fifty shades darker (69 page)

He steps back as if he’s been struck and gapes at her in outraged disbelief.

“You loved it, Christian, don’t try and kid yourself. You were on the road to self-de-struction, and I saved you from that, saved you from a life behind bars. Believe me, baby, that’s where you would have ended up. I taught you everything you know, everything you need.”

Christian blanches, staring at her in horror. When he speaks, his voice is low and incredulous.

“You taught me how to fuck, Elena. But it’s empty, like you. No wonder Linc left.”

Bile rises in my mouth. I should not be here. But I’m frozen to the spot, morbidly fascinated as they eviscerate each other.

“You never once held me,” Christian whispers. “You never once said you loved me.”

She narrows her eyes. “Love is for fools, Christian.”

“Get out of my house.” Grace’s implacable, furious voice startles us. Three heads swing rapidly to where Grace stands on the threshold of the room. She is glaring at Elena, who pales beneath her St. Tropez tan.

Time seems suspended as we collectively take a deep gasping breath, and Grace stalks deliberately into the room. Her eyes blaze with fury, never once leaving Elena, until she stands before her. Elena’s eyes widen in alarm, and Grace slaps her hard across the face, the sound of the impact resounding off the walls of the dining room.

“Take your filthy paws off my son, you whore, and get out of my house—now!” she hisses through gritted teeth.

Elena clutches her reddening cheek and stares in horror for a moment, shocked and blinking at Grace. Then she hurries from the room, not bothering to close the door behind her. Grace turns slowly to face Christian and a tense silence settles like a thick blanket over us as Christian and Grace stare at each other. After a beat, Grace speaks.

“Ana, before I hand him over to you, would you mind giving me a minute or two alone with my son?” Her voice is quiet, husky, but oh-so-strong.

“Of course,” I whisper, and exit as quickly as I can, glancing anxiously over my shoulder. But neither of them look at me as I leave. They continue to stare at each other, their unspoken communication blaringly loud.

In the hallway, I am momentarily lost. My heart pounds and my blood races through my veins . . . I feel panicked and out of my depth. Holy fuck, that was heavy and now Grace knows. Crap. I can’t think what she’s going to say to Christian, and I know it’s wrong, I know, but I lean against the door trying to listen.

“How long, Christian?” Grace’s voice is soft. I can barely hear her.

I cannot hear his reply.

“How old were you?” Her voice is more insistent. “Tell me. How old were you when this all started?” Again I can’t hear Christian.

“Everything okay, Ana?” Ros interrupts me.

“Yes. Fine. Thank you. I . . .”

Ros smiles. “I’m just going to fetch my purse. I need a cigarette.”

For a brief moment, I contemplate joining her.

“I’m off to the bathroom.” I need to gather my wits and my thoughts, to process what I’ve just witnessed and heard. Upstairs seems the safest place to be on my own. I watch Ros stroll into the drawing room, and I bolt two stairs at a time to the second floor, then up to the third. There’s only one place I want to be.

I open the door to Christian’s childhood bedroom and shut it behind me, taking a huge gulping breath. Heading for his bed, I flop onto it and stare at the plain white ceiling.

Holy cow. That has to be, without doubt, one of the most excruciating confrontations I’ve ever had to endure, and now I feel numb. My fiancé and his ex-lover—no would-be bride should have to see that. Having said that, part of me is glad she’s revealed her true self, and that I was there to bear witness.

My thoughts turn to Grace. Poor Grace, to hear all that. I clutch one of Christian’s pillows. She’ll have overheard that Christian and Elena had an affair—but not the nature of it. Thank heavens. I groan.

What am I doing? Perhaps the evil witch had a point.

No, I refuse to believe that. She’s so cold and cruel. I shake my head. She’s wrong. I am right for Christian. I am what he needs. And in a moment of stunning clarity, I don’t question
how
he’s lived his life until recently—but
why.
His reasons for doing what he’s done to countless girls—I don’t even want to know how many. The how isn’t wrong. They were all adults. They were all—how did Flynn put it?—in safe, sane, consensual relationships. It’s the why. The why was wrong. The why was from his place of darkness.

I close my eyes and drape my arm over them. But now he’s moved on, left it behind, and we are both in the light. I’m dazzled by him and he by me. We can guide each other. A thought occurs to me.
Shit!
A gnawing, insidious thought and I’m in the one place where I can lay this ghost to rest. I sit up. Yes, I must do this.

