od that you’ll be staying with me. Give
him more room,” he says quietly.
“I don’t know that he’s got keys. I’ll need to be back
then.”
Christian gazes at me impassively but says nothing.
“That’s everything.”
He grabs my case, and we head out the door. As we
walk around to the back of the building to the parking lot,
I’m aware that I am looking over my shoulder. I don’t
know if my paranoia has taken over or if someone really is
watching me. Christian opens the passenger door of the
Audi and looks at me expectantly.
Audi and looks at me expectantly.
“Are you getting in?” he asks.
“I thought I was driving.”
“No. I’ll drive.”
“Something 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 busines
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