Oh. “So why is she trying to get your attention now?”
　　He shakes his head sadly. “I don’t know. All we’ve
　　managed to find out is that she ran out on her husband
　　about four months ago.”
　　“Let me get this straight. She hasn’t been your
　　submissive 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 that
　　he at least has a theory.
　　“But you suspect . . .”
　　His eyes narrow perceptibly with anger. “I suspect it
　　has something to do with you.”
　　Me? What would she want with me? “What do you
　　have that I don’t?”
　　I stare at Fifty, magnificently naked from the waist up. I
　　have him; he’s mine. That’s what I have, and yet she
　　looked like me: same dark hair and pale skin. I frown at
　　the thought. Yes . . . what do I have that she doesn’t?
　　“Why didn’t you tell me yesterday?” he asks softly.
　　“I forgot about her.” I shrug apologetically. “You
　　know, drinks after work, at the end of my first week. You
　　turning up at the bar and your . . . testosterone rush with
　　Jack, and then when we were here. It slipped my mind.
　　You have a habit of making me forget things.”
　　You have 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 have 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 gym
　　floor as I grasp his hand.
　　I wake, too warm, and I’m wrapped around a naked
　　Christian Grey. Even though he’s fast asleep, he’s holding
　　me close. Soft morning light filters through the curtains. My
　　head is on his chest, my leg tangled with his, my arm
　　across 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 he
　　doesn’t stir. Holy cow. I can’t quite believe it. He’s really
　　mine—for a few more precious moments. I lean over and
　　tenderly kiss one of his scars. He moans softly but doesn’t
　　wake, 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 happy
　　trail. He captures my hand, narrows his eyes, then smiles a
　　brilliant Christian-at-ease smile, and I relax. My secret
　　touching stays secret.
　　Oh . . . why won’t you let me touch you?
　　Suddenly he moves on top of me, pressing me into the
　　mattress, his hands on mine, warning me. He strokes my
　　nose with his.
　　“I think you’re up to no good, Miss Steele,” he
　　accuses 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 of
　　humor. His erection is digging into me, and I tilt my pelvis
　　up to meet him.
　　“Good choice,” he murmurs against my throat, as he
　　trails kisses down to my breast.
　　I stand at my chest of drawers, staring at my mirror, trying
　　to coax my hair into some semblance of style—really, it’s
　　just too long. I’m in jeans and a T-shirt, and Christian,
　　freshly showered, is dressing behind me. I gaze at his body
　　hungrily.
　　“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 have a personal trainer, an ex-Olympic
　　“Yes, I have a personal trainer, an ex-Olympic
　　contender who teaches me. His name is Claude. He’s very
　　good. You’d like him.”
　　I turn to gaze at him as he starts to button up his white
　　shirt.
　　“What do you mean I’d like him?”
　　“You’d like him as a trainer.”
　　“Why would I need a personal trainer? I have you to
　　keep me fit.” I smirk at him.
　　He saunters over and wraps his arms around me, his
　　darkening eyes meeting mine in the mirror.
　　“But I want you fit, baby, for what I have in mind. I’ll
　　need you to keep up.”
　　I flush as memories of the playroom flood my mind.
　　Yes . . . the Red Room of Pain is exhausting. Is he going
　　to let me back in there? Do I want to go back in?
　　Of course you do! My inner goddess screams at me
　　from 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 could
　　probably keep up slithers invidious and unwelcome into
　　my mind. I press my lips together and Christian frowns at
　　me.
　　“What?” he asks, concerned.
　　“Nothing.” I shake my head at him. “Okay, I’ll meet
　　Claude.”
　　“You will?” Christian’s face lights up in astounded
　　disbelief. His expression makes me smile He looks like
　　he’s won the lottery, though Christian’s probably never
　　even 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 have no idea,” he whispers. “So—what would you
　　like to do today?” He nuzzles me, sending delicious tingles
　　through my body.
　　“I’d like to get my hair cut, and um . . . I need to bank
　　a check and buy a car.”
　　“Ah,” he says knowingly and bites his lip. Taking one
　　hand off me, he reaches into his jeans pocket and holds up
　　the 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. How
　　dare he!
　　“Taylor brought it back yesterday.”
　　I open my mouth then close it and repeat the process
　　twice, but I have been rendered speechless. He’s giving
　　me back the car. Double crap. Why didn’t I foresee this?
