Part II 4

Oh. “So why is she trying to get your attention now?”He shakes his head sadly. “I don’t know. All we’vemanaged to find out is that she ran out on her husbandabout four months ago.”“Let me get this straight. She hasn’t been yoursubmissive for three years?”“About two and a half years.”“And she wanted more.”“Yes.”“But you didn’t?”“You know this.”“So she left you.”“Yes.”“So why is she coming to you now?”“I don’t know.” And the tone of this voice tells me thathe at least has a theory.“But you suspect . . .”His eyes narrow perceptibly with anger. “I suspect ithas something to do with you.”Me? What would she want with me? “What do youha一ve that I don’t?”I stare at Fifty, magnificently naked from the waist up. Iha一ve him; he’s mine. That’s what I ha一ve, and yet shelooked like me: same dark hair and pale skin. I frown atthe thought. Yes . . . what do I ha一ve that she doesn’t?“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” he asks softly.“I forgot about her.” I shrug apologetically. “Youknow, drinks after work, at the end of my first week. Youturning up at the bar and your . . . testosterone rush withJack, and then when we were here. It slipped my mind.You ha一ve a habit of making me forget things.”You ha一ve a habit of making me forget things.”“Testosterone rush?” His lips twitch.“Yes. The pissing contest.”“I’ll show you a testosterone rush.”“Wouldn’t you rather ha一ve a cup of tea?”“No, Anastasia, I wouldn’t.”His eyes burn into me, scorching me with his I-wantyou-and-I-want-you-now look. Fuck . . . it’s so hot.“Forget about her. Come.” He holds out his hand.My inner goddess does three back flips over the gymfloor as I grasp his hand.I wake, too warm, and I’m wrapped around a nakedChristian Grey. Even though he’s fast asleep, he’s holdingme close. Soft morning light filters through the curtains. Myhead is on his chest, my leg tangled with his, my armacross his stomach.I raise my head slightly, scared that I might wake him.He looks so young, so relaxed in sleep, so utterly beautiful.He looks so young, so relaxed in sleep, so utterly beautiful.I can’t quite believe this Adonis is mine, all mine.Hmm . . . Reaching up, I tentatively stroke his chest,running my fingertips through the smattering of hair, and hedoesn’t stir. Holy cow. I can’t quite believe it. He’s reallymine—for a few more precious moments. I lean over andtenderly kiss one of his scars. He moans softly but doesn’twake, and I smile. I kiss another and his eyes open.“Hi.” I grin at him, guiltily.“Hi,” he answers warily. “What are you doing?”“Looking at you.” I run my fingers down his happytrail. He captures my hand, narrows his eyes, then smiles abrilliant Christian-at-ease smile, and I relax. My secrettouching stays secret.Oh . . . why won’t you let me touch you?Suddenly he moves on top of me, pressing me into themattress, his hands on mine, warning me. He strokes mynose with his.“I think you’re up to no good, Miss Steele,” heaccuses but his smile remains.“I like being up to no good near you.”“You do?” he asks and kisses me lightly on the lips.“Sex or breakfast?” he asks, his eyes dark but full ofhumor. His erection is digging into me, and I tilt my pelvisup to meet him.“Good choice,” he murmurs against my throat, as hetrails kisses down to my breast.I stand at my chest of drawers, staring at my mirror, tryingto coax my hair into some semblance of style—really, it’sjust too long. I’m in jeans and a T-shirt, and Christian,freshly showered, is dressing behind me. I gaze at his bodyhungrily.“How often do you work out?” I ask.“Every weekday,” he says, buttoning his fly.“What do you do?”“Run, weights, kickbox.” He shrugs.“Kickbox?”“Yes, I ha一ve a personal trainer, an ex-Olympic“Yes, I ha一ve a personal trainer, an ex-Olympiccontender who teaches me. His name is Claude. He’s verygood. You’d like him.”I turn to gaze at him as he starts to button up his whiteshirt.“What do you mean I’d like him?”“You’d like him as a trainer.”“Why would I need a personal trainer? I ha一ve you tokeep me fit.” I smirk at him.He saunters over and wraps his arms around me, hisdarkening eyes meeting mine in the mirror.“But I want you fit, baby, for what I ha一ve in mind. I’llneed you to keep up.”I flush as memories of the playroom flood my mind.Yes . . . the Red Room of Pain is exhausting. Is he goingto let me back in there? Do I want to go back in?Of course you do! My inner goddess screams at mefrom her chaise longue.I stare into his unfathomable, mesmerizing gray eyes.“You know you want to,” he mouths at me.“You know you want to,” he mouths at me.I flush, and the undesirable thought that Leila couldprobably keep up slithers invidious and unwelcome intomy mind. I press my lips together and Christian frowns atme.“What?” he asks, concerned.“Nothing.” I shake my head at him. “Okay, I’ll meetClaude.”“You will?” Christian’s face lights up in astoundeddisbelief. His expression makes me smile He looks likehe’s won the lottery, though Christian’s probably nevereven bought a ticket—he has no need.“Yes, jeez—if it makes you that happy,” I scoff.He tightens his arms around me and kisses my cheek.