“You told her?” she exclaims.
“Told who what?”
“That I call her Mrs. Robinson.”
“It’s from Elena? This is ridiculous.” I told Elena to leave Ana alone. Why is she ignoring me? And what has she said to Ana? What the hell is her problem? “I’ll deal with her tomorrow. Or Monday.” I want to read the note, but Ana doesn’t give me the opportunity. She stuffs it in her purse but fishes out the kegel balls.
“Until next time,” she says, handing them back to me.
Next time?
Now, that is good news. I squeeze her hand and she returns the gesture as she stares out of the window into the darkness.
Midway across the 520 bridge, she’s asleep. I take a moment to relax. So much has happened today. I’m tired, so I put my head back and close my eyes.
Yeah. It’s been quite a day.
Ana and the check. Her bad temper. Her willfulness. The lipstick. The sex.
Yes. The sex.
And of course I will have to deal with my mother’s anxiety and her offensive concern that Ana is an opportunist who’s after my fortune.
And then there’s Elena, interfering, behaving badly. What the hell am I going to do about her?
I look at my image reflected in the car window. The sallow, ghoulish figure stares back at me and disappears only when we exit I-5 onto a well-lit Stewart Street. We are close to home.
Ana is still asleep when we pull up outside. Sawyer jumps out of the car and opens my door.
“Do I need to carry you in?” I ask Ana, squeezing her hand. She wakes and sleepily shakes her head. With Sawyer in front of us, keeping vigil, we walk into the building together as Taylor takes the car into the garage.
Ana leans on me in the elevator and closes her eyes.
“It’s been a long day, eh, Anastasia?”
She nods.
“Tired?”
She nods.
“You’re not very talkative,” I observe.
She nods once more, making me smile.
“Come. I’ll put you to bed.” My fingers curl around hers, and we follow Sawyer out of the elevator and into the foyer. Sawyer halts in front of us and holds up his hand. I tighten my grip on Ana’s fingers.
What the hell?
“Will do, T,” Sawyer says, and turns to face us. “Mr. Grey, the tires on Ms. Steele’s Audi have been slashed and paint thrown all over it.”
Ana gasps.
What?
My immediate thought is that some mindless vandal has broken into the garage…then I remember Leila.
What the hell has she done?
Sawyer continues. “Taylor is concerned that the perp may have entered the apartment and may still be there. He wants to make sure.”
How can anyone be in the apartment?
“I see. What’s Taylor’s plan?”
“He’s coming up in the service elevator with Ryan and Reynolds. They’ll do a sweep, then give us the all-clear. I’m to wait with you, sir.”
“Thank you, Sawyer.” I tighten my hold on Ana. “This day just gets better and better.” There’s no way Leila could be in the apartment. Is there?
And I recall those moments when I thought I saw something move at the periphery of my vision…and when I woke because I thought someone had ruffled my hair, only to find Ana fast asleep beside me. A shiver of doubt runs down my spine.
Shit.
If Leila’s here, I need to know. I don’t think she’ll hurt me. I kiss Ana’s hair. “Listen, I can’t stand here and wait. Sawyer, take care of Miss Steele. Don’t let her in until you have the all-clear. I’m sure Taylor is overreacting. She can’t get into the apartment.”
“No, Christian.” Ana tries to stop me, her fingers clasping my lapels. “You have to stay with me.”
“Do as you’re told, Anastasia. Wait here.” I sound sterner than I mean to, and she releases me. “Sawyer?” He’s standing in my way, uncertain. I raise a brow, and after a moment’s hesitation he opens the double doors into the apartment and lets me go through. He closes them behind me.
In the hallway outside the living room it’s dark and quiet. I stand and listen, straining my ears for anything unusual. All I hear is the sigh of the wind as it wraps itself around the building, and the hum of the electrical appliances from the kitchen. Far below in the street there’s a police siren, but apart from that, Escala is still and quiet, as it should be.
If Leila were here, where would she go?
My first thought is the playroom, and I’m about to dash upstairs when there’s a rumble and a ping from the service elevator, and Taylor and the two other security guys spill out into the corridor wielding guns, as if they’re in some macho action movie.
“Are those strictly necessary?” I ask Taylor, who’s leading the charge.
“We’re taking the necessary precautions, sir.”
“I don’t think she’s here.”
“We’ll do a quick sweep.”
“Okay,” I reply, resigned. “I’ll check upstairs.”
“I’ll come with you, Mr. Grey.” I suspect that Taylor is being unduly concerned for my safety.