Chapter Forty-six

Pru spots them and cheerfully exclaims, "Babe! Where the fuck have you been? I'm so bored."

Christian answers with part of the truth, "My fault, Pru. Being the tyrant that I am, I insisted that Ana have a decent breakfast before we visited you. Now, did you make that list?"

Smiling, Pru hands over a piece of paper, saying, "Yeah, thanks. I'm guessing, since they told me that all expenses are being taken care of by a Mr. Grey, you won't let me pay for magazines and sweets?"

"Correct." Quickly kissing Ana, he says, "Back soon." Heading for the door, he adds, to Pru, "Nice hat."

"Fuck off."

Smiling slightly at the interplay between two of her favorite people, Ana gestures to the thick bandage covering most of Pru's head. "It is quite a fashion statement."

Struggling to contain her smile, Pru says, "You can fuck off and all. Now give me a hug. I'm not as bad as this looks. And your money is paying for excellent painkillers, thank you."

Despite these reassurances, Ana very gently embraces Pru, then kisses her cheek and drags a chair close as she says, "I'm glad you're being looked after. But that was all Christian's doing. When I asked if we could do anything to help, he told me it was under control."

Suddenly serious, Pru says, "Well, thanks, to both of you. No way Nan or I could afford a private room and the best surgeon."

Confused, Ana says, "You're welcome. But…I thought Nan is loaded?"

"No, babe. Anything she has goes towards keeping that old place going." With a modest shrug, she continues, "I help out. But I don't make much. I have a feeling Mitch is going to promote me to manager when his baby is born, but his wife's not due 'til June next year."

Still bewildered, Ana says, "But…the staff…who pays them?"

"No one. They're all refugees like me; one way or another. They help out for the privilege of a roof over their heads, and a loving home environment. Most of them have jobs off the estate, too."

"Jerry?"

Pru nods and says, "The only other Lambert who lives with us; booted out by his parents at fifteen when they found out he had a boyfriend. When I told Nan, she didn't hesitate to offer him a room. He's been with us ever since. Of course, his day job is nurse, but he's on unpaid leave since Nan got bad enough to need help. They had a big argument about it, but he finally won with, 'My turn, Nan.' She understands about repaying debts."

Casting her mind back, trying to recall everyone who actually lives at the house, Ana asks, "Wait…even the butler, Stewart, works for no pay?"

Pru smiles and explains, "Yep. Actually, his name's Allen Stewart, but he'd be thrilled that you didn't know that. He's fucking old school." With a little laugh, she continues, "And just fucking old. Sometimes I think he came with the house. Even Nan says she can't remember a time when he wasn't serving the family, in some capacity. She says he refused to leave when the estate could no longer support a full staff; decades ago…I'm not sure he knows anything else. I have a theory that, when she dies, he'll just be reabsorbed by the walls."

Still reeling from all this information, her perception of the reality at Elspeth Hall turned upside down, Ana asks, "So…when Nan does die, what will happen to the estate?"

"No fucking idea, babe. Other relatives—the best of 'em anyway—also pitch in a little, for Nan's sake. But I doubt they'll want to keep throwing money into the pit once she's gone. Even volunteering our time, we're barely keeping up with basic maintenance. Nan doesn't like to discuss it, but I'm guessing she's left it to all of us, which means everyone will get a small chunk when we sell it to settle outstanding accounts." Suddenly grinning, she asks, "Unless you know some rich Americans with too much cash?" When Ana is silent, lost in thought, Pru sobers and adds, "I was joking, babe. These old places really are money pits. You'd be wasting your money."

Becoming more determined with every second, Ana asks, "Wasting my money by keeping the estate in the family and ensuring a safe haven for refugees from prejudice and circumstance?"

Apparently able to maintain a serious air for several seconds, Pru attempts, "There's no way Christian would go for this. He can't have become rich by throwing his money away on lost causes."