“You ha一ve no idea,” he whispers. “So—what would youlike to do today?” He nuzzles me, sending delicious tinglesthrough my body.“I’d like to get my hair cut, and um . . . I need to banka check and buy a car.”“Ah,” he says knowingly and bites his lip. Taking onehand off me, he reaches into his jeans pocket and holds upthe key to my little Audi.“It’s here,” he says quietly, his expression uncertain.“What do you mean, it’s here?” Boy. I sound angry.Crap. I am angry. My subconscious glares at him. Howdare he!“Taylor brought it back yesterday.”I open my mouth then close it and repeat the processtwice, but I ha一ve been rendered speechless. He’s givingme back the car. Double crap. Why didn’t I foresee this?Well, two can play at that game. I fish in the back pocketof my jeans and pull out the envelope with his check.“Here, this is yours.”Christian looks at me quizzically, then recognizing theenvelope, raises both his hands and steps away from me.“Oh no. That’s your money.”“No, it isn’t. I’d like to buy the car from you.”His expression changes completely. Fury—yes, fury—sweeps across his face.“No, Anastasia. Your money, your car,” he snaps at“No, Anastasia. Your money, your car,” he snaps atme.“No, Christian. My money, your car. I’ll buy it fromyou.”“I ga一ve you that car for your graduation present.”“If you’d given me a pen—that would be a suitablegraduation present. You ga一ve me an Audi.”“Do you really want to argue about this?”“No.”“Good—here are the keys.” He puts them on the chestof drawers.“That’s not what I meant!”“End of discussion, Anastasia. Don’t push me.”I scowl at him, then inspiration hits me. Taking theenvelope, I rip it in two, then two again and drop thecontents into my waste bin. Oh, that feels good.Christian gazes at me impassively, but I know I’ve justlit the blue touch paper and should stand well back. Hestrokes his chin.“You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele,” he says“You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele,” he saysdryly. He turns on his heel and stalks into the other room.That is not the reaction I expected. I was anticipating fullscale Armageddon. I stare at myself in the mirror andshrug, deciding on a ponytail.My curiosity is piqued. What is Fifty doing? I followhim into the room, and he’s on the phone.“Yes, twenty-four thousand dollars. Directly.”He glances up at me, still impassive.“Good . . . Monday? Excellent . . . No that’s all,Andrea.”He snaps the phone shut.“Deposited in your bank account, Monday. Don’t playgames with me.” He’s boiling mad, but I don’t care.“Twenty-four thousand dollars!” I’m almost screaming.“And how do you know my account number?”My ire takes Christian by surprise.“I know everything about you, Anastasia,” he saysquietly.“There’s no way my car was worth twenty-fourthousand dollars.”“I would agree with you, but it’s about knowing yourmarket, whether you’re buying or selling. Some lunatic outthere wanted that death trap and was willing to pay thatamount of money. Apparently, it’s a classic. Ask Taylor ifyou don’t believe me.”I glower at him and he glowers back, two angrystubborn fools glaring at each other.And I feel it, the pull—the electricity between us—tangible, drawing us together. Suddenly he grabs me andpushes me up against the door, his mouth on mine,claiming me hungrily, one hand on my behind pressing meto his groin and the other in the nape of my hair, tuggingmy head back. My fingers are in his hair, twisting hard,holding him to me. He grinds his body into mine,imprisoning me, his breathing ragged. I feel him. He wantsme, and I’m heady and reeling with excitement as Iacknowledge his need for me.“Why, why do you defy me?” he mumbles between hisheated kisses.heated kisses.My blood sings in my veins. Will he always ha一ve thiseffect on me? And I on him?“Because I can.” I’m breathless. I feel rather than seehis smile against my neck, and he presses his forehead tomine.“Lord, I want to take you now, but I’m out ofcondoms. I can never get enough of you. You’re amaddening, maddening woman.”“And you make me mad,” I whisper. “In every way.”He shakes his head. “Come. Let’s go out forbreakfast. And I know a place you can get your hair cut.”“Okay,” I acquiesce and just like that, our fight is over.“I’ll get this.” I pick up the tab for breakfast before hedoes.He scowls at me.“You ha一ve to be quick around here, Grey.”“You’re right, I do,” he says sourly, though I think he’s“You’re right, I do,” he says sourly, though I think he’steasing.“Don’t look so cross. I’m twenty-four thousand dollarsricher than I was this morning. I can afford”—I glance atthe check—“twenty-two dollars and sixty-seven cents forbreakfast.”“Thank you,” he says grudgingly. Oh, the sulkyschoolboy is back.“Where to now?”“You really want your hair cut?”“Yes, look at it.”“You look lovely to me. You always do.”I blush and stare down at my fingers knotted in my lap.“And there’s your father’s function this evening.”“Remember, it’s black tie.”Oh Jeez. “Where is it?”“At my parents’ house. They ha一ve a marquee. Youknow, the works.”“What’s the charity?”Christian rubs his hands down his thighs, lookingChristian rubs his hands down his thighs, lookinguncomfortable.