ing 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
ha一ven’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 recently? But how? . . . No
background checks? . . . I see. E-mail the name, address,
and photos if you ha一ve them . . . twenty-four seven, from
this afternoon. Liaise with Taylor.” Christian hangs up.
“Well?” I ask, exasperated. Is he going to tell me?
“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 ha一ve 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
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 prep
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