　　Well, two can play at that game. I fish in the back pocket
　　of my jeans and pull out the envelope with his check.
　　“Here, this is yours.”
　　Christian looks at me quizzically, then recognizing the
　　envelope, 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 at
　　me.
　　“No, Christian. My money, your car. I’ll buy it from
　　you.”
　　“I gave you that car for your graduation present.”
　　“If you’d given me a pen—that would be a suitable
　　graduation present. You gave me an Audi.”
　　“Do you really want to argue about this?”
　　“No.”
　　“Good—here are the keys.” He puts them on the chest
　　of drawers.
　　“That’s not what I meant!”
　　“End of discussion, Anastasia. Don’t push me.”
　　I scowl at him, then inspiration hits me. Taking the
　　envelope, I rip it in two, then two again and drop the
　　contents into my waste bin. Oh, that feels good.
　　Christian gazes at me impassively, but I know I’ve just
　　lit the blue touch paper and should stand well back. He
　　strokes his chin.
　　“You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele,” he says
　　“You are, as ever, challenging, Miss Steele,” he says
　　dryly. He turns on his heel and stalks into the other room.
　　That is not the reaction I expected. I was anticipating full
　　scale Armageddon. I stare at myself in the mirror and
　　shrug, deciding on a ponytail.
　　My curiosity is piqued. What is Fifty doing? I follow
　　him 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 play
　　games 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 says
　　quietly.
　　“There’s no way my car was worth twenty-four
　　thousand dollars.”
　　“I would agree with you, but it’s about knowing your
　　market, whether you’re buying or selling. Some lunatic out
　　there wanted that death trap and was willing to pay that
　　amount of money. Apparently, it’s a classic. Ask Taylor if
　　you don’t believe me.”
　　I glower at him and he glowers back, two angry
　　stubborn fools glaring at each other.
　　And I feel it, the pull—the electricity between us—
　　tangible, drawing us together. Suddenly he grabs me and
　　pushes me up against the door, his mouth on mine,
　　claiming me hungrily, one hand on my behind pressing me
　　to his groin and the other in the nape of my hair, tugging
　　my 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 wants
　　me, and I’m heady and reeling with excitement as I
　　acknowledge his need for me.
　　“Why, why do you defy me?” he mumbles between his
　　heated kisses.
　　heated kisses.
　　My blood sings in my veins. Will he always have this
　　effect on me? And I on him?
　　“Because I can.” I’m breathless. I feel rather than see
　　his smile against my neck, and he presses his forehead to
　　mine.
　　“Lord, I want to take you now, but I’m out of
　　condoms. I can never get enough of you. You’re a
　　maddening, maddening woman.”
　　“And you make me mad,” I whisper. “In every way.”
　　He shakes his head. “Come. Let’s go out for
　　breakfast. 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 he
　　does.
　　He scowls at me.
　　“You have 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’s
　　teasing.
　　“Don’t look so cross. I’m twenty-four thousand dollars
　　richer than I was this morning. I can afford”—I glance at
　　the check—“twenty-two dollars and sixty-seven cents for
　　breakfast.”
　　“Thank you,” he says grudgingly. Oh, the sulky
　　schoolboy 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 have a marquee. You
　　know, the works.”
　　“What’s the charity?”
　　Christian rubs his hands down his thighs, looking
　　Christian rubs his hands down his thighs, looking

　　uncomfortable.
　　“It’s a drug rehab program for parents with young kids
　　called Coping Together.”
　　“Sounds like a good cause,” I say softly.
　　“Come, let’s go.” He stands, effectively halting that
　　topic 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 and
　　yet 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 freshly
　　baked bread.
　　“Where are we going?”
　　“Surprise.”
　　Oh, okay. I don’t really like surprises.
　　We walk for two blocks, and the stores become
　　decidedly more exclusive. I haven’t yet had an opportunity
　　to explore, but this really is just around the corner from
　　where I live. Kate will be pleased. There are plenty of
　　small boutiques to feed her fashion passion. Actually, I
　　need to buy some floaty skirts for work.
　　Christian stops outside a large, slick-looking beauty
　　salon and opens the door for me. It’s called Esclava. The
　　interior is all white and leather. At the stark white reception
　　desk sits a young blond woman in a crisp white uniform.
　　She glances up as we enter.
　　“Good morning, Mr. Grey,” she says brightly, color
　　rising in her cheeks as she bats her eyelashes at him. It’s
　　the 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 wearing
　　very 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’s
　　unexpected.
