Heart failure.
That's the first thought on my mind as Christopher drives us down the I-5. His lips part for no reason, showing perfectly white, bright Kleenex-colored teeth. It's so erotic, and I have to smile back at him. In response, he smiles his crooked smile at me, blinking, and the Earth shifts slightly on its axis, the tectonic plates shifting into a new position. We spend the whole trip down into downtown Seattle just staring at each other, and I've turned about one hundred and fifty shades of red in the process.
True to form, or what I previously told you in Chapter Six, he does live in a mansion in the biggest hotel in Washington State. The Christopher is nestled in the downtown of Portland, but whether that's Portland in Washington or Portland in Oregon, I wouldn't be able to tell you. My grip on geography isn't as firm as Mr. Grey-Gray's grip on me. Its impressive brownstone edifice was completed just before the Great Depression hit hard, and since it was built for rising entrepreneurs, many used the forty-story building to end their lives, including namesake Christopher Masen. Don't tell me how I know all this. I just do.
Mr. Grey-Gray speeds into the front entrance, and stops so abruptly, I smash through the windshield and onto the asphalt. Luckily, a man whom I observe with faux-omniscience is the bodyguard Trainor, catches me easily. Holy crap, I could be clumsy!
He lets me down and right into the arms of Mr. Grey-Gray, where oh my, I notice his clothing for the first time. He's wearing a white shirt, open at the collar in this way, and gray flannel pants that hang from his hips in that way. I want to jump at him right now, claw the rest of the buttons off him, and then...well, I don't know what to do. Quadruple crap! He's so freaking hot!
Only then do I notice Trainor, rubbing his buzz-cut hair, trying to get our attention, but Mr. Grey-Gray waves him off, grabs me by the hand and leads us into The Christopher. Trainor stands there impassively, but his chilling hazel eyes follow us all the way into the hotel.
Once inside, I'm in awe. Sure, Rosie and Ray Kavanale are of old-time money, but this is way more than I'm used to. Rosie went to the best private school in the United States, got the house in Forks for free thanks to Ray's offshore bank accounts, but she could never, ever consider living in a place like this. The Cheshire Cat grin spreads over my face until I flush blood spatter red, and I realize the Professor's impassive, concerned stare is directed towards my face. The place is completely gray steel, except for the elevators which are everywhere, which are colored pale Payne's gray.
He leads me into the elevator, and I'm suddenly irritated by the indecipherable look on his face. What is he thinking? Where is he taking me? The blush fades away into a more comfortable flesh color.
I surreptitiously gaze at him beneath my lashes, a look I have perfected so it doesn't appear as if I'm staring at him in a dazed, constantly blinking way. Once or twice, he runs long, piano-playing fingers through his messy hair, and I drink in his beauty like I'd drink a fine bottle of chardonnay. Hmm...I'd like to do that, I think dumbly.
"Penny for your thoughts?" he asks, piping up like a remixed version of Symphony No. 9.
The blush reappears, as Cherry Coke as ever. I shake my head.
"Who was he?" the Professor asks, staring right through me.
"Who?" I murmur.
"The boy who was with you just before. The Native American or Latino boy." He scowls, and his eyes turn a dark shade of gray; the color of a thousand Mr. Grey-Gray thunderstorms.
"Oh, him," I squeak softly. "Jason. I think? He's in my History class. I just met him today."
"And the man sitting next to you in yesterday's class?" he's inquisitive, but never as tenacious as the tenacious Rosie Kavanale.
"I don't know," I admit sheepishly.
"You. Are. Mine," he says each word slowly, wrapping them around syllable by syllable, even though each word is only one syllable. His tongue caresses mine, and Down There starts tingling.
I nod at him, looking at his pants just hanging there. The tingling prickles even more. My Inner Goddess is riding her bucking bronco, giving me the thumbs-up.
"Tell me what you're thinking," he whispers darkly. "You are such a mystery, Annabelle."
Am I? Wow... how am I managing that? This is bewildering. Me, mysterious? No way. He must be talking at Rosie, even though he's never met her. Or has he? He's met my father and stepfather. Why not her?
"Except when you blush, of course, which is often," he continues acidly. "I just wish I knew what you were blushing about."
You! I want to scream, but I don't. I just blush about every shade of red under the sun, and smile weakly at him.
He moves closer to me, and I can't contain my blush anymore; it's intensifying. Our bodies are sparking each other, and I feel as if I'm vibrating from the feeling. He's not even gripping my hand anymore. I resist the urge to moan as the electricity increases, and we just stare at each other. Concentrate, Swan-Steele.
I need to get away. I need to focus. But he's closed the elevator door and we're not going anywhere. I don't even know how to work an elevator, especially one like this which seems to have intoxicating powers. I turn back to him, defeated, and wait for him to ask me my life story.