Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed (75 page)

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:

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 drain 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 the
Charlie Tango
balloon 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 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 traffic.

“Were all your submissives brunettes?”

He frowns. “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 loaned 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 gives me a wolfish grin. “He wouldn’t let her work. You know, he was controlling. Some men are like that.” He gives me a quick sideways smile.

“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.

“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. 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 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 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 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.”

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 for 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, which 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 … 
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.”

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
Ana!”

I laugh, 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?”

“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.

He purses his lips. “She knows where.”