　　“Yes. It’s a sideline. Anyway—whatever you want,
　　you can have 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 done
　　here.” He waves his long-fingered hand dismissively.
　　“Waxing?”
　　He laughs. “Yes waxing, too. Everywhere,” he
　　whispers conspiratorially, enjoying my discomfort.
　　I blush and glance at Greta, who is looking at me
　　expectantly.
　　“I’d like a haircut, please.”
　　“Certainly, Miss Steele.”
　　“Certainly, Miss Steele.”
　　Greta is all pink lipstick and bustling Germanic
　　efficiency as she checks her computer screen.
　　“Franco is free in five minutes.”
　　“Franco’s fine,” says Christian reassuringly to me. I am
　　trying to wrap my head around this. Christian Grey CEO
　　owns a chain of beauty salons.
　　I peek up at him, and suddenly he blanches—
　　something, or someone, has caught his eye. I turn to see
　　where he’s looking, and right at the back of the salon a
　　sleek platinum blonde has appeared, closing a door behind
　　her and speaking to one of the hair stylists.
　　Platinum Blonde is tall, tanned, lovely, and in her late
　　thirties or forties—it’s difficult to tell. She’s wearing the
　　same 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 dazzling
　　smile of warm recognition.
　　“Excuse me,” Christian mumbles hurriedly.
　　He strides quickly through the salon, past the hair
　　stylists all in white, past the apprentices at the sinks, and
　　over to her, too far away for me to hear their conversation.
　　Platinum Blonde greets him with obvious affection, kissing
　　both his cheeks, her hands resting on his upper arms, and
　　they 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 me
　　the same dazzling smile, as if she knows me. I smile
　　politely back.
　　Christian looks upset about something. He’s reasoning
　　with her, and she’s acquiescing, holding her hands up and
　　smiling at him. He’s smiling at her—clearly they know each
　　other well. Perhaps they’ve worked together for a long
　　time? Maybe she runs the place; after all, she has a certain
　　look of authority.
　　Then it hits me like a wrecking ball, and I know, deep
　　down in my gut on a visceral level, I know who it is. It’s
　　down in my gut on a visceral level, I know who it is. It’s
　　her. 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 to
　　leave the building. It’s prickling with apprehension, and my
　　subconscious is screaming at me to follow it. But I sound
　　nonchalant 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 was
　　divorced. Perhaps she’s remarried to some poor sap.
　　“Yes. She’s not usually here, but one of our technicians
　　is 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 bright
　　pink lips, questioning my curiosity. Shit, perhaps this is a
　　step too far.
　　“Elena,” she says, almost reluctantly.
　　I’m swamped by a strange sense of relief that my
　　spidey sense has not let me down.
　　Spidey sense? My subconscious snorts, Paedo sense.
　　They are still deep in discussion. Christian is talking
　　rapidly to Elena, and she looks worried, nodding,
　　grimacing, and shaking her head. Reaching out, she rubs
　　his arm soothingly while biting her lip. Another nod, and
　　she glances at me and offers me a small reassuring smile.
　　I can only stare at her stony-faced. I think I’m in
　　shock. How could he bring me here?
　　She murmurs something to Christian, and he looks my
　　way briefly then turns back to her and replies. She nods,
　　and I think she’s wishing him luck, but my lip-reading skills
　　aren’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 his
　　voice is strained, cautious.
　　“Not really. You didn’t want to introduce me?” My
　　voice sounds cold, hard.
　　His mouth drops open, he looks as if I’ve pulled the
　　rug from under his feet.
　　“But I thought—”
　　“For a bright man, sometimes . . .” Words fail me. “I’d
　　like 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’s
　　never here. She’s opened a new branch at the Bravern
　　Center, and that’s where she’s normally based. Someone
　　was sick today.”
　　I turn on my heel and head for the door.
　　“We won’t need Franco, Greta,” Christian snaps as
　　we head out of the door. I have to suppress the impulse to
　　run. I want to run fast and far away. I have an
　　overwhelming urge to cry. I just need to get away from all
　　this fuckedupness.
　　Christian walks wordlessly beside me as I try to mull
　　all this over in my head. Wrapping my arms protectively
　　around myself, I keep my head down, avoiding the trees
　　on Second Avenue. Wisely, he makes no move to touch
　　me. My mind is boiling with unanswered questions. Will
　　Mr. 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 lips
　　are pressed into a hard, uncompromising line.