Her heart warm with pride for her gifted, benevolent husband, Ana smiles and reveals, "No, he took up that practice after he became rich." Then clapping her hands once, she says, "But never mind about that. He's giving us this time together because we have far more important things to discuss. Are you still a virgin?"

Immediately blushing bright red, Pru's gaze darts to the doorway as she says, "Fuck; keep your voice down, would you. And you know I fucking am. I spent most of last night in surgery."

Thrilled with the results of her teasing, Ana laughs and says, "Sorry; couldn't resist. So, he likes you?"

Suddenly shy, Pru says, "Yeah. Only Lea was able to eventually make him leave to get some sleep. One of the nurses said that security tried to stop him from following me into the ward when I first got here, because he's not family." Laughing a little, she continues, "Apparently, he looked the guy up and down, then calmly explained that he would stay by my side until a family member arrived, concluding with, 'And, if you intend to prevent me, I hope you've got a lot of pals.' The fascist fucker let him in. Fuck, I wish I'd seen it, but I'd blacked out again by that time."

Smiling at the thought of gentle giant Nigel making a security guard back down with only a look and a few words, even as she's glad that the guard had the wisdom to choose common sense over regulations, Ana then asks, "But, you're going to be okay?"

"Yeah, babe. The fucking thing really only grazed me. Can you believe I got hit by a mast, while sitting in a car? I think my scars will be even more impressive than yours. But the surgeon you paid for says that, once my hair grows back, no one will even know I've been in an accident, and…" Audibly swallowing, before able to continue, Pru then concludes, "And that it's a good thing I'm short."

Her heart beating a little faster as she again imagines what could have happened, Ana says, "Yeah. Christian realized that, too. I hate that you're injured, but it's a good thing we swapped seats."

Breaking the suddenly solemn mood with a wide grin, Pru says, "Of course, none of this would have happened if you'd just let me sit in his lap."

Ana and Christian are on their way back from the hospital, of course embracing as best they can, when she asks, "Does Brit, or maybe Carrick, know anything about British property law?"

Christian is quiet for a few seconds, then says, "Pru told you."

Of course he knows. She should have guessed that. "You've known all along that Nan is struggling, financially?"

That guilty shrug and he says only, "Not until recently, and it's not exactly a secret; she just doesn't like to discuss that the family home will have to be sold when she dies. The only way to even pay the back taxes is to break it up and sell some of the land. I overheard some comments that made me wonder, so looked into it, because I figured you'd find out soon enough and would want answers."

Only now nervous, despite the fact that Christian has proven time and again that she means more to him than any amount of money, Ana tentatively asks, "How do you feel about bailing her out? I know Nan would trust us to do the right thing, if we bought it. But, with her brother long dead and so many heirs, there's bound to be someone who'd kick up a stink if we take over without proving that it's the best option all round."

He's again quiet for a while, then gently says, "Sweetheart, I've not seen her will, but you're her one, true heir."

"What?"

Smiling, Christian explains, "I finally worked out all the 'twice removed' and such. Ann Lambert had one sibling who survived until adulthood, Edward…Ned, who married and had only one child, Franklin; your father. All of those other fuckers are family, but only indirectly. You're the closest living relative Nan has. That's why she was so thrilled to get this opportunity to meet you. She's been trying to track you down for years, but it proved very difficult without resources."

Her brain threatening to explode with all that she's learned today, Ana asks, "So, have you talked to Nan about this?"

"No. But I think you should. This is a family matter, so I'm content to follow your lead in this. You know I'm behind you, whatever you decide."

Thrilled that he's being so supportive, and with a wicked grin, Ana murmurs, "I like it when you're behind me, in any sense of the word."

Flicking a glance to the front seat, where their current minder and the driver are studiously ignoring them, Christian smiles and quietly says, "With Pru laid up, we've probably finally got a few quiet days before we have to leave. And I was supposed to be grounded yesterday."

"Oh, crap! I forgot." At his questioning look, she quickly continues, "Nan always hosts a family dinner the weekend before Christmas; this Saturday. This year it'll also be our farewell dinner. I'm sorry, I meant to tell you the other night, but you sidetracked me by nearly freezing to death."

