“Do you?”

“Yes. I knew what you said was an empty, idle threat. I know you’re not going to beat the shit out of me.”

“I wanted to.”

“No, you didn’t. You just thought you did.”

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

“Think about it,” she says, embracing me and nuzzling my chest. “About how you felt when I left. You’ve told me often enough what that did to you. How it altered your view of the world, of me. I know what you’ve given up for me. Think about how you felt about the cuff marks on our honeymoon.”

She has a point. Thinking back, I felt like an asshole, and I don’t want her to leave me again. She tightens her arms around me and gently rubs my back, and slowly, oh-so-slowly, my tension eases. She presses her cheek to my chest, and I can resist her no more. Leaning down, I kiss her hair, and she turns her face up, offering her mouth to me. I kiss her, my lips begging her to do as she’s told, begging her not to go, begging her to stay. She kisses me back.

“You have such faith in me,” I murmur.

“I do.”

I stroke her face, staring into her beautiful eyes, seeing her compassion, her love, and her desire.

What did I do to deserve her?

She smiles. “Besides,” she whispers, an impish look on her face, “you don’t have the paperwork.”

I laugh and clutch her to my chest. “You’re right. I don’t.” We hold each other, and a quiet peace settles between us; it’s the first time I’ve felt any tranquility since my trip to New York. Is this the end of hostilities?

“Come to bed,” I whisper.

“Christian, we need to talk.”

“Later.”

“Christian, please. Talk to me.”

Damn. I sigh as my spirits sink. Perhaps we’re just in the eye of the storm. “About what?” Even to my own ears, I sound petulant.

“You know. You keep me in the dark.”

“I want to protect you.”

“I’m not a child.”

“I am fully aware of that, Mrs. Grey.” I skim my hands over her body and fondle her backside, pressing my interested cock against her.

“Christian!” she scolds. “Talk to me.”

Ana is as persistent as ever. “What do you want to know?” Releasing her, I pick up her e-mail that’s fallen to the floor and take her hand.

“Lots of things,” she says, as I lead her to the couch.

“Sit.” She obeys, and I take a seat beside her. Putting my head in my hands, I steel myself for her onslaught of questions. Then I turn to face her. “Ask me.”

“Why the additional security for your family?”

“Hyde was a threat to them.”

“How do you know?”

“From his computer. It held personal details about me and the rest of my family. Especially Carrick.”

“Carrick? Why him?”

“I don’t know yet.” This feels like the Inquisition. I change tack. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Christian, tell me!”

“Tell you what?”

“You are so exasperating,” she says, holding up her hands.

“So are you.”

She sighs. “You didn’t ramp up the security when you first found out there was information about your family on the computer. So what happened? Why now?”

“I didn’t know he was going to attempt to burn down my building, or—” I stop. I don’t want to tell her about Charlie Tango. She’ll worry. I change tack again. “We thought it was an unwelcome obsession, but you know”—I shrug—“when you’re in the public eye, people are interested. It was random stuff: news reports on me from when I was at Harvard—my rowing, my career. Reports on Carrick—following his career, following my mom’s career—and, to some extent, Elliot and Mia.”

She frowns. “You said ‘or.’”

“Or what?”

“You said ‘attempt to burn down my building, or…’ Like you were going to say something else.”

She misses nothing.

“Are you hungry?” I try distraction and, on cue, her stomach rumbles. “Did you eat today?” She flushes, and I have my answer. “As I thought. You know how I feel about you not eating. Come.” Standing, I hold out my hand, and my mood softens. “Let me feed you.”

“Feed me?”

I guide Ana over to the kitchen, and I grab a barstool and drag it around to the other side of the island. “Sit.”

“Where’s Mrs. Jones?” Ana perches on the stool.

“I’ve given her and Taylor the night off.”

“Why?” She looks incredulous.

They deserve an evening off after last night. “Because I can.” Simple.

“So you’re going to cook?” Now she sounds incredulous.

“Oh, ye of little faith, Mrs. Grey. Close your eyes.”

She looks at me askance, still unsure.

“Close them!”

With a withering look, she complies.

“Hmm. Not good enough.” From my back pocket I pull out the scarf I bought earlier, and I’m pleased to see it’s a good match for her dress. She raises a brow. “Close. No peeking.”

“You’re going to blindfold me?” Her voice is soft and high-pitched.

“Yes.”