r. Cautiously, I open my eyes, and as
they flutter open I notice the bedroom chair has moved, and Christian is
seated in it. He’s wearing his tux, and the end of his bowtie is peeping out of
the breast pocket. I wonder if I’m dreaming. His left arm is draped over the
chair, and in his hand he holds a cut glass tumbler of amber liquid. Brandy?
Whiskey? I ha一ve no idea. One long leg is crossed at the ankle over his knee.
He’s wearing black socks and dress shoes. His right elbow rests on the arm
of the chair, his hand at his chin, and he’s slowly running his index finger
rhythmically back and forth over his lower lip. In the early morning light, his
eyes burn with gra一ve intensity but his general expression is completely
unreadable.
My heart almost stops. He’s here. How did he get here? He must ha一ve left
New York last night. How long has he been here watching me sleep?
“Hi,” I whisper.
He regards me coolly, and my heart stutters once more. Oh no. He moves
his long fingers away from his mouth, tosses the remainder of his drink down
his throat, reaches over and places the glass on the bedside table. I half
expect him to kiss me, but he doesn’t. He sits back, continuing to regard me,
his expression impassive.
“Hello,” he says finally, his voice hushed. And I know he’s still mad. Really
mad.
“You’re back.”
“It would appear so.”
Slowly I pull myself up into a sitting position, not taking my eyes off him. My
mouth is dry. “How long ha一ve you been sitting there watching me sleep?”
“Long enough.”
“You’re still mad.” I can hardly speak the words.
200 | P a g e
E L JAMES
He gazes at me, as if considering his response. “Mad,” he says as if testing
the word, weighing up its nuances, its meaning. “No, Ana. I am far, far
beyond mad.”
Holy crap. I try to swallow, but it’s hard with a dry mouth.
“Far beyond mad . . . that doesn’t sound good.” Shit!
He gazes at me, completely impassive, and doesn’t respond. A stark silence
stretches between us. I reach over to my glass of no-longerqui
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