Gender-swapped Fifty Shades of Grey
Gender-swapped Fifty Shades
Ms. Grey will see you now.
Preface
This is a work of satire. By taking the original text of ‘Fifty Shades of Grey’ and swapping the genders of all characters, we’re able to see how deeply mainstream erotica relies on gendered tropes and stereotypes.
What I’ve done:
I have swapped the gender of every single original character in the text
I’ve changed certain gendered references to be gender neutral
I have lightly altered wardrobe and appearance for characters to fit the standards their swapped genders would adhere to
I have not changed the gender of literary references - Jane Eyre will not be John Eyre
I have changed sexual activities to be the closest paralell for the swapped genders
I have not otherwise changed the dialogue, descriptions, settings, etc.
Chapters will be uploaded as I write/adapt them.
UPDATE - Now at Chapter 7.
Chapter One
I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my hair – it just won’t behave, and damn Kyle Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should be studying for my final exams, which are next week, yet here I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must not sleep with it wet. I must not sleep with it wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, once more, to bring it under control with the brush. I roll my eyes in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired boy with blue eyes too big for his face staring back at me, and give up. My only option is to restrain my wayward hair and hope that I look semi presentable.
Kyle is my roommate, and he has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu. Therefore, he cannot attend the interview he’d arranged to do, with some mega-industrialist tycoon I’ve never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I have been volunteered. I have final exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I’m supposed to be working this afternoon, but no – today I have to drive a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our University, her time is extraordinarily precious – much more precious than mine – but she has granted Kyle an interview. A real coup, he tells me. Damn his extra-curricular activities.
Kyle is huddled on the couch in the living room.
“Andy, I’m sorry. It took me nine months to get this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we’ll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can’t blow this off. Please,” Kyle begs me in his rasping, sore throat voice. How does he do it? Even ill he looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blonde hair in place and green eyes bright, although now red-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.
“Of course I’ll go Kyle. You should get back to bed. Would you like some Nyquil or Tylenol?”
“Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. Just press record here. Make notes, I’ll transcribe it all.”
“I know nothing about her,” I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rising panic. “The questions will see you through. Go. It’s a long drive. I don’t want you to be late.”
“Okay, I’m going. Get back to bed. I made you some soup to heat up later.” I stare at him fondly. Only for you, Kyle, would I do this.
“I will. Good luck. And thanks Andy – as usual, you’re my lifesaver.” Gathering my satchel, I smile wryly at him, then head out the door to the car. I can not believe I have let Kyle talk me into this. But then Kyle can talk anyone into anything. He’ll make an exceptional journalist. He’s articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful – and he’s my dearest, dearest friend.
The roads are clear as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland and the I-5. It’s early, and I don’t have to be in Seattle until two this afternoon. Fortunately, Kyle’s lent me his sporty Mercedes CLK. I’m not sure Wally, my old VW Beetle, would make the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.
My destination is the headquarters of Ms. Grey’s global enterprise. It’s a huge twenty story office building, all curved glass and steel, an architect’s utilitarian fantasy, with Grey House written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It’s a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I’m not late as I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimidating – glass, steel, and white sandstone lobby.
Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde young man smiles pleasantly at me. He’s wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. He looks immaculate.
“I’m here to see Ms. Grey. Andrew Steele for Kyle Kavanagh.”
“Excuse me one moment, Mr Steele.” He arches his eyebrow slightly as I stand self consciously before him. I am beginning to wish I’d borrowed one of Kyle’s formal blazers rather than wearing my navy blue jacket. I have made an effort and worn my one and only pair of slacks, my sensible brown boots and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear as I pretend he doesn’t intimidate me. “Mr Kavanagh is expected. Please sign in here, Mr Steele. You’ll want the last elevator on the right, press for the twentieth floor.” He smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, as I sign in.
He hands me a security pass that has VISITOR very firmly stamped on the front. I can’t help my smirk. Surely it’s obvious that I’m just visiting. I don’t fit in here at all. Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking him, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security women who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.
The elevator whisks me with terminal velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I’m in another large lobby – again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I’m confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde man dressed impeccably in black and white who rises to greet me.
“Mr Steele, could you wait here, please?” He points to a seated area of white leather chairs.
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an equally spacious dark wood table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, there is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the Seattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It’s a stunning vista, and I’m momentarily paralyzed by the view. Wow.
I sit down, fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly cursing Kyle for not providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this woman I’m about to interview. She could be ninety or she could be thirty. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I’ve never been comfortable with one-on-one interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To be honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled up in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colossal glass and stone edifice.
I roll my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Steele. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I guess Grey is in her forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the rest of the personnel.
Another elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is it with all the immaculate blondes? It’s like the Third Reich here. Taking a deep breath, I stand up.
“Mr Steele?” the latest blonde asks.
“Yes,” I croak, and clear my throat. “Yes.” There, that sounded more confident. “Ms. Grey will see you in a moment. May I take your jacket?”
“Oh please.” I struggle out of the jacket.
“Have you been offered any refreshment?”
“Um – no.” Oh dear, is Blonde Number One in trouble?
Blonde Number Two frowns and eyes the young man at the desk. “Would you like tea, coffee, water?” he asks, turning his attention back to me. “A glass of water. Thank you,” I murmur.
“Oliver, please fetch Mr Steele a glass of water.” His voice is stern. Oliver scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the foyer.
“My apologies, Mr Steele, Oliver is our new intern. Please be seated. Ms. Grey will be another five minutes.”
Oliver returns with a glass of iced water.
“Here you go, Mr Steele.”
“Thank you.”
Blonde Number Two marches over to the large desk, his shoes clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. He sits down, and they both continue their work.
Perhaps Ms. Grey insists on all her employees being blonde. I’m wondering idly if that’s legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, attractive African American woman with short dreads exits. I have definitely worn the wrong clothes. She turns and says through the door. “Golf, this week, Grey.”
I don’t hear the reply. She turns, sees me, and smiles, her dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Oliver has jumped up and called the elevator. He seems to excel at jumping from his seat. He’s more nervous than me!
“Good afternoon gentlemen,” she says as she departs through the sliding door. “Ms. Grey will see you now, Mr Steele. Do go through,” Blonde Number Two says. I stand rather shakily trying to suppress my nerves. Gathering up my satchel, I abandon my glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.
“You don’t need to knock – just go in.” He smiles kindly.
I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office.
Double crap – me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Ms. Grey’s office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance up. Holy cow – she’s so young.
“Mr Kavanagh.” She extends a long-fingered hand to me once I’m upright. “I’m Christina Grey. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?”
So young – and attractive, very attractive. She’s tall, dressed in a fine gray suit, white shirt, and black tie with unruly dark copper colored hair and intense, bright gray eyes that regard me shrewdly. It takes a moment for me to find my voice.
“Um. Actually–” I mutter. If this lady is over thirty then I’m a monkey’s uncle. In a daze, I place my hand in hers and we shake. As our fingers touch, I feel an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my heart rate.
“Mr Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Ms. Grey.” “And you are?” Her voice is warm, possibly amused, but it’s difficult to tell from her impassive expression. She looks mildly interested, but above all, polite. “Andrew Steele. I’m studying English Literature with Kyle, um… Mr Kavanagh at Washington State.”
“I see,” she says simply. I think I see the ghost of a smile in her expression, but I’m not sure.
“Would you like to sit?” She waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch. Her office is way too big for just one woman. In front of the floor-to-ceiling windows, there’s a huge modern dark-wood desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white – ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, thirty-six of them arranged in a square. They are exquisite – a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they look like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking. “A local artist. Trouton,” says Grey when she catches my gaze.
“They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” I murmur, distracted both by her and the paintings. She cocks her head to one side and regards me intently.
“I couldn’t agree more, Mr Steele,” she replies, her voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.
Apart from the paintings, the rest of the office is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Venus who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Kyle’s questions from my satchel. Next, I set up the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Ms. Grey says nothing, waiting patiently – I hope – as I become increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at her, she’s watching me, one hand relaxed in her lap and the other cupping her chin and trailing her long index finger across her lips. I think she’s trying to suppress a smile.
“Sorry,” I stutter. “I’m not used to this.”
“Take all the time you need, Mr Steele,” she says.
“Do you mind if I record your answers?”
“After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder – you ask me now?” I flush. She’s teasing me? I hope. I blink at her, unsure what to say, and I think she takes pity on me because she relents. “No, I don’t mind.”
“Did Kyle, I mean, Mr Kavanagh, explain what the interview was for?”
“Yes. To appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year’s graduation ceremony.”
Oh! This is news to me, and I’m temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone not much older than me – okay, maybe six years or so, and okay, mega successful, but still – is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attention back to the task at hand.
“Good,” I swallow nervously. “I have some questions, Ms. Grey.” I smooth a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
“I thought you might,” she says, deadpan. She’s laughing at me. My cheeks heat at the realization, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller and more intimidating. Pressing the start button on the recorder, I try to look professional.
“You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?” I glance up at her. Her smile is rueful, but she looks vaguely disappointed. “Business is all about people, Mr Steele, and I’m very good at judging people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn’t, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I employ an exceptional team, and I reward them well.” She pauses and fixes me with her gray stare. “My belief is to achieve success in any scheme one has to make oneself master of that scheme, know it inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very hard to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The bottom line is, it’s always down to good people.”
“Maybe you’re just lucky.” This isn’t on Kyle’s list – but she’s so arrogant. Her eyes flare momentarily in surprise.
“I don’t subscribe to luck or chance, Mr Steele. The harder I work the more luck I seem to have. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think it was Hayley Firestone who said ‘the growth and development of people is the highest calling of leadership.’”
“You sound like a control freak.” The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.
“Oh, I exercise control in all things, Mr Steele,” she says without a trace of humor in her smile. I look at her, and she holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes again.
Why does she have such an unnerving effect on me? Her overwhelming good-looks maybe? The way her eyes blaze at me? The way she strokes her index finger against her lower lip? I wish she’d stop doing that.
“Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your secret reveries that you were born to control things,” she continues, her voice soft.
“Do you feel that you have immense power?” Control Freak.
“I employ over forty thousand people, Mr Steele. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility – power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer interested in the telecommunications business and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so.”
My mouth drops open. I am staggered by her lack of humility.
“Don’t you have a board to answer to?” I ask, disgusted.
“I own my company. I don’t have to answer to a board.” She raises an eyebrow at me. I flush. Of course, I would know this if I had done some research. But holy crap, she’s so arrogant. I change tack.
“And do you have any interests outside your work?”
“I have varied interests, Mr Steele.” A ghost of a smile touches her lips. “Very varied.” And for some reason, I’m confounded and heated by her steady gaze. Her eyes are alight with some wicked thought.
“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”
“Chill out?” She smiles, revealing perfect white teeth. I stop breathing. She really is beautiful. No one should be this good-looking.
“Well, to ‘chill out’ as you put it – I sail, I fly, I indulge in various physical pursuits.” She shifts in her chair. “I’m a very wealthy woman, Mr Steele, and I have expensive and absorbing hobbies.”
I glance quickly at Kyle’s questions, wanting to get off this subject.
“You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?” I ask. Why does she make me so uncomfortable?
“I like to build things. I like to know how things work: what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?”
“That sounds like your heart talking rather than logic and facts.”
Her mouth quirks up, and she stares appraisingly at me.
“Possibly. Though there are people who’d say I don’t have a heart.”
“Why would they say that?”
“Because they know me well.” Her lip curls in a wry smile.
“Would your friends say you’re easy to get to know?” And I regret the question as soon as I say it. It’s not on Kyle’s list.
“I’m a very private person, Mr Steele. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don’t often give interviews,” she trails off.
“Why did you agree to do this one?”
“Because I’m a benefactor of the University, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn’t get Mr Kavanagh off my back. He badgered and badgered my PR people, and I admire that kind of tenacity.”
I know how tenacious Kyle can be. That’s why I’m sitting here squirming uncomfortably under her penetrating gaze, when I should be studying for my exams.
“You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?” “We can’t eat money, Mr Steele, and there are too many people on this planet who don’t have enough to eat.”
“That sounds very philanthropic. Is it something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?”
She shrugs, very non-committal.
“It’s shrewd business,” she murmurs, though I think she’s being disingenuous. It doesn’t make sense – feeding the world’s poor? I can’t see the financial benefits of this, only the virtue of the ideal. I glance at the next question, confused by her attitude.
“Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?”
“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle – Carnegie’s: ‘A woman who acquires the ability to take full possession of her own mind may take possession of anything else to which she is justly entitled.’ I’m very singular, driven. I like control – of myself and those around me.”
“So you want to possess things?” You are a control freak.
“I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do.”
“You sound like the ultimate consumer.”
“I am.” She smiles, but the smile doesn’t touch her eyes. Again this is at odds with someone who wants to feed the world, so I can’t help thinking that we’re talking about something else, but I’m absolutely mystified as to what it is. I swallow hard. The temperature in the room is rising or maybe it’s just me. I just want this interview to be over. Surely Kyle has enough material now? I glance at the next question.
“You were adopted. How far do you think that’s shaped the way you are?” Oh, this is personal. I stare at her, hoping she’s not offended. Her brow furrows. “I have no way of knowing.”
My interest is piqued.
“How old were you when you were adopted?”
“That’s a matter of public record, Mr Steele.” His tone is stern. I flush, again. Crap. Yes of course – if I’d known I was doing this interview, I would have done some research. I move on quickly.
“You’ve had to sacrifice a family life for your work.”
“That’s not a question.” She’s terse.
“Sorry.” I squirm, and she’s made me feel like an errant child. I try again.
“Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?”
“I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”
“Are you gay, Ms. Grey?”
She inhales sharply, and I cringe, mortified. Crap. Why didn’t I employ some kind of filter before I read this straight out? How can I tell her I’m just reading the questions? Damn Kyle and his curiosity!
“No Andrew, I’m not.” She raises his eyebrows, a cool gleam in her eyes. She does not look pleased.
“I apologize. It’s um… written here.” It’s the first time she’s said my name. My heartbeat has accelerated, and my cheeks are heating up again. Nervously, I tuck my loosened hair behind my ear.
She cocks her head to one side.
“These aren’t your own questions?”
The blood drains from my head. Oh no.
“Err… no. Kyle – Mr Kavanagh – he compiled the questions.”
“Are you colleagues on the student paper?” Oh crap. I have nothing to do with the student paper. It’s his extra-curricular activity, not mine. My face is aflame. “No. He’s my roommate.”
She rubs her chin in quiet deliberation, her gray eyes appraising me.
“Did you volunteer to do this interview?” she asks, her voice deadly quiet. Hang on, who’s supposed to be interviewing whom? Her eyes burn into me, and I’m compelled to answer with the truth.
“I was drafted. He’s not well.” My voice is weak and apologetic.
“That explains a great deal.”
There’s a knock at the door, and Blonde Number Two enters.
“Ms. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.” “We’re not finished here, Andre. Please cancel my next meeting.”
Andre hesitates, gaping at him. He appears lost. She turns her head slowly to face him and raises her eyebrows. He flushes bright pink. Oh good. It’s not just me. “Very well, Ms. Grey,” he mutters, then exits. She frowns, and turns her attention back to me.
“Where were we, Mr Steele?”
Oh, we’re back to ‘Mr Steele’ now.
“Please don’t let me keep you from anything.”
“I want to know about you. I think that’s only fair.” Her gray eyes are alight with curiosity. Double crap. Where’s she going with this? She places her elbows on the arms of the chair and steeples her fingers in front of her mouth. His mouth is very… distracting. I swallow.
“There’s not much to know,” I say, flushing again.
“What are your plans after you graduate?”
I shrug, thrown by her interest. Come to Seattle with Kyle, find a place, find a job. I haven’t really thought beyond my finals.
“I haven’t made any plans, Ms. Grey. I just need to get through my final exams.” Which I should be studying for now rather than sitting in your palatial, swanky, sterile office, feeling uncomfortable under your penetrating gaze.
“We run an excellent internship program here,” she says quietly. I raise my eyebrows in surprise. Is she offering me a job?
“Oh. I’ll bear that in mind,” I murmur, completely confounded. “Though I’m not sure I’d fit in here.” Oh no. I’m musing out loud again.
“Why do you say that?” She cocks her head to one side, intrigued, a hint of a smile playing on her lips.
“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” I’m uncoordinated, scruffy, and I’m not blonde.
“Not to me,” she murmurs. Her gaze is intense, all humor gone, and strange muscles deep in my belly clench suddenly. I tear my eyes away from her scrutiny and stare blindly down at my knotted fingers. What’s going on? I have to go – now. I lean forward to retrieve the recorder.
“Would you like me to show you around?” she asks.
“I’m sure you’re far too busy, Ms. Grey, and I do have a long drive.”
“You’re driving back to WSU in Vancouver?” She sounds surprised, anxious even. She glances out of the window. It’s begun to rain. “Well, you’d better drive carefully.” Her tone is stern, authoritative. Why should she care?
“Did you get everything you need?” she adds. “Yes ma’am,” I reply, packing the recorder into my satchel. Her eyes narrow, speculatively. “Thank you for the interview, Ms. Grey.”
“The pleasure’s been all mine,” she says, polite as ever.
As I rise, she stands and holds out her hand.
“Until we meet again, Mr Steele.” And it sounds like a challenge, or a threat, I’m not sure which. I frown. When will we ever meet again? I shake her hand once more, astounded that that odd current between us is still there. It must be my nerves.
“Ms. Grey.” I nod at her. Moving with lithe athletic grace to the door, she opens it wide. “Just ensuring you make it through the door, Mr Steele.” She gives me a small smile. Obviously, she’s referring to my earlier less-than-elegant entry into her office. I flush. “That’s very considerate, Ms. Grey,” I snap, and her smile widens. I’m glad you find me entertaining, I glower inwardly, walking into the foyer. I’m surprised when she follows me out. Andre and Oliver both look up, equally surprised.
“Did you have a coat?” Grey asks.
“Yes.” Oliver leaps up and retrieves my jacket, which Grey takes from him before he can hand it to me. She holds it up and, feeling ridiculously self-conscious, I shrug it on. Grey places her hands for a moment on my shoulders. I gasp at the contact. If she notices my reaction, she gives nothing away. Her long index finger presses the button summoning the elevator, and we stand waiting – awkwardly on my part, coolly self-possessed on hers. The doors open, and I hurry in desperate to escape. I really need to get out of here. When I turn to look at her, she’s leaning against the doorway beside the elevator with one hand on the wall. She really is very, very good-looking. It’s distracting. Her burning gray eyes gaze at me.
“Andrew,” she says as a farewell.
“Christina,” I reply. And mercifully, the doors close.
Chapter Two
My heart is pounding. The elevator arrives on the first floor, and I scramble out as soon as the doors slide open, stumbling once, but fortunately not sprawling on to the immaculate sandstone floor. I race for the wide glass doors, and I’m free in the bracing, cleansing, damp air of Seattle. Raising my face, I welcome the cool refreshing rain. I close my eyes and take a deep, purifying breath, trying to recover what’s left of my equilibrium.
No woman has ever affected me the way Christina Grey has, and I cannot fathom why. Is it her looks? Her civility? Wealth? Power? I don’t understand my irrational reaction. I breathe an enormous sigh of relief. What in heaven’s name was that all about? Leaning against one of the steel pillars of the building, I valiantly attempt to calm down and gather my thoughts. I shake my head. Holy crap – what was that? My heart steadies to its regular rhythm, and I can breathe normally again. I head for the car.
As I leave the city limits behind, I begin to feel foolish and embarrassed as I replay the interview in my mind. Surely, I’m over-reacting to something that’s imaginary. Okay, so she’s very attractive, confident, commanding, at ease with herself – but on the flip side, she’s arrogant, and for all her impeccable manners, she’s autocratic and cold. Well, on the surface. An involuntary shiver runs down my spine. She may be arrogant, but then she has a right to be – she’s accomplished so much at such a young age. She doesn’t suffer fools gladly, but why should she? Again, I’m irritated that Kyle didn’t give me a brief biography.
While cruising along the I-5, my mind continues to wander. I’m truly perplexed as to what makes someone so driven to succeed. Some of her answers were so cryptic – as if she had a hidden agenda. And Kyle’s questions – ugh! The adoption and asking her if she was gay! I shudder. I can’t believe I said that. Ground, swallow me up now! Every time I think of that question in the future, I will cringe with embarrassment. Damn Kyle Kavanagh!
