Fifty Shades Trilogy 01 - Fifty Shades of Grey

she’s trying to make Christian jealous. How little she knows. I thought I’d got away with this.
    “He was fine,” I murmur.
    Christian leans over.
    “Palm-twitchingly mad,” he whispers. “Especially now.” His tone is quiet and deadly.
    Oh no. I squirm.
    Grace reappears carrying two plates, followed by a pretty young woman with blonde pigtails, dressed smartly in pale blue, carrying a tray of plates. Her eyes immediately find Christian in the room. She blushes and gazes at him from under her long mascara-covered lashes. What?!
    Somewhere in the house the phone starts ringing.
    “Excuse me,” Mr. Grey rises again and exits.
    “Thank you, Gretchen,” Grace says gently, frowning as Mr. Grey exits. “Just leave the tray on the console.” Gretchen nods, and with another furtive glance at Christian, she leaves.
    So the Greys have staff, and the staff are eyeing up my would-be Dominant. Can this evening get any worse? I scowl at my hands in my lap.
    Mr. Grey returns.
    “Call for you, darling. It’s the hospital,” he says to Grace.
    “Please start, everyone.” Grace smiles as she hands me a plate and leaves.
    It smells delicious – chorizo and scallops with roasted red peppers and shallots, sprinkled with flat-leafed parsley. And in spite of the fact that my stomach is churning from Christian’s veiled threats, the surreptitious glances from pretty little Miss Pigtails, and the debacle of my missing underwear, I am starving. I flush as I realize it’s the physical effort of this afternoon that’s given me such an appetite.
    Moments later Grace returns, her brow furrowed. Mr. Grey cocks his head to one side… like Christian.
    “Everything okay?”
    “Another measles case,” Grace sighs.
    “Oh no.”
    “Yes, a child. The fourth case this month. If only people would get their kids vaccinated.” She shakes her head sadly, and then smiles. “I’m so glad our children never went through that. They never caught anything worse than chicken pox, thank goodness. Poor Elliot,” she says as she sits down, smiling indulgently at her son. Elliot frowns mid-chew and squirms uncomfortably. “Christian and Mia were lucky. They got it so mildly, only a spot to share between them.”
    Mia giggles, and Christian rolls his eyes.
    “So, did you catch the Mariners game, Dad?” Elliot’s clearly keen to move the conversation on.
    The hors d’oeuvres are delicious, and I concentrate on eating while Elliot, Mr. Grey and Christian talk baseball. Christian seems relaxed and calm talking to his family. My mind is working furiously. Damn Kate, what game is she playing? Will he punish me? I quail at the thought. I haven’t signed that contract yet. Perhaps I won’t. Perhaps I’ll stay in Georgia where he can’t reach me.
    “How are you settling into your new apartment, dear?” Grace asks politely.
    I’m grateful for her question, distracting me from my discordant thoughts, and I tell her about our move.
    As we finish our starters, Gretchen appears, and not for the first time, I wish I felt able to put my hands freely on Christian just to let her know – he may be fifty shades of fucked up, but he’s mine. She proceeds to clear the table, brushing rather too closely to Christian for my liking. Fortunately, he seems oblivious to her, but my inner goddess is smoldering and not in a good way.
    Kate and Mia are waxing lyrical about Paris.
    “Have you been to Paris, Ana?” Mia asks innocently, distracting me from my jealous reverie.
    “No, but I’d love to go.” I know I’m the only one at the table who has never left mainland USA.
    “We honeymooned in Paris.” Grace smiles at Mr. Grey who grins back at her.
    It’s almost embarrassing to witness. They obviously love each other deeply, and I wonder for a brief moment what it must be like to grow up with both one’s parents in situ.
    “It’s a beautiful city,” Mia agrees. “In spite of the Parisians. Christian, you should take Ana to Paris,” Mia states firmly.
    “I think Anastasia would prefer London,” Christian says softly.
    Oh… he remembered. He places his hand on my knee – his fingers traveling up my thigh. My whole body tightens in response. No… not here, not now. I flush and shift, trying to pull away from him. His hand clamps down on my thigh, stilling me. I reach for my wine, in desperation.
    Little Miss European Pigtails returns, all coy glances and swaying hips, with our entrée: a beef Wellington, I think. Fortunately, she