“It’s a drug rehab program for parents with young kidscalled Coping Together.”“Sounds like a good cause,” I say softly.“Come, let’s go.” He stands, effectively halting thattopic of conversation and holds out his hand. As I take it,he tightens his fingers around mine.It’s strange. He’s so demonstrative in some ways andyet so closed in others. He leads me out of the restaurant,and we walk down the street. It is a lovely, mild morning.The sun is shining, and the air smells of coffee and freshlybaked bread.“Where are we going?”“Surprise.”Oh, okay. I don’t really like surprises.We walk for two blocks, and the stores becomedecidedly more exclusive. I ha一ven’t yet had an opportunityto explore, but this really is just around the corner fromwhere I live. Kate will be pleased. There are plenty ofsmall boutiques to feed her fashion passion. Actually, Ineed to buy some floaty skirts for work.Christian stops outside a large, slick-looking beautysalon and opens the door for me. It’s called Escla一va. Theinterior is all white and leather. At the stark white receptiondesk sits a young blond woman in a crisp white uniform.She glances up as we enter.“Good morning, Mr. Grey,” she says brightly, colorrising in her cheeks as she bats her eyelashes at him. It’sthe Grey effect, but she knows him! How?“Hello Greta.”And he knows her. What is this?“Is this the usual, sir?” she asks politely. She’s wearingvery pink lipstick.“No,” he says quickly, with a nervous glance at me.The usual? What does that mean?Holy fuck! It’s Rule no 6, the damned beauty salon.All the waxing nonsense . . . shit!This is where he brought all his subs? Maybe Leila,too? What the hell am I supposed to make of this?too? What the hell am I supposed to make of this?“Miss Steele will tell you what she wants.”I glare at him. He’s introducing the Rules by stealth.I’ve agreed to the personal trainer—and now this?“Why here?” I hiss at him.“I own this place, and three more like it.”“You own it?” I gasp in surprise. Well, that’sunexpected.“Yes. It’s a sideline. Anyway—whatever you want,you can ha一ve it here, on the house. All sorts of massage;Swedish, shiatsu, hot stones, reflexology, seaweed baths,facials, all that stuff that women like—everything. It’s donehere.” He wa一ves his long-fingered hand dismissively.“Waxing?”He laughs. “Yes waxing, too. Everywhere,” hewhispers conspiratorially, enjoying my discomfort.I blush and glance at Greta, who is looking at meexpectantly.“I’d like a haircut, please.”“Certainly, Miss Steele.”“Certainly, Miss Steele.”Greta is all pink lipstick and bustling Germanicefficiency as she checks her computer screen.“Franco is free in five minutes.”“Franco’s fine,” says Christian reassuringly to me. I amtrying to wrap my head around this. Christian Grey CEOowns a chain of beauty salons.I peek up at him, and suddenly he blanches—something, or someone, has caught his eye. I turn to seewhere he’s looking, and right at the back of the salon asleek platinum blonde has appeared, closing a door behindher and speaking to one of the hair stylists.Platinum Blonde is tall, tanned, lovely, and in her latethirties or forties—it’s difficult to tell. She’s wearing thesame uniform as Greta, but in black. She looks stunning.Her hair shines like a halo, cut in sharp bob. As she turns,she catches sight of Christian and smiles at him, a dazzlingsmile of warm recognition.“Excuse me,” Christian mumbles hurriedly.He strides quickly through the salon, past the hairstylists all in white, past the apprentices at the sinks, andover to her, too far away for me to hear their conversation.Platinum Blonde greets him with obvious affection, kissingboth his cheeks, her hands resting on his upper arms, andthey talk animatedly together.“Miss Steele?”Greta the receptionist is trying to get my attention.“Hang on a moment, please.” I watch Christian,fascinated.Platinum Blonde turns and looks at me, and gives methe same dazzling smile, as if she knows me. I smilepolitely back.Christian looks upset about something. He’s reasoningwith her, and she’s acquiescing, holding her hands up andsmiling at him. He’s smiling at her—clearly they know eachother well. Perhaps they’ve worked together for a longtime? Maybe she runs the place; after all, she has a certainlook of authority.Then it hits me like a wrecking ball, and I know, deepdown in my gut on a visceral level, I know who it is. It’sdown in my gut on a visceral level, I know who it is. It’sher. Stunning, older, beautiful.It’s Mrs. Robinson.Emily Dickinson, “ I’m Nobody! Who are you?” first stanza.“Greta, who is Mr. Grey talking to?” My scalp is trying tolea一ve the building. It’s prickling with apprehension, and mysubconscious is screaming at me to follow it. But I soundnonchalant enough.“Oh, that’s Mrs. Lincoln. She owns the place with Mr.Grey.” Greta seems more than happy to share.“Mrs. Lincoln?” I thought Mrs. Robinson wasdivorced. Perhaps she’s remarried to some poor sap.“Yes. She’s not usually here, but one of our techniciansis sick today so she’s filling in.”is sick today so she’s filling in.”