“I just wanted to check if you were taking Charlie Tango.” My voice is quiet, and a shiver runs down my spine. I remember the last time he flew his helicopter.
A wave of nausea hits me as I recall the anxious hours I spent waiting for news.
That was possibly the lowest point in my life. I notice Mrs. Jones has stilled, too. I try to dismiss the idea.
“I wouldn’t fly to New York in Charlie Tango. She doesn’t have that kind of range. Besides, she won’t be back from the engineers for another two weeks.” Thank heavens. My smile is partly from relief, but also the knowledge that the demise of Charlie Tango has occupied a great deal of Christian’s thoughts and time over the last few weeks.
“Well I’m glad she’s nearly fixed, but—” I stop. Can I tell him how nervous I’ll be when he flies next time?
“What?” he asks as he finishes his omelet.
I shrug.
“Ana?” he says, more sternly.
“I just . . . you know. Last time you flew in her . . . I thought, we thought, you’d—” I can’t finish the sentence, and Christian’s expression softens.
186/551
“Hey.” He caresses my face with the back of his knuckles. “That was sabotage.” A dark expression crosses his face, and for a moment I wonder if he knows who was responsible.
“I couldn’t bear to lose you,” I murmur.
“Five people have been fired because of that, Ana. It won’t happen again.”
“Five?”
He nods, his face serious.
Holy crap!
“That reminds me. There’s a gun in your desk.” He frowns at my non sequitur and probably at my accusatory tone, though I don’t mean it that way. “It’s Leila’s,” he says finally.
“It’s fully loaded.”
“How do you know?” His frown deepens.
“I checked it yesterday.”
He scowls at me. “I don’t want you messing with guns. I hope you put the safety back on.”
I blink at him, momentarily stupefied. “Christian, there’s no safety on that revolver. Don’t you know anything about guns?” His eyes widen. “Um . . . no.”
Taylor coughs discreetly from the entrance. Christian nods at him.
“We have to go,” Christian says. He stands, distracted, and slips on his gray jacket. I follow him into the hallway.
He has Leila’s gun. I am stunned by this news and briefly wonder what’s happened to her. Is she still in—where is it? East somewhere. New Hampshire? I can’t remember.
“Good morning, Taylor,” Christian says.
“Good morning, Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey.” He nods at us both, but he’s careful not to look me in the eye. I’m grateful, recalling my state of undress when we bumped into each other last night.
“I am just going to brush my teeth,” I mutter. Christian always brushes his teeth before breakfast. I don’t understand why.
187/551
“You should ask Taylor to teach you how to shoot,” I say as we travel down in the elevator. Christian gazes down at me, amused.
“Should I now?” he says dryly.
“Yes.”
“Anastasia, I despise guns. My mom has patched up too many victims of gun crime, and my dad is vehemently antigun. I grew up with their ethos. I support at least two gun control initiatives here in Washington.”
“Oh. Does Taylor carry a gun?”
Christian’s mouth thins.
“Sometimes.”
“You don’t approve?” I ask, as Christian ushers me out of the elevator on the ground floor.
“No,” he says, tight-lipped. “Let’s just say that Taylor and I hold very different views with regard to gun control.” I’m with Taylor on this.
Christian holds the foyer door open for me and I head out to the car. He has not let me drive alone to SIP since he found out that Charlie Tango was sabotaged. Sawyer smiles pleasantly, holding the door open for me as Christian and I climb into the car.
“Please.” I reach across and grasp Christian’s hand.
“Please what?”
“Learn how to shoot.”
He rolls his eyes at me. “No. End of discussion, Anastasia.” And I am a child again to be scolded. I open my mouth to say something cutting, but decide I don’t want to start my workday in a bad mood. I fold my arms instead and glimpse Taylor regarding me in the rearview mirror. He looks away, concentrating on the road in front, but shakes his head a little, in obvious frustration.
Hmm . . . Christian drives him crazy, too, sometimes. The thought makes me smile, and my mood is saved.
“Where is Leila?” I ask as Christian gazes out of his window.
“I told you. She’s in Connecticut with her folks.” He glances at me.
“Did you check? After all, she does have long hair. It could have been her driving the Dodge.”
“Yes, I checked. She’s enrolled in an art school in Hamden. She started this week.”