I check the speedometer. I’m driving more cautiously than I would on any other occasion. And I know it’s the memory of two penetrating gray eyes gazing at me, and a stern voice telling me to drive carefully. Shaking my head, I realize that Grey’s more like a woman double her age.
Forget it, Andy, I scold myself. I decide that all in all, it’s been a very interesting experience, but I shouldn’t dwell on it. Put it behind you. I never have to see her again. I’m immediately cheered by the thought. I switch on the MP3 player and turn the volume up loud, sit back, and listen to thumping indie rock music as I press down on the accelerator. As I hit the I-5, I realize I can drive as fast as I want.
We live in a small community of duplex apartments in Vancouver, Washington, close to the Vancouver campus of WSU. I’m lucky – Kyle’s parents bought the place for him, and I pay peanuts for rent. It’s been home for four years now. As I pull up outside, I know Kyle is going to want a blow-by-blow account, and he is tenacious. Well, at least he has the mini disc. Hopefully I won’t have to elaborate much beyond what was said during the interview.
“Andy! You’re back.” Kyle sits in our living area, surrounded by books. He’s clearly been studying for finals – though he’s still in his flannel pajamas decorated with rabbits, the ones he reserves for the aftermath of breaking up with girlfriends, for assorted illnesses, and for general moody depression. He bounds up to me and hugs me hard.
“I was beginning to worry. I expected you back sooner.”
“Oh, I thought I made good time considering the interview ran over.” I wave the mini disc recorder at him.
“Andy, thank you so much for doing this. I owe you, I know. How was it? What was she like?” Oh no – here we go, the Kyle Kavanagh Inquisition.
I struggle to answer his question. What can I say?
“I’m glad it’s over, and I don’t have to see her again. She was rather intimidating, you know.” I shrug. “She’s very focused, intense even – and young. Really young.” Kyle gazes innocently at me. I frown at him.
“Don’t you look so innocent. Why didn’t you give me a biography? She made me feel like such an idiot for skimping on basic research.” Kyle clamps a hand to his mouth. “Jeez, Andy, I’m sorry – I didn’t think.”
I huff.
“Mostly she was courteous, formal, slightly stuffy – like she’s old before her time. She doesn’t talk like a woman of twenty-something. How old is she anyway?” “Twenty-seven. Jeez, Andy, I’m sorry. I should have briefed you, but I was in such a panic. Let me have the mini-disc, and I’ll start transcribing the interview.”
“You look better. Did you eat your soup?” I ask, keen to change the subject.
“Yes, and it was delicious as usual. I’m feeling much better.” He smiles at me in gratitude. I check my watch.
“I have to run. I can still make my shift at Clayton’s.”
“Andy, you’ll be exhausted.”
“I’ll be fine. I’ll see you later.”
I’ve worked at Clayton’s since I started at WSU. It’s the largest independent hardware store in the Portland area, and over the four years I’ve worked here, I’ve come to know a little bit about most everything we sell – although ironically, I’m crap at any DIY. I leave all that to my mum. I’m much more of a curl-up-with-a-book-in-a-comfy-chair-by-the-fire kind of guy. I’m glad I can make my shift as it gives me something to focus on that isn’t Christina Grey. We’re busy – it’s the start of the summer season, and folks are redecorating their homes. Mr. Clayton is pleased to see me.
“Andy! I thought you weren’t going to make it today.”
“My appointment didn’t take as long as I thought. I can do a couple of hours.”
“I’m real pleased to see you.”
He sends me to the storeroom to start re-stocking shelves, and I’m soon absorbed in the task.
When I arrive home later, Kyle is wearing headphones and working on his laptop. His nose is still pink, but he has his teeth into a story, so he’s concentrating and typing furiously. I’m thoroughly drained – exhausted by the long drive, the grueling interview, and by being rushed off my feet at Clayton’s. I slump on to the couch, thinking about the essay I have to finish and all the studying I haven’t done today because I was holed up with… her.
“You’ve got some good stuff here, Andy. Well done. I can’t believe you didn’t take her up on her offer to show you around. She obviously wanted to spend more time with you.” He gives me a fleeting quizzical look.
I flush, and my heart rate inexplicably increases. That wasn’t the reason, surely? She just wanted to show me around so I could see that she was queen of all she surveyed. I realize I’m biting my lip, and I hope Kyle doesn’t notice. But he seems absorbed in his transcription.
“I hear what you mean about formal. Did you take any notes?” he asks.
“Um… no, I didn’t.”
“That’s fine. I can still make a fine article with this. Shame we don’t have some original stills. Good-looking son of a bitch, isn’t she?”
I flush.
“I suppose so.” I try hard to sound disinterested, and I think I succeed. “Oh come on, Andy – even you can’t be immune to her looks.” He arches a perfect eyebrow at me.
Crap! I distract him with flattery, always a good ploy.
“You probably would have got a lot more out of her.”
“I doubt that, Andy. Come on – she practically offered you a job. Given that I foisted this on you at the last minute, you did very well.” He glances up at me speculatively. I make a hasty retreat into the kitchen.
“So what did you really think of her?” Damn, he’s inquisitive. Why can’t he just let this go? Think of something – quick.
“She’s very driven, controlling, arrogant – scary really, but very charismatic. I can understand the fascination,” I add truthfully, as I peer round the door at him hoping this will shut him up once and for all.
“You, fascinated by a woman? That’s a first,” he snorts.
I start gathering the makings of a sandwich so he can’t see my face.
“Why did you want to know if she was gay? Incidentally, that was the most embarrassing question. I was mortified, and she was pissed to be asked too.” I scowl at the memory.
“Whenever she’s in the society pages, she never has a date.”
“It was embarrassing. The whole thing was embarrassing. I’m glad I’ll never have to lay eyes on her again.”
“Oh, Andy, it can’t have been that bad. I think she sounds quite taken with you.” Taken with me? Now Kyle’s being ridiculous.
“Would you like a sandwich?”
“Please.”
We talk no more of Christina Grey that evening, much to my relief. Once we’ve eaten, I’m able to sit at the dining table with Kyle and, while he works on his article, I work on my essay on Tess of the D’Urbervilles. Damn, but that woman was in the wrong place at the wrong time in the wrong century. By the time I finish, it’s midnight, and Kyle has long since gone to bed. I make my way to my room, exhausted, but pleased that I’ve accomplished so much for a Monday.
I curl up in my white iron bed, wrapping my father’s quilt around me, close my eyes, and I’m instantly asleep. That night I dream of dark places, bleak white cold floors, and gray eyes.
For the rest of the week, I throw myself into my studies and my job at Clayton’s. Kyle is busy too, compiling his last edition of his student magazine before he has to relinquish it to the new editor while also cramming for his finals. By Wednesday, he’s much better, and I no longer have to endure the sight of his flannel-with-too-many-rabbits PJs. I call my dad in Georgia to check on him, but also so he can wish me luck for my final exams. He proceeds to tell me about his latest venture into candle making – my father is all about new business ventures. Fundamentally he’s bored and wants something to occupy his time, but he has the attention span of a goldfish. It’ll be something new next week. He worries me. I hope he hasn’t mortgaged the house to finance this latest scheme. And I hope that Barb – her relatively new but much older wife – is keeping an eye on him now that I’m no longer there. She does seem a lot more grounded than Wife Number Three.
“How are things with you, Andy?”
For a moment, I hesitate, and I have Dad’s full attention.
“I’m fine.”
“Andy? Have you met someone?” Wow… how does he do that? The excitement in his voice is palpable.
“No, Dad, it’s nothing. You’ll be the first to know if I do.”
“Andy, you really need to get out more, honey. You worry me.”
“Dad, I’m fine. How’s Barb?”
As ever, distraction is the best policy. Later that evening, I call Rachel, my stepmum, Dad’s Wife Number Two, the woman I consider my mother, and the woman whose name I bear. It’s a brief conversation. In fact, it’s not so much a conversation as a one-sided series of grunts in response to my gentle coaxing. Rachel is not a talker. But she’s still alive, she’s still watching soccer on TV, and going bowling and fly-fishing or making furniture when she’s not. Rachel is a skilled carpenter and the reason I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw. All seems well with her.
Friday night, Kyle and I are debating what to do with our evening – we want some time out from our studies, from our work, and from student newspapers – when the doorbell rings. Standing on our doorstep is my good friend Josie, clutching a bottle of champagne. “Josie! Great to see you!” I give her a quick hug. “Come in.”
Josis is the first person I met when I arrived at WSU, looking as lost and lonely as I did. We recognized a kindred spirit in each of us that day, and we’ve been friends ever since. Not only do we share a sense of humor, but we discovered that both Rachel and Josie Senior were in the same army unit together. As a result, our mothers have become firm friends too.
Josie is studying engineering and is the first in her family to make it to college. She’s pretty damn bright, but her real passion is photography. Josie has a great eye for a good picture.
“I have news.” She grins, her dark eyes twinkling.
“Don’t tell me – you’ve managed not to get kicked out for another week,” I tease, and she scowls playfully at me.
“The Portland Place Gallery is going to exhibit my photos next month.”
“That’s amazing – congratulations!”
Delighted for her, I hug her again. Kyle beams at her too.
“Way to go Josie! I should put this in the paper. Nothing like last minute editorial changes on a Friday evening.” He grins.
“Let’s celebrate. I want you to come to the opening.” Josie looks intently at me. I flush. “Both of you, of course,” she adds, glancing nervously at Kyle.
Josie and I are good friends, but I know deep down inside, she’d like to be more. She’s cute and funny, but she’s just not for me. She’s more like the sister I never had. Kyle often teases me that I’m missing the need-a-girlfriend gene, but the truth is – I just haven’t met anyone who… well, whom I’m attracted to, even though part of me longs for those trembling knees, heart-in-my-mouth, butterflies-in-my-belly, sleepless nights.
Sometimes I wonder if there’s something wrong with me. Perhaps I’ve spent too long in the company of my literary romantic heroes, and consequently my ideals and expectations are far too high. But in reality, nobody’s ever made me feel like that.
Until very recently, the unwelcome, still small voice of my subconscious whispers. NO! I banish the thought immediately. I am not going there, not after that painful interview. Are you gay, Ms. Grey? I wince at the memory. I know I’ve dreamt about her most nights since then, but that’s just to purge the awful experience from my system, surely?
I watch Josie open the bottle of champagne. She’s tall, and in her jeans and t-shirt she’s all shoulders and muscles, tanned skin, dark hair and burning dark eyes. Yes, Josie’s pretty hot, but I think she’s finally getting the message: we’re just friends. The cork makes its loud pop, and Josie looks up and smiles.
Saturday at the store is a nightmare. We are besieged by do-it-yourselfers wanting to spruce up their homes. Mr. and Mrs. Clayton, Joanna and Patricia – the two other part-timers – and I are all rushed off our feet. But there’s a lull around lunchtime, and Mr. Clayton asks me to check on some orders while I’m sitting behind the counter at the till discreetly eating my bagel. I’m engrossed in the task, checking catalogue numbers against the items we need and the items we’ve ordered, eyes flicking from the order book to the computer screen and back as I check the entries match. Then, for some reason, I glance up… and find myself locked in the bold gray gaze of Christina Grey who’s standing at the counter, staring at me intently.
Heart failure.
“Mr Steele. What a pleasant surprise.” Her gaze is unwavering and intense. Holy crap. What the hell is she doing here looking all tousled-hair and outdoorsy in her cream chunky-knit sweater, jeans, and walking boots? I think my mouth has popped open, and I can’t locate my brain or my voice.
“Ms. Grey,” I whisper, because that’s all I can manage. There’s a ghost of a smile on her lips and her eyes are alight with humor, as if she’s enjoying some private joke. “I was in the area,” she says by way of explanation. “I need to stock up on a few things. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr Steele.” Her voice is warm and husky like dark melted chocolate fudge caramel… or something.
I shake my head to gather my wits. My heart is pounding a frantic tattoo, and for some reason I’m blushing furiously under her steady scrutiny. I am utterly thrown by the sight of her standing before me. My memories of her did not do her justice. She’s not merely good-looking – she’s the epitome of female beauty, breathtaking, and she’s here. Here in Clayton’s Hardware Store. Go figure. Finally my cognitive functions are restored and reconnected with the rest of my body.
“Andy. My name’s Andy,” I mutter. “What can I help you with, Ms. Grey?”
She smiles, and again it’s like she’s privy to some big secret. It is so disconcerting. Taking a deep breath, I put on my professional I’ve-worked-in-this-shop-for-years façade. I can do this.
“There are a few items I need. To start with, I’d like some cable ties,” she murmurs, her gray eyes cool but amused.
Cable ties?
“We stock various lengths. Shall I show you?” I mutter, my voice soft and wavery. Get a grip, Steele. A slight frown mars Grey’s rather lovely brow.
“Please. Lead the way, Mr Steele,” she says. I try for nonchalance as I come out from behind the counter, but really I’m concentrating hard on not falling over my own feet – my legs are suddenly the consistency of Jell-O. I’m so glad I decided to wear my best jeans this morning.
“They’re in with the electrical goods, aisle eight.” My voice is a little too bright. I glance up at her and regret it almost immediately. Damn, she’s stunning. I blush. “After you,” she murmurs, gesturing with her long-fingered, beautifully manicured hand.
With my heart almost strangling me – because it’s in my throat trying to escape from my mouth – I head down one of the aisles to the electrical section. Why is she in Portland? Why is she here at Clayton’s? And from a very tiny, underused part of my brain – probably located at the base of my medulla oblongata where my subconscious dwells – comes the thought: she’s here to see you. No way! I dismiss it immediately. Why would this beautiful, powerful, urbane woman want to see me? The idea is preposterous, and I kick it out of my head.
“Are you in Portland on business?” I ask, and my voice is too high, like I’ve got my finger trapped in a door or something. Damn! Try to be cool Andy!
“I was visiting the WSU farming division. It’s based in Vancouver. I’m currently funding some research there in crop rotation and soil science,” she says matter-of-factly. See? Not here to find you at all, my subconscious sneers at me, loud, proud, and pouty. I flush at my foolish wayward thoughts.
“All part of your feed-the-world plan?” I tease.
“Something like that,” she acknowledges, and her lips quirk up in a half smile. She gazes at the selection of cable ties we stock at Clayton’s. What on Earth is she going to do with those? I cannot picture her as a do-it-yourselfer at all. Her fingers trail across the various packages displayed, and for some inexplicable reason, I have to look away. She bends and selects a packet.
“These will do,” she says with her oh-so-secret smile, and I blush.
“Is there anything else?”
“I’d like some masking tape.”
Masking tape?
“Are you redecorating?” The words are out before I can stop them. Surely she hires laborers or has staff to help him decorate?
“No, not redecorating,” she says quickly then smirks, and I have the uncanny feeling that he’s laughing at me.
Am I that funny? Funny looking?
“This way,” I murmur embarrassed. “Masking tape is in the decorating aisle.”
I glance behind me as she follows.
“Have you worked here long?” Her voice is low, and she’s gazing at me, gray eyes concentrating hard. I blush even more brightly. Why the hell does she have this effect on me? I feel like I’m fourteen years old – gauche, as always, and out of place. Eyes front Steele!
“Four years,” I mutter as we reach our goal. To distract myself, I reach down and select the two widths of masking tape that we stock.
“I’ll take that one,” Grey says softly pointing to the wider tape, which I pass to her. Our fingers brush very briefly, and the current is there again, zapping through me like I’ve touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it, all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. Desperately, I scrabble around for my equilibrium.
“Anything else?” My voice is husky and breathy. Her eyes widen slightly.
“Some rope, I think.” Her voice mirrors mine, husky.
“This way.” I duck my head down to hide my recurring blush and head for the aisle.
“What sort were you after? We have synthetic and natural filament rope… twine… cable cord… ” I halt at her expression, her eyes darkening. Holy cow.
“I’ll take five yards of the natural filament rope please.”
Quickly, with trembling fingers, I measure out five yards against the fixed ruler, aware that her hot gray gaze is on me. I dare not look at her. Jeez, could I feel any more self conscious? Taking my Stanley knife from the back pocket of my jeans, I cut it then coil it neatly before tying it in a slipknot. By some miracle, I manage not to remove a finger with my knife.
“Were you a Boy Scout?” she asks, sculptured, sensual lips curled in amusement. Don’t look at her mouth!
“Organized, group activities aren’t really my thing, Ms. Grey.”
She arches a brow.
“What is your thing, Andrew?” she asks, her voice soft and her secret smile is back. I gaze at her unable to express myself. I’m on shifting tectonic plates. Try and be cool, Andy, my tortured subconscious begs on bended knee.
“Books,” I whisper, but inside, my subconscious is screaming: You! You are my thing! I slap it down instantly, mortified that my psyche is having ideas above its station.
“What kind of books?” She cocks his head to one side. Why is she so interested? “Oh, you know. The usual. The classics. British literature, mainly.” She rubs her chin with her long index finger and thumb as she contemplates my answer. Or perhaps she’s just very bored and trying to hide it.
“Anything else you need?” I have to get off this subject – those fingers on that face are so beguiling.
“I don’t know. What else would you recommend?”
What would I recommend? I don’t even know what you’re doing.
“For a do-it-yourselfer?”
She nods, gray eyes alive with wicked humor. I flush, and my eyes stray of their own accord to her snug jeans.
“Coveralls,” I reply, and I know I’m no longer screening what’s coming out of my mouth.
She raises an eyebrow, amused, yet again.
“You wouldn’t want to ruin your clothing,” I gesture vaguely in the direction of her jeans.
“I could always take them off.” She smirks.
“Um.” I feel the color in my cheeks rising again. I must be the color of the communist manifesto. Stop talking. Stop talking NOW.
“I’ll take some coveralls. Heaven forbid I should ruin any clothing,” she says dryly. I try and dismiss the unwelcome image of her without jeans.
“Do you need anything else?” I squeak as I hand her the blue coveralls. She ignores my inquiry.
“How’s the article coming along?”
She’s finally asked me a normal question, away from all the innuendo and the confusing double talk… a question I can answer. I grasp it tightly with two hands as if it were a life raft, and I go for honesty.
“I’m not writing it, Kyle is. Mr Kavanagh. My roommate, he’s the writer. He’s very happy with it. He’s the editor of the magazine, and he was devastated that he couldn’t do the interview in person.” I feel like I’ve come up for air – at last, a normal topic of conversation. “His only concern is that he doesn’t have any original photographs of you.”
Grey raises an eyebrow.
“What sort of photographs does he want?”
Okay. I hadn’t factored in this response. I shake my head, because I just don’t know.
“Well, I’m around. Tomorrow, perhaps… ” she trails off.
“You’d be willing to attend a photoshoot?” My voice is squeaky again. Kyle will be in seventh heaven if I can pull this off. And you might see her again tomorrow, that dark place at the base of my brain whispers seductively at me. I dismiss the thought – of all the silly, ridiculous…
“Kyle will be delighted – if we can find a photographer.” I’m so pleased, I smile at her broadly. Her lips part, like she’s taking a sharp intake of breath, and she blinks. For a fraction of a second, she looks lost somehow, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates sliding into a new position.
Oh my. Christina Grey’s lost look.
“Let me know about tomorrow.” Reaching into her back pocket, she pulls out her wallet.
“My card. It has my cell number on it. You’ll need to call before ten in the morning.”
“Okay.” I grin up at her. Kyle is going to be thrilled.
“ANDY!”
Pauline has materialized at the other end of the aisle. She’s Mrs. Clayton’s youngest sister. I’d heard she was home from Princeton, but I wasn’t expecting to see her today.
“Er, excuse me for a moment, Ms. Grey.” Grey frowns as I turn away from her. Pauline has always been a buddy, and in this strange moment that I’m having with the rich, powerful, awesomely off-the-scale attractive control-freak Grey, it’s great to talk to someone who’s normal. Pauline hugs me hard, taking me by surprise.
“Andy, hi, it’s so good to see you!” she gushes.
“Hello Pauline, how are you? You home for your sister’s birthday?”
“Yep. You’re looking well, Andy, really well.” She grins as she examines me at arm’s length. Then she releases me but keeps a possessive arm draped over my shoulder. I shuffle from foot to foot, embarrassed. It’s good to see Pauline, but she’s always been over-familiar.
