Chapter 17

“How are you getting home?” I pinch the bridge of my nose in the vain hope that the action will distract me from my fraying temper.

“I’ll find a way.”

What the hell? Will she drive? I ask her again which bar she’s in and she ignores my question.

“Why did you send me the books, Christian?”

“Anastasia, where are you? Tell me now.”

How will she get home?

“You’re so…domineering.” She giggles. In any other situation I would find this charming. But right now—I want to show her how domineering I can be. She’s driving me crazy.

“Ana, so help me, where the fuck are you?”

She giggles again. Shit, she’s laughing at me!

Again!

“I’m in Portland…’s a long way from Seattle.”

“Where in Portland?”

“Good night, Christian.” The line goes dead.

“Ana!”

She hung up on me! I stare at the phone in disbelief. No one has ever hung up on me. What the fuck!

“What’s the problem?” Elliot calls over from the sofa.

“I’ve just been drunk-dialed.” I peer at him and his mouth drops open in surprise.

“You?”

“Yep.” I press the callback button, trying to contain my temper, and my anxiety.

“Hi,” she says, all breathy and timid, and she’s in quieter surroundings.

“I’m coming to get you.” My voice is arctic as I wrestle with my anger and snap my phone shut.

“I’ve got to go get this girl and take her home. Do you want to come?”

Elliot is staring at me as if I’ve grown three heads.

“You? With a chick? This I have to see.” Elliot grabs his sneakers and starts putting them on.

“I just have to make a call.” I wander into his bedroom while I decide if I should call Barney or Welch. Barney is the most senior engineer in the telecommunications division of my company. He’s a tech genius. But what I want is not strictly legal.

Best to keep this away from my company.

I speed-dial Welch and within seconds his rasping voice answers.

“Mr. Grey?”

“I’d really like to know where Anastasia Steele is right now.”

“I see.” He pauses for a moment. “Leave it to me, Mr. Grey.”

I know this is outside the law, but she could be getting herself into trouble.

“Thank you.”

“I’ll get back to you in a couple of minutes.”

Elliot is rubbing his hands with glee, with a stupid smirk on his face when I return to the living room.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

“I wouldn’t miss this for the world,” he says, gloating.

“I’m just going to get the car keys. I’ll meet you in the garage in five,” I growl, ignoring his smug face.

THE BAR IS CROWDED, full of students determined to have a good time. There’s some indie crap thumping over the sound system and the dance floor is crowded with heaving bodies.

It makes me feel old.

She’s here somewhere.

Elliot has followed me in through the front door. “Do you see her?” he shouts over the noise. Scanning the room, I spot Katherine Kavanagh. She’s with a group of friends, all of them men, sitting in a booth. There’s no sign of Ana, but the table is littered with shot glasses and tumblers of beer.

Well, let’s see if Miss Kavanagh is as loyal to her friend as Ana is to her.

She looks at me in surprise when we arrive at her table.

“Katherine,” I say by way of greeting, and she interrupts me before I can ask her Ana’s whereabouts.

“Christian, what a surprise to see you here,” she shouts above the noise. The three guys at the table regard Elliot and me with hostile wariness.

“I was in the neighborhood.”

“And who’s this?” She smiles rather too brightly at Elliot, interrupting me again. What an exasperating woman.

“This is my brother Elliot. Elliot, Katherine Kavanagh. Where’s Ana?”

Her smile broadens at Elliot, and I’m surprised by his answering grin.

“I think she went outside for some fresh air,” Kavanagh responds, but she doesn’t look at me. She has eyes only for Mr. Love ’Em and Leave ’Em. Well, it’s her funeral.

“Outside? Where?” I shout.

“Oh. That way.” She points to double doors at the far end of the bar.

Pushing through the throng, I make my way to the door, leaving the three disgruntled men and Kavanagh and Elliot engaged in a grin-off.

Through the double doors there is a line for the ladies’ washroom, and beyond that a door that’s open to the outside. It’s at the back of the bar. Ironically, it leads to the parking lot where Elliot and I have just been.

Walking outside, I find myself in a gathering space adjacent to the parking lot—a hangout flanked by raised flowerbeds, where a few people are smoking, drinking, chatting. Making out. I spot her.

Hell! She’s with the photographer, I think, though it’s difficult to tell in the dim light. She’s in his arms, but she seems to be twisting away from him. He mutters something to her, which I don’t hear, and kisses her, along her jaw.

“José, no,” she says, and then it’s clear. She’s trying to push him off.

She doesn’t want this.

For a moment I want to rip his head off. With my hands fisted at my side I march up to them. “I think the lady said no.” My voice carries, cold and sinister, in the relative quiet, while I struggle to contain my anger.