“Do you know Mrs. Lincoln’s first name?”Greta looks up at me, frowning, and purses her brightpink lips, questioning my curiosity. Shit, perhaps this is astep too far.“Elena,” she says, almost reluctantly.I’m swamped by a strange sense of relief that myspidey sense has not let me down.Spidey sense? My subconscious snorts, Paedo sense.They are still deep in discussion. Christian is talkingrapidly to Elena, and she looks worried, nodding,grimacing, and shaking her head. Reaching out, she rubshis arm soothingly while biting her lip. Another nod, andshe glances at me and offers me a small reassuring smile.I can only stare at her stony-faced. I think I’m inshock. How could he bring me here?She murmurs something to Christian, and he looks myway briefly then turns back to her and replies. She nods,and I think she’s wishing him luck, but my lip-reading skillsaren’t highly developed.aren’t highly developed.Fifty strides back to me, anxiety etched on his face.Damn right. Mrs. Robinson returns to the back room,closing the door behind her.Christian frowns. “Are you okay?” he asks, but hisvoice is strained, cautious.“Not really. You didn’t want to introduce me?” Myvoice sounds cold, hard.His mouth drops open, he looks as if I’ve pulled therug from under his feet.“But I thought—”“For a bright man, sometimes . . .” Words fail me. “I’dlike to go, please.”“Why?”“You know why.” I roll my eyes.He gazes down at me, his eyes burning.“I’m sorry, Ana. I didn’t know she’d be here. She’snever here. She’s opened a new branch at the Bra一vernCenter, and that’s where she’s normally based. Someonewas sick today.”I turn on my heel and head for the door.“We won’t need Franco, Greta,” Christian snaps aswe head out of the door. I ha一ve to suppress the impulse torun. I want to run fast and far away. I ha一ve anoverwhelming urge to cry. I just need to get away from allthis fuckedupness.Christian walks wordlessly beside me as I try to mullall this over in my head. Wrapping my arms protectivelyaround myself, I keep my head down, a一voiding the treeson Second Avenue. Wisely, he makes no move to touchme. My mind is boiling with unanswered questions. WillMr. Evasive fess up?“You used to take your subs there?” I snap.“Some of them, yes,” he says quietly, his tone clipped.“Leila?”“Yes.”“The place looks very new.”“It’s been refurbished recently.”“I see. So Mrs. Robinson met all your subs.”“Yes.”“Yes.”“Did they know about her?”“No. None of them did. Only you.”“But I’m not your sub.”“No, you most definitely are not.”I stop and face him. His eyes are wide, fearful. His lipsare pressed into a hard, uncompromising line.“Can you see how fucked-up this is?” I glare up athim, my voice low.“Yes. I’m sorry.” And he has the grace to lookcontrite.“I want to get my hair cut, preferably somewherewhere you ha一ven’t fucked either the staff or the clientele.”He flinches.“Now, if you’ll excuse me.”“You’re not running. Are you?” he asks.“No, I just want a damn haircut. Somewhere I canclose my eyes, ha一ve someone wash my hair, and forgetabout all this baggage that accompanies you.”He runs his hand through his hair. “I can ha一ve FrancoHe runs his hand through his hair. “I can ha一ve Francocome to the apartment, or your place,” he says quietly.“She’s very attractive.”He blinks. “Yes, she is.”“Is she still married?”“No. She divorced about five years ago.”“Why aren’t you with her?”“Because that’s over between us. I’ve told you this.”His brow creases suddenly. Holding his finger up, he fisheshis Blackberry out of his jacket pocket. It must bevibrating because I don’t hear it ring.“Welch,” he snaps, then listens. We are standing onSecond Avenue, and I gaze in the direction of the larchsapling in front of me, its lea一ves the newest green.People bustle past us, lost in their Saturday morningchores. No doub一t contemplating their own personaldramas. I wonder if they include stalker ex-submissives,stunning ex-Dommes, and a man who has no concept ofprivacy under United States law.“Killed in a car crash? When?” Christian interrupts myreverie.Oh no. Who? I listen more closely.“That’s twice that bastard’s not been forthcoming. Hemust know. Does he ha一ve no feelings for her whatsoever?”Christian shakes his head in disgust. “This is beginning tomake sense . . . no . . . explains why, but not where.”Christian glances around us as if searching for something,and I find myself mirroring his actions. Nothing catches myeye. There are just the shoppers, the traffic, and the trees.“She’s here,” Christian continues. “She’s watchingus . . . Yes . . . No. Two or four, twenty-four seven . . . Iha一ven’t broached that yet.” Christian looks at me directly.Broached what? I frown, at him and he regards mewarily.“What . . . ,” he whispers and pales, his eyes widening.“I see. When? . . . That recently? But how? . . . Nobackground checks? . . . I see. E-mail the name, address,and photos if you ha一ve them . . . twenty-four seven, fromthis afternoon. Liaise with Taylor.” Christian hangs up.“Well?” I ask, exasperated. Is he going to tell me?“Well?” I ask, exasperated. Is he going to tell me?“That was Welch.”“Who’s Welch?”“My security advisor.”