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.