　　“Can you see how fucked-up this is?” I glare up at
　　him, my voice low.
　　“Yes. I’m sorry.” And he has the grace to look
　　contrite.
　　“I want to get my hair cut, preferably somewhere
　　where you haven’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 can
　　close my eyes, have someone wash my hair, and forget
　　about all this baggage that accompanies you.”
　　He runs his hand through his hair. “I can have Franco
　　He runs his hand through his hair. “I can have Franco
　　come 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 fishes
　　his Blackberry out of his jacket pocket. It must be
　　vibrating because I don’t hear it ring.
　　“Welch,” he snaps, then listens. We are standing on
　　Second Avenue, and I gaze in the direction of the larch
　　sapling in front of me, its leaves the newest green.
　　People bustle past us, lost in their Saturday morning
　　chores. No doubt contemplating their own personal
　　dramas. I wonder if they include stalker ex-submissives,
　　stunning ex-Dommes, and a man who has no concept of
　　privacy under United States law.
　　“Killed in a car crash? When?” Christian interrupts my
　　reverie.
　　Oh no. Who? I listen more closely.
　　“That’s twice that bastard’s not been forthcoming. He
　　must know. Does he have no feelings for her whatsoever?”
　　Christian shakes his head in disgust. “This is beginning to
　　make 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 my
　　eye. There are just the shoppers, the traffic, and the trees.
　　“She’s here,” Christian continues. “She’s watching
　　us . . . Yes . . . No. Two or four, twenty-four seven . . . I
　　haven’t broached that yet.” Christian looks at me directly.
　　Broached what? I frown, at him and he regards me
　　warily.
　　“What . . . ,” he whispers and pales, his eyes widening.
　　“I see. When? . . . That recently? But how? . . . No
　　background checks? . . . I see. E-mail the name, address,
　　and photos if you have them . . . twenty-four seven, from
　　this 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 ran
　　off with a guy who was killed in a car accident four weeks
　　ago.”
　　“Oh.”
　　“The asshole shrink should have found that out,” he
　　says angrily. “Grief, that’s what this is. Come.” He holds
　　out his hand, and I automatically place mine in his before I
　　snatch 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 hair
　　cut!” I shout. If I can just focus on this one thing . . .
　　He grabs his Blackberry from his pocket again and
　　He grabs his Blackberry from his pocket again and
　　dials a number. “Greta, Christian Grey. I want Franco at
　　my place in an hour. Ask Mrs. Lincoln . . . Good.” He
　　puts his phone away. “He’s coming at one.”
　　“Christian . . . !” I splutter, exasperated.
　　“Anastasia, Leila is obviously suffering a psychotic
　　break. I don’t know if it’s you or me she’s after, or what
　　lengths she’s prepared to go to. We’ll go to your place,
　　pick up your things, and you can stay with me until we’ve
　　tracked 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 my
　　apartment if I have to drag you there by your hair.”
　　I gape at him . . . this is beyond belief. Fifty Shades in
　　Glorious Technicolor.
　　“I think you’re overreacting.”
　　“I don’t. We can continue our discussion back at my
　　place. Come.”
　　I fold my arms and glare at him. This has gone too far.
　　“No,” I state stubbornly. I have to make a stand.
　　“You can walk or I can carry you. I don’t mind either
　　way, Anastasia.”
　　“You wouldn’t dare.” I scowl at him. Surely he
　　wouldn’t make a scene on Second Avenue?
　　He half smiles at me, but the smile doesn’t reach his
　　eyes.
　　“Oh, baby, we both know that if you throw down the
　　gauntlet I’ll be only too happy to pick it up.”
　　We glare at each other—and abruptly he sweeps
　　down, clasps me round my thighs, and lifts me. Before I
　　know 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 my
　　behind with his free hand.
　　“Christian!” I shout. People are staring. Could this be
　　any 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 I
　　continue to ignore him. What am I going to do? I am so
　　angry, 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 over
　　the 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—same
　　stupidity at work here.
　　4. Not even realizing that this was a bad idea—and
　　he’s supposed to be a bright guy.
　　5. Having crazy ex-girlfriends. Can I blame him for
　　that? I am so furious; yes, I can.
　　6. Knowing my bank account number—that’s just too
　　stalkery 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 must
　　be worse than he feared . . . he didn’t mention
　　that yesterday.
