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It’s Monday, and I spent all of yesterday lounging about in bed. Christian only let me go out briefly to see Ray. Honestly, he’s still such a control freak. I smile fondly. My control freak. He’s been attentive and loving and chatty . . . and hands-off since I arrived home. I scowl. I am going to have to do something about this. My head doesn’t hurt, the pain around my ribs has eased—though, admittedly, laughing has to be undertaken with caution—but I’m frustrated. I think this is the longest I’ve gone without sex since . . . well, since the first time.

I think we’ve both recovered our equilibrium. Christian is much more relaxed; his long bedtime story seems to have laid some ghosts to rest, for him and for me. We’ll see.

I shower quickly, and once I’m dry, I browse carefully through my clothes. I want something sexy. Something that might galvanize Christian into action. Who would have thought such an insatiable man could actually exercise so much self-control? I don’t really want to dwell on how Christian learned such discipline over 490/551

his body. We haven’t spoken of the Bitch Troll once since his confessional. I hope we never do. To me she’s dead and buried.

I choose an almost indecently short black skirt and a white silk blouse with a frill. I slide on thigh-highs with lacy tops and my black Louboutin pumps. A little mascara and lip gloss for a natural look, and after a ferocious brushing, I leave my hair loose. Yes. This should do it.

Christian is eating at the breakfast bar. His forkful of omelet stops in midair when he sees me. He frowns.

“Good morning, Mrs. Grey. Going somewhere?”

“Work.” I smile sweetly.

“I don’t think so.” Christian snorts with amused derision. “Dr. Singh said a week off.”

“Christian, I am not spending the day lounging in bed on my own. So I may as well go to work. Good morning, Gail.”

“Mrs. Grey.” Mrs. Jones tries to hide a smile. “Would you like some breakfast?”

“Please.”

“Granola?”

“I’d prefer scrambled eggs with whole wheat toast.” Mrs. Jones grins and Christian registers his surprise.

“Very good, Mrs. Grey,” Mrs. Jones says.

“Ana, you are not going to work.”

“But—”

“No. It’s simple. Don’t argue.” Christian is adamant. I glare at him, and only then do I notice that he’s in the same pajama bottoms and T-shirt he was wearing last night.

“Are you going to work?” I ask.

“No.”

Am I going crazy? “It is Monday, right?” He smiles. “Last time I looked.”

I narrow my eyes. “Are you playing hooky?”

“I’m not leaving you here on your own to get into trouble. And Dr. Singh said it would be a week before you could go back to work. Remember?” I slide onto a bar stool beside him and hoist my skirt up a little. Mrs. Jones places a cup of tea in front of me.“You look good,” Christian says. I cross my 491/551

legs. “Very good. Especially here.” He traces a finger over the bare flesh that shows above my thigh-highs. My pulse quickens as his finger runs across my skin. “This skirt is very short,” he murmurs, vague disapproval in his voice as his eyes follow his finger.

“Is it? I hadn’t noticed.”

Christian gazes at me, mouth twisted in an amused yet exasperated smirk.

“Really, Mrs. Grey?”

I blush.

“I’m not sure this look is suitable for the workplace,” he murmurs.

“Well, since I’m not going to work, that’s a moot point.”

“Moot?”

“Moot,” I mouth.

Christian smirks again and resumes eating his omelet. “I have a better idea.”

“You do?”

He glances at me through long lashes, gray eyes darkening. I inhale sharply.

Oh, my. About time.

“We can go see how Elliot’s getting on with the house.” What? Oh! Tease! I vaguely remember we were supposed to do that before Ray was injured.

“I’d love to.”

“Good.” He grins.

“Don’t you have to work?”

“No. Ros is back from Taiwan. That all went well. Today, everything’s fine.”

“I thought you were going to Taiwan.” He snorts again. “Ana, you were in the hospital.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah—oh. So today I’m spending some quality time with my wife.” He smacks his lips together as he takes a sip of coffee.

“Quality time?” I can’t disguise the hope in my voice.

Mrs. Jones places my scrambled eggs in front of me, again failing to hide her smile.

Christian smirks. “Quality time.” He nods.

I am too hungry to flirt anymore with my husband.

“It’s good to see you eat,” he murmurs. Rising, he leans over and kisses my hair. “I’m going to shower.”

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“Um . . . can I come and scrub your back?” I mumble through a mouth full of toast and scrambled egg.

“No. Eat.”

Leaving the breakfast bar, he tugs his T-shirt over his head, treating me to the sight of his finely sculptured shoulders and naked back as he saunters out of the great room. I stop mid-chew. He’s doing this on purpose. Why?

Christian is relaxed on the drive north. We’ve just left Ray and Mr. Rodriguez watching soccer on the new flat-screen television that I suspect Christian has bought for Ray’s hospital room.