Frowning, Christian warily asks, "Won't we need to buy gifts? And I'm not wearing a fucking party hat."

Ana laughs at the image and says, "I'm sure hats aren't compulsory. And the adults apparently do a version of Kris Kringle, so Pru suggested that we buy each other a gift, which I've already done. I'm pleased you haven't been nosing around in my stuff."

Grinning, Christian says, "I love nosing your stuff, but I wouldn't intrude on your closet space unless it were absolutely necessary. So, what did I get you?"

Beaming at him, Ana says, "Actually, you were very generous; buying me two gifts. And you'll just have to wait and see."

His expression transforming to annoyed, like the flick of a switch, Christian insists, "Your gift to me can remain a surprise, but I need to know what I got you, or I'll look like an idiot."

Relenting, Ana laughs lightly as she says, "All right. You bought me a very nice hair brush, guaranteed to add luster to my hair, even if I stop using shampoo. And pajamas."

With a crestfallen expression, making her love him even more, Christian pouts, "That's it; hair brush and pajamas. It doesn't sound like me."

Confident that he won't be disappointed when he sees the actual gifts, Ana grins and says, "Trust me."

Christian's eyebrows shoot up in surprise and he says, "Well, this sounds very promising."

Having finally caught up on her sleep, after spending most of last night at the hospital, Nan is free for a chat. First discussing Pru's current condition for a while, and checking that they're okay with Jerry being present, she asks, "So, you want to know about your inheritance?"

Stunned to be so abruptly brought to the point of this conversation, Ana nervously looks to Christian, who merely nods in encouragement, so she says, "Uh, yeah. We gather that it's not paying for itself, and hasn't done so for many years?"

Her impassive expression giving nothing away, Nan explains, "Not since before you were born, unfortunately."

Feeling suddenly out of her depth, and terrified of wounding the old woman's pride, Ana tentatively suggests, "I want to save it."

Nan stares at her for a while, then monotones, "Save it? You mean turn it into apartments for rent, or some such thing? That is your right, of course."

"No, no. I mean, restore the estate to its former glory, or something close to it. Everyone could, of course, still live here and, if you're willing, I'd love to actually start paying those who do the most work around here. I didn't even know there was an issue with money, so they're obviously doing a good job. I'd really like to keep our room free, if that's okay? That way we'll always have a comfortable place to stay when we visit. Our kids are going to love…"

Jerry guesses and moves to Nan's side just as she starts weeping. Horrified, Ana again looks to Christian, who encourages her forward with an inclination of his head. So Ana walks over and squats by Nan's wheelchair to ask, "Happy tears?"

Nan can only manage a nod, so Jerry explains, "She's been so worried. I told her to just ask you, because you seem like good people." Then softening the impact of his words with a kiss on the top of her head, he continues, "But Nan is absolutely terrible at asking for help. Thank you, both of you."

Nan recovers enough to splutter, "Yes, thank you. You don't know what this means to me."

Smiling, Ana asks, "So you're okay with Americans owning the family home?"

Producing a delicate white handkerchief, as if by magic, Nan dries her eyes and clutches Ana's arm to promise, "I'm okay with you owning it. You've such a good heart. I know you'll do the right thing. Thank you." As if remembering that he's in the room, she asks Christian, "And how do you feel about this?"

Christian shrugs and says, "Not quite what I meant when I suggested that we buy a vacation home here, but I guess it'll have to do." When Nan doesn't laugh, he more seriously continues, "If it were for any purpose other than Ana's happiness, I would say that it's a total waste of money. I don't give a damn about the past. I give a damn about my wife. If she wants this place restored, then that is what shall happen. With a moderate injection of funds, we could even turn it into an exclusive horse stud, dedicated to preserving ancient breeds like the Suffolk Punch."

It's Ana's turn to weep happy tears, though she ignores them to ask her husband, "What do you know about horses?"

