Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

Anastasia.”
    Do they? “I thought you’d already ordered me another Audi A3?”
    He gives me a darkly amused look. “I can cancel that. Come.” Climbing smoothly out of the car, he strolls gracefully to my side and opens my door.
    “I owe you a graduation present,” he says softly and holds his hand out for me.
    “Christian, you really don’t have to do this.”
    “Yes, I do. Please. Come.” His tone says he’s not to be trifled with.
    I resign myself to my fate. A Saab? Do I want a Saab? I quite like the Audi Submissive Special. It was very nifty.  
    Of course, now it’s under a ton of white paint . . . I shudder. And she’s still out there.  
    I take Christian’s hand, and we wander into the showroom.
    Troy Turniansky, the salesman, is all over Fifty like a cheap suit. He can smell a sale. Weirdly his accent sounds mid-Atlantic, maybe British? It’s difficult to tell.
    “A Saab, sir? Pre-owned?” He rubs his hands with glee.
    “New.” Christian’s lips set into a hard line.
    New !
    “Did you have a model in mind, sir?” And he’s smarmy, too.
    “9-3 2.0T Sport Sedan.”
    “An excellent choice, sir.”
    “What color, Anastasia?” Christian inclines his head.
    “Er . . . black?” I shrug. “You really don’t need to do this.”
    He frowns. “Black’s not easily seen at night.”
    Oh, for heaven’s sake. I resist the temptation to roll my eyes. “You have a black car.”
    He scowls at me.
    “Bright canary yellow then.” I shrug.
    Christian makes a face—canary yellow is obviously not his thing.
    “What color do you want me to have?” I ask as if he’s a small child, which he is in many ways. The thought is unwelcome—sad and sobering at once.
    “Silver or white.”
    “Silver, then. You know I’ll take the Audi,” I add, chastened by my thoughts.
    Troy pales, sensing he’s losing a sale. “Perhaps you’d like the convertible, ma’am?” he asks, clapping his hands with enthusiasm.
    My subconscious is cringing in disgust, mortified by the whole buying-a-car business, but my inner goddess tackles her to the floor. Convertible? Drool!
    Christian frowns and peers at me. “Convertible?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
    I flush. It’s like he has a direct hotline to my inner goddess, which of course, he has. It’s most inconvenient at times. I stare down at my hands.
    Christian turns to Troy. “What are the safety stats on the convertible?”
    Troy, sensing Christian’s vulnerability, heads in for the kill, reeling off all manner of statistics.
    Of course, Christian wants me safe. It’s a religion with him, and like the zealot he is, he listens intently to Troy’s well-honed patter. Fifty really does care.  
    Yes. I do. I remember his whispered, choked words from this morning, and a melting glow spreads like warm honey through my veins. This man—God’s gift to women—loves me.  
    I find myself grinning goofily at him, and when he glances down at me, he’s amused yet puzzled by my expression. I just want to hug myself, I am so happy.
    “Whatever you’re high on, I’d like some, Miss Steele,” he murmurs as Troy heads off to his computer.
    “I’m high on you, Mr. Grey.”
    “Really? Well you certainly look intoxicated.” He kisses me briefly. “And thank you for accepting the car. That was easier than last time.”
    “Well, it’s not an Audi A3.”
    He smirks. “That’s not the car for you.”
    “I liked it.”
    “Sir, the 9-3? I’ve located one at our Beverly Hills dealership. We can have it here for you in a couple of days.” Troy glows with triumph.
    “Top of the range?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    “Excellent.” Christian produces his credit card, or is it Taylor’s? The thought is unnerving. I wonder how Taylor is, and if he’s located Leila in the apartment. I rub my forehead. Yes, there’s all of Christian’s baggage, too.
    “If you’ll come this way, Mr.”—Troy glances at the name on the card—“Grey.”

    Christian opens my door, and I climb back into the passenger seat.
    “Thank you,” I say when he’s seated beside me.
    He smiles.
    “You’re most welcome, Anastasia.”
    The music starts again as Christian starts the engine.
    “Who’s this?” I ask.
    “Eva Cassidy.”
    “She has a lovely voice.”
    “She does, she did.”
    “Oh.”
    “She died young.”
    “Oh.”
    “Are you hungry? You didn’t finish all your breakfast.” He glances quickly at me, disapproval outlined on his face.
    Uh-oh.