When I glance up at Christina Grey, she’s watching us like a hawk, her gray eyes hooded and speculative, her mouth a hard impassive line. She’s changed from the weirdly attentive customer to someone else – someone cold and distant.
“Pauline, I’m with a customer. Someone you should meet,” I say, trying to defuse the antagonism I see in Grey’s eyes. I drag Pauline over to meet her, and they weigh each other up. The atmosphere is suddenly arctic.
“Er, Pauline, this is Christina Grey. Ms. Grey, this is Pauline Clayton. Her sister owns the place.”
And for some irrational reason, I feel I have to explain a bit more.
“I’ve known Pauline ever since I’ve worked here, though we don’t see each other that often. She’s back from Princeton where she’s studying business administration.”
I’m babbling… Stop, now!
“Ms. Clayton.” Christina holds her hand out, her look unreadable.
“Ms. Grey,” Pauline returns her handshake. “Wait up – not the Christina Grey? Of Grey Enterprises Holdings?” Pauline goes from surly to awestruck in less than a nanosecond. Grey gives her a polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Wow – is there anything I can get you?”
“Andrew has it covered, Ms. Clayton. He’s been very attentive.” Her expression is impassive, but her words… it’s like she’s saying something else entirely. It’s baffling.
“Cool,” Paul responds. “Catch you later, Anndy.”
“Sure, Pauline.” I watch her disappear toward the stockroom.
“Anything else, Ms. Grey?”
“Just these items.” Her tone is clipped and cool. Damn… have I offended her? Taking a deep breath, I turn and head for the till. What is her problem?
I ring up the rope, coveralls, masking tape, and cable ties at the till.
“That will be forty-three dollars, please.” I glance up at Grey, and I wish I hadn’t. She’s watching me closely, her gray eyes intense and smoky. It’s unnerving. “Would you like a bag?” I ask as I take her credit card.
“Please, Andrew.” Hier tongue caresses my name, and my heart once again is frantic. I can hardly breathe. Hurriedly, I place her purchases in a plastic carrier. “You’ll call me if you want me to do the photoshoot?” She’s all business once more. I nod, rendered speechless yet again, and hand back her credit card.
“Good. Until tomorrow perhaps.” She turns to leave, then pauses.
“Oh – and Andrew, I’m glad Mr Kavanagh couldn’t do the interview.” She smiles, then strides with renewed purpose out of the store, slinging the plastic bag over her shoulder, leaving me a quivering mass of raging male hormones. I spend several minutes staring at the closed door through which she’s just left before I return to planet Earth.
Okay – I like her. There, I’ve admitted it to myself. I cannot hide from my feelings anymore. I’ve never felt like this before. I find her attractive, very attractive. But it’s a lost cause, I know, and I sigh with bittersweet regret. It was just a coincidence, her coming here. But still, I can admire her from afar, surely? No harm can come of that. And if I find a photographer, I can do some serious admiring tomorrow. I bite my lip in anticipation and find myself grinning like a schoolgirl. I need to phone Kyle and organize a photo-shoot.
Chapter Three
Kyle is ecstatic.
“But what was she doing at Clayton’s?” His curiosity oozes through the phone. I’m in the depths of the stock room, trying to keep my voice casual.
“She was in the area.”
“I think that is one huge coincidence, Andy. You don’t think she was there to see you?” he speculates. My heart lurches at the prospect, but it’s a short-lived joy. The dull, disappointing reality is that she was here on business.
“She was visiting the farming division of WSU. She’s funding some research,” I mutter. “Oh yes. She’s given the department a $2.5 million grant.”
Wow.
“How do you know this?”
“Andy, I’m a journalist, and I’ve written a profile on the lady. It’s my job to know this.”
“Okay, Clarke Kent, keep your hair on. So do you want these photos?”
“Of course I do. The question is, who’s going to do them and where.”
“We could ask her where. She says she’s staying in the area.”
“You can contact her?”
“I have her cell phone number.”
Kyle gasps.
“The richest, most elusive, most enigmatic woman in Washington State, just gave you her cell phone number.”
“Er… yes.”
“Andy! She likes you. No doubt about it.” His tone is emphatic.
“Kyle, he’s just trying to be nice.” But even as I say the words, I know they’re not true – Christina Grey doesn’t do nice. She does polite, maybe. And a small quiet voice whispers, perhaps Kyle is right. My scalp prickles at the idea that maybe, just maybe, she might like me. After all, she did say she was glad Kyle didn’t do the interview. I hug myself with quiet glee, rocking from side to side, entertaining the possibility that she might like me for one brief moment. Kyle brings me back to the now.
“I don’t know who we’ll get to do the shoot. Lucy, our regular photographer, can’t. She’s home in Idaho Falls for the weekend. She’ll be pissed that she blew an opportunity to photograph one of America’s leading entrepreneurs.”
“Hmm… What about Josie?”
“Great idea! You ask her – she’ll do anything for you. Then call Grey and find out where she wants us.” Kyle is irritatingly cavalier about Josie.
“I think you should call her.”
“Who, Josie?” Kyle scoffs.
“No, Grey.”
“Andy, you’re the one with the relationship.”
“Relationship?” I squeak at him, my voice rising several octaves. “I barely know the guy.”
“At least you’ve met her,” he says bitterly. “And it looks like she wants to know you better. Andy, just call her,” he snaps and hangs up. He is so bossy sometimes. I frown at my cell, sticking my tongue out at it.
I’m just leaving a message for Josie when Pauline enters the stock room looking for sandpaper.
“We’re kind of busy out there, Andy,” she says without acrimony.
“Yeah, um, sorry,” I mutter, turning to leave.
“So, how come you know Christina Grey?” Paulina’s voice is unconvincingly nonchalant.
“I had to interview her for our student newspaper. Kyle wasn’t well.” I shrug, trying to sound casual and doing no better than her.
“Christina Grey in Clayton’s. Go figure,” Pauline snorts, amazed. She shakes her head as if to clear it.
“Anyway, want to grab a drink or something this evening?” Whenever she’s home she asks me on a date, and I always say no. It’s a ritual. I’ve never considered it a good idea to date the boss’s sister, and besides, Pauline is cute in a wholesome all-American girl-next-door kind of way, but she’s no literary hero, not by any stretch of the imagination. Is Grey? My subconscious asks me, eyebrow figuratively raised. I slap it down.
“Don’t you have a family dinner or something for your sister?”
“That’s tomorrow.”
“Maybe some other time, Pauline. I need to study tonight. I have my finals next week.”
“Andy, one of these days, you’ll say yes,” she smiles as I escape out to the store floor.
“But I do places, Andy, not people,” Josie groans.
“Josie, please?” I beg. Clutching my cell, I pace the living area of our apartment, staring out of the window at the fading evening light.
“Give me that phone.” Kyle grabs the handset from me, tossing his silken red-blonde hair.
“Listen here, Josie Rodriquez, if you want our newspaper to cover the opening of your show, you’ll do this shoot for us tomorrow, capiche?” Kyle can be awesomely tough. “Good. Andy will call back with the location and the call time. We’ll see you tomorrow.” He snaps my cell phone shut.
“Sorted. All we need to do now is decide where and when. Call her.” He holds the phone out to me. My stomach twists.
“Call Grey, now!”
I scowl at him and reach into my back pocket for her business card. I take a deep, steadying breath, and with shaking fingers, I dial the number.
She answers on the second ring. Her tone is clipped, calm and cold.
“Grey.”
“Err… Ms. Grey? It’s Andrew Steele.” I don’t recognize my own voice, I’m so nervous. There’s a brief pause. Inside I’m quaking.
“Mr Steele. How nice to hear from you.” Her voice has changed. She’s surprised, I think, and she sounds so… warm – seductive even. My breath hitches, and I flush. I’m suddenly conscious that Kyle Kavanagh is staring at me, his mouth open, and I dart into the kitchen to avoid his unwanted scrutiny.
“Err – we’d like to go ahead with the photo-shoot for the article.” Breathe, Andy, breathe. My lungs drag in a hasty breath. “Tomorrow, if that’s okay. Where would be convenient for you?”
I can almost hear his sphinx-like smile through the phone.
“I’m staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say, nine thirty tomorrow morning?”
“Okay, we’ll see you there.” I am all gushing and breathy – like a child, not a grown man who can vote and drink legally in the State of Washington.
“I look forward to it, Mr Steele.” I visualize the wicked gleam in her gray eyes. How can she make seven little words hold so much tantalizing promise? I hang up. Kyle is in the kitchen, and he’s staring at me with a look of complete and utter consternation on his face.
“Andrew Robert Steele. You like her! I’ve never seen or heard you so, so… affected by anyone before. You’re actually blushing.”
“Oh Kyle, you know I blush all the time. It’s an occupational hazard with me. Don’t be so ridiculous,” I snap. He blinks at me with surprise – I very rarely throw my toys out of the pram – and I briefly relent. “I just find her… intimidating, that’s all.”
“Heathman, that figures,” mutters Kyle. “I’ll give the manager a call and negotiate a space for the shoot.”
“I’ll make supper. Then I need to study.” I cannot hide my irritation with him as I open one of the cupboards to make supper.
I am restless that night, tossing and turning. Dreaming of smoky gray eyes, coveralls, long legs, long fingers, and dark, dark unexplored places. I wake twice in the night, my heart pounding. Oh, I’m going to look just great tomorrow with so little sleep, I scold myself. I punch my pillow and try to settle.
The Heathman is nestled in the downtown heart of Portland. Its impressive brown stone edifice was completed just in time for the crash of the late 1920s. Josie, Tricia, and I are traveling in my Beetle, and Kyle is in his CLK, since we can’t all fit in my car. Tricia is José’s friend and gopher, here to help out with the lighting. Kyle has managed to acquire the use of a room at the Heathman free of charge for the morning in exchange for a credit in the article. When he explains at reception that we’re here to photograph Christina Grey CEO, we are instantly upgraded to a suite. Just a regular-sized suite, however, as apparently Ms. Grey is already occupying the largest one in the building. An over-keen marketing executive shows us up to the suite – she’s terribly young and very nervous for some reason. I suspect it’s Kyle’s beauty and commanding manner that disarms her, because she’s putty in his hands. The rooms are elegant, understated, and opulently furnished.
It’s nine. We have half an hour to set up. Kyle is in full flow.
“Josie, I think we’ll shoot against that wall, do you agree?” He doesn’t wait for a reply. “Tricia, clear the chairs. Andy, could you ask housekeeping to bring up some refreshments? And let Grey know where we are.”
Yes, Master. He’s so domineering. I roll my eyes, but do as I’m told. Half an hour later, Christina Grey walks into our suite.
Holy Crap! She’s wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and a grey flannel skirt that hangs from her hips. Her unruly hair is still damp from a shower. My mouth goes dry looking at her… she’s so freaking hot. Grey is followed into the suite by a woman in her mid-thirties, a pixie cut and glasses in a sharp dark suit and tie who stands silently in the corner. Her hazel eyes watch us impassively.
“Mr Steele, we meet again.” Grey extends her hand, and I shake it, blinking rapidly. Oh my… she really is, quite… wow. As I touch her hand, I’m aware of that delicious current running right through me, lighting me up, making me blush, and I’m sure my erratic breathing must be audible.
“Ms. Grey, this is Kyle Kavanagh,” I mutter, waving a hand toward Kyle who comes forward, looking her squarely in the eye.
“The tenacious Mr Kavanagh. How do you do?” She gives her a small smile, looking genuinely amused. “I trust you’re feeling better? Andrew said you were unwell last week.
“I’m fine, thank you, Ms Grey.” He shakes his hand firmly without batting an eyelid. I remind myself that Kyle has been to the best private schools in Washington. His family has money, and he’s grown up confident and sure of his place in the world. He doesn’t take any crap. I am in awe of him.
“Thank you for taking the time to do this.” He gives her a polite, professional smile. “It’s a pleasure,” she answers, turning her gray gaze on me, and I flush, again. Damn it.
“This is Josie Rodriguez, our photographer,” I say, grinning at Josie who smiles with affection back at me. Her eyes cool when she looks from me to Grey. “Ms. Grey,” he nods.
“Ms. Rodriguez,” Grey’s expression changes too as she appraises Josie.
“Where would you like me?” Grey asks her. Her tone sounds vaguely threatening. But Kyle is not about to let Josie run the show.
“Ms. Grey – if you could sit here, please? Be careful of the lighting cables. And then we’ll do a few standing, too.” He directs her to a chair set up against the wall. Tricia switches on the lights, momentarily blinding Grey, and mutters an apology. Then Tricia and I stand back and watch as Josie proceeds to snap away. She takes several photographs hand-held, asking Grey to turn this way, then that, to move her arm, then put it down again. Moving to the tripod, Josie takes several more, while Grey sits and poses, patiently and naturally, for about twenty minutes. My wish has come true: I can stand and admire Grey from not-so-afar. Twice our eyes lock, and I have to tear myself away from her cloudy gaze.
“Enough sitting.” Kyle wades in again. “Standing, Ms. Grey?” he asks. She stands, and Tricia scurries in to remove the chair. The shutter on Josie’s Nikon starts clicking again.
“I think we have enough,” Josie announces five minutes later.
“Great,” says Kyle. “Thank you again, Ms. Grey.” He shakes her hand, as does Josie.
“I look forward to reading the article, Mr Kavanagh,” murmurs Grey, and turns to me, standing by the door. “Will you walk with me, Mr Steele?” she asks.
“Sure,” I say, completely thrown. I glance anxiously at Kyle, who shrugs at me. I notice Josie scowling behind him.
“Good day to you all,” says Grey as she opens the door, standing aside to allow me out first.
Holy hell… what’s this about? What does she want? I pause in the hotel corridor, fidgeting nervously as Grey emerges from the room followed by Ms. Pixie-Cut in her sharp suit. “I’ll call you, Taylor,” she murmurs to Pixie-Cut. Taylor wanders back down the corridor, and Grey turns her burning gray gaze to me. Crap… have I done something wrong?
“I wondered if you would join me for coffee this morning.”
My heart slams into my mouth. A date? Christina Grey is asking me on a date. She’s asking if you want a coffee. Maybe she thinks you haven’t woken up yet, my subconscious whines at me in a sneering mood again. I clear my throat trying to control my nerves.
“I have to drive everyone home,” I murmur apologetically, twisting my hands and fingers in front of me.
“TAYLOR,” she calls, making me jump. Taylor, who had been retreating down the corridor, turns and heads back toward us.
“Are they based at the university?” Grey asks, her voice soft and inquiring. I nod, too stunned to speak.
“Taylor can take them. She’s my driver. We have a large 4x4 here, so she’ll be able to take the equipment too.”
“Ms. Grey?” Taylor asks when she reaches us, giving nothing away.
“Please, can you drive the photographer, her assistant, and Mr Kavanagh back home?”
“Certainly, ma’am,” Taylor replies.
“There. Now can you join me for coffee?” Grey smiles as if it’s a done deal. I frown at her.
“Um – Ms. Grey, err – this really… look, Taylor doesn’t have to drive them home.” I flash a brief look at Taylor, who remains stoically impassive. “I’ll swap vehicles with Kyle, if you give me a moment.”
Grey smiles a dazzling, unguarded, natural, all-teeth-showing, glorious smile. Oh my… and she opens the door of the suite so I can re-enter. I scoot around her to enter the room, finding Kyle in deep discussion with Josie.
“Andy, I think she definitely likes you,” he says with no preamble whatsoever. Josie glares at me with disapproval. “But I don’t trust her,” he adds. I raise my hand up in the hope that he’ll stop talking. By some miracle, he does.
“Kyle, if you take the Beetle, can I take your car?”
“Why?”
“Christina Grey has asked me to go for coffee with her.”
His mouth pops open. Speechless Kyle! I savor the moment. He grabs me by my arm and drags me into the bedroom that’s off the living area of the suite.
“Andy, there’s something about her.” His tone is full of warning. “She’s gorgeous, I agree, but I think she’s dangerous. Especially to someone like you.”
“What do you mean, someone like me?” I demand, affronted.
“An innocent like you, Andy. You know what I mean,” he says, a little irritated. I flush.
“Kyle, it’s just coffee. I’m starting my exams this week, and I need to study, so I won’t be long.”
He purses his lips as if considering my request. Finally, he fishes his car keys out of his pocket and hands them to me. I hand him mine.
“I’ll see you later. Don’t be long, or I’ll send out search and rescue.”
“Thanks.” I hug him.
I emerge from the suite to find Christina Grey waiting, leaning up against the wall, looking like a model in a pose for some glossy high-end magazine. “Okay, let’s do coffee,” I murmur, flushing a beet red.
She grins.
“After you, Mr Steele.” She stands up straight, holding her hand out for me to go first. I make my way down the corridor, my knees shaky, my stomach full of butterflies, and my heart in my mouth thumping a dramatic uneven beat. I am going to have coffee with Christina Grey... and I hate coffee.
We walk together down the wide hotel corridor to the elevators. What should I say to her? My mind is suddenly paralyzed with apprehension. What are we going to talk about? What on Earth do I have in common with her? Her soft, warm voice startles me from my reverie.
“How long have you known Kyle Kavanagh?”
Oh, easy questions for starters.
“Since our freshman year. He’s a good friend.”
“Hmm,” she replies, non-committal. What is she thinking?
At the elevators, she presses the call button, and the bell rings almost immediately. The doors slide open revealing a young couple in a passionate clinch inside. Surprised and embarrassed, they jump apart, staring guiltily in every direction but ours. Grey and I step into the elevator.
I am struggling to maintain a straight face, so I gaze down at the floor, feeling my cheeks turning pink. When I peek up at Grey through my lashes, she has a hint of a smile on her lips, but it’s very hard to tell. The young couple says nothing, and we travel down to the first floor in embarrassed silence. We don’t even have trashy piped music to distract us.
The doors open and, much to my surprise, Grey takes my hand, clasping it with her long cool fingers. I feel the current run through me, and my already rapid heartbeat accelerates. As she leads me out of the elevator, we can hear the suppressed giggles of the couple erupting behind us. Grey grins.
“What is it about elevators?” she mutters.
We cross the expansive, bustling lobby of the hotel toward the entrance but Grey avoids the revolving door, and I wonder if that’s because she’d have to let go of my hand. Outside, it’s a mild May Sunday. The sun is shining and the traffic is light. Grey turns left and strolls to the corner, where we stop waiting for the lights of the pedestrian crossing to change. She’s still holding my hand. I’m in the street, and Christina Grey is holding my hand. No one has ever held my hand. I feel giddy, and I tingle all over. I attempt to smother the ridiculous grin that threatens to split my face in two. Try to be cool, Andy, my subconscious implores me. The green man appears, and we’re off again. We walk four blocks before we reach the Portland Coffee House, where Grey releases me to hold the door open so I can step inside.
“Why don’t you choose a table, while I get the drinks. What would you like?” she asks, polite as ever.
“I’ll have… um – English Breakfast tea, bag out.”
She raises her eyebrows.
“No coffee?”
“I’m not keen on coffee.”
She smiles.
“Okay, bag out tea. Sugar?”
For a moment, I’m stunned, thinking it’s an endearment, but fortunately my subconscious kicks in with pursed lips. No, stupid – do you take sugar?
“No thanks.” I stare down at my knotted fingers.
“Anything to eat?”
“No thank you.” I shake my head, and she heads to the counter.
I surreptitiously gaze at her from beneath my lashes as she stands in line waiting to be served. I could watch her all day… she’s tall, broad-shouldered, and slim, and the way that skirt hangs from her hips… Oh my. Once or twice she runs her long, graceful fingers through her now dry but still disorderly hair. Hmm… I’d like to do that. The thought comes unbidden into my mind, and my face flames. I bite my lip and stare down at my hands again not liking where my wayward thoughts are headed.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Grey is back, startling me.
I go crimson. I was just thinking about running my fingers through your hair and wondering if it would feel soft to touch. I shake my head. She’s carrying a tray, which she sets down on the small, round, birch-veneer table. She hands me a cup and saucer, a small teapot, and a side plate bearing a lone teabag labeled ‘Twinings English Breakfast’ – my favorite. She has a coffee which bears a wonderful leaf-pattern imprinted in the milk. How do they do that? I wonder idly. She’s also bought herself a blueberry muffin. Putting the tray aside, she sits opposite me and crosses her long legs. She looks so comfortable, so at ease with her body, I envy her. Here’s me, all gawky and uncoordinated, barely able to get from A to B without falling flat on my face.
