Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

and he releases me. “Where is he?” His expression darkens.
    “Over there, fetching drinks.” I nod in Christian’s direction and see he’s exchanging pleasantries with someone waiting in line. Christian glances up when I look his way and our eyes lock. And in that brief moment, I’m paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man who gazes at me with some unfathomable emotion. His gaze hot, burning into me, and we’re lost for a moment staring at each other.  
    Holy cow . . . This beautiful man wants me back, and deep down inside me sweet joy slowly unfurls like a morning glory in the early dawn.
    “Ana!” José distracts me, and I’m dragged back to the here and now. “I am so glad you came—listen, I should warn you—”
    Suddenly, Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick cuts him off. “José, the journalist from the Portland Printz is here to see you. Come on.” She gives me a polite smile.
    “How cool is this? The fame.” He grins, and I can’t help but grin back—he’s so happy. “Catch you later, Ana.” He kisses my cheek, and I watch him stroll over to a young woman standing by a tall lanky photographer.
    José’s photographs are everywhere, and in some cases, blown up onto huge canvases. There are both monochromes and colors. There’s an ethereal beauty to many of the landscapes. In one taken out near the lake at Vancouver, it’s early evening and pink clouds are reflected in the stillness of the water. Briefly, I’m transported by the tranquility and the peace. It’s stunning.
    Christian joins me, and I take a deep breath and swallow, trying to recover some of my earlier equilibrium. He hands me my glass of white wine.
    “Does it come up to scratch?” My voice sounds more normal.
    He looks quizzically at me.
    “The wine.”
    “No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy’s quite talented, isn’t he?” Christian is admiring the lake photo.
    “Why else do you think I asked him to take your portrait?” I can’t help the pride in my voice. His eyes glide impassively from the photograph to me.
    “Christian Grey?” The photographer from the Portland Printz approaches Christian. “Can I have a picture, sir?”
    “Sure.” Christian hides his scowl. I step back, but he grabs my hand and pulls me to his side. The photographer looks at both of us and can’t hide his surprise.
    “Mr. Grey, thank you.” He snaps a couple of photos. “Miss . . . ?” he asks.
    “Steele,” I reply.
    “Thank you, Miss Steele.” He scurries off.
    “I looked for pictures of you with dates on the Internet. There aren’t any. That’s why Kate thought you were gay.”
    Christian’s mouth twitches with a smile. “That explains your inappropriate question. No, I don’t do dates, Anastasia—only with you. But you know that.” His eyes burn with sincerity.
    “So you never took your”—I glance around nervously to check no one can overhear us—“subs out?”
    “Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know.” He shrugs, his eyes not leaving mine.
    Oh, so just in the playroom—his Red Room of Pain and his apartment. I don’t know what to feel about that.
    “Just you, Anastasia,” he whispers.
    I blush and stare down at my fingers. In his own way, he does care about me.
    “Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not portraits. Let’s look round.” He holds his hand out to me, and I take it.
    We wander past a few more prints, and I notice a couple nodding at me, smiling broadly as if they know me. It must be because I’m with Christian, but one young man is blatantly staring. Odd.  
    We turn the corner, and I can see why I’ve been getting strange looks. Hanging on the far wall are seven huge portraits—of me.
    I stare blankly at them, stupefied, the blood draining from my face. Me: pouting, laughing, scowling, serious, amused. All in super close up, all in black and white.  
    Holy crap ! I remember José messing with the camera on a couple of occasions when he was visiting and when I’d been out with him as driver and photographer’s assistant. He took snapshots, or so I thought. Not these invasive candids.
    I glance up at Christian, who is staring, transfixed, at each of the pictures in turn.
    “Seems I’m not the only one,” he mutters cryptically, his mouth settling into a hard line.
    I think he’s angry. Oh no .
    “Excuse me,” he says, pinning me with his bright gray gaze for a moment. He turns and heads to the reception desk.
    What’s his