Chapter Six #3
“Do you always impress women this way? ‘Come fly in my helicopter’?” I ask, genuinely interested.
“I’ve never brought a girl up here, Anastasia. It’s another first for me.” His voice is quiet, serious.
Oh, that was an unexpected answer. Another first? Oh, the sleeping thing, perhaps?
“Are you impressed?”
“I’m awed, Christian.”
He smiles. “Awed?” And for a brief moment, he’s his age again.
I nod. “You’re just so…competent.”
“Why, thank you, Miss Steele.” I think he’s pleased, but I’m not sure.
We ride in the dark night in silence for a while. The bright spot that is Seattle slowly gets bigger.
“Sea-Tac tower to Charlie Tango. Flight plan to Escala in place. Please proceed. And stand by. Over.”
“This is Charlie Tango. Understood, Sea-Tac. Standing by, over and out.”
“You obviously enjoy this,” I murmur.
“What?” He glances at me. He looks quizzical in the half-light of the instruments.
“Flying,” I reply.
“It requires control and concentration. How could I not love it? Though my favorite is soaring.”
“Soaring?”
“Yes. Gliding, to the layperson. Gliders and helicopters—I fly them both.”
“Oh.” Expensive hobbies. I remember him telling me during the interview. I like reading and occasionally going to the movies—I’m out of my depth here.
“Charlie Tango, come in, please, over.” The disembodied voice of air traffic control interrupts my reverie.
Christian answers, sounding in control and confident.
Seattle is getting closer. We’re on the very outskirts now. It looks absolutely stunning. Seattle at night, from the sky…
“Looks good, doesn’t it?” Christian interrupts my thoughts.
I nod enthusiastically. It looks otherworldly—unreal—like I’m on a giant film set—José’s favorite film maybe, Blade Runner. The memory of José’s attempted kiss haunts me. I’m beginning to feel a bit cruel not calling him back. He can wait until tomorrow, surely.
“We’ll be there in a few minutes,” Christian says, and suddenly my blood is pounding in my ears as my heartbeat accelerates and adrenaline spikes through my system. He starts talking to air traffic control again, but I am no longer listening. I think I’m going to faint. My fate is in his hands.
We are now flying among the buildings, and up ahead I can see a tall skyscraper with a helipad on top.
The word Escala is painted in white on top of the building.
It’s getting nearer and nearer, bigger and bigger…
just like my anxiety. God, I hope I don’t let him down.
He’ll find me lacking in some way. I wish I’d listened to Kate and borrowed one of her dresses.
She’s always foisting her clothes on me, but I like my black jeans, and I’m wearing a soft mint-green shirt and Kate’s black jacket.
I look smart enough. I grip the edge of my seat tighter and tighter.
I can do this. I can do this. I chant to myself as the skyscraper looms below us.
The helicopter slows and hovers, and Christian sets it down on the helipad on top of the building.
My heart is in my mouth. I can’t decide if it’s from nervous anticipation, relief that we’ve arrived alive, or fear that I will fail in some way.
He switches the ignition off, and the rotor blades slow and quiet until all I hear is the sound of my own erratic breathing.
Christian takes his headphones off and reaches across and pulls mine off, too. “We’re here,” he says gently.
His look is so intense, half in shadow and half in the bright, white light from the landing lights.
Dark knight and white knight, a fitting metaphor for Christian.
He looks strained. His jaw is clenched and a frown mars his forehead.
He unfastens his seat belt and reaches over to unbuckle mine. His face is inches from mine.
“You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You know that, don’t you?” His tone is so earnest, desperate even, his eyes impassioned. He takes me by surprise.
“I’d never do anything I didn’t want to do, Christian.” And as I say the words, I don’t quite feel their conviction, because at this moment in time, I’d probably do anything for this man seated beside me. But this does the trick. He’s mollified.
He eyes me warily for a moment, and somehow, even though he’s so tall, he manages to ease his way gracefully to the door of the helicopter and open it.
He jumps out, waiting for me to follow, and takes my hand as I clamber down onto the helipad.
It’s very windy on top of the building, and I’m nervous about the fact that I’m standing at least thirty stories high in an unenclosed space.
Christian wraps his arm around my waist, pulling me tightly against him.
“Come,” he shouts above the noise of the wind.
He drags me over to an elevator, and after tapping a number into a keypad, the doors open.
It’s warm inside and all mirrored glass.
I can see Christian to infinity everywhere I look, and the wonderful thing is he’s holding me to infinity, too.
Christian taps another code into the keypad, then the doors close and the elevator descends.
Moments later, we’re in an all-white foyer.
In the middle is a round, dark wood table, and on it is an unbelievably huge bunch of white flowers.
On the walls there are paintings everywhere.
He opens a set of double doors, and the white theme continues across a wide corridor where directly opposite is the entrance to a palatial room.
It’s the main living area, double height.
Huge is too small a word for it. The far wall is glass and leads onto a balcony that overlooks Seattle.
To the right is an imposing U-shaped sofa that could seat ten adults comfortably.
It faces a state-of-the-art stainless-steel—or maybe platinum, for all I know—modern fireplace.
The fire is lit and flaming gently. On the left beside us, by the entryway, is the kitchen area.
All white with dark wood worktops and a breakfast bar that seats six.
Near the kitchen area, in front of the glass wall, is a dining table surrounded by sixteen chairs.
And tucked in the corner is a full-size, shiny black grand piano.
Oh yes…he probably plays the piano, too.
There is art of all shapes and sizes on all the walls.