“Your thoughts?” she prompts me.
“This is my favorite tea.” My voice is quiet, breathy. I simply can’t believe I’m sitting opposite Christina Grey in a coffee shop in Portland. She frowns. She knows I’m hiding something. I pop the teabag into the teapot and almost immediately fish it out again with my teaspoon. As I place the used teabag back on the side plate, she cocks her head, gazing quizzically at me.
“I like my tea black and weak,” I mutter as an explanation.
“I see. Is she your girlfriend?”
Whoa… What?
“Who?”
“The photographer. Josie Rodriguez.”
I laugh, nervous but curious. What gave her that impression?
“No. Josie’s a good friend of mine, that’s all. Why did you think she was my girlfriend?”
“The way you smiled at her, and she at you.” Her gray gaze holds mine. She’s so unnerving. I want to look away but I’m caught – spellbound.
“She’s more like family,” I whisper.
Grey nods slightly, seemingly satisfied with my response, and glances down at her blueberry muffin. Her long fingers deftly peel back the paper, and I watch, fascinated.
“Do you want some?” she asks, and that amused, secret smile is back.
“No thanks.” I frown and stare down at my hands again.
“And the girl I met yesterday, at the store. She’s not your girlfriend?”
“No. Pauline’s just a friend. I told you yesterday.” Oh, this is getting silly. “Why do you ask?”
“You seem nervous around women.”
Holy crap, that’s personal. I’m just nervous around you, Grey.
“I find you intimidating.” I flush scarlet, but mentally pat myself on the back for my candor, and gaze at my hands again. I hear her sharp intake of breath.
“You should find me intimidating,” she nods. “You’re very honest. Please don’t look down. I like to see your face.”
Oh. I glance at her, and she gives me an encouraging but wry smile.
“It gives me some sort of clue what you might be thinking,” she breathes. “You’re a mystery, Mr Steele.”
Mysterious? Me?
“There’s nothing mysterious about me.”
“I think you’re very self-contained,” she murmurs.
Am I? Wow… how am I managing that? This is bewildering. Me, self-contained? No Way.
“Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about.” She pops a small piece of muffin into her mouth and starts to chew it slowly, not taking her eyes off me. And as if on cue, I blush. Crap!
“Do you always make such personal observations?”
“I hadn’t realized I was. Have I offended you?” She sounds surprised.
“No,” I answer truthfully.
“Good.”
“But you’re very high-handed,” I retaliate quietly.
She raises her eyebrows and, if I’m not mistaken, she flushes slightly too.
“I’m used to getting my own way, Andrew,” she murmurs. “In all things.”
“I don’t doubt it. Why haven’t you asked me to call you by your first name?”
I’m surprised by my audacity. Why has this conversation become so serious? This isn’t going the way I thought it was going to go. I can’t believe I’m feeling so antagonistic towards her. It’s like she’s trying to warn me off.
“The only people who use my given name are my family and a few close friends. That’s the way I like it.”
Oh. She still hasn’t said, ‘Call me Christina.’ She is a control freak, there’s no other explanation, and part of me is thinking maybe it would have been better if Kyle had interviewed her. Two control freaks together. Plus of course he’s almost blonde – well, strawberry blonde – like all the men in her office. And he’s beautiful, my subconscious reminds me. I don’t like the idea of Christina and Kyle. I take a sip of my tea, and Grey eats another small piece of her muffin.
“Are you an only child?” she asks.
Whoa… she keeps changing direction.
“Yes.”
“Tell me about your parents.”
Why does she want to know this? It’s so dull.
“My dad lives in Georgia with his new wife Barb. My stepmum lives in Montesano.”
“Your mother?”
“My mother died when I was a baby.”
“I’m sorry,” she mutters and a fleeting troubled look crosses her face.
“I don’t remember her.”
“And your father remarried?”
I snort.
“You could say that.”
She frowns at me.
“You’re not giving much away, are you?” she says dryly, rubbing her chin as if in deep thought.
“Neither are you.”
“You’ve interviewed me once already, and I can recollect some quite probing questions then.” She smirks at me.
Holy shit. She’s remembering the ‘gay’ question. Once again, I’m mortified. In years to come, I know, I’ll need intensive therapy to not feel this embarrassed every time I recall the moment. I start babbling about my father – anything to block that memory.
“My dad is wonderful. He’s an incurable romantic. He’s currently on his fourth wife.”
Christina raises her eyebrows in surprise.
“I miss him,” I continue. “He has Barb now. I just hope she can keep an eye on him and pick up the pieces when his harebrained schemes don’t go as planned.” I smile fondly. I haven’t seen my dad for so long. Christina is watching me intently, taking occasional sips of her coffee. I really shouldn’t look at her mouth. It’s unsettling. Those lips.
“Do you get along with your stepmother?”
“Of course. I grew up with her. She’s the only mother I know.”
“And what’s she like?”
“Rachel? She’s… taciturn.”
“That’s it?” Grey asks, surprised.
I shrug. What does this woman expect? My life story?
“Taciturn like her stepson,” Grey prompts.
I refrain from rolling my eyes at her.
“She likes soccer – European soccer especially – and bowling, and fly-fishing, and making furniture. She’s a carpenter. Ex-army.” I sigh.
“You lived with her?”
“Yes. My dad met Wife Number Three when I was fifteen. I stayed with Rachel.” She frowns as if she doesn’t understand.
“You didn’t want to live with your dad?” she asks.
I blush. This really is none of her business.
“Wife Number Three lived in Texas. My home was in Montesano. And… you know my dad was newly married.” I stop. My dad never talks about Wife Number Three. Where is Grey going with this? This is none of her business. Two can play at this game.
“Tell me about your parents,” I ask.
She shrugs.
“My mother’s a lawyer, my father is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle.”
Oh… she’s had an affluent upbringing. And I wonder about a successful couple who adopt three kids, and one of them turns into a beautiful woman who takes on the business world and conquers it single-handed. What drove her to be that way? Her folks must be proud.
“What do your siblings do?”
“Ellen’s in construction, and my little brother is in Paris, studying cookery under some renowned French chef.” Her eyes cloud with irritation. She doesn’t want to talk about her family or herself.
“I hear Paris is lovely,” I murmur. Why doesn’t she want to talk about her family? Is it because she’s adopted?
“It’s beautiful. Have you been?” she asks, her irritation forgotten.
“I’ve never left mainland USA.” So now we’re back to banalities. What is she hiding?
“Would you like to go?”
“To Paris?” I squeak. This has thrown me – who wouldn’t want to go to Paris? “Of course,” I concede. “But it’s England that I’d really like to visit.”
She cocks her head to one side, running her index finger across her lower lip… oh my.
“Because?”
I blink rapidly. Concentrate, Steele.
“It’s the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontë sisters, Thomas Hardy. I’d like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books.” All this talk of literary greats reminds me that I should be studying. I glance at my watch.
“I’d better go. I have to study.”
“For your exams?”
“Yes. They start Tuesday.”
“Where’s Mr Kavanagh’s car?”
“In the hotel parking lot.”
“I’ll walk you back.”
“Thank you for the tea, Ms. Grey.”
She smiles her odd ‘I’ve got a whopping big secret’ smile.
“You’re welcome, Andrew. It’s my pleasure. Come,” she commands, and holds her hand out to me. I take it, bemused, and follow her out of the coffee shop. We stroll back to the hotel, and I’d like to say it’s in companionable silence. She at least looks her usual calm, collected self. As for me, I’m desperately trying to gauge how our little coffee morning has gone. I feel like I’ve been interviewed for a position, but I’m not sure what it is.
“Do you always wear jeans?” she asks out of the blue.
“Mostly.”
She nods. We’re back at the intersection, across the road from the hotel. My mind is reeling. What an odd question… And I’m aware that our time together is limited. This is it. This was it, and I’ve completely blown it, I know. Perhaps he has someone.
“Do you have a boyfriend?” I blurt out. Holy crap - I just said that out loud? Her lips quirk up in a half-smile, and she looks at me.
“No, Andrew. I don’t do the girlfriend thing,” she says softly.
Oh… what does that mean? She’s not gay? Oh, maybe she is - crap! She must have lied to me in her interview. And for a moment, I think she’s going to follow on with some explanation, some clue to this cryptic statement – but she doesn’t. I have to go. I have to try to reassemble my thoughts. I have to get away from her. I walk forward, and I trip, stumbling headlong onto the road.
“Shit, Andy!” Grey cries. She tugs the hand that she’s holding so hard that I fall back against her just as a cyclist whips past, narrowly missing me, heading the wrong way up this one-way street.
It all happens so fast – one minute I’m falling, the next I’m in her arms, and she’s holding me tightly against her chest. I inhale her clean, vital scent. She smells of fresh laundered linen and some expensive body-wash. Oh my, it’s intoxicating. I inhale deeply.
“Are you okay?” she whispers. She has one arm around me, clasping me to her, while the fingers of her other hand softly trace my face, gently probing, examining me. Her thumb brushes my lower lip, and I hear her breath hitch. She’s staring into my eyes, and I hold her anxious, burning gaze for a moment or maybe it’s forever… but eventually, my attention is drawn to her beautiful mouth. Oh my. And for the first time in twenty-one years, I want to be kissed. I want to feel her mouth on me.
Chapter Four
Kiss me damn it! I implore her, but I can’t move. I’m paralyzed with a strange, unfamiliar need, completely captivated by her. I’m staring at Christina Grey’s exquisitely sculptured mouth, mesmerized, and she’s looking down at me, her gaze hooded, her eyes darkening. She’s breathing harder than usual, and I’ve stopped breathing altogether. I’m in your arms. Kiss me, please. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and gives me a small shake of her head as if in answer to my silent question. When she opens her eyes again, it’s with some new purpose, a steely resolve.
“Andrew, you should steer clear of me. I’m not the woman for you,” she whispers. What? Where is this coming from? Surely I should be the judge of that. I frown at her, and my head swims with rejection.
“Breathe, Andrew, breathe. I’m going to stand you up and let you go,” she says quietly, and she gently pushes me away.
Adrenaline has spiked through my body, from the near miss with the cyclist or the heady proximity to Christina, leaving me wired and weak. NO! My psyche screams as she pulls away, leaving me bereft. She has her hands on my shoulders, holding me at arm’s length, watching my reactions carefully. And the only thing I can think is that I wanted to be kissed, made it pretty damned obvious, and she didn’t do it. She doesn’t want me. She really doesn’t want me. I have royally screwed up the coffee morning.
“I’ve got this,” I breathe, finding my voice. “Thank you,” I mutter awash with humiliation. How could I have misread the situation between us so utterly? I need to get away from her.
“For what?” she frowns. She hasn’t taken her hands off me.
“For saving me,” I whisper.
“That idiot was riding the wrong way. I’m glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you. Do you want to come and sit down in the hotel for a moment?” She releases me, her hands by her sides, and I’m standing in front of her feeling like a fool.
With a shake, I clear my head. I just want to go. All my vague, unarticulated hopes have been dashed. She doesn’t want me. What was I thinking? I scold myself. What would Christina Grey want with you? My subconscious mocks me. I wrap my arms around myself and turn to face the road and note with relief that the green man has appeared. I quickly make my way across, conscious that Grey is behind me. Outside the hotel, I turn briefly to face her but cannot look her in the eye.
“Thanks for the tea and doing the photoshoot,” I murmur.
“Andrew… I… ” She stops, and the anguish in her voice demands my attention, so I peer unwillingly up at her. Her gray eyes are bleak as she runs her hand through her hair. She looks torn, frustrated, her expression stark, all her careful control has evaporated.
“What, Christina?” I snap irritably after she says – nothing. I just want to go. I need to take my fragile, wounded pride away and somehow nurse it back to health. “Good luck with your exams,” she murmurs.
Huh? This is why she looks so desolate? This is the big send off? Just to wish me luck in my exams?
“Thanks.” I can’t disguise the sarcasm in my voice. “Goodbye, Ms. Grey.” I turn on my heel, vaguely amazed that I don’t trip, and without giving her a second glance, I disappear down the sidewalk toward the underground garage.
Once underneath the dark, cold concrete of the garage with its bleak fluorescent light, I lean against the wall and put my head in my hands. What was I thinking? Unbidden and unwelcome tears pool in my eyes. Why am I crying? I sink to the ground, angry at myself for this senseless reaction. Drawing up my knees, I fold in on myself. I want to make myself as small as possible. Perhaps this nonsensical pain will be smaller the smaller I am. Placing my head on my knees, I let the irrational tears fall unrestrained. I am crying over the loss of something I never had. How ridiculous. Mourning something that never was – my dashed hopes, dashed dreams, and my soured expectations.
I have never been on the receiving end of rejection. Okay… so I was always one of the last to be picked for basketball or volleyball – but I understood that – running and doing something else at the same time like bouncing or throwing a ball is not my thing. I am a serious liability in any sporting field.
Romantically, though, I’ve never put myself out there, ever. A lifetime of insecurity – I’m too pale, too skinny, too scruffy, uncoordinated, my long list of faults goes on. So I have always been the one to rebuff any would be admirers. There was that girl in my chemistry class who liked me, but no one has ever sparked my interest – no one except Christina damn Grey. Maybe I should be kinder to the likes of Pauline Clayton and Josie Rodriguez, though I’m sure neither of them have been found sobbing alone in dark places. Perhaps I just need a good cry.
Stop! Stop Now! - My subconscious is metaphorically screaming at me, arms folded, leaning on one leg and tapping his foot in frustration. Get in the car, go home, do your studying. Forget about her… Now! And stop all this self-pitying, wallowing crap.
I take a deep, steadying breath and stand up. Get it together Steele. I head for Kyle’s car, wiping the tears off my face as I do. I will not think of her again. I can just chalk this incident up to experience and concentrate on my exams.
Kyle is sitting at the dining table at his laptop when I arrive. His welcoming smile fades when he sees me.
“Andy what’s wrong?”
Oh no… not the Kyle Kavanagh Inquisition. I shake my head at him in a back-off now Kavanagh way – but I might as well be dealing with a brick wall.
“You’ve been crying,” he has an exceptional gift for stating the damned obvious sometimes.
“What did that bitch do to you?” he growls, and his face – jeez, he’s scary. “Nothing Kyle.” That’s actually the problem. The thought brings a wry smile to my face.
“Then why have you been crying? You never cry,” he says, his voice softening.
He stands, his green eyes brimming with concern. He puts his arms around me and hugs me. I need to say something just to get him to back off.
“I was nearly knocked over by a cyclist.” It’s the best that I can do, but it distracts him momentarily from… her.
“Jeez Andy – are you okay? Were you hurt?” He holds me at arm’s length and does a quick visual check-up on me.
“No. Christina saved me,” I whisper. “But I was quite shaken.”
“I’m not surprised. How was coffee? I know you hate coffee.”
“I had tea. It was fine, nothing to report really. I don’t know why she asked me.” “She likes you Andy.” He drops his arms.
“Not anymore. I won’t be seeing her again.” Yes, I manage to sound matter of fact. “Oh?”
Crap. He’s intrigued. I head into the kitchen so that he can’t see my face.
“Yeah… she’s a little out of my league Kyle,” I say as dryly as I can manage. “What do you mean?”
“Oh Kyle, it’s obvious.” I whirl round and face him as he stands in the kitchen doorway.
“Not to me,” he says. “Okay, she’s got more money than you, but then she has more money than most people in America!”
“Kyle she’s– ” I shrug.
“Andy! For heaven’s sake – how many times must I tell you? You’re a total babe,” he interrupts me. Oh no. He’s off on this tirade again.
“Kyle, please. I need to study.” I cut him short. He frowns.
“Do you want to see the article? It’s finished. Josie took some great pictures.”
Do I need a visual reminder of the beautiful Christina I-don’t-want-you Grey?
“Sure,” I magic a smile on my face and stroll over to the laptop. And there she is, staring at me in black and white, staring at me and finding me lacking.
I pretend to read the article, all the time meeting her steady gray gaze, searching the photo for some clue as to why she’s not the woman for me – her own words to me. And it’s suddenly, blindingly obvious. She’s too gloriously good-looking. We are poles apart and from two very different worlds. I have a vision of myself as Icarus flying too close to the sun and crashing and burning as a result. Her words make sense. She’s not the woman for me. This is what she meant, and it makes her rejection easier to accept… almost. I can live with this. I understand.
“Very good Kyle,” I manage. “I’m going to study.”
I am not going to think about her again for now, I vow to myself, and opening my revision notes, I start to read.
It’s only when I’m in bed, trying to sleep, that I allow my thoughts to drift through my strange morning. I keep coming back to the ‘I don’t do the boyfriend thing’ quote, and I’m angry that I didn’t pounce on this information sooner, when I was in her arms mentally begging her with every fiber of my being to kiss me. She’d said it there and then. She didn’t want me as a boyfriend. I turn on my side. Idly, I wonder if perhaps she’s celibate? I close my eyes and begin to drift. Maybe she’s saving herself. Well not for you, my sleepy subconscious has a final swipe at me before unleashing itself on my dreams. And that night, I dream of gray eyes, leafy patterns in milk, and I’m running through dark places with eerie strip lighting, and I don’t know if I’m running toward something or away from it… it’s just not clear.
* * *
I put my pen down. Finished. My final exam is over. I feel the Cheshire cat grin spread over my face. It’s probably the first time all week that I’ve smiled. It’s Friday, and we shall be celebrating tonight, really celebrating. I might even get drunk! I’ve never been drunk before. I glance across the sports hall at Kyle, and he’s still scribbling furiously, five minutes to the end. This is it, the end of my academic career. I’ll never have to sit in rows of anxious, isolated students again. Inside I’m doing graceful cartwheels around my head, knowing full well that’s the only place I can do graceful cartwheels. Kyle stops writing and puts his pen down. He glances across at me, and I catch his Cheshire cat smile too.
We head back to our apartment together in his Mercedes, refusing to discuss our final paper. Kyle is more concerned about what he’s going to wear to the bar this evening. I am busily fishing around for my keys.
“Andy, there’s a package for you.” Kyle is standing on the steps up to the front door holding a brown paper parcel. Odd. I haven’t ordered anything from Amazon recently. Kyle gives me the parcel and takes my keys to open the front door. It’s addressed to Mr Andrew Steele. There’s no sender’s address or name. Perhaps it’s from my dad or Rachel.
“It’s probably from my folks.”
“Open it!” Kyle is excited as he heads into the kitchen for our ‘Exams are finished hurrah Champagne’.
I open the parcel, and inside I find a half leather box containing three seemingly identical old cloth-covered books in mint condition and a plain white card. Written on one side, in black ink in neat cursive handwriting, is:
Why didn’t you tell me there was danger?Why didn’t you warn me?
Ladies know what to guard against, because they read novels that tell them of these tricks...
I recognize the quote from Tess. I am stunned by the irony as I’ve just spent three hours writing about the novels of Thomas Hardy in my final examination. Perhaps there is no irony… perhaps it’s deliberate. I inspect the books closely, three volumes of Tess of the D’Urbervilles. I open the front cover. Written in an old typeface on the front plate is:
‘London: Jack R. Osgood, McIlvaine and Co., 1891.’
Holy shit - they’re first editions. They must be worth a fortune, and I know immediately who’s sent them. Kyle is at my shoulder gazing at the books. He picks up the card.
“First Editions,” I whisper.
“No.” Kyle’s eyes are wide with disbelief. “Grey?”
I nod.
“Can’t think of anyone else.”
“What does this card mean?”
“I have no idea. I think it’s a warning – honestly she keeps warning me off. I have no idea why. It’s not like I’m beating her door down.” I frown.
“I know you don’t want to talk about her, Andy, but she’s seriously into you. Warnings or no.”
I have not let myself dwell on Christina Grey for the past week. Okay… so her gray eyes are still haunting my dreams, and I know it will take an eternity to expunge the feel of her arms around me and her wonderful fragrance from my brain. Why has she sent me this? She told me that I wasn’t for her.
“I’ve found one Tess first edition for sale in New York at $14,000. But yours looks in much better condition. They must have cost more.” Kyle is consulting her good friend, Google.
“This quote – Tess says it to her mother after Alec D’Urberville has had his wicked way with her.”
