"Anastasia," Christian calls and I hear his anxiety. "Are you okay?"
I ignore him. Am I okay? No, I am not okay. After what he's done to me, I doubt I'll be able to wear a swimsuit, let alone one of my ridiculously expensive bikinis, for the rest of our honeymoon. The thought is suddenly so infuriating. How dare he? I'll give him are you okay. I seethe as fury spikes through me. I can behave like an adolescent, too! Stepping back into the bedroom, I hurl the hairbrush at him, turn, and leave - though not before I see his shocked expression and his lightning reaction as he raises his arm to protect his head so that the brush bounces ineffectively off his forearm and onto the bed. I storm out of our cabin and run upstairs and out on deck, stomping toward the bow. I need some space to calm down. It's dark and the air is balmy. The warm breeze carries the smell of the Mediterranean and the scent of jasmine and bougainvillea from the shore. The Fair Lady glides effortlessly through the calm cobalt sea as I rest my elbows on the wooden railing, gazing at the distant shore where tiny lights wink and twinkle. I take a deep, healing breath and slowly begin to calm. I'm aware of him behind me before I hear him.
"You're mad at me," he whispers.
"No shit, Sherlock!"
"How mad?"
"Scale of one to ten, I think I'm at fifty. Apt, huh?"
"That mad." He sounds surprised and impressed at once.
"Yes. Pushed to violence mad," I say through gritted teeth. He stays silent as I turn and scowl at him, watching me with wide and wary eyes. I know from that expression and that he's made no move to touch me that he's out of his depth.
"Christian, you have to stop unilaterally trying to bring me to heel. You made your point on the beach. Very effectively, as I recall."
He shrugs minutely. "Well, you won't take your top off again," he murmurs petulantly.
What? And this justifies what he's done to me? I glare at him. "I don't like you leaving marks on me. Well, not this many, anyway. It's a hard limit!" I hiss at him.
"I don't like you taking your clothes off in public. That's a hard limit for me," he growls.
"I think we've established that," I hiss through my teeth. "Look at me!" I pull down my camisole to reveal the top of my br**sts. Christian gazes at me, his eyes not leaving my face his expression wary and uncertain. He's not used to seeing me this mad. Can't he see what he's done? Can't he see how ridiculous he is? I want to shout at him, but I refrain - I don't want to push him too far. Heaven knows what he'd do.
Eventually, he blinks and holds his palms up in a resigned, conciliatory gesture.
"Okay," he says his voice placating. "I get it."
Hallelujah!
"Good!"
He runs his hand through his hair. "I'm sorry. Please don't be mad at me." Finally, he looks contrite - using my own words back at me.
"You are such an adolescent sometimes," I scold him, mulishly, but the fight has gone out of my voice, and he knows it. He steps closer and tentatively raises his hand to tuck my hair behind my ear.
"I know," he acknowledges softly. "I have a lot to learn."
Dr. Flynn's words come back to me . . . Emotionally, Christian is an adolescent, Ana. He bypassed that phase in his life totally. He's channeled all his energies into succeeding in the business world, and he has beyond all expectations. His emotional world has to play catch- up.
My heart thaws a little.
"We both do." I sigh and cautiously raise my hand, placing it over his heart. He doesn't flinch like he used to, but he stiffens. He rests his hand over mine and smiles his shy smile.
"I've just learned that you've a good arm and a good aim, Mrs. Grey. I would never have figured that, but then I constantly underestimate you. You always surprise me."
I arch my eyebrow at him. "Target practice with Ray. I can throw and shoot straight, Mr. Grey, and you'd do well to remember that."
"I will endeavor to do that, Mrs. Grey, or ensure that all potential projectile objects are nailed down and that you don't have access to a gun." He smirks at me.
I smirk back, narrowing my eyes. "I'm resourceful."
"That you are," he whispers and releases my hand to circle his arms around me. Pulling me into an embrace, he buries his nose in my hair. I wrap my arms around him, holding him close, and feel the tension leave his body as he nuzzles me.
"Am I forgiven?"
"Am I?"
I feel his smile. "Yes," he answers.
"Ditto."
We stand holding each other, my pique forgotten. He does smell good, adolescent or not. How can I resist him?
"Hungry?" he says after a while. I have my eyes closed and my head against his chest.
"Yes. Famished. All the . . . er . . . activity has given me an appetite. But I'm not dressed for dinner." I'm sure my sweatpants and camisole would be frowned upon in the dining room.
"You look good to me, Anastasia. Besides, it's our boat for the week; we can dress how we like. Think of it as dress down Tuesday on the Cote D'Azur. Anyway, I thought we'd eat on deck."
"Yes, I'd like that."
He leans down and kisses me - an earnest forgive-me kiss - then we wander hand in hand toward the bow where our gazpacho soup awaits.
The steward serves our creme brulee and discreetly retires.
"Why do you always braid my hair?" I ask Christian out of curiosity. We're sitting adjacent to each other at the table, my lower leg curled around his. He pauses as he's about to pick up his dessertspoon and frowns.
"I don't want your hair catching in anything," he says quietly, and for a moment he's lost in thought. "Habit, I think," he muses. Suddenly he frowns and his eyes widen, his pupils dilating with alarm. Holy shit! What's he remembered? It's something painful, some early childhood memory, I guess. I don't want to remind him of that. Leaning over, I put my index finger over his lips.