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  “I have really enjoyed this evening.” I grasp Kate’s hand. “Thank you for dragging me out!” We hug. As she releases me, I nod at Sawyer and he hands Prescott the keys to the car.

  “I’m sure Miss Goody-Two-Shoes Prescott has told Christian I’m not at home. He’ll be mad,” I mutter to Kate. And maybe he’ll think of some delicious way to punish me … hopefully.

  “Why are you grinning like a loon, Ana? You like making Christian mad?”

  “No. Not really. But it’s easily done. He’s very controlling sometimes.” Most of the time.

  “I’ve noticed,” Kate says wryly.

  WE PULL UP OUTSIDE Kate’s apartment. She hugs me hard.

  “Don’t be a stranger,” she whispers and kisses my cheek. Then she’s out of the car. I wave, feeling strangely homesick. I have missed girl talk. It’s fun and relaxing, and it reminds me that I’m still young. I must make more of an effort to see Kate, but the truth is, I love being in my bubble with Christian. Last night we attended a charity dinner together. There were so many men in suits and well-groomed elegant women talking about real estate prices and the failing economy and the plunging stock markets. I mean, it was dull, really dull. So it’s refreshing to let my hair down with someone my own age.

  My stomach rumbles. I still haven’t eaten. Shit—Christian! I scramble through my purse and fish out my BlackBerry. Holy crap—five missed calls! One text …

  *WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?*

  And one e-mail.

  * * *

  From: Christian Grey

  Subject: Angry. You’ve Not Seen Angry

  Date: August 26 2011 00:42 EST

  To: Anastasia Grey

  Anastasia

  Sawyer tells me that you are drinking cocktails in a bar when you said you wouldn’t.

  Do you have any idea how mad I am at the moment?

  I’ll see you tomorrow.

  Christian Grey

  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.

  My heart sinks. Oh shit! I really am in trouble. My subconscious glares at me, then shrugs, wearing her you-made-your-bed-you-lie-in-it face. What did I expect? I contemplate calling him, but it’s late and he’s probably asleep … or pacing. I decide a quick text may be enough.

  *I’M STILL IN ONE PIECE. I HAD A NICE TIME.

  MISSING YOU—PLEASE DON’T BE MAD*

  I gaze at my BlackBerry, willing him to respond, but it’s ominously silent. I sigh.

  Prescott pulls up outside Escala and Sawyer gets out to hold the door open for me. As we stand waiting for the elevator, I take the opportunity to quiz him.

  “What time did Christian call you?”

  Sawyer flushes. “About nine thirty, ma’am.”

  “Why didn’t you interrupt my conversation with Kate so I could speak with him?”

  “Mr. Grey told me not to.”

  I purse my lips. The elevator arrives, and we ride up in silence. I’m suddenly grateful that Christian has a whole night to recover from his conniption, and that he’s on the other side of the country. It gives me some time. On the other hand … I miss him.

  The doors to the elevator open, and for a split second I stare at the foyer table.

  What is wrong with this picture?

  The vase of flowers lies smashed into fragments all over the floor of the foyer, water and flowers and chunks of china are strewn everywhere, and the table is overturned. My scalp prickles and Sawyer grabs my arm and pulls me back into the elevator.

  “Stay there,” he hisses, drawing a gun. He steps into the foyer and disappears from my field of vision.

  I cower in the back of the elevator.

  “Luke!” I hear Ryan call from inside the great room. “Code blue!”

  Code blue?

  “You have the perp?” Sawyer calls back. “Jesus H. Christ!”

  I flatten myself against the elevator wall. What the hell is going on? Adrenaline spikes through my body, and my heart leaps into my throat. I hear soft voices, and a moment later Sawyer reappears in the foyer, standing in the puddle of water. He holsters his gun.

  “You can come in, Mrs. Grey,” he says gently.

  “What’s happened, Luke?” My voice is barely a whisper.

