Shades Freed
What? My stomach plunges into the basement once more. What the hell . . .
? Are they hanging in my living room? I bridle at the thought.
“What sort of painting do you do?”
“Abstracts, mainly.”
“I see.” My mind flits through the now-familiar paintings in the great room.
Two by Mrs. Leila Williams . . . possibly. Jeez.
“Mrs. Grey, can I speak frankly?” she asks, completely oblivious to my
warring emotions.
“By all means,” I mutter, glancing at Prescott, who looks like she’s relaxed a
little. Leila leans forward as if to impart a long-held secret.
“I loved Geoff, my boyfriend who died earlier this year.” Her voice drops to a
sad whisper.
Holy shit, she’s getting personal.
“I’m so sorry,” I mutter automatically, but she continues as if she hasn’t heard
me.
“I loved my husband . . . and one other,” she murmurs.
“My husband.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Yes.” She mouths the word.
This is not news to me. When she lifts her hazel eyes to mine, they are wide
with conflicting emotions, and the overriding one seems to be apprehension.
Apprehension of my reaction, perhaps? But my overwhelming response to
this poor young woman is . . . compassion. Mentally I run through all the
classical literature I can think of that deals with unrequited love. Swallowing
hard, I clutch the moral high ground.
“I know. He’s very easy to love,” I whisper.
Her wide eyes widen further in surprise, and she smiles. “Yes. He is. Was.”
She corrects herself quickly and blushes. Then she giggles so sweetly that I
can’t help myself. I giggle, too. Yes, Christian Grey makes us giggly. My
subconscious rolls her eyes at me in despair and goes back to reading her
dog-eared copy of Jane Eyre. I glance at my watch. Deep down I know
Christian will be here soon.
“You’ll get your chance to see Christian.”
“I thought I would. I know how protective he can be.” She smiles. So this is
her scheme. She’s very shrewd. Or manipulative, whispers my
subconscious. “This is why you’re
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