Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(28)

"Come," he says and leads me into the shop.

"Here," Christian holds open the platinum bracelet he's just purchased. It's exquisite, so delicately crafted, the filigree in the shape of small abstract flowers with small diamonds at their heart. He fastens it around my wrist. It's wide and cuff-like and hides the red marks. It also cost around thirty thousand euros, I think, though I couldn't really follow the conversation in French with the sales assistant. I have never worn anything so expensive.

"There, that's better," he murmurs.

"Better?" I whisper, gazing into luminous gray eyes, conscious that the stick-thin sales assistant is staring at us with a jealous and disapproving look.

"You know why," Christian says uncertainly.

"I don't need this." I shake my wrist and the cuff moves. It catches the afternoon light streaming through the boutique window and small sparkling rainbows dance off the diamonds all over the walls of the store.

"I do," he says with utter sincerity.

Why? Why does he need this? Does he feel guilty? About what? The marks?

His birth mother? Not confiding in me? Oh, Fifty.

"No, Christian, you don't. You've given me so much already. A magical honeymoon, London, Paris, the Cote D'Azur . . . and you. I'm a very lucky girl," I whisper and his eyes soften.

"No, Anastasia, I'm a very lucky man."

"Thank you." Stretching up on tiptoes, I put my arms around his neck and kiss him . . . not for giving me the bracelet but for being mine.

Back in the car he's introspective, gazing out at the fields of bright sunflowers, their heads following and basking in the afternoon sun. One of the twins—I think it's Gaston—is driving and Taylor is beside him up front. Christian is brooding about something. I clasp his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He glances at me before releasing my hand and caressing my knee. I'm wearing a short, full, blue and white skirt, and a blue, fitted, sleeveless shirt. Christian hesitates, and I don't know if his hand is going to travel up my thigh or down my leg. I tense with anticipation at the gentle touch of his fingers and my breath catches. What's he going to do? He chooses down, suddenly grasps my ankle and pulls my foot on to his lap. I swivel my backside so I am facing him in the back of the car.

"I want the other one, too."

I glance nervously toward Taylor and Gaston, whose eyes are resolutely on the road ahead, and place my other foot on his lap. His eyes cool, he reaches over and presses a button located in his door. In front of us, a lightly tinted privacy screen slides out of a panel, and ten seconds later we are effectively on our own.

Wow . . . no wonder the back of this car has so much legroom.

"I want to look at your ankles," Christian offers his quiet explanation. His gaze is anxious. The cuff marks? Jeez . . . I thought we'd dealt with this. If there are marks, they are hidden by the sandal straps. I don't recall seeing any this morning. Gently, he strokes his thumb up my right instep, making me wriggle. A smile plays on his lips and deftly he undoes one strap, and his smile fades as he's confronted with the darker red marks.

"Doesn't hurt," I murmur. He glances at me and his expression is sad, his mouth a thin line. He nods once as if he's taking me at my word while I shake my sandal loose so it falls to the floor, but I know I've lost him. He's distracted and brooding again, mechanically caressing my foot while he turns away to gaze out the car window once more.

"Hey. What did you expect?" I ask softly. He glances at me and shrugs.

"I didn't expect to feel like I do looking at these marks," he says.