  “We’ve had a visitor.” He takes my elbow, and I’m grateful for the support—my legs have turned to jelly. I walk with him through the open double doors.

  Ryan is standing at the entrance of the great room. A cut above his eye is bleeding, and there’s another on his mouth. He looks roughed up, his clothes disheveled. But what’s more shocking is Jack Hyde slumped at his feet.

  CHAPTER TEN

  * * *

  My heart is pounding and blood thrums loudly in my eardrums; the alcohol flowing through my system amplifies the sound.

  “Is he—” I gasp, unable to finish the sentence and gazing wide-eyed and terrified at Ryan. I can’t even look at the prone figure on the floor.

  “No, ma’am. Just knocked out cold.”

  Relief floods through me. Oh, thank God.

  “And you?” I ask, gazing at Ryan. I realize I don’t know his first name. He’s panting as if he’s run a marathon. He wipes the corner of his mouth, removing the trace of blood, and a faint bruise is forming on his cheek.

  “He put up one hell of a fight, but I’m okay, Mrs. Grey.” He smiles reassuringly. If I knew him better, I’d say he looked a little smug.

  “And Gail? Mrs. Jones?” Oh no … is she okay? Has she been harmed?

  “I’m here, Ana.” Glancing behind me, I see she’s in a nightdress and robe, her hair loose, her face ashen and her eyes wide—like mine, I imagine.

  “Ryan woke me. Insisted I come in here.” She points behind her into Taylor’s office. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”

  I nod briskly and realize she’s probably just come out of the panic room that adjoins Taylor’s office. Who knew we’d need it so soon? Christian had insisted on its installation shortly after our engagement—and I had rolled my eyes. Now, seeing Gail standing in the doorway, I’m grateful for his foresight.

  A creak from the door to the foyer distracts me. It’s hanging off its hinges. What the hell happened to that?

  “Was he alone?” I ask Ryan.

  “Yes, ma’am. You wouldn’t be standing here if he wasn’t, I can assure you.” Ryan sounds vaguely affronted.

  “How did he get in?” I ask, ignoring his tone.

  “Through the service elevator. He’s got quite a pair, ma’am.”

  I stare down at Jack’s slumped figure. He’s wearing a uniform of sorts—coveralls, I think.

  “When?”

  “About ten minutes ago. I caught him on the security monitor. He was wearing gloves … kinda strange in August. I recognized him and decided to give him access. That way I knew we’d have him. You weren’t here and Gail was safe, so I figured it was now or never.” Ryan looks very pleased with himself once more, and Sawyer scowls at him in disapproval.

  Gloves? The thought distracts me, and I glance once more at Jack. Yes, he’s wearing brown leather gloves. Creepy.

  “What now?” I try to dismiss the ramifications from my mind.

  “We need to secure him,” Ryan replies.

  “Secure him?”

  “In case he wakes.” Ryan glances at Sawyer.

  “What do you need?” asks Mrs. Jones, stepping forward. She’s recovered her composure.

  “Something to restrain him—cord or rope,” Ryan replies.

  Cable ties. I flush as memories of the night before invade my mind. Reflexively, I rub my wrists and glance quickly down at them. No, no bruising. Good.

  “I have something. Cable ties. Will they do?”

  All eyes turn to me.

  “Yes, ma’am. Perfect,” Sawyer says, serious and straight-faced. I want the floor to swallow me up, but I turn and head for our bedroom. Sometimes you just have to brazen things out. Perhaps it’s the combination of fear and alcohol making me audacious.

  When I return, Mrs. Jones is sur
veying the mess in the foyer and Miss Prescott has joined the security team. I hand the ties to Sawyer, who slowly, and with unnecessary care, ties Hyde’s hands behind his back. Mrs. Jones disappears into the kitchen and returns with a first aid kit. She takes Ryan’s arm, leads him into the doorway of the great room, and starts tending to the cut above his eye. He flinches as she dabs it with an antiseptic wipe. Then I notice the Glock on the floor with a silencer attached. Holy shit! Jack was armed? Bile rises in my throat and I fight it down.

