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“Okay Barney, one more time.”

The screen springs to life. A box appears around the head of the man in the CCTV footage and suddenly we zoom in. I sit up, fascinated.

“Is Barney doing this?” I ask quietly.

“Yes,” Christian answers. “Can you sharpen the picture at all?” he says to Barney.

The picture blurs, then refocuses moderately sharper of the man consciously gazing down and avoiding the CCTV camera. As I stare at him, a chill of 126/551

recognition sweeps up my spine. There is something familiar in the line of his jaw. He has scruffy short black hair that looks odd and unkempt . . . and in the newly sharpened picture, I see an earring, a small hoop.

Holy crap! I know who it is.

“Christian,” I whisper. “That’s Jack Hyde.”

“You think?” Christian asks, surprised.

“It’s the line of his jaw.” I point at the screen. “And the earrings and the shape of his shoulders. He’s the right build, too. He must be wearing a wig—or he’s cut and dyed his hair.”

“Barney, are you getting this?” Christian puts the phone down on his desk and switches to hands-free. “You seem to have studied your ex-boss in some detail, Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs, sounding none too pleased. I scowl at him, but I’m saved by Barney.

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“Yes, sir. I heard Mrs. Grey. I’m running face recognition software on all the digitized CCTV footage right now. See where else this asshole—I’m sorry ma’am—this man has been within the organization.” I glance anxiously at Christian, who ignores Barney’s expletive. He’s studying the CCTV picture closely.

“Why would he do this?” I ask Christian.

He shrugs. “Revenge, perhaps. I don’t know. You can’t fathom why some people behave the way they do. I’m just angry that you ever worked so closely with him.” Christian’s mouth presses into a hard, thin line and he encircles my waist with his arm.

“We have the contents of his hard drive, too, sir,” Barney adds.

“Yes, I remember. Do you have an address for Mr. Hyde?” Christian says sharply.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“Alert Welch.”

“Sure will. I’m also going to scan the city CCTV and see if I can track his movements.”

“Check what vehicle he owns.”

“Sir.”

“Barney can do all this?” I whisper.

Christian nods and gives me a smug smile.

“What was on his hard drive?” I whisper.

Christian’s face hardens and he shakes his head. “Nothing much,” he says, tight-lipped, his smile forgotten.

“Tell me.”

“No.”

“Was it about you, or me?”

“Me.” He sighs.

“What sort of things? About your lifestyle?” Christian shakes his head and puts his index finger against my lips to silence me. I scowl at him. But he narrows his eyes, and it’s a clear warning that I should hold my tongue.

“It’s a 2006 Camaro. I’ll send the license details to Welch, too,” Barney says excitedly from the phone.

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“Good. Let me know where else that fucker has been in my building. And check this image against the one from his SIP personnel file.” Christian gazes at me skeptically. “I want to be sure we have a match.”

“Already done, sir, and Mrs. Grey is correct. This is Jack Hyde.” I grin. See? I can be useful. Christian rubs his hand down my back.

“Well done, Mrs. Grey.” He smiles and his earlier rancor forgotten. To Barney he says, “Let me know when you’ve tracked all his movements at HQ. Also check out any other GEH property he may have had access to, and let the security teams know so they can make another sweep of all those buildings.”

“Sir.”

“Thanks, Barney.” Christian hangs up.

“Well, Mrs. Grey, it seems that you are not only decorative, but useful, too.” Christian’s eyes light up with wicked amusement. I know he’s teasing.

“Decorative?” I scoff, teasing him back.

“Very,” he says quietly, pressing a soft, sweet kiss on my lips.

“You’re much more decorative than I am, Mr. Grey.” He grins and kisses me more forcefully, winding my braid around his wrist and wrapping his arms around me. When we come up for air, my heart is racing.

“Hungry?” he asks.

“No.”

“I am.”

“What for?”

“Well—food actually, Mrs. Grey.”

“I’ll make you something.” I giggle.

“I love that sound.”

“Of me offering you food?”

“You giggling.” He kisses my hair then I stand.

“So what would you like to eat, Sir?” I ask sweetly.

He narrows his eyes. “Are you being cute, Mrs. Grey?”

“Always, Mr. Grey . . . Sir.”

He smiles a sphinxlike smile. “I can still put you over my knee,” he murmurs seductively.

“I know.” I grin. Placing my hands on the arms of his office chair, I lean down and kiss him. “That’s one of the things I love about you. But stow your twitching palm—you’re hungry.”

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He smiles his shy smile and my heart clenches. “Oh, Mrs. Grey, what am I going to do with you?”

“You’re going to answer my question. What would you like to eat?”

“Something light. Surprise me,” he says, mirroring my words from the playroom earlier.

“I’ll see what I can do.” I sashay out of his study and into the kitchen. My heart sinks when I see Mrs. Jones is there.

“Hello, Mrs. Jones.”

“Mrs. Grey. Are you ready for something to eat?”

“Um . . .”

She is stirring something in a pot on the stove that smells delicious.

“I was going to make subs for Mr. Grey and me.” She pauses for a heartbeat. “Sure,” she says. “Mr. Grey likes French bread—there is some in the freezer cut to sub length. I’d be happy to make it for you, ma’am.”

“I know. But I’d like to do this.”

“I understand. I’ll give you some room.”

“What are you cooking?”

“This is a bolognaise sauce. It can be eaten anytime. I’ll freeze it.” She smiles warmly and turns the heat right down.

“Um—so what does Christian like in a, um . . . sub?” I frown, struck by what I’ve just said. Does Mrs. Jones understand the inference?

“Mrs. Grey, you could put just about anything in a sandwich, and as long as it’s on French bread, he’ll eat it.” We grin at each other.

“Okay, thank you.” I skip to the freezer and find the French bread cut to size in Ziplock bags. I place two of them on a plate, pop them into the microwave, and set it to defrost.

Mrs. Jones has disappeared. I frown as I return to the fridge to search for in-gredients. I suppose it will be up to me to set the parameters by which Mrs. Jones and I will work together. I like the idea of cooking for Christian on the weekends.

Mrs. Jones is more than welcome to do it during the week—the last thing I’ll want to do when I come home from work is cook. Hmm . . . a bit like Christian’s routine with his submissives. I shake my head. I mustn’t overthink this. I find some ham in the fridge, and in the crisper a perfectly ripe avocado.

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As I am adding a touch of salt and lemon to the mashed avocado, Christian emerges from his study with the plans for the new house in his hands. He puts them on the breakfast bar, saunters toward me, and wraps his arms around me, kissing my neck.

“Barefoot and in the kitchen,” he murmurs.

“Shouldn’t that be barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen?” I smirk.

He stills, his whole body tensing against me. “Not yet,” he declares, apprehension clear in his voice.

“No! Not yet!”