Christian shrugs again and says, "Not much, but I knew you'd want to keep this old place, so I've been pondering how to make it turn a profit without disrupting things too much."

It feels weird, saying the words when others can hear, but Ana simply cannot stop her heart from uttering aloud, "I love you, Christian Grey."

Christian smirks—that lopsided grin that means he's both pleased and amused by her actions—and says, "I love you too, baby, but we're here for a reason."

"Oh, right." Turning her attention back to Nan, wiping her few tears away, she says, "One of our lawyers will contact you, probably tomorrow, if that suits?" At Nan's stunned nod, Ana continues, "They'll ask a bunch of questions about your plans or wishes for the estate, so we can draw up a contract."

Shaking her head, Nan says, "I don't need a contract. The estate is yours when I die, Ana, then you can do whatever you want with it. I trust you."

Again fighting the urge to weep, Ana says, "I know, Nan, and I thank you for that. But you're going to sign over everything to me now, and in a way that no one can dispute. That way, by the time you…" Taking a deep, trembling breath to summon more courage, Ana continues, "By the time grease and oil changes are no longer enough, you'll see the Hall again looking beautiful, and know that the people who live here are earning a decent living keeping it that way."

This time the frail, old woman whimpers before again weeping. Jerry puts a hand to her wrist, obviously concerned about the physical toll of this conversation, but she waves him away, saying, "I'm fine…better than fine. I feel like celebrating. Time to break out the rest of Ana's inheritance, I think."

"Nan, it's barely noon." Guessing that they're talking about alcohol, Ana has to fight the urge to laugh at Jerry's tone; sounding for all the world like Nan's parent, not nurse. When she only stares at him, he says, "Fine. I put it in the safe, so those festive freeloaders wouldn't find it. I'll be right back."

"You'll both join me; at least a drop? I know you're abstaining at the moment, but this twenty-five year old single malt was bottled in nineteen sixty-nine."

Wondering if there's a connection, Ana muses, "My dad was born in nineteen sixty-nine."

"Yes. Ned bought it the year he left for America with his young bride and a baby on the way. He gave it to me with the promise to one day return and share it with me." Taking a deep breath, Nan continues, "Of course, he was killed in combat when your father was still a child. I have a feeling they'd both approve if we open it now."

Cursing herself for glancing at Christian for the answer, Ana asks, "In that case, maybe I could have a little?"

Thankfully, he doesn't make a fuss, merely smiles and says, "I don't think a taste will do any harm." To Nan he adds, "And I'd love to, thank you, though I prefer bourbon."

Jerry returns, with a small wooden box under one arm and a few glasses stacked in the other, as Nan smiles and says, "Then perhaps you'd better reconsider, Christian. Because, once you've tried good scotch, you'll never be satisfied with bourbon again."

Christian is smiling at his wife as he says, "I doubt that, Nan, but I've been surprised before." On seeing the whiskey label, he reaches out a hand to stop Jerry and says, "Whoa, do you know what you have there?"

Clearly, Jerry doesn't, because he looks to Nan, who smiles and says, "Yes. Nowadays, it would probably sell for twenty thousand of your dollars, but money isn't everything."

Christian again smiles at Ana and says, "True enough. Baby, who said, 'Wealth is not his that has it, but his that enjoys it.'?"

Smiling with pleasure that he trusts her to know the answer, Ana says, "Benjamin Franklin. I like that one."

"Me, too. Though I didn't really understand it before I met you." Gesturing for Jerry to continue, Christian adds, "Okay, let's find out what we've got."

Everyone is mute while Jerry breaks the seal and uncorks the bottle; likewise throughout the onomatopoeic perfection of the chink of glass on fine crystal as he splashes varying sized serves for everyone, adding a dash of water from a jug on the table as silently requested. Then a few more moments of hushed reverence as they all savor the aroma of the quality liquor. Finally, Nan sighs and mutters, "An agreeable interlude." More loudly, she prompts, "Christian, you're our guest."