“I know,” muses Kyle. “What is she trying to say?”
“I don’t know, and I don’t care. I can’t accept these from her. I’ll send them back with an equally baffling quote from some obscure part of the book.”
“The bit where Angel Clare says fuck off?” Kyle asks with a completely straight face.
“Yes, that bit.” I giggle. I love Kyle, he’s so loyal and supportive. I repack the books and leave them on the dining table. Kyle hands me a glass of champagne. “To the end of exams and our new life in Seattle,” he grins.
“To the end of exams, our new life in Seattle, and excellent results.” We clink glasses and drink.
The bar is loud and hectic, full of soon to be graduates out to get trashed. Josie joins us. She won’t graduate for another year, but she’s in the mood to party and gets us into the spirit of our newfound freedom by buying a pitcher of margaritas for us all. As I down my fifth, I know this is not a good idea on top of the champagne.
“So what now Andy?” Josie shouts at me over the noise.
“Kyle and I are moving to Seattle. Kyle’s parents have bought a condo there for him.”
“Dios mio, how the other half live. But you’ll be back for my show.”
“Of course, Josie, I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” I smile, and she puts her arm around my waist and pulls me close.
“It means a lot to me that you’ll be there Andy,” she whispers in my ear. “Another margarita?”
“Josie Luis Rodriguez – are you trying to get me drunk? Because I think it’s working.” I giggle. “I think I’d better have a beer. I’ll go get us a pitcher.”
“More drink, Andy!” Kyle bellows.
Kyle has the constitution of an ox. He’s got his arm draped over Lisa, one of our fellow English students and his usual photographers on his student newspaper. She’s given up taking photos of the drunkenness that surrounds her. She only has eyes for Kyle. He’s all tight shirt, tight jeans, and heeled boots, hair artfully styles with tendrils hanging down softly around his face, his usual stunning self.
Me, I’m more of a Converse and t-shirt kind of guy, but I’m wearing my most flattering jeans. I move out of Josie’s hold and get up from our table. Whoa. Head spin. I have to grab the back of the chair. Tequila based cocktails are not a good idea.
I make my way to the bar and decide that I should visit the powder room while I am on my feet. Good thinking, Andy. I stagger off through the crowd. Of course, there’s a line, but at least it’s quiet and cool in the corridor. I reach for my cell phone to relieve the boredom of waiting in line. Hmm… Who did I last call? Was it Josie? Before that a number I don’t recognize. Oh yes. Grey, I think this is her number. I giggle. I have no idea what the time is, maybe I’ll wake her. Perhaps she can tell me why she sent me those books and the cryptic message. If she wants me to stay away, she should leave me alone. I suppress a drunken grin and hit the automatic re-dial. She answers on the second ring.
“Andrew?” She’s surprised to hear from me. Well, frankly, I’m surprised to ring her. Then my befuddled brain registers… how does she know it’s me?
“Why did you send me the books?” I slur at her.
“Andrew, are you okay? You sound strange.” Her voice is filled with concern. “I’m not the strange one, you are,” I accuse. There - that told her, my courage fuelled by alcohol.
“Andrew, have you been drinking?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I’m – curious. Where are you?”
“In a bar.”
“Which bar?” She sounds exasperated.
“A bar in Portland.”
“How are you getting home?”
“I’ll find a way.” This conversation is not going how I expected.
“Which bar are you in?”
“Why did you send me the books, Christina?”
“Andrew, where are you, tell me now.” Her tone is so, so dictatorial, her usual control freak. I imagine her as an old time movie director wearing jodhpurs, holding an old fashioned megaphone and a riding crop. The image makes me laugh out loud. “You’re so… domineering,” I giggle.
“Andy, so help me, where the fuck are you?”
Christina Grey is swearing at me. I giggle again. “I’m in Portland… s’a long way from Seattle.”
“Where in Portland?”
“Goodnight, Christina.”
“Andy!”
I hang up. Ha! Though she didn’t tell me about the books. I frown. Mission not accomplished. I am really quite drunk - my head swims uncomfortably as I shuffle with the line. Well, the object of the exercise was to get drunk. I have succeeded. This is what it’s like – probably not an experience to be repeated. The line has moved, and it’s now my turn. I stare blankly at the poster behind the urinal that extols the virtues of safe sex. Holy crap, did I just call Christina Grey? Shit. My phone rings and it makes me jump. I yelp in surprise.
“Hi,” I bleat timidly into the phone. I hadn’t reckoned on this.
“I’m coming to get you,” she says and hangs up. Only Christina Grey could sound so calm and so threatening at the same time.
Holy crap. I pull my jeans up. My heart is thumping. Coming to get me? Oh no. I’m going to be sick… no… I’m fine. Hang on. She’s just messing with my head. I didn’t tell her where I was. She can’t find me here. Besides, it will take her hours to get here from Seattle, and we’ll be long gone by then. I wash my hands and check my face in the mirror. I look flushed and slightly unfocused. Hmm… tequila.
I wait at the bar for what feels like an eternity for the pitcher of beer and eventually return to the table.
“You’ve been gone so long.” Kyle scolds me. “Where were you?”
“I was in line for the restroom.”
Josie and Lisa are having some heated debate about our local baseball team. Josie pauses in her tirade to pour us all beers, and I take a long sip.
“Kyle, I think I’d better step outside and get some fresh air.”
“Andy, you are such a lightweight.”
“I’ll be five minutes.”
I make my way through the crowd again. I am beginning to feel nauseous, my head is spinning uncomfortably, and I’m a little unsteady on my feet. More unsteady than usual. Drinking in the cool evening air in the parking lot makes me realize how drunk I am. My vision has been affected, and I’m really seeing double of everything like in old re-runs of Tom and Jerry Cartoons. I think I’m going to be sick. Why did I let myself get this messed up?
“Andy,” Josie has joined me, “You okay?”
“I think I’ve just had a bit too much to drink.” I smile weakly at her. “Me too,” she murmurs, and her dark eyes are watching me intently. “Do you need a hand?” she asks and steps closer, putting her arm around me.
“Josie I’m okay. I’ve got this.” I try and push her away rather feebly. “Andy, please,” she whispers, and now she’s holding me in her arms, pulling me close. “Josie, what are you doing?”
“You know I like you Andy, please.” She has one hand at the small of my back holding me against her, the other at my chin tipping back my head. Holy fuck… she’s going to kiss me.
“No Josie, stop – no.” I push her, but she’s a wall of hard muscle, and I cannot shift her. Her hand has slipped into my hair, and she’s holding my head in place. “Please, Andy, cariña,” she whispers against my lips. Her breath is soft and smells too sweet – of margarita and beer. She gently trails kisses along my jaw up to the side of my mouth. I feel panicky, drunk, and out of control. The feeling is suffocating. “Josie, no,” I plead. I don’t want this. You are my friend, and I think I’m going to throw up.
“I think the gentleman said no.” A voice in the dark says quietly. Holy shit! Christina Grey, she’s here. How? Josie releases me.
“Grey,” she says tersely. I glance anxiously up at Christina. She’s glowering at Josie, and she’s furious. Crap. My stomach heaves, and I double over, my body no longer able to tolerate the alcohol, and I vomit spectacularly on to the ground.
“Ugh – Dios mio, Anndy!” Josie jumps back in disgust. Grey gently leads me over to a raised flowerbed on the edge of the parking lot. I note, with deep gratitude, that it’s in relative darkness.
“If you’re going to throw up again, do it here. I’ll hold you.” She has one arm around my shoulders – the other is gently patting my lower back. I try awkwardly to push her away, but I vomit again… and again. Oh shit… how long is this going to last? Even when my stomach’s empty and nothing is coming up, horrible dry heaves wrack my body. I vow silently that I’ll never ever drink again. This is just too appalling for words. Finally, it stops.
My hands are resting on the brick wall of the flowerbed, barely holding me up - vomiting profusely is exhausting. Grey takes her hands off me and passes me a handkerchief. Only she would have a monogrammed, freshly laundered, linen handkerchief. CTG. I didn’t know you could still buy these. Vaguely I wonder what the T stands for as I wipe my mouth. I cannot bring myself to look at her. I’m swamped with shame, disgusted with myself. I want to be swallowed up by the azaleas in the flowerbed and be anywhere but here.
Josie is still hovering by the entrance to the bar, watching us. I groan and put my head in my hands. This has to be the single worst moment of my life. My head is still swimming as I try to remember a worse one – and I can only come up with Christina’s rejection – and this is so, so many shades darker in terms of humiliation. I risk a peek at her. She’s staring down at me, her face composed, giving nothing away. Turning, I glance at Josie who looks pretty shamefaced herself and, like me, intimidated by Grey. I glare at her. I have a few choice words for my so-called friend, none of which I can repeat in front of Christina Grey CEO. Andy who are you kidding, she’s just seen you hurl all over the ground and into the local flora. There’s no disguising your lack of dignity.
“I’ll err… see you inside,” Josie mutters, but we both ignore her, and she slinks off back into the building. I’m on my own with Grey. Double crap. What should I say to her? Apologize for the phone call.
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, staring at the handkerchief which I am furiously worrying with my fingers. It’s so soft.
“What are you sorry for Andrew?”
Oh crap, she wants her damned pound of flesh.
“The phone call mainly, being sick. Oh, the list is endless,” I murmur, feeling my skin coloring up. Please, please can I die now?
“We’ve all been here, perhaps not quite as dramatically as you,” she says dryly. “It’s about knowing your limits, Andrew. I mean, I’m all for pushing limits, but really this is beyond the pale. Do you make a habit of this kind of behavior?”
My head buzzes with excess alcohol and irritation. What the hell has it got to do with her? I didn’t invite her here. She sounds like a middle-aged woman scolding me like an errant child. Part of me wants to say, if I want to get drunk every night like this, then it’s my decision and nothing to do with her – but I’m not brave enough. Not now that I’ve thrown up in front of her. Why is she still standing there?
“No,” I say contritely. “I’ve never been drunk before and right now I have no desire to ever be again.”
I just don’t understand why she’s here. I begin to feel faint. She notices my dizziness and grabs me before I fall and hoists me into her arms, holding me close to her chest. “Come on, I’ll take you home,” she murmurs.
“I need to tell Kyle.” Holy Moses, I’m in his arms again.
“My sister can tell her.”
“What?”
“My brother Ellen is talking to Mr Kavanagh.”
“Oh?” I don’t understand.
“She was with me when you phoned.”
“In Seattle?” I’m confused.
“No, I’m staying at the Heathman.”
Still? Why?
“How did you find me?”
“I tracked your cell phone Andrew.”
Oh, of course she did. How is that possible? Is it legal? Stalker, my subconscious whispers at me through the cloud of tequila that’s still floating in my brain, but somehow, because it’s her, I don’t mind.
“Do you have a jacket or a bag?”
“Err… yes, I came with both. Christina, please, I need to tell Kyle. He’ll worry.” Her mouth presses into a hard line, and she sighs heavily.
“If you must.”
She sets me down, and, taking my hand, leads me back into the bar. I feel weak, still drunk, embarrassed, exhausted, mortified, and on some strange level absolutely off the scale thrilled. She’s clutching my hand – such a confusing array of emotions. I’ll need at least a week to process them all.
It’s noisy, crowded, and the music has started so there is a large crowd on the dancefloor. Kyle is not at our table, and Josie has disappeared. Lisa looks lost and forlorn on her own.
“Where’s Kyle?” I shout at Lisa above the noise. My head is beginning to pound in time to the thumping bass line of the music.
“Dancing,” Lisa shouts, and I can tell she’s mad. She’s eyeing Christina suspiciously. I struggle into my black jacket and place my bag over my head so it sits at my hip. I’m ready to go, once I’ve seen Kyle.
“He’s on the dance floor,” I touch Christina’s arm and lean in and shout in her ear, brushing her hair with my nose, smelling her clean, fresh smell. Oh my. All those forbidden, unfamiliar feelings that I have tried to deny surface and run amok through my drained body. I flush, and somewhere deep, deep down my muscles clench deliciously.
She rolls her eyes at me and takes my hand again and leads me to the bar. She’s served immediately, no waiting for Ms. Control-Freak Grey. Does everything come so easily to her? I can’t hear what she orders. She hands me a very large glass of iced water. “Drink,” she shouts her order at me.
The moving lights are twisting and turning in time to the music casting strange colored light and shadows all over the bar and the clientele. She’s alternately green, blue, white, and a demonic red. She’s watching me intently. I take a tentative sip.
“All of it,” she shouts.
She’s so overbearing. She runs her hand through her unruly hair. She looks frustrated, angry. What is her problem? Apart from a silly drunk boy ringing him in the middle of the night so she thinks he needs rescuing. And it turns out he does from his over amorous friend. Then seeing him being violently ill at her feet. Oh Andy… are you ever going to live this down? My subconscious is figuratively tutting and glaring at me over half moon specs. I sway slightly, and she puts her hand on my shoulder to steady me. I do as I’m told and drink the entire glass. It makes me feel queasy. Taking the glass from me, she places it on the bar. I notice through a blur what she’s wearing; a loose white linen shirt, snug jeans, black Converse sneakers, and a dark pinstriped jacket. Her shirt is unbuttoned at the top, and I see her cleavage in the gap. In my groggy frame of mind, she looks yummy.
She takes my hand once more. Holy cow – she’s leading me onto the dance floor. Shit. I do not dance. She can sense my reluctance, and under the colored lights, I can see her amused, slightly sardonic smile. She gives my hand a sharp tug, and I’m in her arms again, and she starts to move, taking me with her. Boy, she can dance, and I can’t believe that I’m following her step for step. Maybe it’s because I’m drunk that I can keep up. She’s holding me tight against her, her body against mine… if she wasn’t clutching me so tightly, I’m sure I would swoon at her feet. In the back of my mind, my father’s often-recited warning comes to me: Never trust a woman who can dance.
She moves us through the crowded throng of dancers to the other side of the dance floor, and we are beside Kyle and Ellen, Christina’s sister. The music is pounding away, loud and leery, outside and inside my head. I gasp. Kyle is making his moves. He’s dancing his ass off, and he only ever does that if he likes someone. Really likes someone. It means there’ll be three of us for breakfast tomorrow morning. Kyle!
Christina leans over and shouts in Ellen’s ear. I cannot hear what she says. Ellen is short with a petite frame, curly blonde hair, and light, wickedly gleaming eyes. I can’t tell the color under the pulsating heat of the flashing lights. Ellen grins, and pulls Kyle into her arms, where he is more than happy to be… Kyle! Even in my inebriated state, I am shocked. He’s only just met her. He nods at whatever Ellen says and grins at me and waves. Christina propels us off the dance floor in double quick time.
But I never got to talk to him. Is he okay? I can see where things are heading for him and her. I need to do the safe sex lecture. In the back of my mind, I hope he reads one of the posters above the urinal. My thoughts crash through my brain, fighting the drunk, fuzzy feeling. It’s so warm in here, so loud, so colorful – too bright. My head begins to swim, oh no… and I can feel the floor coming up to meet my face or so it feels. The last thing I hear before I pass out in Christina Grey’s arms is her harsh epithet.
“Fuck!”
Chapter Five
It’s very quiet. The light is muted. I am comfortable and warm, in this bed. Hmm… I open my eyes, and for a moment, I’m tranquil and serene, enjoying the strange unfamiliar surroundings. I have no idea where I am. The headboard behind me is in the shape of a massive sun. It’s oddly familiar. The room is large and airy and plushly furnished in browns and golds and beige. I’ve seen it before. Where? My befuddled brain struggles through its recent visual memories. Holy crap.I’m in the Heathman hotel… in a suite. I have stood in a room similar to this with Kyle. This looks bigger. Oh shit. I’m in Christina Grey’s suite. How did I get here?
Fractured memories of the previous night come slowly back to haunt me. The drinking, oh no the drinking, the phone call, oh no the phone call, the vomiting, oh no the vomiting. Josie and then Christina. Oh no. I cringe inwardly. I don’t remember coming here. I’m wearing my t-shirt and jocks. No socks. No jeans. Holy shit.
I glance at the bedside table. On it is a glass of orange juice and two tablets. Advil. Control freak that she is, she thinks of everything. I sit up and take the tablets. Actually, I don’t feel that bad, probably much better than I deserve. The orange juice tastes divine. It’s thirst quenching and refreshing. Nothing beats freshly squeezed orange juice for reviving an arid mouth.
There’s a knock on the door. My heart leaps into my mouth, and I can’t seem to find my voice. She opens the door anyway and strolls in.
Holy hell, she’s been working out. She’s in gray sweat pants that hang, in that way, off her hips and a gray singlet, which is dark with sweat, like her hair. Christina Grey’s sweat, the notion does odd things to me. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. I feel like a two year old, if I close my eyes then I’m not really here.
“Good morning Andrew. How are you feeling?”
Oh no.
“Better than I deserve,” I mumble.
I peek up at her. She places a large shopping bag on a chair and grasps each end of the towel that she has around her neck. She’s staring at me, gray eyes dark, and as usual, I have no idea what she’s thinking. She hides her thoughts and feelings so well.
“How did I get here?” My voice is small, contrite.
She comes and sits down on the edge of the bed. She’s close enough for me to touch, for me to smell. Oh my… sweat and body wash and Christina, it’s a heady cocktail - so much better than a margarita, and now I can speak from experience.
“After you passed out, I didn’t want to risk the leather upholstery in my car taking you all the way to your apartment. So I brought you here,” she says phlegmatically.
“Did you put me to bed?”
“Yes.” Her face is impassive.
“Did I throw up again?” My voice is quieter.
“No.”
“Did you undress me?” I whisper.
“Yes.” She quirks an eyebrow at me as I blush furiously.
“We didn’t,” I whisper, my mouth drying in mortified horror as I can’t complete the question. I stare at my hands.
“Andrew, you were comatose. Necrophilia is not my thing. I like my men sentient and receptive,” she says dryly.
“I’m so sorry.”
Her mouth lifts in a wry smile.
“It was a very diverting evening. Not one that I’ll forget in a while.”
Me neither – oh she’s laughing at me. I didn’t ask her to come and get me. Somehow I’ve been made to feel like the villain of the piece.
“You didn’t have to track me down with whatever James Bond stuff you’re developing for the highest bidder,” I snap at her. She stares at me, surprised, and if I’m not mistaken, a little wounded.
“Firstly, the technology to track cell phones is available over the Internet. Secondly, my company does not invest or manufacture any kind of surveillance devices, and thirdly, if I hadn’t come to get you, you’d probably be waking up in the photographer’s bed, and from what I can remember, you weren’t overly enthused about her pressing her suit,” she says acidly.
Pressing her suit! I glance up at Christina, she’s glaring at me, her gray eyes blazing, aggrieved. I try to bite my lip, but I fail to repress my laughter.
“Which medieval chronicle did you escape from?” I giggle. “You sound like a courtly lady.”
Her mood visibly shifts. Her eyes soften and her expression warms, and I see a trace of a smile on her beautifully sculpted lips.
“Andrew, I don’t think so. Dark sorceress maybe.” Her smile is sardonic, and she shakes her head.
“Did you eat last night?” Her tone is accusatory. I shake my head. What major transgression have I committed now? Her jaw clenches, but her face remains impassive.
“You need to eat. That’s why you were so ill. Honestly Andrew, it’s drinking rule number one.” She runs her hand through her hair, and I know it’s because she’s exasperated.
“Are you going to continue to scold me?”
“Is that what I’m doing?”
“I think so.”
“You’re lucky I’m just scolding you.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, if you were mine, you wouldn’t be able to sit down for a week after the stunt you pulled yesterday. You didn’t eat, you got drunk, you put yourself at risk.” She closes her eyes, dread etched on her lovely face, and she shudders slightly. When she opens her eyes, she glares at me. “I hate to think what could have happened to you.”
I scowl back at her. What is her problem? What’s it to her? If I was hers… well I’m not. Though maybe, part of me would like to be. The thought pierces through the irritation I feel at her high-handed words. I flush at the waywardness of my subconscious - doing its happy dance in a bright red hula skirt at the thought of being hers.
“I would have been fine. I was with Kyle.”
“And the photographer?” she snaps at me.
Hmm… young Josie. I’ll need to face her at some point.
“Josie just got out of line.” I shrug.
“Well the next time she gets out of line, maybe someone should teach her some manners.”
