* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Somniloquy
Date: June 2 2011 10:28 EST
To: Anastasia Steele
I have never claimed to be a gentleman, Anastasia, and I think I have demonstrated that point to you on numerous occasions. I am not intimidated by your SHOUTY capitals. But I will confess to a small white lie: no—you don’t snore, but you do talk. And it’s fascinating.
What happened to my kiss?
Christian Grey
Cad & CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
This will drive her crazy.
* * *
From: Anastasia Steele
Subject: Spill the Beans
Date: June 2 2011 10:32 EST
To: Christian Grey
You are a cad and a scoundrel—definitely no gentleman.
So, what did I say? No kisses for you until you talk!
Oh, this could run and run…
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Sleeping Talking Beauty
Date: June 2 2011 10:35 EST
To: Anastasia Steele
It would be most ungallant of me to say, and I have already been chastised for that.
But if you behave yourself, I may tell you this evening. I do have to go into a meeting now.
Laters, baby.
Christian Grey
CEO, Cad & Scoundrel, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
With a broad grin I slip on my tie, grab my jacket, and head downstairs to find Taylor.
JUST OVER AN HOUR later, I’m winding up my meeting with the Savannah Brownfield Redevelopment Authority. Georgia has a great deal to offer, and the team has promised GEH some serious tax incentives. There’s a knock at the door and Taylor enters the small conference room. His face looks grim, but what’s more worrying is that he never, ever interrupts my meetings. My scalp prickles.
Ana? Is she okay?
“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen,” he says to all of us.
“Yes, Taylor,” I ask, and he approaches and speaks discreetly in my ear.
“We have a situation at home concerning Miss Leila Williams.”
Leila? What the hell? And part of me is relieved that it’s not Ana.
“Would you excuse me, please?” I ask the two men and two women from the SBRA.
In the hallway, Taylor’s tone is grave as he apologizes once more for interrupting my meeting.
“Don’t worry. Tell me what’s happened.”
“Miss Williams is in an ambulance on the way to the ER at Seattle Free Hope.”
“Ambulance?”
“Yes, sir. She broke into the apartment and made a suicide attempt in front of Mrs. Jones.”
Fuck. “Suicide?” Leila? In my apartment?
“She slashed her wrist. Gail went with her in the ambulance. She’s informed me that the EMTs arrived in time and Miss Williams is not in any immediate danger.”
“Why Escala? Why in front of Gail?” I’m shocked.
Taylor shakes his head. “I don’t know, sir. Neither does Gail. She can’t get any sense out of Miss Williams. Apparently, she only wants to talk to you.”
“Fuck.”
“Exactly, sir,” Taylor says without judgment. I scrape my hands through my hair, trying to grasp the magnitude of what Leila has done. What the hell am I supposed to do? Why did she come to me? Was she expecting to see me? Where’s her husband? What’s happened to him?
“How’s Gail?”
“A little shaken.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“I thought you should know, sir.”
“Yes. Sure. Thanks,” I mumble, distracted. I can’t believe it; Leila seemed happy when she last e-mailed, what, six or seven months ago. But there are no answers for me here in Georgia—I have to go back and talk to her. Find out why. “Tell Stephan to ready the jet. I need to go home.”
“Will do.”
“Let’s leave as soon as we can.”
“I’ll be in the car.”
“Thank you.”
Taylor heads toward the exit, raising the phone to his ear.
I’m reeling.
Leila. What the hell?
She’s been out of my life for a couple of years. We’ve shared the occasional e-mail. She got married. She seemed happy. What’s happened?
I head back into the boardroom and make my apologies before stepping outside into the stifling heat, where Taylor is waiting in the Suburban.
“The plane will be ready in forty-five minutes. We can head back to the hotel, pack, and go,” he informs me.
“Good,” I respond, grateful for the car’s air-conditioning. “I should call Gail.”
“I’ve tried, but her phone goes to voice mail. I think she’s still at the hospital.”
“Okay, I’ll call her later.” This is not what Gail needs on a Thursday morning. “How did Leila get into the apartment?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Taylor makes eye contact with me in the rearview mirror, his face apologetic and grim at once. “I’ll make it a priority to find out.”
OUR BAGS ARE PACKED and we’re on our way to Savannah/Hilton Head International when I call Ana, but frustratingly, she doesn’t answer. I brood, staring out the window as we cruise toward the airport. I don’t have to wait long for her to return my call.
“Anastasia.”
“Hi,” she says, her voice breathy, and it’s such a pleasure to hear her.
“I have to return to Seattle. Something’s come up. I am on my way to the airport now. Please apologize to your mother—I can’t make dinner.”
“Nothing serious, I hope?”
“I have a situation that I have to deal with. I’ll see you tomorrow. I’ll send Taylor to meet you at Sea-Tac if I can’t come myself.”