing around the table in the foyer and examine the
paintings on the walls to distract myself.
I’ve never really looked at them before: all figurative
paintings, all religious—the Madonna and child, all sixteen
of them. How odd?
Christian isn’t religious, is he? All of the paintings in the
great room are abstracts—these are so different. They
don’t distract me for long—Where is Christian?
I stare at Sawyer and he watches me impassively.
“What’s happening?”
“No news, Miss Steele.”
Abruptly, the doorknob moves. Sawyer spins like a
top and draws a gun from his shoulder holster.
top and draws a gun from his shoulder holster.
I freeze. Christian appears at the door.
“All clear,” he says, frowning at Sawyer, who puts his
gun away immediately and steps back to let me in.
“Taylor is overreacting,” Christian grumbles as he
holds out his hand to me. I stand gaping at him, unable to
move, drinking in ev
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