Shakily I get to my feet, kick off my shoes, walk over to his desk, and examine the pin board above it. The photos of young Christian are all still there—more poignant than ever as I think of the spectacle I’ve just witnessed between him and Mrs. Robinson. And there in the corner is the small black and white photo—his mother, the crack whore.

I switch on the desk lamp and focus the light on her picture. I don’t even know her name. She looks so much like him but younger and sadder and all I feel, looking at her sor-rowful face, is compassion. I try to see the similarities between her face and mine. I squint at the picture, getting really, really close, and see none. Except maybe our hair, but I think hers is lighter than mine. I don’t look like her at all. It’s a relief.

My subconscious tuts at me, arms crossed, glaring over her half-moon glasses. Why are you torturing yourself?
You’ve said yes. You’ve made your bed.
I purse my lips at her.

Yes I have, gladly so. I want to lie in that bed with Christian for the rest of my life. My inner goddess, sitting in the lotus position, smiles serenely. Yes. I’ve made the right decision.

I must find him—Christian will be worried. I have no idea how long I’ve been in his room; he’ll think that I’ve fled. I roll my eyes as I contemplate his overreaction. I hope that he and Grace have finished. I shudder to think what else she might have said to him.

I meet Christian as he climbs the stairs to the second floor, looking for me. His face is strained and weary—not the carefree Fifty I arrived with. As I stand on the landing, he stops on the top stair so that we are eye to eye.

“Hi,” he says cautiously.

“Hi,” I answer warily.

“I was worried—”

“I know,” I interrupt him. “I’m sorry—I couldn’t face the festivities. I just had to get away, you know. To think.” Reaching up, I caress his face. He closes his eyes and leans his face into my hand.

“And you thought you’d do that in my room?”

“Yes.”

He reaches for my hand and pulls me into an embrace, and I go willingly into his arms, my favorite place in the whole world. He smells of fresh laundry, body wash, and Christian—the most calming and arousing scent on the planet. He inhales with his nose in my hair.“I’m sorry you had to endure all that.”

“It’s not your fault, Christian. Why was she here?” He gazes down at me, and his mouth curls apologetically.

“She’s a family friend.”

I try not to react. “Not any more. How’s your mom?”

“Mom is pretty fucking mad at me right now. I’m really glad you’re here, and that we’re in the middle of a party. Otherwise I might be breathing my last.”

“That bad, huh?”

He nods, his eyes serious, and I sense his bewilderment at her reaction.

“Can you blame her?” My voice is quiet, cajoling.

He hugs me tightly and he seems uncertain, processing his thoughts.

Finally he answers. “No.”

Whoa! Breakthrough.
“Can we sit?” I ask.

“Sure. Here?”

I nod and we both sit at the top of the stairs.

“So, how do you feel?” I ask, anxiously clutching his hand and gazing at his sad, serious face.

He sighs.

“I feel liberated.” He shrugs, then beams—a glorious, carefree Christian smile, and the weariness and strain present moments ago have vanished.

“Really?” I beam back. Wow, I’d crawl over broken glass for that smile.

“Our business relationship is over. Done.”

I frown at him. “Will you liquidate the salon business?”

He snorts. “I’m not that vindictive, Anastasia,” he admonishes me. “No. I’ll gift them to her. I’ll talk to my lawyer Monday. I owe her that much.”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “No more Mrs. Robinson?” His mouth twists in amusement and he shakes his head.

“Gone.”

I grin.

“I’m sorry you lost a friend.”

He shrugs then smirks. “Are you?”

“No,” I confess, flushing.

“Come.” He stands and offers me his hand. “Let’s join the party in our honor. I might even get drunk.”

“Do you get drunk?” I ask as I take his hand.

“Not since I was a wild teenager.” We walk down the stairs.

“Have you eaten?” he asks.

Oh crap.

“No.”

“Well you should. From the look and smell of Elena, that was one of my father’s lethal cocktails you threw over her.” He gazes at me, trying and failing to keep the amusement off his face.

“Christian, I—”

He holds up his hand.

“No arguing, Anastasia. If you’re going to drink—and throw alcohol over my exes—

you need to eat. It’s rule number one. I believe we’ve already had that discussion after our first night together.”