“Okay. So what’s happened?”“Leila left her husband about three months ago and ranoff with a guy who was killed in a car accident four weeksago.”“Oh.”“The asshole shrink should ha一ve found that out,” hesays angrily. “Grief, that’s what this is. Come.” He holdsout his hand, and I automatically place mine in his before Isnatch it away again.“Wait a minute. We were in the middle of a discussion,about us. About her, your Mrs. Robinson.”Christian’s face hardens. “She’s not my Mrs.Robinson. We can talk about it at my place.”“I don’t want to go to your place. I want to get my haircut!” I shout. If I can just focus on this one thing . . .He grabs his Blackberry from his pocket again andHe grabs his Blackberry from his pocket again anddials a number. “Greta, Christian Grey. I want Franco atmy place in an hour. Ask Mrs. Lincoln . . . Good.” Heputs his phone away. “He’s coming at one.”“Christian . . . !” I splutter, exasperated.“Anastasia, Leila is obviously suffering a psychoticbreak. I don’t know if it’s you or me she’s after, or whatlengths she’s prepared to go to. We’ll go to your place,pick up your things, and you can stay with me until we’vetracked her down.”“Why would I want to do that?”“So I can keep you safe.”“But—”He glares at me. “You are coming back to myapartment if I ha一ve to drag you there by your hair.”I gape at him . . . this is beyond belief. Fifty Shades inGlorious Technicolor.“I think you’re overreacting.”“I don’t. We can continue our discussion back at myplace. Come.”I fold my arms and glare at him. This has gone too far.“No,” I state stubbornly. I ha一ve to make a stand.“You can walk or I can carry you. I don’t mind eitherway, Anastasia.”“You wouldn’t dare.” I scowl at him. Surely hewouldn’t make a scene on Second Avenue?He half smiles at me, but the smile doesn’t reach hiseyes.“Oh, baby, we both know that if you throw down thegauntlet I’ll be only too happy to pick it up.”We glare at each other—and abruptly he sweepsdown, clasps me round my thighs, and lifts me. Before Iknow it, I am over his shoulder.“Put me down!” I scream. Oh, it feels good to scream.He starts striding along Second Avenue, ignoring me.Clasping his arm firmly around my thighs, he swats mybehind with his free hand.“Christian!” I shout. People are staring. Could this beany more humiliating? “I’ll walk! I’ll walk.”He puts me down, and before he’s even stood upright,He puts me down, and before he’s even stood upright,I stomp off in the direction of my apartment, seething,ignoring him. Of course, he’s by my side in moments, but Icontinue to ignore him. What am I going to do? I am soangry, but I’m not even sure what I am angry about—there’s so much.As I stalk back home, I make a mental list:1. Shoulder carrying—unacceptable for anyone overthe age of six.2. Taking me to the salon that he owns with his exlover—how stupid can he be?3. The same place he took his submissives—samestupidity at work here.4. Not even realizing that this was a bad idea—andhe’s supposed to be a bright guy.5. Ha一ving crazy ex-girlfriends. Can I blame him forthat? I am so furious; yes, I can.6. Knowing my bank account number—that’s just toostalkery by half.stalkery by half.7. Buying SIP—he’s got more money than sense.8. Insisting I stay with him—the threat from Leila mustbe worse than he feared . . . he didn’t mentionthat yesterday.Oh no, realization dawns. Something’s changed. Whatcould that be? I halt, and Christian halts with me. “What’shappened?” I demand.He knits his brow. “What do you mean?”“With Leila.”“I’ve told you.”“No, you ha一ven’t. There’s something else. You didn’tinsist that I go to your place yesterday. So what’shappened?”He shifts uncomfortably.“Christian! Tell me!” I snap.“She managed to ob一tain a concealed weapons permityesterday.”Oh shit. I gaze at him, blinking, and feel the blooddraining from my face as I absorb this news. I may faint.Suppose she wants to kill him? No.“That means she can just buy a gun,” I whisper.“Ana,” he says, his voice full of concern. He places hishands on my shoulders, pulling me close to him. “I don’tthink she’ll do anything stupid, but—I just don’t want totake that risk with you.”“Not me . . . what about you?” I whisper.He frowns down at me, and I wrap my arms aroundhim and hug him hard, my face against his chest. Hedoesn’t seem to mind.“Let’s get back,” he murmurs, and he reaches downand kisses my hair, and that’s it. All my fury is gone, butnot forgotten. Dissipated under the threat of some harmcoming to Christian. The thought is unbearable.Solemnly I pack a small case and place my Mac, theBlackberry, my iPad, and Charlie Tango in my backpack.“Charlie Tango’s coming, too?” Christian asks.“Charlie Tango’s coming, too?” Christian asks.I nod and he gives me a small, indulgent smile.“Ethan is back Tuesday,” I mutter.“Ethan?”“Kate’s brother. He’s staying here until he finds aplace in Seattle.”Christian gazes at me blankly, but I notice thefrostiness creep into his eyes.“Well, it’s good that you’ll be staying with me. Givehim more room,” he says quietly.“I don’t know that he’s got keys. I’ll need to be backthen.”Christian gazes at me impassively but says nothing.