  “Don’t touch, Mrs. Grey,” says Prescott when I bend to pick it up. Sawyer emerges from Taylor’s office wearing latex gloves.

  “I’ll take care of that, Mrs. Grey,” he says.

  “It’s his?” I ask.

  “Yes, ma’am,” says Ryan, wincing once more from Mrs. Jones’s ministrations. Holy crap. Ryan fought an armed man in my home. I shudder at the thought. Sawyer bends and gingerly picks up the Glock.

  “Should you be doing that?” I ask.

  “Mr. Grey would expect it, ma’am.” Sawyer slides the gun into a Ziploc bag then squats to pat down Jack. He pauses and partially pulls a roll of duct tape from the man’s pocket. Sawyer blanches and pushes the tape back into Hyde’s pocket.

  Duct tape? My mind idly registers as I watch the proceedings with fascination and an odd detachment. Then bile rises to my throat again as I realize the implications. Rapidly, I dismiss them from my head. Don’t go there, Ana!

  “Should we call the police?” I mutter, trying to hide my fear. I want Hyde out of my home, sooner rather than later.

  Ryan and Sawyer glance at each other.

  “I think we should call the police,” I say, rather more forcefully, wondering what’s going on between Ryan and Sawyer.

  “I’ve just tried Taylor, and he’s not answering his cell. Maybe he’s asleep.” Sawyer checks his watch. “It’s one forty-five in the morning on the East Coast.”

  Oh no.

  “Have you called Christian?” I whisper.

  “No, ma’am.”

  “Were you calling Taylor for instructions?”

  Sawyer looks momentarily embarrassed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Part of me bristles. This man—I glance down at Hyde again—has invaded my home, and he needs to be removed by the police. But looking at the four of them, into their anxious eyes, I decide I must be missing something, so I decide to call Christian. My scalp prickles. I know he’s mad at me—really, really mad at me—and I falter at the thought of what he’ll say. And how he’ll stress because he’s not here and can’t be here until tomorrow evening. I know I’ve worried him enough this evening. Perhaps I shouldn’t call him. And then it occurs to me. Shit. What if I’d been here? I pale at the thought. Thank heavens I was out. Maybe I won’t be in so much trouble after all.

  “Is he okay?” I ask, pointing at Jack.

  “He’ll have an aching skull when he wakes,” Ryan says, gazing down at Jack with contempt. “But we need paramedics here to make sure.”

  I reach into my purse and pull out my BlackBerry, and before I can give too much thought to the extent of Christian’s anger, I dial his number. It goes straight to voice mail. He must have switched it off because he’s so mad. I cannot think what to say. Turning away, I walk down the hallway a little, away from everyone.

  “Hi. It’s me. Please don’t be mad. We’ve had an incident at the apartment. But it’s under control, so don’t worry. No one is hurt. Call me.” I hang up.

  “Call the police,” I tell Sawyer. He nods, takes out his cell, and makes the call.

  OFFICER SKINNER IS DEEP in conversation with Ryan at the dining room table. Officer Walker is with Sawyer in Taylor’s office. I don’t know where Prescott is, perhaps in Taylor’s office. Detective Clark is barking questions at me as we sit on the couch in the great room. He’s tall, dark, and would be good-looking if it weren’t for his permanent scowl. I suspect he’s been woken and dragged from his warm bed because the home of one of Seattle’s most influential and wealthy businessmen has been breached.

  “He used to be your boss?” Clark asks tersely.

  “Yes.”

  I am tired—beyond tired—and I want to go to bed. I still haven’t heard from Christian. On the plus side, the paramedics have removed Hyde. Mrs. Jones hands Detective Clark and me each a cup of tea.

  “Thanks.” Clark turns to me. “And where is Mr. Grey?”

