I shake my head sleepily. No way.
As we stand in the elevator, I lean against him, putting my head against his shoulder.
Sawyer stands in front of us, shifting uncomfortably.
"It's been a long day, eh, Anastasia?"
I nod.
"Tired?"
I nod.
"You're not very talkative."
I nod and he grins.
"Come. I'll put you to bed." He takes my hand as we exit the elevator, but we stop in the foyer when Sawyer holds up his hand. In that split second, I am instantly wide awake.
Sawyer talks into his sleeve. I had no idea that he was wearing a radio.
"Will do, T," he says and turns to face us. "Mr. Grey, the tires on Ms. Steele's Audi have been slashed and paint thrown all over it."
Holy shit. My car! Who would do that? And I know the answer as soon as the question materializes in my mind. Leila. I glance up at Christian, and he blanches.
"Taylor is concerned that the perp may have entered the apartment and may still be there. He wants to make sure."
"I see," Christian whispers. "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." Christian tightens his arm around me. "This day just gets better and better," he sighs bitterly, nuzzling my 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 am sure Taylor is overreacting. She can't get into the apartment."
What? "No, Christian - you have to stay with me," I plead.
Christian releases me. "Do as you're told, Anastasia. Wait here."
No!
"Sawyer?" Christian says.
Sawyer opens the foyer door to let Christian enter the apartment then shuts the door behind him and stands in front of it, staring impassively down at me.
Holy shit. Christian! All manner of horrific outcomes run through my mind, but all I can do is stand and wait.
Chapter Eight
Sawyer talks into his sleeve again.
"Taylor, Mr. Grey has entered the apartment." He flinches and grabs the earpiece, pulling it out of his ear, presumably receiving some powerful invective from Taylor.
Oh no - if Taylor is worried...
"Please let me go in," I plead.
"Sorry, Miss Steele. This won't take long." Sawyer holds both hands up in a defensive gesture. "Taylor and the guys are just coming into the apartment now."
Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock-still, I listen avidly for the slightest sound, but all I hear is my aggravated breathing. It's loud and shallow, my scalp prickles, my mouth is dry, and I feel faint. Please, let Christian be okay, I pray silently.
I have no idea how much time passes, and still we hear nothing. Surely no sound is good - there are no gunshots. I begin pacing around the table in the foyer and examine the paintings on the walls to distract myself.
I've never really looked at them before: all figurative paintings, all religious - the Madonna and child, all sixteen of them. How odd?
Christian isn't religious, is he? All of the paintings in the great room are abstracts -
these are so different. They don't distract me for long - Where is Christian?
I stare at Sawyer and he watches me impassively.
"What's happening?"
"No news, Miss Steele."
Abruptly, the doorknob moves. Sawyer spins like a top and draws a gun from his shoulder holster.
I freeze. Christian appears at the door.
"All clear," he says, frowning at Sawyer, who puts his gun away immediately and steps back to let me in.
"Taylor is overreacting," Christian grumbles as he holds out his hand to me. I stand gaping at him, unable to move, drinking in every little detail: his unruly hair, the tightness round his eyes, the tense jaw, the top two buttons of his shirt undone. I think I must have aged ten years. Christian frowns at me in concern, his eyes dark.
"It's alright, baby." He moves toward me, enveloping me in his arms, and kisses my hair. "Come on, you're tired. Bed."
"I was so worried," I murmur, rejoicing in his embrace and inhaling his sweet, sweet scent with my head against his chest.
"I know. We're all jumpy."
Sawyer has disappeared, presumably into the apartment.
"Honestly, your exes are proving to be very challenging, Mr. Grey," I mutter wryly.
Christian relaxes.
"Yes. They are."
He releases me and taking my hand, leads me across the hallway and into the great room.
"Taylor and his crew are checking all the closets and cupboards. I don't think she's here."
"Why would she be here?" It makes no sense.
"Exactly."
"Could she get in?"
"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.