“That’s everything.”He grabs my case, and we head out the door. As wewalk around to the back of the building to the parking lot,I’m aware that I am looking over my shoulder. I don’tknow if my paranoia has taken over or if someone really iswatching me. Christian opens the passenger door of theAudi and looks at me expectantly.Audi and looks at me expectantly.“Are you getting in?” he asks.“I thought I was driving.”“No. I’ll drive.”“Something wrong with my driving? Don’t tell me youknow what I scored on my driving test . . . I wouldn’t besurprised with your stalking tendencies.” Maybe he knowsthat I just scraped through the written test.“Get in the car, Anastasia,” he snaps angrily.“Okay.” I hastily climb in. Honestly, chill, will you?Perhaps he has the same uneasy feeling, too. Somedark sentinel watching us—well, a pale brunette withbrown eyes who has an uncanny resemblance to yourstruly and quite possibly a concealed firearm.Christian sets off into the traffic.“Were all your submissives brunettes?”He frowns and glances at me quickly. “Yes,” hemutters. He sounds uncertain, and I imagine him thinking,where’s she going with this?“I just wondered.”“I told you. I prefer brunettes.”“Mrs. Robinson isn’t a brunette.”“That’s probably why,” he mutters. “She put me offblondes forever.”“You’re kidding,” I gasp.“Yes. I’m kidding,” he replies, exasperated.I stare impassively out the window, spying brunetteseverywhere, none of them Leila, though.So, he only likes brunettes. I wonder why? Did Mrs.Extraordinarily-Glamorous-In-Spite-Of-Being-OldRobinson really put him off blondes? I shake my head—Christian Mindfuck Grey.“Tell me about her.”“What do you want to know?” Christian’s browfurrows, and his tone of voice tries to warn me off.“Tell me about your business arrangement.”He visibly relaxes, happy to talk about work. “I am asilent partner. I’m not particularly interested in the beautybusiness, but she’s built it into a successful venture. I justinvested and helped get her started.”invested and helped get her started.”“Why?”“I owed it to her.”“Oh?”“When I dropped out of Harvard, she lent me ahundred grand to start my business.”Holy fuck . . . she’s rich, too.“You dropped out?”“It wasn’t my thing. I did two years. Unfortunately, myparents were not so understanding.”I frown. Mr. Grey and Dr. Grace Trevelyandisapproving, I can’t picture it.“You don’t seem to ha一ve done too badly dropping out.What was your major?”“Politics and Economics.”Hmm . . . figures.“So she’s rich?” I murmur.“She was a bored trophy wife, Anastasia. Her husbandwas wealthy—big in timber.” He smirks. “He wouldn’t lether work. You know, he was controlling. Some men areher work. You know, he was controlling. Some men arelike that.” He gives me a quick sideways grin.“Really? A controlling man, surely a mythicalcreature?” I don’t think I can squeeze any more sarcasminto my response.Christian’s grin gets bigger.“She lent you her husband’s money?”He nods and a small mischievous smile appears on hislips.“That’s terrible.”“He got his own back,” Christian says darkly as hepulls into the underground garage at Escala.Oh?“How?”Christian shakes his head as if recalling a particularlysour memory and parks beside the Audi Quattro SUV.“Come—Franco will be here shortly.”In the elevator Christian peers down at me. “Still mad atIn the elevator Christian peers down at me. “Still mad atme?” he asks matter-of-factly.“Very.”He nods. “Okay,” he says, and stares straight ahead.Taylor is waiting for us when we arrive in the foyer.How does he always know? He takes my case.“Has Welch been in touch?” Christian asks.“Yes, sir.”“And?”“Everything’s arranged.”“Excellent. How’s your daughter?”“She’s fine, thank you, sir.”“Good. We ha一ve a hairdresser arriving at one—Franco De Luca.”“Miss Steele,” Taylor nods at me.“Hi, Taylor. You ha一ve a daughter?”“Yes ma’am.”“How old is she?”“She’s seven.”Christian gazes at me impatiently.“She lives with her mother,” Taylor clarifies.“Oh, I see.”Taylor smiles at me. This is unexpected. Taylor’s afather? I follow Christian into the great room, intrigued bythis information.I glance around. I ha一ven’t been here since I walkedout.“Are you hungry?”I shake my head. Christian gazes at me for a beat anddecides not to argue.“I ha一ve to make a few calls. Make yourself at home.”“Okay.”Christian disappears into his study, lea一ving me standingin the huge art gallery he calls home and wondering whatto do with myself.Clothes! Picking up my backpack, I wander upstairsto my bedroom and check out the walk-in closet. It’s stillfull of clothes—all brand new with price tags still attached.Three long evening dresses, three cocktail dresses, andthree more for everyday wear. All this must ha一ve cost athree more for everyday wear. All this must ha一ve cost afortune.I check the tag on one of the evening dresses: $2,998.Holy fuck. I sink to the floor.This isn’t me. I put my head in my hands and try toprocess the last few hours. It’s exhausting. Why, oh whyha一ve I fallen for someone who is plain crazy—beautiful,sexy as fuck, richer than Croesus, and crazy with a capitalK?I fish my Blackberry out of my backpack and call mymom.