ught you’d run off.” His relief is obvious.
I hold my hand up to indicate that I’m on the phone.
“Sorry, Mom, I ha一ve to go. I’ll call again soon.”
“Okay, honey—take care of yourself. Love you!”
“Love you, too, Mom.”
I hang up and gaze at Fifty. He frowns, looking
strangely awkward.
“Why are you hiding in here?” he asks.
“I’m not hiding. I’m despairing.”
“Despairing?”
“Of all this, Christian.” I wa一ve my hand in the general
direction of the clothes.
“Can I come in?”
“It’s your closet.”
He frowns again and sits down, cross-legged, facing
me.
“They’re just clothes. If you don’t like them I’ll send
them back.”
“You’re a lot to take on, you know?”
He blinks at me and scratches his chin . . . his stubbly
chin. My fingers itch to touch him.
“I know. I’m trying,” he murmurs.
“You’re very trying.”
“As are you, Miss Steele.”
“Why are you doing this?”
His eyes widen and his wary look returns. “You know
why.”
“No, I don’t.”
He runs a hand through his hair. “You are one
frustrating female.”
“You could ha一ve a nice brunette submissive. One
who’d say, ‘how high?’ every time you said jump,
provided of course she had permission to speak. So why
me, Christian? I just don’t get it.”
me, Christian? I just don’t get it.”
He gazes at me for a moment, and I ha一ve no idea what
he’s thinking.
“You make me look at the world differently, Anastasia.
You don’t want me for my money. You give me . . .
hope,” he says softly.
What? Mr. Cryptic is back. “Hope of what?”
He shrugs. “More.” His voice is low and quiet. “And
you’re right. I am used to women doing exactly what I say,
when I say, doing exactly what I want. It gets old quickly.
There’s something about you, Anastasia, that calls to me
on some deep level I don’t understand. It’s a siren’s call. I
can’t resist you, and I don’t want to lose you.” He reaches
forward and takes my hand. “Don’t run, please—ha一ve a
little faith in me and a little patience. Please.”
He looks so vulnerable . . . Jeez, it’s disturbing.
Leaning up on my knees, I bend f
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