“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