At Ana's confusion, he explains, "Toast. You're family." Then holding up his glass a little, he suggests, "What about one from Ireland?" At Nan's nod, he continues, "May your home always be too small to hold all your friends."

Smiling at the appropriateness of it, Ana sips from her small portion of scotch. At first, the assault of flavors is too much for her, but the longer it sits in her mouth, the more layers she detects; finally swallowing and exclaiming, "Fruity." When Christian splutters, chokes and is obviously trying not to laugh, she blushes and asks, "Did I get it wrong?"

Recovering, Christian rests an apologetic hand on her shoulder and says, "No, baby; you're exactly right. There are a myriad of spicy fruit flavors. But I seriously doubt anyone has used 'fruity' as their only assessment of vintage single malt scotch."

Still slightly pink, Ana amends, "Well, it was kind of nutty and chocolatey, too. But the fruit was a surprise. I like it."

Nan smiles with pride at Ana as she comments, "Looks like we have another Lambert who appreciates great scotch."

"Grey."

Ana smiles a little at Christian's correction, then looks at Nan, and together the women insist, "Lambert."

Surprised, on opening his door to see Nigel, Christian says, "Oh. I suggested Lea take your place this afternoon, because I thought you'd be at the hospital by now."

"I just came from there, sir. I know I let you down yesterday, but I'd like to serve out the last few days of my contract, if that's okay with you?"

"How the fuck did you…" Glancing back at a napping Ana, he steps into the corridor, carefully shutting the door, and more quietly says, "How the fuck did you let me down? Do you mean accompanying Pru to the hospital? I understand about that, and we had secure transport."

A muscle twitching in his jaw for a second, Nigel replies, "I didn't evade the danger. I should've seen it coming."

"For fuck's sake, man, go easy on yourself. It was a freak accident. The fucker who didn't secure his dinghy will face charges; I'm making fucking sure of that. But the accident wasn't your fault. And something else; I was looking at Ana when it happened, so I saw..." Having trouble continuing for a moment, when he remembers how close it had been, Christian swallows and says, "That fucking mast was coming straight at her. You not only very nearly dodged it, but brought the car to a safe stop, too. You saved all of us."

Apparently intent on punishing himself, Nigel protests, "Not Ms. Kent; luck saved her."

Christian laughs and asks, "Ms. Kent? You're seriously going to play it like that? And you must know what they say about luck?"

Nigel finally manages a smile and reveals, "My dad maintains that it's a dividend of sweat."

Leading them both towards the nearest exit, Christian nods and says, "A quote from Ray Kroc, the guy who turned a little hamburger business into McDonald's."

"I guess he'd know about sweating. The reporters have finally given up, sir. We can run along the lane, if you'd like? Shouldn't be too crowded this time of day."

"Okay, thanks. It'll be easier than slogging through mud and snow around the property."

As promised, no cameramen haunt the front gate; his brush with death apparently old news. Thomas and Lucy had given the fuckers a sound bite, thankfully referring to Christian only as "a family friend". Of course, he'd done what he could to preserve Pru's privacy at the hospital, too; partly to ensure that he and Ana can remain relatively anonymous for the rest of their vacation. As usual, Nigel doesn't say a word once they start running; merely falling into step behind him. Perfect.

His body is protected from the biting wind and driving rain by his black Arc'teryx Visio FL jacket and running tights—Ana disapproves of them, claiming (rightly so) that he wouldn't like her to jog in public wearing skintight pants, but they're the best thing for the distances he runs; LED bands ensuring he's visible even in weather like this. His identity concealed by a cap and hood, classical music conveyed to his ears via the iPod strapped to one bicep, Christian's awareness extends only a few yards before him. He puts one foot in front of the other at a steady, mile-consuming pace that soon overrides the chill in his bones; lost in pleasant thoughts about Ana. Their scene this afternoon had been perhaps the best sex since arriving in England—and they'd had some fucking good fucking.