“You are quite the disciplinarian,” I hiss at her.
“Oh, Andrew, you have no idea.” Her eyes narrow, and then she grins wickedly. It’s disarming. One minute, I’m confused and angry, the next I’m gazing at her gorgeous smile. Wow… I am entranced, and it’s because her smile is so rare. I quite forget what she’s talking about.
“I’m going to have a shower. Unless you’d like to shower first?” She cocks her head to one side, still grinning. My heartbeat has picked up, and my medulla oblongata has neglected to fire any synapses to make me breathe. Her grin widens, and she reaches over and runs her thumb down my cheek and across my lower lip.
“Breathe, Andrew,” she whispers and rises. “Breakfast will be here in fifteen minutes. You must be famished.” She heads into the bathroom and closes the door. I let out the breath that I’ve been holding. Why is she so damned attractive? Right now I want to go and join her in the shower. I’ve never felt this way about anyone. My hormones are racing. My skin tingles where her thumb traced over my face and lower lip. I feel like squirming with a needy, achy… discomfort. I don’t understand this reaction. Hmm… Desire. This is desire. This is what it feels like.
I lie back on the soft feather filled pillows. ‘If you were mine.’ Oh my – what would I do to be hers? She’s the only woman who has ever set my blood racing around my body. Yet, she’s so antagonizing too; she’s difficult, complicated, and confusing. One minute she rebuffs me, the next she sends me fourteen-thousand-dollar books, then she tracks me like a stalker. And for all that, I have spent the night in her hotel suite, and I feel safe. Protected. She cares enough to come and rescue me from some mistakenly perceived danger. She’s not a dark sorceress at all, but a white knight in shining, dazzling armor – a classic romantic hero.
I scramble out of her bed frantically searching for my jeans. She emerges from the bathroom wet and glistening from the shower, with just a towel around her, and there am I – all bare legs and awkward gawkiness. She’s surprised to see me out of bed.
“If you’re looking for your jeans, I’ve sent them to the laundry.” Her gaze is a dark obsidian. “They were spattered with your vomit.”
“Oh.” I flush scarlet. Why oh why does she always catch me on the back foot?
“I sent Taylor out for another pair and some shoes. They’re in the bag on the chair.” Clean clothes. What an unexpected bonus.
“Um… I’ll have a shower,” I mutter. “Thanks.” What else can I say? I grab the bag and dart into the bathroom away from the unnerving proximity of naked Christina.
In the bathroom, it’s all hot and steamy from where she’s been showering. I strip off my clothes and quickly clamber into the shower anxious to be under the cleansing stream of water. It cascades over me, and I hold up my face into the welcoming torrent. I want Christina Grey. I want her badly. Simple fact. For the first time in my life, I want to go to bed with a woman. I want to feel her hands and her mouth on me.
She said she likes her men sentient. She’s probably not celibate then. But she’s not made a pass at me, unlike Pauline or Josie. I don’t understand. Does she want me? She wouldn’t kiss me last week. Am I repellent to her? And yet, I’m here and she brought me here. I just don’t know what her game is? What she’s thinking? You’ve slept in her bed all night, and she’s not touched you Andy. You do the math. My subconscious has reared its ugly, snide head. I ignore it.
The water is warm and soothing. Hmm… I could stay under this shower, in this bathroom, forever. I reach for the body-wash and it smells of her. It’s a delicious smell. I rub it all over myself, fantasizing that it’s her - her rubbing this heavenly scented soap into my body, across my chest, over my stomach, between my thighs with her long fingered hands. Oh my. My heartbeat picks up again, this feels so… so good.
“Breakfast is here.” She knocks on the door, startling me.
“Okay,” I stutter as I’m yanked cruelly out of my erotic daydream.
I climb out of the shower and grab a towel. Hastily, I dry myself, ignoring the pleasurable feel of the towel rubbing against my over-sensitized skin.
I inspect the bag of jeans. Not only has Taylor brought me jeans and new Converse, but a pale blue shirt, socks, and underwear. Oh my. Clean jocks – actually to describe them in such a mundane, utilitarian way does not do them justice. They’re an exquisite design of some fancy European fashion house. All pale blue and buttery soft. Wow. I’m in awe and slightly daunted by this underwear. What’s more, they fit perfectly. But of course they do. I flush to think of the Taylor in some lingerie store buying this for me. I wonder what else is in her job description.
I dress quickly. The rest of the clothing is a perfect fit. I brusquely towel-dry my hair and try desperately to bring it under control. I take a deep breath. Time to face Ms. Confusing.
I’m relieved to find the bedroom empty. I hunt quickly for my bag – but it’s not in here. Taking another deep breath, I enter the living area of the suite. It’s huge. There’s an opulent, plush seating area, all overstuffed couches and soft cushions, an elaborate coffee table with a stack of large glossy books, a study area with a top-of-the-range Mac, an enormous plasma screen TV on the wall, and Christina is sitting at a dining table on the other side of the room reading a newspaper. It’s the size of a tennis court or something, not that I play tennis, though I have watched Kyle a few times. Kyle!
“Crap, Kyle,” I croak. Christina peers up at me.
“He knows you’re here and still alive. I texted Ellen,” he says with just a trace of humor.
Oh no. I remember his fervent dancing of the night before. All his patented moves used with maximum effect to seduce Christina’s sister no less! What’s he going to think about me being here? I’ve never stayed out before. He’s still with Ellen. He’s only done this twice before, and both times I’ve had to endure the hideous PJs for a week from the fallout. He’s going to think I’ve had a one-night stand too.
Christina stares at me imperiously. She’s wearing a white linen shirt-dress, collar and cuffs undone, belt highlighting her waistline.
“Sit,” she commands, pointing to a place at the table. I make my way across the room and sit down opposite her as I’ve been directed. The table is laden with food.
“I didn’t know what you liked, so I ordered a selection from the breakfast menu.” She gives me a crooked, apologetic smile.
“That’s very profligate of you,” I murmur, bewildered by the choice, though I am hungry.
“Yes, it is.” She sounds guilty.
I opt for pancakes, maple syrup, scrambled eggs, and bacon. Christina tries to hide a smile as she returns to her egg white omelet. The food is delicious.
“Tea?” she asks.
“Yes, please.”
She passes me a small teapot of hot water and on the saucer is a Twining’s English Breakfast teabag. Jeez, she remembers how I like my tea.
“Your hair’s very damp,” she scolds.
“I couldn’t find the hairdryer,” I mutter, embarrassed. Not that I looked. Christina’s mouth presses into a hard line, but she doesn’t say anything.
“Thank you for organizing the clothes.”
“It’s a pleasure, Andrew. That color suits you.”
I blush and stare down at my fingers.
“You know, you really should learn to take a compliment.” Her tone is castigating. “I should give you some money for these clothes.”
She glares at me as if I have offended her on some level. I hurry on. “You’ve already given me the books, which, of course, I can’t accept. But these clothes, please let me pay you back.” I smile tentatively at her.
“Andrew, trust me, I can afford it.”
“That’s not the point. Why should you buy these for me?”
“Because I can,” her eyes flash with a wicked gleam.
“Just because you can doesn’t mean that you should,” I reply quietly as she arches an eyebrow at me, her eyes twinkling, and suddenly I feel that we’re talking about something else, but I don’t know what it is. Which reminds me…
“Why did you send me the books, Christina?” My voice is soft. She puts down her cutlery and regards me intently, her gray eyes burning with some unfathomable emotion. Holy crap – my mouth dries.
“Well, when you were nearly run over by the cyclist – and I was holding you and you were looking at me – all kiss me, kiss me, Christina,” he pauses and shrugs slightly, “I felt I owed you an apology and a warning.” She runs her hand through her hair. “Andrew, I’m not a hearts and flowers kind of girl, I don’t do romance. My tastes are very singular. You should steer clear of me.” She closes her eyes as if in defeat. “There’s something about you, though, and I’m finding it impossible to stay away. But I think you’ve figured that out already.”
My appetite vanishes. She can’t stay away!
“Then don’t,” I whisper.
She gasps, her eyes wide.
“You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“Enlighten me, then.”
We sit gazing at each other, neither of us touching our food.
“You’re not celibate then?” I breathe.
Amusement lights up her gray eyes.
“No, Andrew, I’m not celibate.” She pauses for this information to sink in, and I flush scarlet. The mouth-to-brain filter is broken again. I can’t believe I’ve just said that out loud.
“What are your plans for the next few days?” she asks, her voice low.
“I’m working today, from midday. What is the time?” I panic suddenly.
“It’s just after ten, you’ve plenty of time. What about tomorrow?” She has her elbows on the table, and her chin resting on her long steepled fingers.
“Kyle and I are going to start packing. We’re moving to Seattle next weekend, and I’m working at Clayton’s all this week.”
“You have a place in Seattle already?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“I can’t remember the address. It’s in the Pike Market District.”
“Not far from me,” her lips twitch up in a half smile. “So what are you going to do for work in Seattle?”
Where is she going with all these questions? The Christina Grey Inquisition is almost as irritating as the Kyle Kavanagh Inquisition.
“I’ve applied for some internships. I’m waiting to hear.”
“Have you applied to my company as I suggested?”
I flush… of course not.
“Um… no.”
“And what’s wrong with my company?”
“Your company or your Company?” I smirk.
She smiles slightly.
“Are you smirking at me, Mr Steele?” She cocks her head to one side, and I think she looks amused, but it’s hard to tell. I flush and glance down at my unfinished breakfast. I can’t look her in the eye when she uses that tone of voice.
“I’d like to bite that lip,” she whispers darkly.
Oh my. I am completely unaware that I am chewing my bottom lip. My mouth pops open as I gasp and swallow at the same time. That has to be the sexiest thing anybody has ever said to me. My heart beat spikes, and I think I’m panting. Jeez, I’m a quivering mess, and she hasn’t even touched me. I squirm in my seat and meet her dark glare.
“Why don’t you?” I challenge quietly.
“Because I’m not going to touch you Andrew - not until I have your written consent to do so.” Her lips hint at a smile.
What?
“What does that mean?”
“Exactly what I say.” She sighs and shakes her head at me, amused, but exasperated too. “I need to show you, Andrew. What time do you finish work this evening?”
“About eight.”
“Well, we could go to Seattle this evening or next Saturday for dinner at my place, and I’ll acquaint you with the facts then. The choice is yours.”
“Why can’t you tell me now?” I sound petulant.
“Because I’m enjoying my breakfast and your company. Once you’re enlightened, you probably won’t want to see me again.”
Holy shit. What does that mean? Does she slave-trade small children to some God forsaken part of the planet? Is she part of some underworld crime syndicate? It would explain why she’s so rich. Is she deeply religious? Is she frigid? Surely not, she could prove that to me right now. Oh my. I flush scarlet thinking about the possibilities. This is getting me nowhere. I’d like to solve the riddle that is Christina Grey sooner rather than later. If it means that whatever secret she has is so gross that I don’t want to know her any more then, quite frankly, it will be a relief. Don’t lie to yourself – my subconscious yells at me– it’ll have to be pretty bloody bad to have you running for the hills.
“Tonight.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“Like Eve, you’re so quick to eat from the tree of knowledge,” she smirks.
“Are you smirking at me, Ms. Grey?” I ask sweetly. Pompous ass.
She narrows her eyes at me and picks up her phone. She presses one number. “Taylor. I’m going to need Charlie Tango.”
Charlie Tango! Who’s he?
“From Portland at say twenty-thirty... No, standby at Escala… All night.”
All night!
“Yes. On call tomorrow morning. I’ll pilot from Portland to Seattle.” Pilot?
“Standby pilot from twenty-two-thirty.” She puts the phone down. No please or thank you.
“Do people always do what you tell them?”
“Usually, if they want to keep their jobs,” she says, deadpan.
“And if they don’t work for you?”
“Oh, I can be very persuasive, Andrew. You should finish your breakfast. And then I’ll drop you home. I’ll pick you up at Clayton’s at eight when you finish. We’ll fly up to Seattle.”
I blink at her rapidly.
“Fly?”
“Yes. I have a helicopter.”
I gape at her. I have my second date with Christina oh-so-mysterious Grey. From coffee to helicopter rides. Wow.
“We’ll go by helicopter to Seattle?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She grins wickedly, “Because I can. Finish your breakfast.”
How can I eat now? I’m going to Seattle by helicopter with Christina Grey. And she wants to bite my lip… I squirm at the thought
“Eat,” she says more sharply. “Andrew, I have an issue with wasted food… eat.”
“I can’t eat all this.” I gape at what’s left on the table.
“Eat what’s on your plate. If you’d eaten properly yesterday, you wouldn’t be here, and I wouldn’t be declaring my hand so soon.” Her mouth sets in a grim line. She looks angry. I frown and return to my now cold food. I’m too excited to eat, Christina. Don’t you understand? My subconscious explains. But I’m too much of a coward to voice these thoughts aloud, especially when she looks so sullen. Hmm, like a small child. I find the thought amusing.
“What’s so funny?” she asks. I shake my head, not daring to tell her, and keep my eyes on my food. Swallowing my last piece of pancake, I peek up at her. She’s eyeing me speculatively.
“Good boy,” she says. “I’ll take you home when you’ve dried your hair. I don’t want you getting ill.”
There’s some kind of unspoken promise in her words. What does she mean? I leave the table, wondering for a moment if I should ask permission but dismissing the idea. Sounds like a dangerous precedent to set. I head back to her bedroom. A thought stops me.
“Where did you sleep last night?” I turn to gaze at her still sitting in the dining room chair. I can’t see any blankets or sheets out here – perhaps she’s had them tidied away.
“In my bed,” she says simply, her gaze impassive again.
“Oh.”
“Yes, it was quite a novelty for me too.” She smiles.
“Not having… sex.” There – I said the word. I blush – of course.
“No,” she shakes her head and frowns as if recalling something uncomfortable. “Sleeping with someone.” She picks up her newspaper and continues to read. What in heaven’s name does that mean? She’s never slept with anyone? She’s a virgin? Somehow I doubt that. I stand staring at her in disbelief. She is the most mystifying person I’ve ever met. And it dawns on me that I have slept with Christina Grey, and I kick myself – what would I have given to be conscious to watch her sleep. See her vulnerable. Somehow, I find that hard to imagine.
Well, allegedly all will be revealed tonight. In her bedroom, I hunt through a chest of drawers and find the hair dryer. Using my fingers, I dry my hair the best I can. When I’ve finished, I head into the bathroom. I want to clean my teeth. I eye Christina’s toothbrush. It would be like having her in my mouth. Hmm… Glancing guiltily over my shoulder at the door, I feel the bristles on the toothbrush. They’re damp. She must have used it already. Grabbing it quickly, I squirt toothpaste on it and brush my teeth in double quick time. I feel so naughty. It’s such a thrill. Grabbing my t-shirt and jocks from yesterday, I put them in the shopping bag that Taylor brought and head back to the living area to hunt for my bag and jacket. Christina is watching me as I pull my jacket on, her expression unreadable. I feel her eyes follow me as I sit down and wait for her to finish. She’s on her phone talking to someone.
“They want two?… How much will that cost?... Okay, and what safety measures do we have in place?… And they’ll go via Suez?… How safe is Ben Sudan?... And when do they arrive in Darfur?... Okay, let’s do it. Keep me abreast of progress.” She hangs up. “Ready to go?”
I nod. I wonder what her conversation was about. She slips on a navy pinstriped jacket, picks up her car keys, and heads for the door.
“After you, Mr Steele,” she murmurs, opening the door for me. She looks so casually elegant.
I pause, fractionally too long, drinking in the sight of her. And to think I slept with her last night and, after all the tequila and the throwing up, she’s still here. What’s more, she wants to take me to Seattle. Why me? I don’t understand it. I head out the door recalling her words – There’s something about you – Well the feeling is entirely mutual Ms. Grey, and I aim to find out what it is.
We walk in silence down the corridor toward the elevator. As we wait, I peek over at her, and she looks out of the corner of her eyes at me. I smile, and her lips twitch.
The elevator arrives, and we step in. We’re alone. Suddenly, for some inexplicable reason, possibly our proximity in such an enclosed space, the atmosphere between us changes, charging with an electric, exhilarating anticipation. My breathing alters as my heart races. Her head turns fractionally toward me, her eyes darkest slate. I bite my lip.
“Oh, fuck the paperwork,” she growls. She lunges at me, pushing me against the wall of the elevator. Before I know it, she’s got both of my hands in one of hers in a vice-like grip above my head, and she’s pinning me to the wall using her hips. Holy shit. Her other hand grabs my hair and yanks down, bringing my face up, and her lips are on mine. It’s only just not painful. I moan into her mouth, giving her tongue an opening. She takes full advantage, her tongue expertly exploring my mouth. I’ve never been kissed like this. My tongue tentatively strokes hers and joins hers in a slow erotic dance that’s all about touch and sensation, all bump and grind. She brings her hand up to grasp my chin and holds me in place. I am helpless, my hands pinned, my face held, and her hips restraining me. I feel the heat from her as she presses against my erection. Oh my… She wants me. Christina Grey, Greek goddess, wants me, and I want her, here… now, in the elevator.
“You. Are. So. Sweet,” she murmurs, each word a staccato.
The elevator stops, the doors open, and she pushes away from me in the blink of an eye, leaving me hanging. Three women in business suits look at both of us and smirk as they climb on board. My heart rate is through the roof, I feel like I’ve run an uphill race. I want to lean over and grasp my knees… but that’s just too obvious.
I glance at her. She looks so cool and calm, like she’s been doing the Seattle Times crossword. How unfair. Is she totally unaffected by my presence? She glances at me out of the corner of her eye, and she gently blows out a deep breath. Oh, she’s affected all right – and my very small inner god sways in a gentle victorious samba. The businesswomen exit on the second floor. We have one more floor to travel.
“You’ve brushed your teeth,” she says, staring at me.
“I used your toothbrush,” I breathe.
Her lips quirk up in a half smile.
“Oh, Andrew Steele, what am I going to do with you?”
The doors open at the first floor, and she takes my hand and pulls me out.
“What is it about elevators?” she mutters, more to herself than to me as she strides across the lobby. I struggle to keep pace with her because my wits have been thoroughly, royally, scattered all over the floor and walls of elevator three in the Heathman Hotel.
Chapter 6
Christina opens the passenger door to the black Audi SUV, and I clamber in. It’s a beast of a car. She hasn’t mentioned the outburst of passion that exploded in the elevator. Should I? Should we talk about it or pretend that it didn’t happen? It hardly seems real, my first proper no-holds-barred kiss. As time ticks on, I assign it mythical, Arthurian legend, Lost City of Atlantis status. It never happened, it never existed. Perhaps I imagined it all. No. I touch my lips, swollen from her kiss. It definitely happened. I am a changed man. I want this weman, desperately, and she wanted me.
I glance at her. Christina is her usual polite, slightly distant self.
How confusing.
She starts the engine and reverses out of her space in the parking lot. She switches on the MP3 player. The car interior is filled with the sweetest, most magical music of two women singing. Oh wow… all my senses are in disarray, so this is doubly affecting. It sends delicious shivers up my spine. Christina pulls out onto SW Park Avenue, and she drives with easy, lazy confidence.
“What are we listening to?”
“It’s the Flower Duet by Delibes, from the opera Lakmé. Do you like it?”
“Christina, it’s wonderful.”
“It is, isn’t it?” she grins, glancing at me. And for a fleeting moment, she seems her age; young, carefree, and heart-stoppingly beautiful. Is this the key to her? Music? I sit and listen to the angelic voices, teasing and seducing me.
“Can I hear that again?”
“Of course.” Christina pushes a button, and the music is caressing me once more. It’s a gentle, slow, sweet, and sure assault on my aural senses.
“You like classical music?” I ask, hoping for a rare insight into her personal preferences.
“My taste is eclectic, Andrew, everything from Thomas Tallis to the Kings of Leon. It depends on my mood. You?”
“Me too. Though I don’t know who Thomas Tallis is.”
She turns and gazes at me briefly before her eyes are back on the road.
“I’ll play it for you sometime. He’s a sixteenth century British composer. Tudor, church choral music.” Christina grins at me. “Sounds very esoteric, I know, but it’s also magical, Andrew.”
She presses a button, and the Kings of Leon start singing. Hmm… this I know. Sex on Fire. How appropriate. The music is interrupted by the sound of a cell phone ringing over the MP3 speakers. Christina hits a button on the steering wheel.
