“That’s odd.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Could you send me what he has?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And keep this between us for now.”
“Will do, Mr. Grey.”
“Thanks, Barney. And go home.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barney’s e-mail arrives almost immediately, and I open the “Greys” folder. Sure enough, there are online articles about my parents and their charitable work; articles on me, my company, Charlie Tango and the Gulfstream; and photographs of Elliot, my parents, and me taken, I assume, from Mia’s Facebook page. And last, two photos of Ana and me—at her graduation and at the photographer’s exhibition.
What the hell would Hyde want with all that shit? It makes no sense. I know he has a thing for Ana, that’s consistent with his modus operandi. But my family? Me? It’s like he’s obsessed with us. Or maybe it’s all about Ana? This is weird. And frankly disturbing. I resolve to call Welch in the morning to discuss. He can investigate further and get me some answers.
I close the e-mail, and sitting in my inbox are a couple of final acquisition agreements from Marco. I need to read them tonight—but first some dinner.
“Evening, Gail,” I call out to her when I’m back in the living room.
“Good evening, Mr. Grey. Dinner in ten, sir?”
Ana is sitting at the kitchen counter with a glass of wine. After dealing with that asshole, I think she’s earned it. I’ll join her. I retrieve the open bottle of Sancerre and pour one for myself.
“Sounds good,” I respond to Gail and raise my glass to Ana. “To ex-military men who train their daughters well.”
“Cheers,” she says, but she looks a little crestfallen.
“What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know if I still have a job.”
“Do you still want one?”
“Of course.”
“Then you still have one.”
She rolls her eyes, and I smile and take another sip of my wine.
“So, did you talk to Barney?” she asks, as I take a seat beside her.
“I did.”
“And?”
“And what?”
“What did Jack have on his computer?”
“Nothing important.”
Mrs. Jones places our food in front of us. Chicken pot pie. One of my favorites.
“Thanks, Gail.”
“Enjoy, Mr. Grey. Ana,” she says pleasantly, and departs.
“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Ana persists.
“Tell you what?”
She sighs and purses her lips, then takes another bite of her meal.
The contents of Jack’s computer are not something I want Ana to worry about.
“José called,” she says, changing the subject.
“Oh?”
“He wants to deliver your photos on Friday.”
“A personal delivery.” Why is the artist doing this and not the gallery? “How accommodating of him.”
“He wants to go out. For a drink. With me.”
“I see.”
“And Kate and Elliot should be back.”
I put my fork down on my plate. “What exactly are you asking?”
“I’m not asking anything. I’m informing you of my plans for Friday. Look, I want to see José, and he wants to stay over. Either he stays here or he can stay at my place, but if he does, I should be there, too.”
“He made a pass at you.”
“Christian, that was weeks ago. He was drunk, I was drunk, you saved the day—it won’t happen again. He’s no Jack, for heaven’s sake.”
“Ethan’s there. He can keep him company.”
“He wants to see me, not Ethan,” Ana says.
I scowl at her.
“He’s just a friend,” she continues.
She’s already endured Hyde—what if Rodriguez gets drunk and tries his luck again with Ana? “I don’t like it.”
Ana takes a deep breath; she’s trying to keep her cool. “He’s my friend, Christian. I haven’t seen him since his show. And that was too brief. I know you don’t have any friends, apart from that god-awful woman, but I don’t moan about you seeing her.”
What has Elena got to do with this? And I’m reminded that I haven’t responded to her texts.
“I want to see him,” she continues. “I’ve been a poor friend to him.”
“Is that what you think?” I ask.
“Think about what?”
“Elena. You’d rather I didn’t see her?”
“Exactly. I’d rather you didn’t see her.”
“Why didn’t you say?”
“Because it’s not my place to say. You think she’s your only friend.” She’s exasperated. “Just as it’s not your place to say if I can or can’t see José. Don’t you see that?”
She has a point. If he stays here, then he can’t make a pass at her. Can he?
“He can stay here, I suppose. I can keep an eye on him.”
“Thank you! You know, if I am going to live here, too…” Her voice trails off.
Yes. She’ll need to invite her friends here. Jesus. I hadn’t thought about that.
“It’s not like you haven’t got the space.” She waves a hand in the general direction of my apartment.
“Are you smirking at me, Miss Steele?”
“Most definitely, Mr. Grey.” She gets up and clears both of our plates.
“Gail will do that,” I say as she sashays over to the dishwasher. But I’m too late.
“I’ve done it now.”
“I have to work for a while.”
“Cool. I’ll find something to do.”