Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

“Would you like a glass of wine?”
    “No, thank you.” I need to keep a clear head around you, Grey.
    It does taste good, even though I’m not that hungry. But I eat, knowing Christian will nag if I don’t. Eventually Christian disrupts our brooding silence and switches on the classical piece I heard earlier.
    “What’s this?” I ask.
    “Canteloube, Songs of the Auvergne . This is called ‘Bailero.’ ”
    “It’s lovely. What language is it?”
    “It’s in old French—Occitan, in fact.”
    “You speak French, do you understand it?” Memories of the flawless French he spoke at his parents’ dinner come to mind . . .
    “Some words, yes.” Christian smiles, visibly relaxing. “My mother had a mantra: musical instrument, foreign language, martial art. Elliot speaks Spanish; Mia and I speak French. Elliot plays guitar, I play piano, and Mia the cello.”
    “Wow. And the martial arts?”
    “Elliot does Judo. Mia put her foot down at age twelve and refused.” He smirks at the memory.
    “I wish my mother had been that organized.”
    “Dr. Grace is formidable when it comes to the accomplishments of her children.”
    “She must be very proud of you. I would be.”
    A dark thought flashes across Christian’s face, and he looks momentarily uncomfortable. He regards me warily as if he’s in uncharted territory.
    “Have you decided what you’ll wear this evening? Or do I need to come and pick something for you?” His tone is suddenly brusque.
    Whoa ! He sounds angry. Why ? What have I said ?
    “Um . . . not yet. Did you choose all those clothes?”
    “No, Anastasia, I didn’t. I gave a list and your size to a personal shopper at Neiman Marcus. They should fit. Just so that you know, I have ordered additional security for this evening and the next few days. With Leila unpredictable and unaccounted for somewhere on the streets of Seattle, I think it’s a wise precaution. I don’t want you going out unaccompanied. Okay?”
    I blink at him. “Okay.” What happened to I-must-have-you-now Grey?
    “Good. I’m going to brief them. I shouldn’t be long.”
    “They’re here?”
    “Yes.”
    Where ?
    Collecting his plate, Christian places it in the sink and disappears from the room. What the hell was that about? He’s like several different people in one body. Isn’t that a symptom of schizophrenia? I must Google that.  
    I clear my plate, wash up quickly, and head back up to my bedroom carrying the A NASTASIA R OSE S TEELE dossier. Back in the walk-in closet, I pull out the three long evening dresses. Now, which one?

    Lying down on the bed, I gaze at my Mac, my iPad, and my Blackberry. I am overwhelmed with technology. I set about transferring Christian’s playlist from my iPad to the Mac, then fire up Google to surf the net.

    I’m lying across the bed looking at my Mac as Christian enters.  
    “What are you doing?” he inquires softly.
    I panic briefly, wondering if I should let him see the website I’m on: Multiple Personality Disorder: The Symptoms.  
    Stretching out beside me, he eyes the webpage with amusement.
    “On this site for a reason?” he asks nonchalantly.
    Brusque Christian has gone—playful Christian is back. How the hell am I supposed to keep up with this?
    “Research. Into a difficult personality.” I give him my most deadpan look.
    His lips twitch with a suppressed smile. “A difficult personality?”
    “My own pet project.”
    “I’m a pet project now? A sideline. Science experiment maybe. When I thought I was everything. Miss Steele, you wound me.”
    “How do you know it’s you?”
    “Wild guess.” He smirks.
    “It’s true that you are the only fucked-up, mercurial, control freak that I know, intimately.”
    “I thought I was the only person you know intimately.” He arches a brow.
    I flush. “Yes. That, too.”
    “Have you reached any conclusions yet?”
    I turn and gaze at him. He’s on his side stretched out beside me with his head resting on his elbow, his expression soft, amused.
    “I think you’re in need of intense therapy.”
    He reaches up and gently tucks my hair behind my ears.
    “I think I’m in need of you. Here.” He hands me a tube of lipstick.
    I frown at him, perplexed. It’s harlot red, not my color at all.
    “You want me to wear this?” I squeak.
    He laughs. “No, Anastasia, not unless you want to. Not sure it’s your color,” he finishes dryly.
    He sits up on the bed cross-legged and drags his shirt off