“Ana?”
His face is impassive. “I haven’t seen her, sir.”
“For fuck’s sake, we have how many security personnel here? Where the fuck is my wife?” I explode, and my head pounds. I close my eyes as Taylor’s face pales.
Shit. Get a grip, Grey.
“Did she go out?” I ask, in as measured a tone as I can manage.
“There’s nothing in the log, sir.”
“I can’t find her.” I’m at a loss.
He casts his eyes over the CCTV monitors. “All the vehicles are accounted for. And no one can get in.”
I blanch as I grasp his meaning. Has she been kidnapped?
Taylor notices my expression. “No one can get in, sir,” he repeats for emphasis.
“Leila Williams and Jack Hyde got in!” I snap.
“Miss Williams had a key, and Ryan let Hyde in,” Taylor counters. “I’ll check the apartment, Mr. Grey.”
I nod and follow him out into the hallway.
She wouldn’t leave. Would she? I rack my addled, aching brain and recall a vision of Ana—from last night, I think—dressed in the softest satin, fragrant and beautiful, smiling down at me. Taylor heads off to our bedroom, no doubt to look there, and I don’t stop him. I might have missed something.
My phone!
I could call her.
Wait. There’s a text from her, in very shouty capitals.
ANA
WOULD YOU LIKE MRS. LINCOLN TO JOIN US WHEN
WE EVENTUALLY DISCUSS THIS TEXT SHE SENT YOU?
IT WILL SAVE YOU RUNNING TO HER AFTERWARD.
YOUR WIFE
FORWARDED: ELENA
It was good to see you. I understand now.
Don’t fret. You’ll make a wonderful father.
Oh, shit.
Ana’s been reading my texts.
When?
How dare she?
Anger flares inside me. I press call, and Ana’s phone rings, and rings. And fucking rings. Eventually it diverts to voice mail. “Where the hell are you?” I snarl into my BlackBerry, furious that she’s been reading my texts, furious that she knows about Elena, furious with Elena—but most of all, I’m furious at myself and at the clawing fear that threatens to choke me. She’s missing.
Ana, where the fuck are you? Perhaps she’s left me.
Where would she go? Kate. Of course. I call Kavanagh.
“Hello.” Kate answers after several rings, her voice thick with sleep.
“It’s Christian.”
“Christian? What is it? Is Ana okay?” Kate is fully awake and instantly adopts her familiar badgering tone, which I do not need right now.
“She’s not with you?” I ask.
“No. Should she be?”
“No. Don’t worry. Go back to sleep.”
“Chris—” I hang up.
My head is pounding and my wife is missing. This is hell. I’m in hell. I try Ana’s phone and again it diverts to voice mail. I storm into the kitchen where Gail is making coffee. “Can you get me some Advil, please?” I’m as gracious as a man with a missing wife can be. She stifles a smile.
Is she smiling because I’m suffering?
I scowl at her as she wordlessly places a container of Advil on the counter and turns to fill a glass of water, leaving me to struggle with the childproof lid. Eventually, I manage to pry two tablets from the plastic tub as stony-faced Mrs. Jones places water in front of me.
Glaring at her, I tip both pills into my mouth, but she turns back to the stove. I take a sip.
Hell. The water is lukewarm; it tastes awful.
I glower at her; she’s done this on purpose. Slamming the glass down on the counter, I turn and stomp back upstairs to look for Ana, hoping that the capsules will settle the storm in my head.
Taylor is emerging from what was the submissives’ room. He looks grim. I try the playroom door. It’s locked, but in my frustration, I rattle it anyway just to make sure, and bellow Ana’s name down the corridor. Immediately I regret raising my voice, as pain lances through my head.
“Any luck?” I ask Taylor.
“No, sir. I’ve checked the gym, and roused Sawyer and Ryan. They’re searching the staff quarters.”
“Good. We need a plan.”
“We’ll meet downstairs.”
Back in the kitchen, we’re joined by Sawyer and Ryan; Ryan looks like he’s had less sleep than me.
“Mrs. Grey is missing,” I growl at them. “Sawyer, check the CCTV footage and see if you can track her movements. Ryan, Taylor, let’s search the apartment again.”
All of them suddenly look shocked—their eyes wide, their mouths dropping open.
What?
A movement from the corner of my eye catches my attention.
It’s Ana.
Thank Christ. She’s here. For a moment my relief is overwhelming, but as Ana stands and surveys us, I see she’s cool and distant, her eyes wide, but with telltale dark circles beneath. She’s wrapped in a duvet—small, pale, and utterly beautiful.
And mad as hell.
As I drink her in, a sense of foreboding creeps up my spine, raising all the hair on the back of my head. She squares her narrow shoulders, raises her chin in that stubborn way she does, and completely ignoring me, addresses Luke. “Sawyer, I’ll be ready to leave in about twenty minutes.” She tightens the duvet around her, keeping her chin high.