my seat,
buckle my seat belt, and fiddle nervously with the fifteenthousand-euro
bracelet. Christian presses the button in his door armrest again and the
privacy glass slides down. I realize that this is for Taylor’s benefit.
“Anyone injured? Damage? I see . . . When?” Christian glances at his watch
again then runs his hand through his hair. “No. Not the fire department or the
police. Not yet anyway.”
Holy crap! A fire? At Christian’s office? I gape at him, my mind racing. Taylor
shifts so he can hear Christian’s conversation.
“Has he? Good . . . Okay. I want a detailed damage report. And a complete
rundown of everyone who had access over the last five days, including the
cleaning staff . . . Get hold of Andrea and get her to call me . . . Yeah, sounds
like the argon is just as effective, worth its weight in gold.”
Damage report? Argon? What the hell? It rings a distant bell from chemistry
class—an element, I think.
54 | P a g e
E L JAMES
“I realize it’s early . . . E-mail me in two hours . . . No, I need to know. Thank
you for calling me.” Christian hangs up, then immediately punches a number
into the BlackBerry.
“Welch . . . Good . . . When?” Christian glances at his watch yet again. “An
hour then . . . yes . . . Twenty-four-seven at the off-site data store . . . good.”
He hangs up.
“Philippe, I need to be onboard within the hour.”
“Monsieur. ”
Shit, it’s Philippe, not Gaston. The car surges forward. Christian glances at
me, his expression unreadable.
“Anyone hurt?” I ask quietly.
Christian shakes his head. “Very little damage.” He reaches over and clasps
my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Don’t worry about this. My team is on it.”
And there he is, the CEO, in command, in control and not flustered at all.
“Where was the fire?”
“Server room.”
“Grey House?”
“Yes.”
His responses are clipped, so I know he doesn’t want to talk about it. Why
not?
“Why so little damage?”
“The server room is fitted with a state-of-the-art fire suppression system.”
Of course it is.
“Ana
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