fifty shades darker (14 page)

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. 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.”

“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 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?

“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 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.

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.

“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.”

“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 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 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.