“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Stop with the grinning, Grey.
She pouts with frustration. Miss Steele, as ever, is curious. But all she’s wearing is her camisole and jeans; she’ll be cold once we’re airborne. “Finish your tea,” I order, and leave the table. In the bedroom I rifle through the armoire and pull out a sweatshirt. This should do. I call the valet and tell him to bring the car out front.
“I’m ready,” she says as I return to the main room.
“You’ll need this.” I toss the sweatshirt to her as she gives me a bewildered look.
“Trust me.” I plant a swift kiss on her lips. Taking her hand, I open the door to the suite and we head for the elevators. There’s a hotel employee standing there—Brian, according to his name tag—also waiting for the elevator.
“Good morning,” he says, giving us both a cheerful salute as the doors open. I glance at Ana and smirk as we enter.
No shenanigans in elevators this morning.
She hides her smile and peers at the floor, her cheeks coloring. She knows exactly what’s going through my mind. Brian wishes us a good day as we exit.
Outside, the valet is waiting with the Mustang. Ana arches a brow, impressed by the GT500. Yeah, it’s a fun drive, even if it’s only a Mustang. “You know, sometimes it’s great being me,” I tease her, and with a polite bow I open her door.
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.” I get behind the wheel and ease the car into drive. At the stoplight I quickly program the address of the airfield into the GPS. It directs us out of Savannah toward I-95. I switch on my iPod via the steering wheel, and the car is filled with a sublime melody.
“What’s this?” Ana asks.
“It’s from La Traviata. An opera by Verdi.”
“La Traviata? I’ve heard of that. I can’t think where. What does it mean?”
I give her a knowing look. “Well, literally, ‘the woman led astray.’ It’s based on Alexandre Dumas’s book La Dame aux Camélias.”
“Ah. I’ve read it.”
“I thought you might have.”
“The doomed courtesan,” she recounts, her voice tinged with melancholy. “Hmm, it’s a depressing story,” she says.
“Too depressing?” We can’t have that, Miss Steele, especially when I’m in such a good mood. “Do you want to choose some music? This is on my iPod.”
I tap the navigation screen and bring up the playlist.
“You choose,” I offer, wondering if she’ll like anything I have in iTunes. She studies the list and scrolls through it, concentrating hard. She taps on a song, and Verdi’s dulcet strings are replaced by a pounding beat and Britney Spears.
“ ‘Toxic,’ eh?” I observe, with wry humor.
Is she trying to tell me something?
Is she referring to me?
“I don’t know what you mean,” she says innocently.
Does she think I should wear a warning?
Miss Steele wants to play games.
So be it.
I turn the music down a tad. It’s a little early for this remix, and for the reminder.
“Sir, this submissive respectfully requests Master’s iPod.”
I glance away from the spreadsheet I’m reading and study her as she kneels beside me, her eyes cast down.
She’s been exceptional this weekend. How can I refuse?
“Sure, Leila, take it. I think it’s in the dock.”
“Thank you, Master,” she says, and stands with her usual grace, without looking at me.
Good girl.
And wearing only red high heels, she teeters over to the iPod dock and collects her reward.
“I didn’t put that song on my iPod,” I tell her breezily, and floor the gas, throwing us both into the back of our seats, but I hear Ana’s small, exasperated huff above the roar of the engine.
As Britney continues at her sultry best, Ana drums her fingers on her thigh, radiating disquiet as she stares out the car window. The Mustang eats up the miles on the freeway; there’s no traffic, and dawn’s first light is chasing us down I-95.
Ana sighs as Damien Rice begins.
Put her out of her misery, Grey.
And I don’t know if it’s my good mood, our talk last night, or the fact that I’m about to go soaring—but I want to tell her who put the song on the iPod. “It was Leila.”
“Leila?”
“An ex, who put the song on my iPod.”
“One of the fifteen?” She turns her full attention to me, hungry for information.
“Yes.”
“What happened to her?”
“We finished.”
“Why?”
“She wanted more.”
“And you didn’t?”
I glance at her and shake my head. “I’ve never wanted more, until I met you.” She rewards me with her bashful smile.
Yes, Ana. It’s not just you who wants more.
“What happened to the other fourteen?” she asks.
“You want a list? Divorced, beheaded, died?”
“You’re not Henry the Eighth,” she scolds me.
“Okay. In no particular order, I’ve only had long-term relationships with four women, apart from Elena.”
“Elena?”
“Mrs. Robinson to you.”
She pauses for a moment, and I know she’s scrutinizing me. I keep my eyes on the road.
“What happened to the four?” she asks.
“So inquisitive, so eager for information, Miss Steele,” I tease.