He'd put his own needs on hold the entire day; skipping his early morning run to support her through a painful session with Flynn, an even more excruciating conversation with her mom, an emotional visit to the hospital (Ana had been in tears on the way, suffering survivor's guilt) and stood by, with pride, while she'd come up with a plan that will ensure Nan dies a very happy woman, confident that her family's legacy is safe in Ana's hands.

The strange thing about today was that, even though taking a back seat to his wife would appear to go against his dominant nature, none of it had seemed like an effort. He honestly, genuinely enjoys being the person Ana can rely on. And nothing thrilled him like it did to see how confident she's becoming…well, almost nothing. God, what she could do to him! He didn't even know how much he'd needed to dominate her in the bedroom until she'd slipped into the role of scared virgin—true, she had recent experience to draw on when playing an ingénue, but she'd never been scared of having sex with him. He'd only known she was acting because she'd added "Sir" to her pleas.

Fuck, and then she'd deliberately taken her bottom lip in her teeth and gazed up at him through her long, beautiful lashes, so he was already rock hard when he'd bound and blindfolded her. On intuition, and mindful of her physical condition, he'd then grabbed her around the throat, just tight enough to awaken her instinctive fear, and it had been Dominant Christian who'd put his lips by her ear to whisper all the filthy stuff he intended to do to her. She'd literally quivered with need and a soft, mewling sound escaped her before she again "begged" him to go easy on her. Of course, he hadn't—neither of them wanted really wanted him to be gentle by that point. He'd fucked her like a pile driver and gloriously exploded inside her, his orgasm going on for ages.

It's how he knows that what he has with Ana is the real thing. Not that he ever really doubted it. If anything, Ana does; occasionally still worried that he'll miss all those incredibly talented and extremely obliging women. But, even though subduing them and testing their limits of pain and pleasure—both emotional and physical—had been enough to drive back his demons for another week, his physical release (though often exquisite) was always short-lived. Because he didn't…couldn't love any of them. It's just Ana's low self-esteem that causes these doubts. At least Carla's admission has finally provided the missing link between an apparently cherished child and the shy, retiring adult who'd fallen at his feet; her true personality barely visible after a lifetime of trying to please her emotionally absent mother, but he'd seen her…seen the real Ana.

Fuck! He's so fucking mad at his mother-in-law, to put her own needs ahead of her family. Yet hadn't he done the same thing for so many years, because he'd been afraid to ask for help? Even after he'd been caught climbing into the wrong room when one of his nightly vodka "therapy" sessions had gotten a little out of hand, Christian hadn't really felt any remorse. His parents had suspected that this wasn't the only time, so he'd compromised with a lie that could be believed; that he only drank when the nightmares were really bad.

At the time he'd thought; what the fuck did it matter if he had a few drinks every night? It helped him sleep and it hurt no one…sure, his health might suffer, eventually. But he'd only intended it to get him through high school; he could stop when it was no longer needed. Flynn, the fucker, had shown Christian how much his alcoholism was hurting Grace with one question to her, "How do you feel about the fact that your son would rather get drunk than ask you for help?"

Grace had wept, then keened, then howled and finally ended up on her knees in Carrick's embrace as she sobbed, "That I've failed him…I've failed."

Christian—not used to such emotion from anyone, least of all from this tower of strength who had rescued him from hell on earth—was staring at his adoptive parents in horror when Grace, still on her knees, had turned to him and apologized (fucking apologized!) for letting him down. He'd almost thrown up, still incapable of recognizing the feeling that was flooding through him, threatening to overwhelm him. If he weren't effectively trapped by a weeping woman, his hands firmly clasped in hers, he'd have fled.

Flynn must have known how close he was to losing his new patient in that very first session, because he'd firmly ordered Grace and Carrick to leave the room, and to do so without saying another word. When they both resisted, he reminded them that they'd sought him, not the other way round. So they'd left, Grace only doing so silently at a further caution from Flynn. That wonderful, compassionate, intuitive and infuriating motherfucker had offered Christian a glass of water, and said, "It's guilt; the emotion that you're feeling. You feel remorse for inadvertently causing your mother pain."

