Typed on the tab: anastasia rose steele.

Holy fucking shit. I glare at him.

He shrugs apologetically. “You can keep it,” he says quietly.

“Well, gee, thanks,” I snap. I flick through the contents. He has a copy of my birth

certificate, for heaven’s sake, my hard limits, the NDA, the contract— Jeez—my social

security number, resume, employment records.

“So you knew I worked at Clayton’s?”

“Yes.”

“It wasn’t a coincidence. You didn’t just drop by?”

“No.”

I don’t know whether to be angry or flattered.

“This is fucked-up. You know that?”

“I don’t see it that way. What I do, I have to be careful.”

“But this is private.”

“I don’t misuse the information. Anyone can get hold of it if they have half a mind to,

Anastasia. To have control—I need information. It’s how I’ve always operated.” He gazes

at me, his expression guarded and unreadable.

“You do misuse the information. You deposited twenty-four thousand dollars that I

didn’t want into my account.”

His mouth presses in a hard line. “I told you. That’s what Taylor managed to get for

your car. Unbelievable, I know, but there you go.”

“But the Audi . . .”

“Anastasia, do you have any idea how much money I make?”

I flush, of course not. “Why should I? I don’t need to know the bottom line of your

bank account, Christian.”

His eyes soften. “I know. That’s one of the things I love about you.”

I gaze at him, shocked. Love about me?

“Anastasia, I earn roughly one hundred thousand dollars an hour.”

My mouth drops open. That is an obscene amount of money.

“Twenty-four thousand dollars is nothing. The car, the Tess books, the clothes, they’re

nothing.” His voice is soft.

I gaze at him. He really has no idea. Extraordinary.

“If you were me, how would you feel about all this . . . largesse coming your way?” I

ask.He stares at me blankly, and there it is, his problem in a nutshell—empathy or the lack

thereof. The silence stretches between us.

Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, and he looks genuinely bemused.

My heart swells. This is it, the crux of his Fifty Shades, surely. He can’t put himself in

my shoes. Well, now I know.

“It doesn’t feel great. I mean, you’re very generous, but it makes me uncomfortable. I

have told you this enough times.”

He sighs. “I want to give you the world, Anastasia.”

“I just want you, Christian. Not all the add-ons.”

“They’re part of the deal. Part of what I am.”

Oh, this is going nowhere.

“Shall we eat?” I ask. This tension between us is draining.

He frowns. “Sure.”

“I’ll cook.”

“Good. Otherwise there’s food in the fridge.”

“Mrs. Jones is off on the weekends? So you eat cold cuts most weekends?”

“No.”

“Oh?”

He sighs. “My submissives cook, Anastasia.”

“Oh, of course.” I flush. How could I be so stupid? I smile sweetly at him. “What

would Sir like to eat?”

He smirks. “Whatever Madam can find,” he says darkly.

Inspecting the impressive contents of the fridge, I decide on Spanish omelet. There are

even cold potatoes—perfect. It’s quick and easy. Christian is still in his study, no doubt

invading some poor, unsuspecting fool’s privacy and compiling information. The thought

is unpleasant and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. My mind is reeling. He really knows

no bounds.

I need music if I’m going to cook, and I’m going to cook unsubmissively! I wander

over to the iPod dock beside the fireplace and pick up Christian’s iPod. I bet there are more

of Leila’s choices on here,—I dread the very idea.

Where is she?I wonder. What does she want?

I shudder. What a legacy. I can’t wrap my head around it.

I scroll through the extensive list. I want something upbeat. Hmm, Beyoncé—doesn’t

sound like Christian’s taste. Crazy in Love.Oh yes! How apt. I hit the repeat button and

put it on loud.

I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the fridge, and take out the eggs. I

crack them open and begin to whisk, dancing the whole time.

Raiding the fridge once more, I gather potatoes, ham, and— Yes!—peas from the freez-

er. All of these will do. Finding a pan, I place it on the stove, put in a little olive oil, and go

back to whisking.

No empathy, I muse. Is this unique to Christian? Maybe all men are like this, baffled by

women. I just don’t know. Perhaps it’s not such a revelation.

I wish Kate were home; she would know. She’s been in Barbados far too long. She

should be back at the end of the week after her additional vacation with Elliot. I wonder if

it’s still lust at first sight for them.

One of the things I love about you.

I stop whisking. He said it. Does that mean there are other things? I smile for the first

time since seeing Mrs. Robinson—a genuine, heartfelt, face-splitting smile.

Christian slips his arms around me, making me jump.

“Interesting choice of music,” he purrs as he kisses me below my ear. “Your hair smells

good.” He nuzzles my hair and inhales deeply.

Desire uncurls in my belly. No.I shrug out of his embrace.

“I’m still mad at you.”

He frowns. “How long are you going to keep this up?” he asks, dragging a hand through

his hair.

I shrug. “At least until I’ve eaten.”

His lips twitch with amusement. Turning, he picks up the remote control from the

counter and switches off the music.

“Did you put that on your iPod?” I ask.

He shakes his head, his expression somber, and I know it was her—Ghost Girl.

“Don’t you think she was trying to tell you something back then?”

“Well, with hindsight, probably,” he says quietly.

qed. No empathy. My subconscious folds her arms and smacks her lips in disgust.

“Why’s it still on there?”

“I quite like the song. But if it offends you I’ll remove it.”

“No, it’s fine. I like to cook to music.”

“What would you like to hear?”

“Surprise me.”

He smirks at me and heads over to the iPod dock while I go back to my whisking.

Moments later the heavenly sweet, soulful voice of Nina Simone fills the room. It’s one

of Ray’s favorites: “I Put a Spell on You.”

I flush, turning to gape at Christian. What is he trying to tell me? He put a spell on me

a long time ago. Oh my . . . his look has changed, the levity gone, his eyes darker, intense.

I watch him, enthralled as slowly, like the predator he is, he stalks me in time to the

slow sultry beat of the music. He’s barefoot, wearing just an untucked white shirt, jeans,

and a smoldering look.

Nina sings, “you’re mine” as Christian reaches me, his intention clear.

“Christian, please,” I whisper, the whisk redundant in my hand.

“Please what?”

“Don’t do this.”

“Do what?”

“This.”

He’s standing in front of me, gazing down at me.

“Are you sure?” he breathes and reaching over, he takes the whisk from my hand and

places it back in the bowl with the eggs. My heart is in my mouth. I don’t want this—I do

want this—badly.

He’s so frustrating. He’s so hot and desirable. I tear my gaze away from his spellbind-

ing look.

“I want you, Anastasia,” he murmurs. “I love and I hate, and I love arguing with you.

It’s very new. I need to know that we’re okay. It’s the only way I know how.”

“My feelings for you haven’t changed,” I whisper.

His proximity is overwhelming, exhilarating. The familiar pull is there, all my synaps-

es goading me toward him, my inner goddess at her most libidinous. Staring at the patch of

hair in the V of his shirt, I bite my lip, helpless, driven by desire—I want to taste him there.