“Grey,” she snaps. She’s so brusque.
“Ms. Grey, it’s Welch here. I have the information you require.” A rasping, disembodied voice comes over the speakers.
“Good. Email it to me. Anything to add?”
“No ma’am.”
She presses the button, then the call ceases and the music is back. No goodbye or thanks. I’m so glad that I never seriously entertained the thought of working for her. I shudder at the very idea. She’s just too controlling and cold with her employees. The music cuts off again for the phone.
“Grey.”
“The NDA has been emailed to you, Ms. Grey.” A man’s voice.
“Good. That’s all, Andre.”
“Good day, ma’am.”
Christina hangs up by pressing a button on the steering wheel. The music is on very briefly when the phone rings again. Holy hell, is this her life? Constant nagging phone calls?
“Grey,” she snaps.
“Hi, Christina, d’you get laid?”
“Hello, Ellen – I’m on speaker phone, and I’m not alone in the car,” Christina sighs. “Who’s with you?”
Christina rolls her eyes.
“Andrew Steele.”
“Hi, Andy!”
Andy!
“Hello, Ellen.”
“Heard a lot about you,” Ellen murmurs huskily. Christina frowns.
“Don’t believe a word Kyle says.”
Ellen laughs.
“I’m dropping Andrew off now.” Christina emphasizes my name. “Shall I pick you up?”
“Sure.”
“See you shortly.” Christina hangs up, and the music is back.
“Why do you insist on calling me Andrew?”
“Because it’s your name.”
“I prefer Andy.”
“Do you now?” she murmurs.
We are almost at my apartment. It’s not taken long.
“Andrew,” she muses. I scowl at her, but she ignores my expression. “What happened in the elevator - it won’t happen again, well, not unless it’s premeditated.”
She pulls up outside my duplex. I belatedly realize she’s not asked me where I live - yet she knows. But then she sent the books, of course she knows where I live. What able, cell phone-tracking, helicopter owning, stalker wouldn’t.
Why won’t she kiss me again? I pout at the thought. I don’t understand. Honestly, her surname should be Cryptic, not Grey. She climbs out of the car, walking with easy, long-legged grace round to my side to open the door, ever the lady - except perhaps in rare, precious moments in elevators. I flush at the memory of her mouth on mine, and the thought that I’d been unable to touch her enters my mind. I wanted to run my fingers through her decadent, untidy hair, but I’d been unable to move my hands. I am retrospectively frustrated.
“I liked what happened in the elevator,” I murmur as I climb out of the car. I’m not sure if I hear an audible gasp, but I choose to ignore it and head up the steps to the front door. Kyle and Ellen are sitting at our dining table. The fourteen-thousand-dollar books have disappeared. Thank heavens. I have plans for them. He has the most un-Kyle-like ridiculous grin on his face, and he looks mussed up in a sexy kind of way. Christina follows me into the living area, and in spite of his I’ve-been-having-a-good-time-all-night grin, Kyle eyes him suspiciously.
“Hi Andy,” he leaps up to hug me, then holds me at arm’s length so he can examine me. He frowns and turns to Christina.
“Good morning, Christina,” he says, and his tone is a little hostile.
“Mr Kavanagh,” she says in her stiff formal way.
“Christina, his name is Kyle,” Ellen grumbles.
“Kyle.” Christina gives him a polite nod and glares at Ellen who grins and rises to hug me too.
“Hi, Andy,” she smiles, her blue eyes twinkling, and I like her immediately. She’s obviously nothing like Christina, but then they’re adopted sisters.
“Hi, Ellen,” I smile at her, and I’m aware that I’m biting my lip.
“Ellen, we’d better go.” Christina says mildly.
“Sure.” She turns to Kyle and pulls him into her arms and gives her a long lingering kiss. Jeez… get a room. I stare at my feet, embarrassed. I glance up at Christina, and she’s watching me intently. I narrow my eyes at her. Why can’t you kiss me like that?
Ellen continues to kiss Kyle, sweeping him off his feet and dipping him in a dramatic hold so that his hair nearly touches the ground as she kisses him hard. “Laters, baby,” she grins.
Kyle just melts. I’ve never seen him melt before – the words comely and compliant come to mind. Compliant Kyle, boy, Ellen must be good. Christina rolls her eyes and stares down at me, her expression unreadable, although maybe she’s mildly amused. She tucks a stray strand of my hair that has worked its way free, behind my ear. My breath hitches at the contact, and I lean my head slightly into her fingers. Her eyes soften, and she runs her thumb across my lower lip. My blood sears in my veins. And all too quickly, her touch is gone.
“Laters, baby,” she murmurs, and I have to laugh because it’s so unlike her. But even though I know she’s being irreverent, the endearment tugs at something deep inside me.
“I’ll pick you up at eight.” She turns to leave, opening the front door and stepping out onto the porch. Ellen follows her to the car but turns and blows Kyle another kiss, and I feel an unwelcome pang of jealousy.
“So, did you?” Kyle asks as we watch them climb into the car and drive off, the burning curiosity evident in his voice.
“No,” I snap irritably, hoping that will halt the questions. We head back into the apartment.
“You obviously did, though.” I can’t contain my envy. Kyle always manages to ensnare women. He is irresistible, beautiful, sexy, funny, forward…all the things that I’m not. But his answering grin is infectious.
“And I’m seeing her again this evening.” He claps his hands and jumps up and down like a small child. He cannot contain his excitement and happiness, and I can’t help but feel happy for him. A happy Kyle… this is going to be interesting.
“Christina is taking me to Seattle this evening.”
“Seattle?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe you will then?”
“Oh, I hope so.”
“You like her then?”
“Yes.”
“Like her enough to… ?”
“Yes.”
He raises his eyebrows.
“Wow. Andy Steele, finally falling for a woman, and it’s Christina Grey – hot, sexy billionaire.”
“Oh yeah – it’s all about the money.” I smirk, and we both laugh.
“Is that a new shirt?” he asks, and I let him have all the unexciting details about my night.
“Has she kissed you yet?” he asks as he makes coffee.
I blush.
“Once.”
“Once!” he scoffs.
I nod, rather shame faced.
“She’s very reserved.”
He frowns.
“That’s odd.”
“I don’t think odd covers it really,” I murmur.
“We need to make sure you’re simply irresistible for this evening,” he says with determination.
Oh no… this sounds like it will be time consuming, humiliating, and painful.
“I have to be at work in an hour.”
“I can work with that timeframe. Come on.” Kyle grabs my hand and takes me into his bedroom.
The day drags at Clayton’s even though we’re busy. We’ve hit the summer season, so I have to spend two hours restocking the shelves once the shop is closed. It’s mindless work, and it gives me too much time to think. I’ve not really had a chance all day.
Under Kyle’s tireless and frankly intrusive instruction, my back and chest are waxed to perfection, my face shaved, and I am buffed all over. It has been a most unpleasant experience. But he assures me that this is what women expect these days. What else will she expect? I have to convince Kyle that this is what I want to do. For some strange reason, he doesn’t trust her, maybe because she’s so stiff and formal. He says he can’t put his finger on it, but I have promised to text him when I arrive in Seattle. I haven’t told him about the helicopter, he’d freak.
I also have the Josie issue. She’s left three messages and seven missed calls on my cell. She’s also called home twice. Kyle has been very vague as to where I am. She’ll know he’s covering for me. Kyle doesn’t do vague. But I have decided to let her stew. I’m still too angry with her.
Christina mentioned some kind of written paperwork, and I don’t know if she was joking or if I’m going to have to sign something. It’s so frustrating trying to guess. And on top of all the angst, I can barely contain my excitement or my nerves. Tonight’s the night! After all this time, am I ready for this? My inner Sex God glares at me, tapping his foot impatiently. He’s been ready for this for years, and he’s ready for anything with Christina Grey, but I still don’t understand what she sees in me…mousey Andy Steele - it makes no sense.
She is punctual, of course, and waiting for me when I leave Clayton’s. She climbs out of the back of the Audi to open the door and smiles warmly at me.
“Good evening, Mr Steele,” she says.
“Ms. Grey.” I nod politely to her as I climb into the backseat of the car. Taylor is sitting in the driver’s seat.
“Hello, Taylor,” I say.
“Good evening, Mr Steele,” her voice is polite and professional. Christina climbs in the other side and clasps my hand, giving it a gentle squeeze that I feel all the way though my body.
“How was work?” she asks.
“Very long,” I reply, and my voice is husky, too low, and full of need.
“Yes, it’s been a long day for me too.” Her tone is serious.
“What did you do?” I manage.
“I went hiking with Ellen.” Her thumb strokes my knuckles, back and forth, and my heart skips a beat as my breathing accelerates. How does she do this to me? She’s only touching a very small area of my body, and the hormones are flying.
The drive to the heliport is short and, before I know it, we arrive. I wonder where the fabled helicopter might be. We’re in a built-up area of the city and even I know helicopters need space to take off and land. Taylor parks, climbs out, and opens my car door. Christina is beside me in an instant and takes my hand again.
“Ready?” she asks. I nod and want to say ‘for anything’, but I can’t articulate the words as I’m too nervous, too excited.
“Taylor.” She nods curtly at her driver, and we head into the building, straight to a set of elevators. Elevator! The memory of our kiss this morning comes back to haunt me. I have thought of nothing else all day. Daydreaming at the register at Clayton’s. Twice Mrs. Clayton had to shout my name to bring me back to Earth. To say I’ve been distracted would be the understatement of the year. Christina glances down at me, a slight smile on her lips. Ha! She’s thinking about it too.
“It’s only three floors,” she says dryly, her gray eyes dancing with amusement. She’s telepathic surely. It’s spooky.
I try to keep my face impassive as we enter the elevator. The doors close, and it’s there, the weird electrical attraction crackling between us, enslaving me. I close my eyes in a vain attempt to ignore it. She tightens her grip on my hand, and five seconds later the doors open onto the roof of the building. And there it is, a white helicopter with the name Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc. written in blue with the company logo on the side. Surely this is misuse of Company property.
She leads me to a small office where an old timer sits behind the desk. “Here’s your flight plan, Ms. Grey. All external checks are done. It’s ready and waiting ma’am. You’re free to go.”
“Thank you, Joanna.” Christina smiles warmly at her.
Oh. Someone deserving of the polite treatment from Christina, perhaps she’s not an employee. I stare at the old woman in awe.
“Let’s go,” Christina says, and we make our way toward the helicopter. When we’re up close, it’s much bigger than I thought. I expected it to be a roadster version for two, but it has at least seven seats. Christina opens the door and directs me to one of the seats at the very front.
“Sit – don’t touch anything,” she orders as she clambers in behind me. She shuts the door with a slam. I’m glad that the area is floodlit, otherwise I’d find it difficult to see inside the small cockpit. I sit down in my allotted seat, and she crouches beside me to strap me into the harness. It’s a four-point harness with all the straps connecting to one central buckle. She tightens both of the upper straps, so I can hardly move. She’s so close and intent on what she’s doing. If I could only lean forward, my nose would be in her hair. She smells, clean, fresh, heavenly, but I’m fastened securely into my seat and effectively immobile. She glances up and smiles, like she’s enjoying her usual private joke, her gray eyes heated. She’s so tantalizingly close. I hold my breath as she pulls at one of the upper straps.
“You’re secure, no escaping,” she whispers, her eyes are scorching.
“Breathe, Andrew,” she adds softly. Reaching up, she caresses my cheek, running her long fingers down to my chin which she grasps between her thumb and forefinger. She leans forward and plants a brief, chaste kiss on my lips, leaving me reeling, my insides clenching at the thrilling, unexpected touch of her lips.
“I like this harness,” she whispers.
What?
She sits down beside me and buckles herself into her seat, then begins a protracted procedure of checking gauges and flipping switches and buttons from the mind-boggling array of dials and lights and switches in front of me. Little lights wink and flash from various dials, and the whole of the instrument panel lights up.
“Put your cans on,” she says, pointing to a set of headphones in front of me. I pop them on, and the rotor blades start. They are deafening. She puts her headphones on and continues flipping various switches.
“I’m just going through all the pre-flight checks.” Christina’s disembodied voice is in my ears through the headphones. I turn and grin at her.
“Do you know what you are doing?” I ask. She turns and smiles at me. “I’ve been a fully qualified pilot for four years, Andrew, you’re safe with me.” She gives me a wolfish grin. “Well, while we’re flying,” she adds and winks at me.
Winking… Christina!
“Are you ready?”
I nod wide eyed.
“Okay, tower. PDX this is Charlie Tango Golf – Golf Echo Hotel, cleared for take-off. Please confirm, over.”
“Charlie Tango - you are clear. PDX to call, proceed to one four thousand, heading zero one zero, over. ”
“Roger tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out. Here we go,” she adds to me, and the helicopter rises slowly and smoothly into the air.
Portland disappears in front us as we head into US airspace, though my stomach remains firmly in Oregon.
All the bright lights shrink until they are twinkling sweetly below us. It’s like looking out from inside a fish bowl. Once we’re higher, there really is nothing to see. It’s pitch black, not even the moon to shed any light on our journey. How can she see where we’re going?
“Eerie isn’t it?” Christina’s voice is in my ears.
“How do you know you’re going the right way?”
“Here.” She points her long index finger at one of the gauges, and it shows an electronic compass.
“This is an EC135 Eurocopter. One of the safest in its class. It’s equipped for night flight.” She glances and grins at me.
“There’s a helipad on top of the building I live in. That’s where we’re heading.”
Of course there’s a helipad where she lives. I am so out of my league here. Her face is softly illuminated by the lights on the instrument panel. She’s concentrating hard, and she’s continually glancing at the various dials in front of her.
I drink in her features from beneath my lashes. She has a beautiful profile. Straight nose, high cheekbones – I’d like to run my tongue along her face. She isn’t wearing makeup and this makes the prospect doubly tempting. Hmm… I’d like to feel how soft it is beneath my tongue, my fingers, against my face.
“When you fly at night, you fly blind. You have to trust the instrumentation,” she interrupts my erotic reverie.
“How long will the flight be?” I manage breathlessly. I wasn’t thinking about sex at all, no, no way.
“Less than an hour, the wind is in our favor.”
Hmm, less than an hour to Seattle… that’s not bad going, no wonder we’re flying. I have less than an hour before the big reveal. All the muscles clench deep in my belly. I have a serious case of butterflies. They are flourishing in my stomach. Holy shit, what has she got in store for me?
“You okay, Andrew?”
“Yes.” My answer is short, clipped, squeezed out through my nerves. I think she smiles, but it’s difficult to tell in the darkness. Christina flicks yet another switch.
“PDX this is Charlie Tango now at one four thousand, over.” She exchanges information with air traffic control. It all sounds very professional to me. I think we’re moving from Portland’s air space to Seattle International Airport’s.
“Understood Sea-Tac, standing by over and out.”
“Look, over there.” She points to a small pin-point of light in the far distance. “That’s Seattle.”
“Do you always impress men this way? Come and fly in my helicopter?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“I’ve never bought a boy up here, Andrew. It’s another first for me.” Her voice is quiet, serious.
Oh, that was an unexpected answer. Another first? Oh the sleeping thing, perhaps?
“Are you impressed?”
“I’m awed, Christina.”
She smiles.
“Awed?” And for a brief moment, she’s her age again.
I nod.
“You’re just so… competent.”
“Why, thank you, Mr Steele,” she says politely. I think she’s pleased, but I’m not sure. We ride into the dark night in silence for a while. The bright spot that is Seattle is slowly getting bigger.
“Sea-Tac tower to Charlie Tango. Flight plan to Escala in place. Please proceed. And standby. Over.”
“This is Charlie Tango, understood Sea-Tac. Standing by, over and out.”
“You obviously enjoy this,” I murmur.
“What?” She glances at me. She looks quizzical in the half-light of the instruments.
“Flying,” I reply.
“It requires control and concentration… how could I not love it? Though, my favorite is soaring.”
“Soaring?”
“Yes. Gliding to the layperson. Gliders and helicopters – I fly them both.”
“Oh.” Expensive hobbies. I remember her telling me during the interview. I like reading and occasionally going to the movies. I am out of my depth here.
“Charlie Tango come in please, over.” The disembodied voice of air traffic control interrupts my reverie. Christina answers, sounding in control and confident. Seattle is getting closer. We are on the very outskirts now. Wow! It looks absolutely stunning. Seattle at night, from the sky…
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” Christina murmurs.
I nod enthusiastically. It looks otherworldly – unreal – and I feel like I’m on a giant film set, Josie’s favorite film maybe, ‘Bladerunner.’ The memory of Josie’s attempted kiss haunts me. I’m beginning to feel a bit cruel not calling her back. She can wait until tomorrow… surely.
“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Christina mutters, and suddenly my blood is pounding in my ears as my heartbeat accelerates and adrenaline spikes through my system. She starts talking to air traffic control again, but I am no longer listening. Oh my… I think I’m going to faint. My fate is in her hands.
We are now flying amongst the buildings, and up ahead I can see a tall skyscraper with a helipad on top. The word Escala is painted in white on top of the building. It’s getting nearer and nearer, bigger and bigger… like my anxiety. God, I hope I don’t let her down. She’ll find me lacking in some way. I wish I’d listened to Kyle and borrowed one of his suits, but I like my black jeans, and I’m wearing a soft mint green shirt and Kyle’s black jacket. I look smart enough. I grip the edge of my seat tighter and tighter. I can do this. I can do this. I chant this mantra as the skyscraper looms below us.
The helicopter slows and hovers, and Christina sets it down on the helipad on top of the building. My heart is in my mouth. I can’t decide if it’s from nervous anticipation, relief that we’ve arrived alive, or fear that I will fail in some way. She switches the ignition off and the rotor blades slow and quiet until all I hear is the sound of my own erratic breathing. Christina takes her headphones off, and reaches across and pulls mine off too.
“We’re here,” she says softly.
Her look is so intense, half in shadow and half in the bright white light from the landing lights. Dark sorceress and white knight, it’s a fitting metaphor for Christina. She looks strained. Her jaw is clenched and her eyes are tight. She unfastens her seatbelt and reaches over to unbuckle mine. Her face is inches from mine.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that don’t you?” Her tone is so earnest, desperate even, her gray eyes impassioned. She takes me by surprise.
“I’d never do anything I didn’t want to do, Christina.” And as I say the words, I don’t quite feel their conviction because at this moment in time – I’d probably do anything for this woman seated beside me. But this does the trick. She’s mollified.
She eyes me warily for a moment and somehow, even though she’s so tall, she manages to ease her way gracefully to the door of the helicopter and open it. She jumps out, waiting for me to follow, and takes my hand as I clamber down onto the helipad. It’s very windy on top of the building, and I’m nervous about the fact that I’m standing at least thirty stories high in an unenclosed space. Christina wraps her arm around my waist, pulling me tightly against her.
“Come,” she shouts above the noise of the wind. She drags me over to an elevator shaft and, after tapping a number into a keypad, the doors open. It’s warm inside and all mirrored glass. I can see Christina to infinity everywhere I look, and the wonderful thing is, she’s holding me to infinity too.
Christina taps another code into the keypad, then the doors close and the elevator descends.
Moments later, we’re in an all-white foyer. In the middle is a round, dark wood table, and on it is an unbelievably huge bunch of white flowers. On the walls there are paintings, everywhere. She opens two double doors, and the white theme continues through the wide corridor and directly opposite where a palatial room opens up. It’s the main living area, double height. Huge is too small a word for it. The far wall is glass and leads on to a balcony that overlooks Seattle.
To the right is an imposing ‘U’ shaped sofa that could sit ten adults comfortably. It faces a state-of-the-art stainless steel – or maybe platinum for all I know - modern fireplace. The fire is lit and flaming gently. On the left beside us, by the entryway, is the kitchen area. All white with dark wood worktops and a large breakfast bar which seats six.
Near the kitchen area, in front of the glass wall, is a dining table surrounded by sixteen chairs. And tucked in the corner is a full size, shiny black grand piano. Oh yes… she probably plays the piano too. There is art of all shapes and sizes on all the walls. In fact, this apartment looks more like a gallery than a place to live.
“Can I take your jacket?” Christina asks. I shake my head. I’m still cold from the wind on the helipad.
