own at him. Honestly.
As we cruise through the traffic, Christian is deep in
thought. A young woman’s voice comes over the
loudspeakers; it has a beautiful, rich, mellow timbre, and I
lose myself in her sad, soulful voice.
“I need to make a detour. It shouldn’t take long,” he
says absentmindedly, distracting me from the song.
Oh, why? I’m intrigued to know the surprise. My inner
goddess is bouncing about like a five-year-old.
goddess is bouncing about like a five-year-old.
“Sure,” I murmur. Something is amiss. Suddenly, he
looks grimly determined.
He pulls into the parking lot of large car dealership,
stops the car, and turns to face me, his expression wary.
“We need to get you a new car,” he says. I gape at
him.
Now? On a Sunday? What the hell? And this is a Saab
dealership.
“Not an Audi?” is, stupidly, the only thing I can think of
to say, and bless him, he actually flushes.
Holy cow—Christian, embarrassed. This is a first.
“I thought you might like something else,” he mutters.
He’s almost squirming.
Oh, please . . . This is too valuable an opportunity not
to tease him. I smirk. “A Saab?”
“Yeah. A 9-3. Come.”
“What is it with you and foreign cars?”
“The Germans and the Swedes make the safest cars in
the world, Anastasia.”
the world, 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 ha一ve 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
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