In fact, this apartment looks more like a gallery than a place to live.
“Can I take your jacket?” Christian asks.
I shake my head. I’m still cold from the wind on the helipad.
“Would you like a drink?”
After last night? Is he trying to be funny? For one second, I think about asking for a margarita—but I don’t have the nerve.
“I’m going to have a glass of white wine. Would you like to join me?”
“Yes, please,” I murmur.
I’m standing in this enormous room feeling out of place.
I walk over to the glass wall, and I realize that the lower half opens concertina style onto the balcony.
Seattle is lit up and lively in the background.
I walk back to the kitchen area—it takes a few seconds, it’s so far from the glass wall—and Christian is opening a bottle of wine. He’s removed his jacket.
“Pouilly-Fumé okay with you?”
“I know nothing about wine, Christian. I’m sure it will be fine.
” My voice is soft and hesitant. My heart is thumping.
I want to run. This is seriously rich. Seriously over-the-top Bill Gates–style wealthy.
What am I doing here? You know very well what you’re doing here, my subconscious sneers at me.
Yes, I want to be in Christian Grey’s bed.
“Here.” He hands me a glass of wine. Even the glasses are rich—heavy, contemporary crystal.
I take a sip, and the wine is light, crisp, and delicious.
“You’re very quiet, and you’re not even blushing. In fact, I think this is the palest I’ve ever seen you, Anastasia. Are you hungry?”
I shake my head. Not for food. “It’s a very big place you have here.”
“Big?”
“Big.”
“It’s big,” he agrees, and his eyes glow with amusement.
I take another sip of wine. “Do you play?” I point my chin at the piano.
“Yes.”
“Well?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you do. Is there anything you can’t do well?”
“Yes…a few things.” He takes a sip of his wine. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. I feel them following me as I turn and glance around this vast room. Room is the wrong word. It’s not a room—it’s a mission statement.
“Do you want to sit?”
I nod, and he takes my hand and leads me to the large off-white couch. As I sit, I’m struck by the fact that I feel like Tess Durbeyfield looking at the new house that belongs to the notorious Alec d’Urberville. The thought makes me smile.
“What’s so amusing?” He sits down beside me, turning to face me. He rests his head on his right hand, his elbow propped on the back of the couch.
“Why did you give me Tess of the d’Urbervilles specifically?” I ask.
Christian stares at me for a moment. I think he’s surprised by my question. “Well, you said you liked Thomas Hardy.”
“Is that the only reason?” Even I can hear the disappointment in my voice.
His mouth presses into a hard line. “It seemed appropriate. I could hold you to some impossibly high ideal like Angel Clare or debase you completely like Alec d’Urberville.” His eyes flash dark and dangerous.
“If there are only two choices, I’ll take the debasement,” I whisper, gazing at him. My subconscious is staring at me in awe.
His breath hitches. “Anastasia, stop biting your lip, please. It’s very distracting. You don’t know what you’re saying.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
He frowns. “Yes. Would you excuse me for a moment?” He disappears through a wide doorway on the far side of the room.
He’s gone for a couple of minutes and returns with a document.
“This is a nondisclosure agreement.” He shrugs and has the grace to look a little embarrassed.
“My lawyer insists on it.” He hands it to me.
I’m completely bemused. “If you’re going for option two, debasement, you’ll need to sign this. ”
“And if I don’t want to sign anything?”
“Then it’s Angel Clare high ideals, well, for most of the book anyway.”
“What does this agreement mean?”
“It means you cannot disclose anything about us. Anything, to anyone.”
I stare at him in disbelief. Holy shit. It’s bad, really bad, and now I’m very curious to know.
“Okay. I’ll sign.”
He hands me a pen. “Aren’t you even going to read it?”
“No.”
He frowns. “Anastasia, you should always read anything you sign.”
“Christian, what you fail to understand is that I wouldn’t talk about us to anyone anyway. Even Kate. So it’s immaterial whether I sign an agreement. If it means so much to you, or your lawyer, whom you obviously talk to, then fine. I’ll sign.”
He gazes at me and nods gravely. “Fair point well made, Miss Steele.”
I lavishly sign on the dotted line of both copies and hand one back to him. Folding the other, I place it in my purse and take a large swig of my wine. I’m sounding so much braver than I’m actually feeling.
“Does this mean you’re going to make love to me tonight, Christian?” Holy shit. Did I just say that?
His mouth drops open, but he recovers quickly. “No, Anastasia, it doesn’t. First, I don’t make love. I fuck, hard. Second, there’s a lot more paperwork to do. And third, you don’t yet know what you’re in for. You could still run from here screaming! Come, I want to show you my playroom.”
My mouth drops open. Fuck hard! Holy shit, that sounds so…hot. But why are we looking at a playroom? I am mystified.
“You want to play on your Xbox?” I ask.
He laughs loudly. “No, Anastasia, no Xbox, no PlayStation. Come.” He stands, holding out his hand.
I let him lead me back out to the corridor. On the right of the double doors, where we came in, another door leads to a staircase. We go up to the second floor and turn right. Producing a key from his pocket, he unlocks yet another door and takes a deep breath.
“You can leave anytime. The helicopter is on standby to take you whenever you want to go; you can stay the night and go home in the morning. It’s fine, whatever you decide.”
“Just open the damn door, Christian.”
He opens the door and stands back to let me in. I gaze at him once more. I so want to know what’s in here. Taking a deep breath I walk in.
And it feels like I’ve time-traveled back to the sixteenth century and the Spanish Inquisition.
Holy fuck.