Unknown - fifty shades darker

“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.

“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 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 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.”

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.”

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.