　　Oh no, realization dawns. Something’s changed. What
　　could that be? I halt, and Christian halts with me. “What’s
　　happened?” I demand.
　　He knits his brow. “What do you mean?”
　　“With Leila.”
　　“I’ve told you.”
　　“No, you haven’t. There’s something else. You didn’t
　　insist that I go to your place yesterday. So what’s
　　happened?”
　　He shifts uncomfortably.
　　“Christian! Tell me!” I snap.
　　“She managed to obtain a concealed weapons permit
　　yesterday.”
　　Oh shit. I gaze at him, blinking, and feel the blood
　　draining 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 his
　　hands on my shoulders, pulling me close to him. “I don’t
　　think she’ll do anything stupid, but—I just don’t want to
　　take that risk with you.”
　　“Not me . . . what about you?” I whisper.
　　He frowns down at me, and I wrap my arms around
　　him and hug him hard, my face against his chest. He
　　doesn’t seem to mind.
　　“Let’s get back,” he murmurs, and he reaches down
　　and kisses my hair, and that’s it. All my fury is gone, but
　　not forgotten. Dissipated under the threat of some harm
　　coming to Christian. The thought is unbearable.
　　Solemnly I pack a small case and place my Mac, the
　　Blackberry, 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 a
　　place in Seattle.”
　　Christian gazes at me blankly, but I notice the
　　frostiness creep into his eyes.
　　“Well, it’s good that you’ll be staying with me. Give
　　him more room,” he says quietly.
　　“I don’t know that he’s got keys. I’ll need to be back
　　then.”
　　Christian gazes at me impassively but says nothing.
　　“That’s everything.”
　　He grabs my case, and we head out the door. As we
　　walk around to the back of the building to the parking lot,
　　I’m aware that I am looking over my shoulder. I don’t
　　know if my paranoia has taken over or if someone really is
　　watching me. Christian opens the passenger door of the
　　Audi 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 you
　　know what I scored on my driving test . . . I wouldn’t be
　　surprised with your stalking tendencies.” Maybe he knows
　　that 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. Some
　　dark sentinel watching us—well, a pale brunette with
　　brown eyes who has an uncanny resemblance to yours
　　truly 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,” he
　　mutters. 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 off
　　blondes forever.”
　　“You’re kidding,” I gasp.
　　“Yes. I’m kidding,” he replies, exasperated.
　　I stare impassively out the window, spying brunettes
　　everywhere, none of them Leila, though.
　　So, he only likes brunettes. I wonder why? Did Mrs.
　　Extraordinarily-Glamorous-In-Spite-Of-Being-Old
　　Robinson really put him off blondes? I shake my head—
　　Christian Mindfuck Grey.
　　“Tell me about her.”
　　“What do you want to know?” Christian’s brow
　　furrows, 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 a
　　silent partner. I’m not particularly interested in the beauty
　　business, but she’s built it into a successful venture. I just
　　invested 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 a
　　hundred grand to start my business.”
　　Holy fuck . . . she’s rich, too.
　　“You dropped out?”
　　“It wasn’t my thing. I did two years. Unfortunately, my
　　parents were not so understanding.”
　　I frown. Mr. Grey and Dr. Grace Trevelyan
　　disapproving, I can’t picture it.
　　“You don’t seem to have 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 husband
　　was wealthy—big in timber.” He smirks. “He wouldn’t let
　　her work. You know, he was controlling. Some men are
　　her work. You know, he was controlling. Some men are
　　like that.” He gives me a quick sideways grin.
　　“Really? A controlling man, surely a mythical
　　creature?” I don’t think I can squeeze any more sarcasm
　　into my response.
　　Christian’s grin gets bigger.
　　“She lent you her husband’s money?”
　　He nods and a small mischievous smile appears on his
　　lips.
　　“That’s terrible.”
　　“He got his own back,” Christian says darkly as he
　　pulls into the underground garage at Escala.
　　Oh?
　　“How?”
　　Christian shakes his head as if recalling a particularly
　　sour memory and parks beside the Audi Quattro SUV.
　　“Come—Franco will be here shortly.”
　　In the elevator Christian peers down at me. “Still mad at
　　In the elevator Christian peers down at me. “Still mad at
　　me?” 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 have a hairdresser arriving at one—
　　Franco De Luca.”
　　“Miss Steele,” Taylor nods at me.
