"Shaken," Carrick murmurs to me, his brow furrowing, his face serious. "He remembers so much of his life with his birth mother; many things I wish he didn't. But this - " He stops. "I hope we've helped. I'm glad he called us. He said you told him to." Carrick's gaze softens. I shrug and take a hasty sip of champagne.
"You're very good for him. He doesn't listen to anyone else."
I blink up at Carrick, frowning. I don't think that's true. The unwelcome specter of the Bitch Troll looms large in my mind. I know Christian talks to Grace, too. I heard him. Again I feel a moment's frustration as I try to fathom their conversation in the hospital, but it still eludes me.
"Come and sit down, Ana. You look tired. I'm sure you weren't expecting all of us here this evening."
"It's great to see everyone." I smile. Because it's true, it is great. I'm an only child who has married into a large and gregarious family, and I love it. I snuggle up next to Christian.
"One sip," he hisses at me and takes my glass from my hand.
"Yes, Sir." I bat my lashes, disarming him completely. He puts his arm around my shoulders and returns to his baseball conversation with Elliot and Ethan.
"My parents think you walk on water," Christian mutters as he drags off his T-shirt. I'm curled up in bed watching the floorshow.
"Good thing you know differently." I snort.
"Oh, I don't know." He slips out of his jeans.
"Did they fill in the gaps for you?"
"Some. I lived with the Colliers for two months while Mom and Dad waited for the paperwork. They were already approved for adoption because of Elliot, but the wait's required by law to see if I had any living relatives who wanted to claim me."
Oh.
"How do you feel about that?" I whisper.
He frowns. "About having no living relatives? Fuck that. If they were anything like the crack whore . . ." He shakes his head in disgust. Oh, Christian! You were a child, and you loved your mom.
He slides on his pajamas, climbs into bed, and gently pulls me into his arms.
"It's coming back to me. I remember the food. I think Mrs. Collier could cook. And at least we know now why that f**ker is so hung up on my family." He runs his free hand through his hair. "Fuck!" he says suddenly turning to gape at me.
"What?"
"It makes sense now!" His eyes are full of recognizance.
"What?"
"Baby Bird. Mrs. Collier used to call me Baby Bird."
I frown. "What makes sense?"
"The note," he says gazing at me. "The ransom note that f**ker left. It went something like 'Do you know who I am? Because I know who you are, Baby Bird.' "
This is not makes no sense to me at all.
"It's from a kids book. Shit. I've just remembered. The Colliers had it. It was called . . . 'Are You My Mother?' Shit." His eyes widen. "I loved that book."
Oh. I know that book. My heart lurches - Fifty!
"Mrs. Collier used to read it to me."
I am at a loss what to say.
"Christ. He knew . . . that f**ker knew."
"Will you tell the police?"
"Yes. I will. Christ knows what Clark will do with that information." Christian shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. "Anyway, thank you for this evening."
Whoa. Gear change.
"For what?"
"Catering for my family at a moment's notice."
"Don't thank me, thank Mia and Mrs. Jones. She keeps the pantry well stocked."
He shakes his head as if in exasperation. At me? Why?
"How are you feeling, Mrs. Grey?"
"Good. How are you feeling?"
"I'm fine." He frowns . . . not understanding my concern. Oh . . . in that case. I trail my fingers down his stomach to his oh-sohappy trail.
He laughs and grabs my hand. "Oh no. Don't get any ideas."
I pout, and he sighs. "Ana, Ana, Ana, what am I going to do with you?" He kisses my hair.
"I have some ideas." I squirm beside him, and wince as pain radiates through my upper body from my bruised ribs.
"Baby, you've been through enough. Besides, I have a bedtime story for you."
Oh?
"You wanted to know . . ." He trails off, closes his eyes and swallows. All of the hair on my body stands on end . Shit. He begins in a soft voice. "Picture this, an adolescent boy looking to earn some extra money so he can continue his secret drinking habit."
He shifts onto his side so that we're lying facing each other and he's gazing into my eyes.
"So I was in the backyard at the Lincolns', clearing some rubble and trash from the extension Mr. Lincoln had just added to their place . . ."
Holy f**k . . . he's talking.
Chapter Twenty-five
I can barely breathe. Do I want to hear this? Christian closes his eyes and swallows. When he opens them again, they are bright but diffident, full of disquieting memories.
"It was a hot summer day. I was working hard." He snorts and shakes his head, suddenly amused. "It was backbreaking work shifting that rubble. I was on my own, and Ele - Mrs. Lincoln appeared out of nowhere and brought me some lemonade. We exchanged small talk, and I made some smart-ass remark . . . and she slapped me. She slapped me so hard." Unconsciously, his hand moves to his face and he caresses his cheek, his eyes clouding at the memory. Holy shit!
"But then she kissed me. And when she finished, she slapped me again." He blinks, seemingly still confounded even after all this time.
"I'd never been kissed before or hit like that."
Oh. She pounced. On a kid.