Oh yes. The Heathman.

Back in the hallway, he pauses to caress my face, his fingers skimming my jaw.

“I lay awake for hours and watched you sleep,” he murmurs. “I might have loved you even then.”

Oh.

He leans down and kisses me softly, and I melt everywhere, all the tension of the last hour or so seeping languidly from my body.

“Eat,” he whispers.

“Okay,” I acquiesce because right now I’d probably do anything for him. Taking my hand, he leads me toward the kitchen where the party is in full swing.

“Goodnight, John, Rhian.”

“Congratulations again, Ana. You two will be just fine.” Dr. Flynn smiles kindly at us, standing arm in arm in the hallway as he and Rhian take their leave.

“Goodnight.”

Christian closes the door and shakes his head. He gazes down at me, his eyes suddenly bright with excitement.

What’s this?

“Just the family left. I think my mother has had too much to drink.” Grace is singing karaoke on some game console in the family room. Kate and Mia are giving her a run for her money.

“Do you blame her?” I smirk at him, trying to keep the atmosphere between us light.

I succeed.

“Are you smirking at me, Miss Steele?”

“I am.”

“It’s been quite a day.”

“Christian, recently, every day with you has been quite a day.” My voice is sardonic.

He shakes his head. “Fair point well made, Miss Steele. Come—I want to show you something.” Taking my hand, he leads me through the house to the kitchen where Carrick, Ethan, and Elliot are talking Mariners, drinking the last of the cocktails, and eating leftovers.

“Off for a stroll?” Elliot teases suggestively as we make our way through the French doors. Christian ignores him. Carrick frowns at Elliot, shaking his head in a silent rebuke.

As we make our way up the steps to the lawn, I take off my shoes. The half-moon shines brightly over the bay. It’s brilliant, casting everything in myriad of shades of gray as the lights of Seattle twinkle sweetly in the distance. The lights of the boathouse are on, a soft glowing beacon in the cool cast of the moon.

“Christian, I’d like to go to church tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“I prayed you’d come back alive and you did. It’s the least I could do.”

“Okay.”

We wander hand in hand in a relaxed silence for a few moments. Then something occurs to me.

“Where are you going to put the photos José took of me?”

“I thought we might put them in the new house.”

“You bought it?”

He stops to stare at me, and his voice full of concern. “Yes. I thought you liked it.”

“I do. When did you buy it?”

“Yesterday morning. Now we need to decide what to do with it,” he murmurs, relieved.

“Don’t knock it down. Please. It’s such a lovely house. It just needs some tender loving care.”

Christian glances at me and smiles. “Okay. I’ll talk to Elliot. He knows a good architect; she did some work on my place is Aspen. He can do the remodeling.”

I snort, suddenly remembering the last time we crossed the lawn under the moonlight to the boathouse. Oh, perhaps that’s what we’re going to do now. I grin.

“What?”

“I remember the last time you took me to the boathouse.”

Christian chuckles quietly. “Oh, that was fun. In fact . . .” He suddenly stops and scoops me over his shoulder, and I squeal, though we don’t have far to go.

“You were really angry, if I remember correctly,” I gasp.

“Anastasia, I’m always really angry.”

“No you’re not.”

He swats my behind as he stops outside the wooden door. He slides me down his body back to the ground and takes my head in his hands.

“No, not anymore.” Leaning down, he kisses me, hard. When he pulls away, I’m breathless and desire is racing round my body.

He gazes down at me, and in the glow of the strip of light coming from inside the boathouse, I can see he’s anxious. My anxious man, not a white knight or a dark knight, but a man—a beautiful, not-quite-so-fucked-up man—whom I love. I reach up and caress his face, running my fingers through his sideburns and along his jaw to his chin, then let my index finger touch his lips. He relaxes.

“I’ve something to show you in here,” he murmurs and opens the door.

The harsh light of the fluorescents illuminates the impressive motor launch in the dock, bobbing gently on the dark water. There’s a row boat beside it.

“Come.” Christian takes my hand and leads me up the wooden stairs. Opening the door at the top, he steps aside to let me in.

My mouth drops to the floor. The attic is unrecognizable. The room is filled with flowers . . . there are flowers everywhere. Someone has created a magical bower of beautiful wild meadow flowers mixed with glowing fairy lights and miniature lanterns that glow soft and pale round the room.