　　“Hi, Taylor. You have 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 a
　　father? I follow Christian into the great room, intrigued by
　　this information.
　　I glance around. I haven’t been here since I walked
　　out.
　　“Are you hungry?”
　　I shake my head. Christian gazes at me for a beat and
　　decides not to argue.
　　“I have to make a few calls. Make yourself at home.”
　　“Okay.”
　　Christian disappears into his study, leaving me standing
　　in the huge art gallery he calls home and wondering what
　　to do with myself.
　　Clothes! Picking up my backpack, I wander upstairs
　　to my bedroom and check out the walk-in closet. It’s still
　　full of clothes—all brand new with price tags still attached.
　　Three long evening dresses, three cocktail dresses, and
　　three more for everyday wear. All this must have cost a
　　three more for everyday wear. All this must have cost a
　　fortune.
　　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 to
　　process the last few hours. It’s exhausting. Why, oh why
　　have I fallen for someone who is plain crazy—beautiful,
　　sexy as fuck, richer than Croesus, and crazy with a capital
　　K?
　　I fish my Blackberry out of my backpack and call my
　　mom.
　　“Ana, honey! It’s been so long. How are you,
　　darling?”
　　“Oh, you know . . .”
　　“What’s wrong? Still not worked it out with
　　Christian?”

　　“Mom, it’s complicated. I think he’s nuts. That’s the
　　problem.”
　　“Tell me about it. Men, there’s just no reading them
　　sometimes. Bob’s wondering if our move to Georgia was
　　sometimes. Bob’s wondering if our move to Georgia was
　　a 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. I
　　thought you’d run off.” His relief is obvious.
　　I hold my hand up to indicate that I’m on the phone.
　　“Sorry, Mom, I have 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, looking
　　strangely awkward.
　　“Why are you hiding in here?” he asks.
　　“I’m not hiding. I’m despairing.”
　　“Despairing?”
　　“Of all this, Christian.” I wave my hand in the general
　　direction of the clothes.
　　“Can I come in?”
　　“It’s your closet.”
　　He frowns again and sits down, cross-legged, facing
　　me.
　　“They’re just clothes. If you don’t like them I’ll send
　　them back.”
　　“You’re a lot to take on, you know?”
　　He blinks at me and scratches his chin . . . his stubbly
　　chin. 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 know
　　why.”
　　“No, I don’t.”
　　He runs a hand through his hair. “You are one
　　frustrating female.”
　　“You could have a nice brunette submissive. One
　　who’d say, ‘how high?’ every time you said jump,
　　provided of course she had permission to speak. So why
　　me, Christian? I just don’t get it.”
　　me, Christian? I just don’t get it.”
　　He gazes at me for a moment, and I have no idea what
　　he’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. “And
　　you’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 me
　　on some deep level I don’t understand. It’s a siren’s call. I
　　can’t resist you, and I don’t want to lose you.” He reaches
　　forward and takes my hand. “Don’t run, please—have a
　　little 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 him
　　gently 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 or
　　somewhere, but his enthusiasm is infectious. Christian
　　leads us both into his bathroom, exits hurriedly, and
　　reenters carrying a chair from his room.
　　“I’ll leave 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 look
　　like spreadsheets. Soft, mellow classical music drifts
　　through the great room. A woman sings passionately,
　　pouring her soul into the song. It’s breathtaking. Christian
　　glances 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 be
　　cutting your hair, bellissima Anastasia!”
　　I laugh, slightly embarrassed by his familiarity. Christian
　　shows him to the foyer door and returns moments later.
　　“I’m glad you kept it long,” he says as he walks
　　toward me, his eyes bright. He takes a strand between his
　　fingers.
　　“So soft,” he murmurs, gazing down at me. “Are you
　　still 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 your
　　sexpertise.”
　　He stifles a smile. “What is bothering you specifically,
　　Miss Steele? Spit it out.”
　　Okay.
　　“What’s bothering me? Well, there’s your gross
　　invasion of my privacy, the fact that you took me to some
　　place where your ex-mistress works and you used to take
　　all your lovers to have their bits waxed, you manhandled
　　me in the street like I was six years old—and to cap it all,
　　you let your Mrs. Robinson touch you!” My voice has
　　risen 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 eyes
　　briefly, as if he’s seeking divine guidance of some kind. He
　　swallows.