Ignorant fucker that he was back then, he'd bit out, "She's not my fucking mother."

"Oh? Who is?"

"I don't have one."

"Everyone has a mother, Christian." When he hadn't replied, merely wondering when the fuck he could get out of there, Flynn had asked, "Can one feel guilt without being capable of empathy?" Who the fuck talks like that? And how the fuck had he known that the scrawny, fucked-up kid before him had never felt guilt in his life? Fear, sure…anger, certainly, and often something like shame, when he fucked up trying to appear normal, but not guilt.

"How the fuck would I know?"

"Because you're very smart, and your mother…your adoptive mother tells me that you devour books like other kids consume candy. How about this; you answer one question today—not this one—and I let you go home early? Mind, you'll have to be honest, or it doesn't count."

Flynn was right about him being smart, and this was a good deal. "So fucking ask."

"Why have you not taken your own life?"

That had shocked him; not once, in the past ten years, had a shrink opened a dialogue about suicide. But even back then Christian was good at concealing his feelings. So he'd merely asked, "When would I have time to fucking commit suicide? If I'm not studying, playing sport or doing chores I'm having my head shrunk by the latest motherfucker with daddy issues who thinks he can help me."

Apparently unaffected by this thinly veiled insult, Flynn had shrugged and said, "Time enough for a secret drinking habit leaves time enough for suicide, Christian. And you didn't answer my question."

The denial was out of his mouth almost before he thought about it. At fourteen he was already a practiced liar. "I don't have a habit. It's just for when things are real bad."

With no reprove in his voice—if anything, only compassion—Flynn had gently explained, "You don't need to lie when we're alone, Christian. These sessions are recorded, so I can review them later and better understand how to help you. But no one will ever hear those recordings except me. And I have made it a condition of treating you that nothing you say here will be relayed to your parents…sorry, adoptive parents."

"Stop fucking saying 'adoptive' like that. It's pissing me off."

Again that infuriating shrug of his shoulders and Flynn had said, "I'll use any term you care for, Christian. You're the one who insisted Grace is not your mother."

He'd wanted to fucking punch him then; actually pictured his fist smashing the smug fucker's nose. Again, none of this played out on his face when he said, "Fine. Call them whatever the fuck you want." When Flynn had said nothing else, Christian had sullenly asked, "What?"

"Your answer?"

Not really confident that it would be enough, he'd attempted, "Maybe I'm scared?"

"Of dying? Bullshit."

This time his body had betrayed him; his eyes widening in surprise. No shrink used language like that. Christian had assumed it was a rule. "Are you allowed to cuss like that?"

"Why not? You do. I won't make a habit of it. But, in this case, 'bullshit' is most apt. Your answer?"

"I…fuck, maybe I'm curious to see if life gets better?"

"That's another question, not an answer. And it's also bullshit; so much so that I can practically smell it. You don't give a fuck about life. And you certainly don't give a fuck about your own or you wouldn't be making such a mess of it. I'm guessing that the underage drinking and constant fighting is the tip of a risk-taking iceberg. You don't fear violent recrimination by now; not after a decade in a stable, loving home. So you have a different reason for keeping all these harmful activities a secret. Your answer?"

He'd stood, terrified of whatever answer was lurking in his subconscious, and exclaimed, "I'm not fucking playing this game anymore. I'm fucking out of here."

Flynn had relaxed further back into his chair and gestured to the door. "Okay, Christian. I'm disappointed to learn that you're not a man of your word. But that's my problem, not yours. You're free to go."

He'd stared at the door that led to the waiting room for a while, then asked, "They'll just find another shrink, won't they?"

"Yes, Christian."

He'd done his homework—that being the best way to adequately torture his therapists. Dr. John Flynn (insert impossibly long string of letters here) had immigrated to America at the request of no less than the President of the United States. He'd helped children recover from years of abuse, victims of rape find the courage to get on with their life, and soldiers overcome the horrors of war. "He won't be as good as you, will he?"

