A gray-haired man with a beard walks over to meet us, smiling broadly, and I recognize him as the old-timer from the last time we were here.
“Joe.” Christian smiles and releases my hand to shake Joe’s warmly.
“Keep her safe for Stephan. He’ll be along around eight or nine.”
“Will do, Mr. Grey. Ma’am,” he says, nodding at me. “Your car’s waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator’s out of order; you’ll need to use the stairs.”
“Thank you, Joe.”
Christian takes my hand, and we head to the emergency stairs.
“Good thing for you this is only three floors, in those heels,” he mutters to me in disapproval.
No kidding.
“Don’t you like the boots?”
“I like them very much, Anastasia.” His gaze darkens and I think he might say something else, but he stops. “Come. We’ll take it slow. I don’t want you falling and breaking your neck.”
We sit in silence as our driver takes us to the gallery. My anxiety has returned full force, and I realize that our time in Charlie Tango has been the eye of the storm. Christian is quiet and brooding . . . apprehensive even; our lighter mood from earlier has dissipated. There’s so much I want to say, but this journey is too short. Christian stares pensively out the window.
“José is just a friend,” I murmur.
Christian turns and gazes at me, his eyes dark and guarded, giving nothing away. His mouth—oh, his mouth is distracting, and unbidden. I remember it on me—everywhere. My skin heats. He shifts in his seat and frowns.
“Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Anastasia. Please tell me you’ll eat.”
“Yes, Christian, I’ll eat,” I answer automatically, a platitude.
“I mean it.”
“Do you now?” I cannot keep the disdain out of my voice. Honestly, the audacity of this man—this man who has put me through hell over the last few days. No, that’s wrong.