Текст книги "Fifty shades darker"

1 Emily Dickinson, “I’m Nobody! Who are you?” first stanza.

Oh no—when I can’t.The thought makes me nauseous.

Climbing out of bed, Christian drags on his jeans and heads into the main room. A

glance at my alarm clock shows it’s five in the morning. I roll out of bed, putting his white

shirt on, and follow him.

Holy shit, he’s on the phone.

“Yes, outside SIP, yesterday . . . early evening,” he says quietly. He turns to me as I

move toward the kitchen and asks me directly, “What time exactly?”

“About ten to six?” I mumble. Who on earth is he calling at this hour? What’s Leila

done? He relays the information to whoever’s on the line, not taking his eyes off me, his

expression dark and earnest.

“Find out how . . . Yes . . . I wouldn’t have said so, but then I wouldn’t have thought

she could do this.” He closes his eyes as if he’s in pain. “I don’t know how that will go

down . . . Yes, I’ll talk to her . . . Yes . . . I know . . . Follow it up and let me know. Just find

her, Welch—she’s in trouble. Find her.” He hangs up.

“Do you want some tea?” I ask. Tea, Ray’s answer to every crisis and the only thing he

does well in the kitchen. I fill the kettle with water.

“Actually, I’d like to go back to bed.” His look tells me that it’s not to sleep.

“Well, I need some tea. Would you like to join me for a cup?” I want to know what’s

going on. I will not be sidetracked by sex.

He runs his hand through his hair in exasperation. “Yes, please,” he says, but I can tell

he’s irritated.

I put the kettle on the stove and busy myself with teacups and the teapot. My anxiety

level has shot to defcon one. Is he going to tell me the problem? Or am I going to have to

dig? I sense his eyes on me—sense his uncertainty, and his anger is palpable. I glance up,

and his eyes glitter with apprehension.

“What is it?” I ask softly.

He shakes his head.

“You’re not going to tell me?”

He sighs and closes his eyes. “No.”

“Why?”

“Because it shouldn’t concern you. I don’t want you tangled up in this.”

“It shouldn’t concern me, but it does. She found me and accosted me outside my office.

How does she know about me? How does she know where I work? I think I have a right to

know what’s going on.”

He runs a hand through his hair again, radiating frustration as if waging some internal

battle.

“Please?” I ask softly.

His mouth sets into a hard line, and he rolls his eyes at me.

“Okay,” he says, resigned. “I have no idea how she found you. Maybe the photograph

of us in Portland, I don’t know.” He sighs again, and I sense his frustration is directed at

himself.

I wait patiently, pouring boiling water into the teapot as he paces back and forth. After

a beat he continues.

“While I was with you in Georgia, Leila turned up at my apartment unannounced and

made a scene in front of Gail.”

“Gail?”

“Mrs. Jones.”

“What do you mean, ‘made a scene’?”

He glares at me, appraising.

“Tell me. You’re keeping something back.” My tone is more forceful than I feel.

He blinks at me, surprised. “Ana, I—” he stops.

“Please?”

He sighs in defeat. “She made a haphazard attempt to open a vein.”

“Oh no!” That explains the bandage on her wrist.

“Gail got her to hospital. But Leila discharged herself before I could get there.”

Crap. What does this mean? Suicidal? Why?

“The shrink who saw her called it a typical cry for help. He didn’t believe her to be

truly at risk—one step from suicidal ideation, he called it. But I’m not convinced. I’ve been

trying to track her down since then to get her some help.”

“Did she say anything to Mrs. Jones?”

He gazes at me. He looks really uncomfortable.

“Not much,” he says eventually, but I know he’s not telling me everything.

I distract myself with pouring tea into teacups. So Leila wants back into Christian’s

life and chooses a suicide attempt to attract his attention? Whoa . . . scary.But effective.

Christian left Georgia to be at her side, but she disappears before he gets there? How odd.

“You can’t find her? What about her family?”

“They don’t know where she is. Neither does her husband.”

“Husband?”

“Yes,” he says distractedly, “she’s been married for about two years.”

What?“So she was with you while she was married?” Holy fuck.He really has no

boundaries.

“No! Good God, no. She was with me nearly three years ago. Then she left and married

this guy shortly afterward.”

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.”

“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-want-you-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. 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 sem-

blance 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 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.

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 amangry. 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 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 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. Sud-

denly 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.

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 teasing.

“Don’t look so cross. I’m twenty-four thousand dollars richer than I was this morn-

ing. 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 func-

tion 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 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?

“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 train-

er—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.”

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 appren-

tices 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 acquiesc-

ing, 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 her. Stunning, older, beautiful.

It’s Mrs. Robinson.

“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 non-

chalant 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.”

“Do you know Mrs. Lincoln’s first name?”

Greta looks up at me, frowning, and purses her bright pink lips, questioning my curios-

ity. 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 sooth-

ingly while biting her lip. Another nod, and she glances at me and offers me a small reas-

suring 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.

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. Wrap-

ping my arms protectively around myself, I keep my head down, avoiding the trees on Sec-

ond 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.”

“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, uncom-

promising 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 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. Hold-

ing 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 recent-

ly? 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?

“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 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, 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 ex-lover—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.

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 Chris-

tian 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.”