“Ana, honey! It’s been so long. How are you,darling?”“Oh, you know . . .”“What’s wrong? Still not worked it out withChristian?”“Mom, it’s complicated. I think he’s nuts. That’s theproblem.”“Tell me about it. Men, there’s just no reading themsometimes. Bob’s wondering if our move to Georgia wassometimes. Bob’s wondering if our move to Georgia wasa good one.”“What?”“Yeah, he’s talking about going back to Vegas.”Oh, someone else has problems. I’m not the only one.Christian appears in the doorway. “There you are. Ithought you’d run off.” His relief is obvious.I hold my hand up to indicate that I’m on the phone.“Sorry, Mom, I ha一ve to go. I’ll call again soon.”“Okay, honey—take care of yourself. Love you!”“Love you, too, Mom.”I hang up and gaze at Fifty. He frowns, lookingstrangely awkward.“Why are you hiding in here?” he asks.“I’m not hiding. I’m despairing.”“Despairing?”“Of all this, Christian.” I wa一ve my hand in the generaldirection of the clothes.“Can I come in?”“It’s your closet.”He frowns again and sits down, cross-legged, facingme.“They’re just clothes. If you don’t like them I’ll sendthem back.”“You’re a lot to take on, you know?”He blinks at me and scratches his chin . . . his stubblychin. My fingers itch to touch him.“I know. I’m trying,” he murmurs.“You’re very trying.”“As are you, Miss Steele.”“Why are you doing this?”His eyes widen and his wary look returns. “You knowwhy.”“No, I don’t.”He runs a hand through his hair. “You are onefrustrating female.”“You could ha一ve a nice brunette submissive. Onewho’d say, ‘how high?’ every time you said jump,provided of course she had permission to speak. So whyme, Christian? I just don’t get it.”me, Christian? I just don’t get it.”He gazes at me for a moment, and I ha一ve no idea whathe’s thinking.“You make me look at the world differently, Anastasia.You don’t want me for my money. You give me . . .hope,” he says softly.What? Mr. Cryptic is back. “Hope of what?”He shrugs. “More.” His voice is low and quiet. “Andyou’re right. I am used to women doing exactly what I say,when I say, doing exactly what I want. It gets old quickly.There’s something about you, Anastasia, that calls to meon some deep level I don’t understand. It’s a siren’s call. Ican’t resist you, and I don’t want to lose you.” He reachesforward and takes my hand. “Don’t run, please—ha一ve alittle faith in me and a little patience. Please.”He looks so vulnerable . . . Jeez, it’s disturbing.Leaning up on my knees, I bend forward and kiss himgently on his lips.“Okay. Faith and patience, I can live with that.”“Good. Because Franco’s here.”“Good. Because Franco’s here.”Franco is small, dark, and gay. I love him.“Such beautiful hair!” he gushes with an outrageous,probably fake Italian accent. I bet he’s from Baltimore orsomewhere, but his enthusiasm is infectious. Christianleads us both into his bathroom, exits hurriedly, andreenters carrying a chair from his room.“I’ll lea一ve you two to it,” he mutters.“Grazie, Mr. Grey.” Franco turns to me. “Bene,Anastasia, what shall we do with you?”Christian is sitting on his couch, plowing through what looklike spreadsheets. Soft, mellow classical music driftsthrough the great room. A woman sings passionately,pouring her soul into the song. It’s breathtaking. Christianglances up and smiles, distracting me from the music.“See! I tell you he like it,” Franco enthuses.“You look lovely, Ana,” Christian says appreciatively.“My work ‘ere is done,” Franco exclaims.Christian rises and strolls toward us. “Thank you,Franco.”Franco turns, grasps me in an overwhelming bear hug,and kisses both my cheeks. “Never let anyone else becutting your hair, bellissima Anastasia!”I laugh, slightly embarrassed by his familiarity. Christianshows him to the foyer door and returns moments later.“I’m glad you kept it long,” he says as he walkstoward me, his eyes bright. He takes a strand between hisfingers.“So soft,” he murmurs, gazing down at me. “Are youstill mad at me?”I nod and he smiles.“What precisely are you mad at me about?”I roll my eyes. “You want the list?”“There’s a list?”“A long one.”“Can we discuss it in bed?”“Can we discuss it in bed?”“No.” I pout at him childishly.“Over lunch, then. I’m hungry, and not just for food,”he gives me a salacious smile.“I am not going to let you dazzle me with yoursexpertise.”He stifles a smile. “What is bothering you specifically,Miss Steele? Spit it out.”Okay.“What’s bothering me? Well, there’s your grossinvasion of my privacy, the fact that you took me to someplace where your ex-mistress works and you used to takeall your lovers to ha一ve their bits waxed, you manhandledme in the street like I was six years old—and to cap it all,you let your Mrs. Robinson touch you!” My voice hasrisen to a crescendo.He raises his eyebrows, and his good humor vanishes.“That’s quite a list. But just to clarify once more—she’s not my Mrs. Robinson.”“She can touch you,” I repeat.“She can touch you,” I repeat.He purses his lips. “She knows where.”“What does that mean?”He runs both hands through his hair and closes his eyesbriefly, as if he’s seeking divine guidance of some kind. Heswallows.