Total pages in book: 262
Estimated words: 268603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1343(@200wpm)___ 1074(@250wpm)___ 895(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 268603 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 1343(@200wpm)___ 1074(@250wpm)___ 895(@300wpm)
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
It’s the sound of the sea lapping against the hull of M.Y. Fair Lady that wakes me. The crew are on deck; I hear them, no doubt shining the brass and making their preparations for the day. We are moored in the bay outside Monte Carlo harbor. It’s a blissful summer’s morning in the Mediterranean, and beside me, Mrs. Anastasia Grey is fast asleep. I turn onto my side and study her, as I have done most mornings since we started our honeymoon. She is sun-kissed. Her hair is a little lighter. Her lips are parted, and she sleeps soundly.
As she should.
I smirk at the memory.
It was a late night. And she came and came and came.
She looks so serene; I envy her that.
Though I have to confess, I’ve relaxed a little.
There’s been the occasional call from Ros and from Marco after the drama of last week’s Black Monday. Marco and I avoided any substantial losses with some last-minute repositioning into defensive assets. We’re both keeping a watchful eye on the markets and liaising on a strategy to survive the downturn.
But generally, no work and all play has been invigorating.
I smile fondly at Ana, and still she sleeps.
I have discovered new facets to my wife.
She adores London.
She loves afternoon tea at Brown’s Hotel.
She loves pubs and the fact that Londoners spill out of them and drink pints and smoke on the sidewalks.
She loves Borough Market, especially the Scotch eggs.
She’s not keen on shopping, except at Harrods.
She is not a fan of English ale, but then neither am I. It’s warm.
Who drinks warm beer?
She’s not keen on shaving…but she’ll let me shave her.
Now, that’s a memory I’ll treasure.
She loves Paris.
She loves the Louvre.
She loves the Pont des Arts, and we left a padlock there to prove it.
She loves the Hall of Mirrors in Versailles.
“Mr. Grey. It is no hardship to see you from every angle in here.”
She loves me…or so it would seem.
I’m tempted to wake her, but we enjoyed a late night yesterday. We saw Le Songe, a ballet based on Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, at L’Opéra de Monte-Carlo, then went to the casino, where Ana won a few hundred euros at the roulette table. She was thrilled.
Her eyes flicker open, as if I’ve willed her awake. She smiles. “Hi.”
“Hi, Mrs. Grey, good morning. Sleep well?”
She stretches. “I had the best sleep and the best dreams.”
“You are the best dream.” I kiss her forehead. “Sex, or morning swim around the yacht?”
She smiles her oh-so-sexy smile. “Both,” she mouths.
Ana is bundled up in a robe fresh from her swim, sipping tea and reading one of her SIP manuscripts as we’re served breakfast on deck. “I could get used to this,” she says, dreamily.
“Yes. She’s a fine, fine vessel.” I stare at Ana and swallow the last of my espresso. Ana quirks an eyebrow, but before she can respond, our steward Rebecca sets a plate of scrambled eggs and smoked salmon in front of each of us.
“Breakfast,” Rebecca says with a warm smile. “Can I get you anything else?”
“This is great.” I return her smile.
“I’m good, thank you,” Ana says.
“Let’s go to the beach today,” I suggest.
Rarely do I get the opportunity to read so much. But on my honeymoon I’ve devoured two thrillers, two books on climate change, and now I’m reading Morgenson and Rosner’s tome on how greed and corruption led to the 2008 financial crisis, while Ana is dozing beneath a parasol at the Beach Plaza Monte Carlo. Stretched out on a sunbed in the afternoon sun, she’s wearing a rather fetching turquoise bikini that leaves very little to the imagination.
I’m not sure I approve.
I’ve asked Taylor and his two French cohorts, the Ferreux twins, to keep a lookout for any photographers. The paparazzi are parasites who will stop at nothing to invade our privacy. For some bizarre reason, probably since the Star ran its gossip piece on Ana, the press are thirsty for pictures of us. Why, I don’t know or understand—it’s not like we’re celebrities, and it makes me mad. I don’t want my wife appearing on Page Six wearing practically nothing just because it’s a slow news day.
The sun has shifted so Ana is under its full glare, and it’s been a while since I applied her sunscreen. I lean over and whisper in her ear, “You’ll burn.”
She startles awake and grins. “Only for you.”
My heart beats a little faster.
How does she do that with just three short words and a smile?
With a swift tug, I drag her bed into the shade. “Out of the Mediterranean sun, Mrs. Grey.”
“Thank you for your altruism, Mr. Grey.”
“My pleasure, and I’m not being altruistic at all. If you burn, I won’t be able to touch you.”
Ana curls her lips in a smirk.
I narrow my eyes. “But I suspect you know that, and you’re laughing at me.”