«I don’t see how. But Taylor is overcautious sometimes.»
«Have you searched your playroom?» I whisper.
Christian glances quickly at me, his brow creasing. «Yes, it’s locked—but Taylor and I checked.»
I take a deep, cleansing breath.
«Do you want a drink or anything?» Christian asks.
«No.» Fatigue sweeps through me—I just want to go to bed.
«Come. Let me put you to bed. You look exhausted.» Christian’s expression softens.
I frown. Isn’t he coming, too? Does he want to sleep alone?
I’m relieved when he leads me into his bedroom. I place my clutch bag on the chest of drawers and open it to empty the contents. I spy Mrs. Robinson’s note.
«Here.» I pass it to Christian. «I don’t know if you want to read this. I want to ignore it.»
Christian scans it briefly and his jaw tenses.
«I’m not sure what blanks she can fill in,” he says dismissively. «I need to talk to Taylor.» He gazes down at me. «Let me unzip your dress.»
«Are you going to call the police about the car?» I ask as I turn around.
He sweeps my hair out of the way, his fingers softly grazing my naked back, and tugs down my zipper.
«No. I don’t want the police involved. Leila needs help, not police intervention, and I don’t want them here. We just have to double our efforts to find her.» He leans down and plants a gentle kiss on my shoulder.
«Go to bed,” he orders and then he’s gone.
I lie, staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to return. So much has happened today, so much to process. Where to start?
I wake with a jolt—disorientated. Have I been asleep? Blinking in the dim glow the hallway casts through the slightly open bedroom door, I notice that Christian is not with me. Where is he? I glance up. Standing at the end of the bed is a shadow. A woman, maybe? Dressed in black? It’s difficult to tell.
In my befuddled state, I reach across and switch on the bedside light, then turn back to look but there’s no one there. I shake my head. Did I imagine it? Dream it?
I sit up and look around the room, a vague, insidious unease gripping me—but I am quite alone.
I rub my face. What time is it? Where’s Christian? The alarm says it’s two fifteen in the morning.
Climbing groggily out of bed, I set off to hunt him down, disconcerted by my overactive imagination. I am seeing things now. It must be a reaction to the dramatic events of the evening.
The main room is empty, the only light emanating from the three pendulum lamps above the breakfast bar. But his study door is ajar, and I hear him on the phone.
«I don’t know why you’re calling at this hour. I have nothing to say to you… well, you can tell me now. You don’t have to leave a message.»
I stand motionless by the door, eavesdropping guiltily. Who is he talking to?
«No, you listen. I asked you, and now I am telling you. Leave her alone. She’s nothing to do with you. Do you understand?»
He sounds belligerent and angry. I hesitate to knock.
«I know you do. But I mean it, Elena. Leave her the fuck alone. Do I need to put it in triplicate for you? Are you hearing me?… Good. Good night.» He slams the phone down on the desk.
«What?» he snarls, and I almost want to run and hide.
He sits at his desk with his head in his hands. He glances up, his expression ferocious, but his face softens immediately when he sees me. His eyes are wide and cautious. Suddenly, he looks so tired and my heart constricts.
He blinks, and his eyes sweep down my legs and back again. I am wearing one of his T–shirts.
«You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia,” he breathes. «But even in my T–shirt you look beautiful.»
Oh, an unexpected compliment. «I missed you. Come to bed.»
He rises slowly out of the chair still in his white shirt and black dress pants. But now his eyes are shining and full of promise… but there’s a trace of sadness, too. He stands in front of me, staring intently but not touching me.
«Do you know what you mean to me?» he murmurs. «If something happened to you, because of me …» His voice trails off, his brow creasing, and the pain that flashes across his face is almost palpable. He looks so vulnerable—his fear very much apparent.
«Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I reassure him, my voice soothing. I reach up and stroke his face, running my fingers through the stubble on his cheek. It’s unexpectedly soft. «Your beard grows quickly,” I whisper, unable to hide the wonder in my voice at this beautiful, fucked–up man who stands before me.
I trace the line of his bottom lip then trail my fingers down his throat, to the faint smudge of lipstick at the base of his neck. He gazes down at me, still not touching me, his lips parted. I run my index finger along the line, and he closes his eyes. His soft breathing quickens. My fingers reach the edge of his shirt, and I run them down to the next fastened button.
«I’m not going to touch you. I just want to undo your shirt,” I whisper.