“You and I don’t ha一ve any rules. I ha一ve never had arelationship without rules, and I never know where you’regoing to touch me. It makes me nervous. Your touchcompletely—” He stops, searching for the words. “It justmeans more . . . so much more”More? His answer’s completely unexpected, throwingme, and there’s that little word with the big meaninghanging between us again.My touch means . . . more. Holy cow. How am Isupposed to resist when he says this stuff? Gray eyessearch mine, watching, apprehensive.Tentatively I reach out and apprehension shifts toalarm. Christian steps back and I drop my hand.“Hard limit,” he whispers urgently, a pained, panickedlook on his face.I can’t help but feel a crushing disappointment. “Howwould you feel if you couldn’t touch me?”“Devastated and deprived,” he says immediately.Oh, my Fifty Shades. Shaking my head, I offer him asmall, reassuring smile and he relaxes.“You’ll ha一ve to tell me exactly why this is a hard limit,one day, please.”“One day,” he murmurs and seems to snap out of hisvulnerability in a nanosecond.How can he switch so quickly? He’s the mostcapricious person I know.“So, the rest of your list. Invading your privacy.” Hismouth twists as he contemplates this. “Because I knowyour bank account number?”“Yes, that’s outrageous.”“I do background checks on all my submissives. I’llshow you.” He turns and heads for his study.I dutifully follow him, dazed. From a locked filingcabinet, he pulls a manila folder. Typed on the tab:cabinet, he pulls a manila folder. Typed on the tab:ANASTASIA ROSE STEELE.Holy fucking shit. I glare at him.He shrugs apologetically. “You can keep it,” he saysquietly.“Well, gee, thanks,” I snap. I flick through thecontents. He has a copy of my birth certificate, forhea一ven’s sake, my hard limits, the NDA, the contract—Jeez—my social security number, resume, employmentrecords.“So you knew I worked at Clayton’s?”“Yes.”“It wasn’t a coincidence. You didn’t just drop by?”“No.”I don’t know whether to be angry or flattered.“This is fucked-up. You know that?”“I don’t see it that way. What I do, I ha一ve to becareful.”“But this is private.”“I don’t misuse the information. Anyone can get hold“I don’t misuse the information. Anyone can get holdof it if they ha一ve half a mind to, Anastasia. To ha一ve control—I need information. It’s how I’ve always operated.” Hegazes at me, his expression guarded and unreadable.“You do misuse the information. You depositedtwenty-four thousand dollars that I didn’t want into myaccount.”His mouth presses in a hard line. “I told you. That’swhat Taylor managed to get for your car. Unbelievable, Iknow, but there you go.”“But the Audi . . .”“Anastasia, do you ha一ve any idea how much money Imake?”I flush, of course not. “Why should I? I don’t need toknow the bottom line of your bank account, Christian.”His eyes soften. “I know. That’s one of the things Ilove about you.”I gaze at him, shocked. Love about me?“Anastasia, I earn roughly one hundred thousanddollars an hour.”My mouth drops open. That is an obscene amount ofmoney.“Twenty-four thousand dollars is nothing. The car, theTess books, the clothes, they’re nothing.” His voice is soft.I gaze at him. He really has no idea. Extraordinary.“If you were me, how would you feel about all this . . .largesse coming your way?” I ask.He stares at me blankly, and there it is, his problem ina nutshell—empathy or the lack thereof. The silencestretches between us.Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, and helooks genuinely bemused.My heart swells. This is it, the crux of his Fifty Shades,surely. He can’t put himself in my shoes. Well, now Iknow.“It doesn’t feel great. I mean, you’re very generous,but it makes me uncomfortable. I ha一ve told you thisenough times.”He sighs. “I want to give you the world, Anastasia.”“I just want you, Christian. Not all the add-ons.”“I just want you, Christian. Not all the add-ons.”“They’re part of the deal. Part of what I am.”Oh, this is going nowhere.“Shall we eat?” I ask. This tension between us isdraining.He frowns. “Sure.”“I’ll cook.”“Good. Otherwise there’s food in the fridge.”“Mrs. Jones is off on the weekends? So you eat coldcuts most weekends?”“No.”“Oh?”He sighs. “My submissives cook, Anastasia.”“Oh, of course.” I flush. How could I be so stupid? Ismile sweetly at him. “What would Sir like to eat?”He smirks. “Whatever Madam can find,” he saysdarkly.Inspecting the impressive contents of the fridge, I decideInspecting the impressive contents of the fridge, I decideon Spanish omelet. There are even cold potatoes—perfect. It’s quick and easy. Christian is still in his study,no doub一t invading some poor, unsuspecting fool’s privacyand compiling information. The thought is unpleasant andlea一ves a bitter taste in my mouth. My mind is reeling. Hereally knows no bounds.I need music if I’m going to cook, and I’m going tocook unsubmissively! I wander over to the iPod dockbeside the fireplace and pick up Christian’s iPod. I betthere are more of Leila’s choices on here,—I dread thevery idea.Where is she? I wonder. What does she want?