  “New York. On business. He’ll be back tomorrow evening—I mean this evening.” It’s after midnight.

  “Hyde is known to us,” Detective Clark murmurs. “I’ll need you to come down to the station to make a statement. But that can wait. It’s late and there are a couple of reporters camped out on the sidewalk. Do you mind if I look around?”

  “Of course not,” I offer, relieved his questioning is finished. I shudder at the thought of the photographers outside. Well, they won’t be a problem until tomorrow. I remind myself to call Mom and Ray just in case they hear anything and worry.

  “Mrs. Grey, may I suggest you go to bed?” Mrs. Jones says, her voice warm and full of concern.

  Looking into her warm, kind eyes, I suddenly feel an overwhelming need to cry. She reaches over and rubs my shoulder.

  “We’re safe now,” she murmurs. “This will all look better in the morning, once you’ve had some sleep. And Mr. Grey will be back tomorrow evening.”

  I glance nervously up at her, keeping my tears at bay. Christian is going to be so mad.

  “Can I get you anything before you go to bed?” she asks.

  I realize how hungry I am. “I’d love something to eat.”

  She smiles broadly. “Sandwich and some milk?”

  I nod with gratitude, and she heads into the kitchen. Ryan is still with Officer Skinner. In the foyer, Detective Clark is examining the mess outside the elevator. He looks thoughtful, despite his scowl. And suddenly I feel homesick—homesick for Christian. Holding my head in my hands, I wish fervently that he were here. He’d know what to do. What an evening. I want to crawl into his lap, have him hold me and tell me that he loves me, even though I don’t do as I’m told—but that won’t be possible until this evening. Inwardly I roll my eyes … Why didn’t he tell me about the increased security for everyone? What exactly is on Jack’s computer? He’s so frustrating, but right now, I just don’t care. I want my husband. I miss him.

  “Here you are, Ana dear.” Mrs. Jones interrupts my inner turmoil. When I glance up at her, she hands me a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, her eyes twinkling. I haven’t had one of these for years. I smile shyly and dig in.

  When I finally crawl into bed, I curl up on Christian’s side, dressed in his T-shirt. Both his pillow and his T-shirt smell of him, and as I drift off I silently wish him safe passage home … and a good mood.

  I WAKE WITH A start. It’s light and my head is aching, throbbing at my temples. Oh no. I hope I don’t have a hangover. Cautiously, I open my eyes and notice the bedroom chair has moved, and Christian is sitting in it. He’s wearing his tux, and the end of his bow tie 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 have 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 up to 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 grave intensity, but his general expression is completely unreadable.

  My heart almost stops. He’s here. How did he get here? He must have 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 back the remainder of his drink, 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 have you been sitting there watching me sleep?”

  “Long enough.”

  “You’re still mad.” I can hardly speak the words.

  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 way, way beyond mad.”

  Holy crap. I try to swallow, but it’s hard with a dry mouth.

  “Way beyond mad … that doesn’t sound good.”

  He gazes at me, completely impassive, and doesn’t respond. A stark silence stretches between us. I reach over to my glass of water and take a welcome sip, trying to bring my erratic heart rate under control.

  “Ryan caught Jack.” I try a different tack, and I place my glass beside his on the bedside table.

  “I know,” he says icily.

  Of course, he knows. “Are you going to be monosyllabic for long?”

  His eyebrows move fractionally, registering his surprise as if he hadn’t expected this question. “Yes,” he says finally.

  Oh … okay. What to do? Defense—the best form of attack. “I’m sorry I stayed out.”

  “Are you?”

  “No,” I mutter after a pause, because it’s true.

  “Why say it then?”

  “Because I don’t want you to be mad at me.”

  He sighs heavily, as if he’s been holding this tension for a thousand hours, and runs his hand through his hair. He looks beautiful. Mad, but beautiful. I drink him in—Christian’s back—angry, but in one piece.

  “I think Detective Clark wants to talk to you.”

  “I’m sure he does.”