　　“You and I don’t have any rules. I have never had a
　　relationship without rules, and I never know where you’re
　　going to touch me. It makes me nervous. Your touch
　　completely—” He stops, searching for the words. “It just
　　means more . . . so much more”
　　More? His answer’s completely unexpected, throwing
　　me, and there’s that little word with the big meaning
　　hanging between us again.
　　My touch means . . . more. Holy cow. How am I
　　supposed to resist when he says this stuff? Gray eyes
　　search mine, watching, apprehensive.
　　Tentatively I reach out and apprehension shifts to
　　alarm. Christian steps back and I drop my hand.
　　“Hard limit,” he whispers urgently, a pained, panicked
　　look on his face.
　　I can’t help but feel a crushing disappointment. “How
　　would you feel if you couldn’t touch me?”
　　“Devastated and deprived,” he says immediately.
　　Oh, my Fifty Shades. Shaking my head, I offer him a
　　small, reassuring smile and he relaxes.
　　“You’ll have to tell me exactly why this is a hard limit,
　　one day, please.”
　　“One day,” he murmurs and seems to snap out of his
　　vulnerability in a nanosecond.
　　How can he switch so quickly? He’s the most
　　capricious person I know.
　　“So, the rest of your list. Invading your privacy.” His
　　mouth twists as he contemplates this. “Because I know
　　your bank account number?”
　　“Yes, that’s outrageous.”
　　“I do background checks on all my submissives. I’ll
　　show you.” He turns and heads for his study.
　　I dutifully follow him, dazed. From a locked filing
　　cabinet, 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 says
　　quietly.
　　“Well, gee, thanks,” I snap. I flick through the
　　contents. He has a copy of my birth certificate, for
　　heaven’s sake, my hard limits, the NDA, the contract
　　—Jeez—my social security number, resume, employment
　　records.
　　“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 have to be
　　careful.”
　　“But this is private.”
　　“I don’t misuse the information. Anyone can get hold
　　“I don’t misuse the information. Anyone can get hold
　　of it if they have half a mind to, Anastasia. To have control
　　—I need information. It’s how I’ve always operated.” He
　　gazes at me, his expression guarded and unreadable.
　　“You do misuse the information. You deposited
　　twenty-four thousand dollars that I didn’t want into my
　　account.”
　　His mouth presses in a hard line. “I told you. That’s
　　what Taylor managed to get for your car. Unbelievable, I
　　know, but there you go.”
　　“But the Audi . . .”
　　“Anastasia, do you have any idea how much money I
　　make?”
　　I flush, of course not. “Why should I? I don’t need to
　　know the bottom line of your bank account, Christian.”
　　His eyes soften. “I know. That’s one of the things I
　　love about you.”
　　I gaze at him, shocked. Love about me?
　　“Anastasia, I earn roughly one hundred thousand
　　dollars an hour.”
　　My mouth drops open. That is an obscene amount of
　　money.
　　“Twenty-four thousand dollars is nothing. The car, the
　　Tess 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 in
　　a nutshell—empathy or the lack thereof. The silence
　　stretches between us.
　　Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, and he
　　looks 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 I
　　know.
　　“It doesn’t feel great. I mean, you’re very generous,
　　but it makes me uncomfortable. I have told you this
　　enough 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 is
　　draining.
　　He frowns. “Sure.”
　　“I’ll cook.”
　　“Good. Otherwise there’s food in the fridge.”
　　“Mrs. Jones is off on the weekends? So you eat cold
　　cuts most weekends?”
　　“No.”
　　“Oh?”
　　He sighs. “My submissives cook, Anastasia.”
　　“Oh, of course.” I flush. How could I be so stupid? I
　　smile sweetly at him. “What would Sir like to eat?”
　　He smirks. “Whatever Madam can find,” he says
　　darkly.
　　Inspecting the impressive contents of the fridge, I decide
　　Inspecting the impressive contents of the fridge, I decide
　　on Spanish omelet. There are even cold potatoes—
　　perfect. It’s quick and easy. Christian is still in his study,
　　no doubt invading some poor, unsuspecting fool’s privacy
　　and compiling information. The thought is unpleasant and
　　leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. My mind is reeling. He
　　really knows no bounds.
　　I need music if I’m going to cook, and I’m going to
　　cook unsubmissively! I wander over to the iPod dock
　　beside the fireplace and pick up Christian’s iPod. I bet
　　there are more of Leila’s choices on here,—I dread the
　　very idea.
　　Where is she? I wonder. What does she want?