“Would you like a drink?” she asks. I blink at her. After last night! Is she trying to be funny? For one second, I think about asking for a margarita – but I don’t have the nerve. “I’m going to have a glass of white wine, would you like to join me?” “Yes, please,” I murmur.
I am standing in this enormous room feeling out of place. I walk over to the glass wall, and I realize that the lower half of the wall opens concertina-style onto the balcony. Seattle is lit up and lively in the background. I walk back to the kitchen area – it takes a few seconds, it’s so far from the glass wall – and Christina is opening a bottle of wine. She’s removed her jacket.
“Pouilly Fumé okay with you?”
“I know nothing about wine, Christina. I’m sure it will be fine.” My voice is soft and hesitant. My heart is thumping. I want to run. This is seriously rich. Seriously over-the top Bill Gates style wealthy. What am I doing here? You know very well what you’re doing here - my subconscious sneers at me. Yes, I want to be in Christina Grey’s bed.
“Here.” She hands me a glass of wine. Even the glasses are rich… heavy, contemporary, crystal. I take a sip, and the wine is light, crisp, and delicious.
“You’re very quiet, and you’re not even blushing. In fact – I think this is the palest I’ve ever seen you, Andrew,” she murmurs. “Are you hungry?”
I shake my head. Not for food.
“It’s a very big place you have here.”
“Big?”
“Big.”
“It’s big,” she agrees, and her eyes glow with amusement. I take another sip of wine. “Do you play?” I point my chin at the piano.
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you do. Is there anything you can’t do well?”
“Yes… a few things.” She takes a sip of her wine. She doesn’t take her eyes off me. I feel them following me as I turn and glance around this vast room. Room is the wrong word. It’s not a room – it’s a mission statement.
“Do you want to sit?”
I nod, and she takes my hand and leads me to the large off-white couch. As I sit, I’m struck by the fact that I feel like Tess Durbeyfield looking at the new house that belongs to the notorious Alec D’Urberville. The thought makes me smile.
“What’s so amusing?” She sits down beside me, turning to face me. She rests her head on her right hand, her elbow propped on the back of the couch.
“Why did you give me Tess of the D’Urbervilles specifically?” I ask.
Christina stares at me for a moment. I think she’s surprised by my question.
“Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy.”
“Is that the only reason?” Even I can hear the disappointment in my voice. Her mouth presses into a hard line.
“It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel Clare or debase you completely like Alec D’Urberville,” she murmurs, and her gray eyes flash dark and dangerous.
“If there are only two choices, I’ll take the debasement.” I whisper, gazing at her. My subconscious is staring at me in awe. She gasps.
“Andrew, stop biting your lip, please. It’s very distracting. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
She frowns.
“Yes. Would you excuse me a moment?” She disappears through a wide doorway on the far side of the room. She’s gone for a couple of minutes and returns with a document.
“This is a non-disclosure agreement.” She shrugs and has the grace to look a little embarrassed. “My lawyer insists on it.” She hands it to me. I’m completely bemused.
“If you’re going for option two, debasement, you’ll need to sign this.”
“And if I don’t want to sign anything?”
“Then it’s Angel Clare, high ideals, well, for most of the book anyway.”
“What does this agreement mean?”
“It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to anyone.” I stare at her in disbelief. Holy shit. It’s bad, really bad, and now I’m very curious to know.
“Okay. I’ll sign.”
She hands me a pen.
“Aren’t you even going to read it?”
“No.”
She frowns.
“Andrew, you should always read anything you sign,” she admonishes me. “Christina, what you fail to understand is that I wouldn’t talk about us to anyone, anyway. Even Kyle. So it’s immaterial whether I sign an agreement or not. If it means so much to you, or your lawyer… whom you obviously talk to, then fine. I’ll sign.” She gazes down at me and nods gravely.
“Fair point well made, Mr Steele.”
I lavishly sign on the dotted line of both copies and hand one back to her. Folding the other, I place it my purse and take a large swig of my wine. I’m sounding so much braver than I’m actually feeling.
“Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christina?”
Holy shit. Did I just say that? Her mouth drops open slightly, but she recovers quickly.
“No, Andrew it doesn’t. Firstly, I don’t make love. I fuck… hard. Secondly, there’s a lot more paperwork to do, and thirdly, you don’t yet know what you’re in for. You could still run for the hills. Come, I want to show you my playroom.”
My mouth drops open. Fuck hard! Holy shit, that sounds so… hot. But why are we looking at a playroom? I am mystified.
“You want to play on your Xbox?” I ask. She laughs, loudly.
“No, Andrew, no Xbox, no Playstation. Come.” She stands, holding out her hand. I let her lead me back out to the corridor. On the right of the double doors, where we came in, another door leads to a staircase. We go up to the second floor and turn right. Producing a key from her pocket, she unlocks yet another door and takes a deep breath.
“You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on stand-by to take you whenever you want to go, you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It’s fine whatever you decide.”
“Just open the damn door, Christina.”
She opens the door and stands back to let me in. I gaze at her once more. I so want to know what’s in here. Taking a deep breath I walk in.
And it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition.
Holy fuck.
Chapter Seven
The first thing I notice is the smell; leather, wood, polish with a faint citrus scent. It’s very pleasant, and the lighting is soft, subtle. In fact, I can’t see the source, but it’s around the cornice in the room, emitting an ambient glow. The walls and ceiling are a deep, dark burgundy, giving a womb-like effect to the spacious room, and the floor is old, old varnished wood. There is a large wooden cross like an X fastened to the wall facing the door. It’s made of high-polished mahogany, and there are restraining cuffs on each corner. Above it is an expansive iron grid suspended from the ceiling, eight-foot square at least, and from it hang all manner of ropes, chains, and glinting shackles. By the door, two long, polished, ornately carved poles, like spindles from a banister but longer, hang like curtain rods across the wall. From them swing a startling assortment of paddles, whips, riding crops, and funny-looking feathery implements.
Beside the door stands a substantial mahogany chest of drawers, each drawer slim as if designed to contain specimens in a crusty old museum. I wonder briefly what the drawers actually do hold. Do I want to know? In the far corner is an oxblood leather padded bench, and fixed to the wall beside it is a wooden, polished rack that looks like a pool or billiard cue holder, but on closer inspection, it holds canes of varying lengths and widths. There’s a stout six-foot-long table in the opposite corner – polished wood with intricately carved legs – and two matching stools underneath.
But what dominates the room is a bed. It’s bigger than king-size, an ornately carved rococo four-poster with a flat top. It looks late nineteenth century. Under the canopy, I can see more gleaming chains and cuffs. There is no bedding... just a mattress covered in red leather and red satin cushions piled at one end.
At the foot of the bed, set apart a few feet, is a large oxblood chesterfield couch, just stuck in the middle of the room facing the bed. An odd arrangement… to have a couch facing the bed, and I smile to myself – I’ve picked on the couch as odd, when really it’s the most mundane piece of furniture in the room. I glance up and stare at the ceiling. There are karabiners all over the ceiling at odd intervals. I vaguely wonder what they’re for. Weirdly, all the wood, dark walls, moody lighting, and oxblood leather makes the room kind of soft and romantic… I know it’s anything but, this is Christina’s version of soft and romantic.
I turn, and she’s regarding me intently as I knew she would be, her expression completely unreadable. I walk further into the room, and she follows me. The feathery thing has me intrigued. I touch it hesitantly. It’s suede, like a small cat-of-nine-tails but bushier, and there are very small plastic beads on the end.
“It’s called a flogger,” Christina’s voice is quiet and soft.
A flogger… hmm. I think I’m in shock. My subconscious has emigrated or been struck dumb or simply keeled over and expired. I am numb. I can observe and absorb but not articulate my feelings about all this, because I’m in shock. What is the appropriate response to finding out a potential lover is a complete freaky sadist or masochist? Fear… yes… that seems to be the overriding feeling. I recognize it now. But weirdly not of her – I don’t think she’d hurt me, well, not without my consent. So many questions cloud my mind. Why? How? When? How often? Who? I walk toward the bed and run my hands down one of the intricately carved posts. The post is very sturdy, the craftsmanship outstanding.
“Say something,” Christina commands, her voice deceptively soft.
“Do you do this to people or do they do it to you?”
Her mouth quirks up, either amused or relieved.
“People?” she blinks a couple of times as she considers her answer. “I do this to men who want me to.”
I don’t understand.
“If you have willing volunteers, why am I here?”
“Because I want to do this with you, very much.”
“Oh,” I gasp. Why?
I wander to the far corner of the room and pat the waist high padded bench and run my fingers over the leather. She likes to hurt men. The thought depresses me. “You’re a sadist?”
“I’m a Dominant.” Her eyes are a scorching gray, intense.
“What does that mean?” I whisper.
“It means I want you to willingly surrender yourself to me, in all things.” I frown at her as I try to assimilate this idea.
“Why would I do that?”
“To please me,”s he whispers as she cocks her head to one side, and I see a ghost of a smile.
Please her! She wants me to please her! I think my mouth drops open. Please Christina Grey. And I realize, in that moment, that yes, that’s exactly what I want to do. I want her to be damned delighted with me. It’s a revelation.
“In very simple terms, I want you to want to please me,” she says softly. Her voice is hypnotic.
“How do I do that?” My mouth is dry, and I wish I had more wine. Okay, I understand the pleasing bit, but I am puzzled by the soft-boudoir-Elizabethan-torture set up. Do I want to know the answer?
“I have rules, and I want you to comply with them. They are for your benefit and for my pleasure. If you follow these rules to my satisfaction, I shall reward you. If you don’t, I shall punish you, and you will learn,” she whispers. I glance at the rack of canes as she says this.
“And where does all this fit in?” I wave my hand in the general direction of the room.
“It’s all part of the incentive package. Both reward and punishment.”
“So you’ll get your kicks by exerting your will over me.”
“It’s about gaining your trust and your respect, so you’ll let me exert my will over you. I will gain a great deal of pleasure, joy, even in your submission. The more you submit, the greater my joy – it’s a very simple equation.”
“Okay, and what do I get out of this?”
She shrugs and looks almost apologetic.
“Me,”she says simply.
Oh my. Christina rakes her hand through her hair as she gazes at me.
“You’re not giving anything away, Andrew,” she murmurs, exasperated. “Let’s go back downstairs where I can concentrate better. It’s very distracting having you in here.” She holds her hand out to me, and now I’m hesitant to take it.
Kyle had said she was dangerous, he was so right. How did he know? She’s dangerous to my health, because I know I’m going to say yes. And part of me doesn’t want to. Part of me wants to run screaming from this room and all it represents. I am so out of my depth here.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Andrew.” Her gray eyes implore, and I know she speaks the truth. I take her hand, and she leads me out of the door.
“If you do this, let me show you.” Rather than going back downstairs, she turns right out of the playroom, as she calls it, and down a corridor. We pass several doors until we reach the one at the end. Beyond it is a bedroom with a large double bed, all in white… everything, furniture, walls, bedding. It’s sterile and cold but with the most glorious view of Seattle through the glass wall.
“This will be your room. You can decorate it how you like, have whatever you like in here.”
“My room? You’re expecting me to move in?” I can’t hide the horror in my voice. “Not full time. Just say, Friday evening through Sunday. We have to talk about all that, negotiate. If you want to do this,” she adds, her voice quiet and hesitant.
“I’ll sleep here?”
“Yes.”
“Not with you.”
“No. I told you, I don’t sleep with anyone, except you, when you’re stupefied with drink.” Her eyes are reprimanding.
My mouth presses in a hard line. This is what I cannot reconcile. Kind, caring Christina, who rescues me from inebriation and holds me gently while I’m throwing up into the azaleas, and the monster who possesses whips and chains in a special room.
“Where do you sleep?”
“My room is downstairs. Come, you must be hungry.”
“Weirdly, I seem to have lost my appetite,” I murmur petulantly.
“You must eat, Andrew,” she admonishes and, taking my hand, leads me back downstairs.
Back in the impossibly big room, I am filled with deep trepidation. I am on the edge of a precipice, and I have to decide whether or not to jump.
“I’m fully aware that this is a dark path I’m leading you down, Andrew, which is why I really want you to think about this. You must have some questions,” she says as she wanders into the kitchen area, releasing my hand.
I do. But where to start?
“You’ve signed your NDA, you can ask me anything you want, and I’ll answer.”
I stand at the breakfast bar watching her as she opens the refrigerator and pulls out a plate of different cheeses with two large bunches of green and red grapes. She sets the plate down on the worktop and proceeds to cut up a French baguette.
“Sit.” She points to one of the bar stools at the breakfast bar, and I obey her command. If I’m going to do this, I’m going to have to get used to it. I realize she’s been this bossy since I met her.
“You mentioned paperwork.”
“Yes.”
“What paperwork?”
“Well, apart from the NDA, a contract saying what we will and won’t do. I need to know your limits, and you need to know mine. This is consensual, Andrew.”
“And if I don’t want to do this?”
“That’s fine,” she says carefully.
“But we won’t have any sort of relationship?” I ask.
“No.”
“Why?”
“This is the only sort of relationship I’m interested in.”
“Why?”
She shrugs, “It’s the way I am.”
“How did you become this way?”
“Why is anyone the way they are? That’s kind of hard to answer. Why do some people like cheese and other people hate it? Do you like cheese? Mr. Jones – my housekeeper – has left this for supper.” She takes some large, white plates from a cupboard and places one in front of me. We’re talking about cheese… Holy crap.
“What are your rules that I have to follow?”
“I have them written down. We’ll go through them once we’ve eaten.”
Food. How can I eat now? “I’m really not hungry,” I whisper.
“You will eat,” she says simply. Dominating Christina, it all becomes clear. “Would you like another glass of wine?”
“Yes, please.”
She pours wine into my glass and comes to sit beside me. I take a hasty sip. “Help yourself to food, Andrew.”
I take a small bunch of grapes. This I can manage. She narrows her eyes.
“Have you been like this for a while?” I ask.
“Yes.”
“Is it easy to find men who want to do this?”
She raises an eyebrow at me, “You’d be amazed,” she says dryly.
“Then why me? I really don’t understand.”
“Andrew, I’ve told you. There’s something about you. I can’t leave you alone.” She smiles ironically. “I’m like a moth to a flame.” Her voice darkens. “I want you very badly, especially now, when you’re biting your lip again.” She takes a deep breath and swallows.
My stomach somersaults – she wants me… in a weird way, true, but this beautiful, strange, kinky woman wants me.
“I think you have that cliché the wrong way round.” I grumble. I am the moth and she is the flame, and I’m going to get burnt. I know.
“Eat!”
“No. I haven’t signed anything yet, so I think I’ll hang on to my free will for a bit longer, if that’s okay with you.”
Her eyes soften, and her lips turn up in a smile.
“As you wish, Mr Steele.”
“How many men?” I blurt out the question, but I’m so curious.
“Fifteen.”
Oh… not as many as I thought.
“For long periods of time?”
“Some of them, yes.”
“Have you ever hurt anyone?”
“Yes.”
Holy shit.
“Badly?”
“No.”
“Will you hurt me?”
“What do you mean?”
“Physically, will you hurt me?”
“I will punish you when you require it, and it will be painful.”
I think I feel a little faint. I take another sip of wine. Alcohol - this will make me brave. “Have you ever been beaten?” I ask.
“Yes.”
Oh… that surprises me. Before I can question her on this revelation further, she interrupts my train of thought.
“Let’s discuss this in my study. I want to show you something.”
This is so hard to process. Here I was foolishly thinking that I’d spend a night of unparalleled passion in this woman’s bed, and we’re negotiating this weird arrangement. I follow her into her study, a spacious room with another floor-to-ceiling window that opens out onto the balcony. She sits on the desk, motions for me to sit on a leather chair in front of her, and hands me a piece of paper.
“These are the rules. They may be subject to change. They form part of the contract, which you can also have. Read these rules and let’s discuss.”
RULES
Obedience:
The Submissive will obey any instructions given by the Dominant immediately without hesitation or reservation and in an expeditious manner.
The Submissive will agree to any sexual activity deemed fit and pleasurable by the Dominant excepting those activities which are outlined in hard limits (Appendix 2). He will do so eagerly and without hesitation.
Sleep:
The Submissive will ensure he achieves a minimum of seven hours sleep a night when he is not with the Dominant.
Food:
The Submissive will eat regularly to maintain his health and wellbeing from a prescribed list of foods (Appendix 4).
The Submissive will not snack between meals, with the exception of fruit.
Clothes:
During the Term, the Submissive will wear clothing only approved by the Dominant. The Dominant will provide a clothing budget for the Submissive, which the Submissive shall utilize.
The Dominant shall accompany the Submissive to purchase clothing on an ad hoc basis.
If the Dominant so requires, the Submissive shall during the Term any adornments the Dominant shall require, in the presence of the Dominant and any other time the Dominant deems fit.
Exercise:
The Dominant shall provide the Submissive with a personal trainer four times a week in hour-long sessions at times to be mutually agreed between the personal trainer and the Submissive.
The personal trainer will report to the Dominant on the Submissive’s progress.
Personal Hygiene/Beauty:
The Submissive will keep himself clean and shaved at all times.
The Submissive will visit a salon of the Dominant’s choosing at times to be decided by the Dominant, and undergo whatever treatments the Dominant sees fit.
Personal Safety:
The Submissive will not drink to excess, smoke, take recreational drugs, or put himself in any unnecessary danger.
Personal Qualities:
The Submissive will not enter into any sexual relations with anyone other than the Dominant.
The Submissive will conduct himself in a respectful and modest manner at all times.
He must recognize that his behavior is a direct reflection on the Dominant.
He shall be held accountable for any misdeeds, wrongdoings, and misbehavior committed when not in the presence of the Dominant.
Failure to comply with any of the above will result in immediate punishment, the nature of which shall be determined by the Dominant.
Holy fuck.
“Hard limits?” I ask.
“Yes. What you won’t do, what I won’t do, we need to specify in our agreement.” “I’m not sure about accepting money for clothes. It feels wrong.” I shift uncomfortably, the word ‘ho’ rattling round my head.
“I want to lavish money on you, let me buy you some clothes. I may need you to accompany me to functions, and I want you dressed well. I’m sure your salary, when you do get a job, won’t cover the kind of clothes I’d like you to wear.”
“I don’t have to wear them when I’m not with you?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Think of them as uniform.
“I don’t want to exercise four times a week.”
“Andrew, I need you supple, strong, and with stamina. Trust me, you need to exercise.”
“But surely not four times a week, how about three?”
“I want you to do four.”
“I thought this was a negotiation?”
She purses his lips at me.
“Okay, Mr Steele, another point well made. How about an hour on three days and one day half an hour?”
“Three days, three hours. I get the impression you’re going to keep me exercised when I’m here.”
She smiles wickedly, and her eyes glow as if relieved. “Yes, I am. Okay, agreed. Are you sure you don’t want to intern at my company? You’re a good negotiator.”
“No, I don’t think that’s a good idea.” I stare down at her rules.
“So, limits. These are mine.” She hands me another piece of paper.
Hard Limits
No acts involving fire play
No acts involving urination or defecation and the products thereof
No acts involving needles, knives, piercing, or blood
No acts involving gynecological medical instruments
No acts involving children or animals
No acts that will leave any permanent marks on the skin
No acts involving breath control
Ugh. She has to write these down! Of course – they all look very sensible, and frankly, necessary… any sane person wouldn’t want to be involved in this sort of thing surely? Though I now feel a little queasy.
“Is there anything you’d like to add?” she asks kindly.
Crap. I’ve no idea. I am completely stumped. She gazes at me and furrows her brow. “Is there anything you won’t do?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
I squirm uncomfortably and bite my lip.
“I’ve never done anything like this.”
“Well, when you’ve had sex, was there anything that you didn’t like doing?”
For the first time in what seems to be ages, I blush.
“You can tell me, Andrew. We have to be honest with each other or this isn’t going to work.”
I squirm uncomfortably again and stare at my knotted fingers.
“Tell me,” she commands.
“Well… I’ve not had sex before, so I don’t know.” My voice is small. I peek up at her, and she’s staring at me, mouth-open, frozen, and pale - really pale.
“Never?” she whispers. I shake my head.
“You’re a virgin?” she breathes. I nod, flushing again. She closes her eyes and looks to be counting to ten. When she opens them again, she’s angry, glaring at me. “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?” she growls.