"Probably not."

With no better option, it suddenly became easy to tell the truth, and he'd finally answered, "Because it would destroy her."

Only then was Christian impressed with Flynn; when the good doctor didn't gloat, merely quietly asking, "Destroy whom?"

"My mom; Grace."

"Thank you, Christian. You can go. I'll see you on Wednesday. Would you send your parents in for a moment, please?" Holding up a hand when Christian had whirled on him, he'd quickly explained, "Just to let them know we'll be continuing. I'm a man of my word, too."

He'd wondered at the time, what Flynn had said to his parents that meant they were both smiling when they'd returned to the waiting room, only a minute or two later. It was years before he found the courage to ask Grace. She'd smiled and said, "He told me that you'd agreed to see him on a regular basis, and that you love me very much."

Of course, thinking about the "L" word brings him very neatly back to Ana…his Anastasia. Grace had taught…no, reminded Christian how to love. But not even a mother's unconditional love could make him accept it in return. Only Ana had been able to do that. It's even beginning to hurt less when she looks at him as if he's the answer to all her prayers.

Fuck this! I could be snuggled up with my wife instead of freezing my nuts off out here. Jogging on the spot, to keep his heart-rate up while he waits for the approaching car to pass, so he can cross the road, Christian turns to Nigel, saying, "Enough for today. Let's head back."

So he doesn't see the driver's attention consumed by two hot guys in running suits. Or that her ogling is naturally dragging her steering towards the objects of her attention. What he does see is Nigel's eyes widen with fear, and he's turning to see why when over two hundred pounds of bodyguard hits him in the solar plexus, punching the air from his lungs as they both sail through the air, landing in the full and partly frozen drainage ditch beside the road. "Sir! Sir, are you okay?"

Fuck, it's cold! "Other than a giant is fondling me? I'm fine. Get the fuck off me."

Immediately ceasing his cursory inspection of Christian's limbs and head for injuries, Nigel helps his boss stand, glancing down the road where the Fiat is skidding to a stop, and quips, "Wanna make a run for it?"

Christian barks a harsh laugh and says, "Tempting. But we'll fucking freeze to death now. She can give us a ride back, if you think it's safe enough?"

Nigel shrugs, wipes water from his face and says, "Should be okay. I could give Lea a call, but we'd be icicles by the time she got here." The driver, a young woman, fishes a blanket or two from her car and approaches them, hysterically apologizing the whole time. Deadpan, Nigel comments, "Brace yourself."

Christian laughs again and says, "Yeah. She's not going to shut up the whole way. Oh, not a word about this to Mrs. Grey, okay?"

Nigel stares at Christian for a moment, but then agrees, "Okay. You don't seem very upset about this?"

Christian shrugs and says, "It's happened before, but I'm usually facing them, so I just step aside. Thanks, for doing your job."

With a genuine smile, for the first time in a couple of days, Nigel says, "That's what I'm here for."

Finally free from the woman who'd so nearly hit him—she really had apologized the entire way to Elspeth Hall—Christian is relieved to see that Ana is still asleep. Quickly divesting himself of his now filthy and saturated clothes, he towel dries before climbing in and spooning her. She stirs a little, murmuring, "Mmm…husband." A heartbeat later, she tries to squirm away from him, protesting, "Fuck, you're freezing! Have you been swimming again?"

Desperate for comfort and warmth, Christian easily prevents her escape and chuckles at her attempts to get away before saying, "No. But it's bucketing down out there. And I missed you."

It's enough. Ana relaxes and snuggles back against him, rubbing warmth into his enfolding arms as she reveals, "I was dreaming about you."

Fuck, even that is enough that his near frozen cock stirs to life, wondering if he'll get lucky. "Good dream?"

Squirming against him, silently encouraging his erection, Ana promises, "Mmm, hmm. But not as good as this."

Where credit's due: "The light music of whiskey falling into a glass - an agreeable interlude." - James Joyce