Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

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 the traffic.
    “Were all your submissives brunettes?”
    He frowns and glances at me quickly. “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 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