he pulls a manila folder. Typed on the tab: ANASTASIA ROSE STEELE.
Holy fucking shit. I glare at him.
He shrugs apologetically. “You can keep it,” he says quietly.
“Well, gee, thanks,” I snap. I flick through the contents. He has a copy of my birth certificate, for heaven’s sake, my hard limits, the NDA, the contract—Jeez—my social security number, resume, employment records.
“So you knew I worked at Clayton’s?”
“Yes.”
“It wasn’t a coincidence. You didn’t just drop by?”
“No.”
I don’t know whether to be angry or flattered.
“This is fucked-up. You know that?”
“I don’t see it that way. What I do, I have to be careful.”
“But this is private.”
“I don’t misuse the information. Anyone can get hold of it if they have half a mind to, Anastasia. To have control—I need information. It’s how I’ve always operated.” He gazes at me, his expression guarded and unreadable.
“You do misuse the information. You deposited twenty-four thousand dollars that I didn’t want into my account.”
His mouth presses in a hard line. “I told you. That’s what Taylor managed to get for your car. Unbelievable, I know, but there you go.”
“But the Audi . . .”
“Anastasia, do you have any idea how much money I make?”
I flush, of course not. “Why should I? I don’t need to know the bottom line of your bank account, Christian.”
His eyes soften. “I know. That’s one of the things I love about you.”
I gaze at him, shocked. Love about me?
“Anastasia, I earn roughly one hundred thousand dollars an hour.”
My mouth drops open. That is an obscene amount of money.
“Twenty-four thousand dollars is nothing. The car, the Tess books, the clothes, they’re nothing.” His voice is soft.
I gaze at him. He really has no idea. Extraordinary.
“If you were me, how would you feel about all this . . . largesse coming your way?” I ask.
He stares at me blankly, and there it is, his problem in a nutshell—empathy or the lack thereof. The silence stretches between us.
Finally, he shrugs. “I don’t know,” he says, and he looks genuinely bemused.
My heart swells. This is it, the crux of his Fifty Shades, surely. He can’t put himself in my shoes. Well, now I know.
“It doesn’t feel great. I mean, you’re very generous, but it makes me uncomfortable. I have told you this enough times.”
He sighs. “I want to give you the world, Anastasia.”
“I just want you, Christian. Not all the add-ons.”
“They’re part of the deal. Part of what I am.”
Oh, this is going nowhere.
“Shall we eat?” I ask. This tension between us is draining.
He frowns. “Sure.”
“I’ll cook.”
“Good. Otherwise there’s food in the fridge.”
“Mrs. Jones is off on the weekends? So you eat cold cuts most weekends?”
“No.”
“Oh?”
He sighs. “My submissives cook, Anastasia.”
“Oh, of course.” I flush. How could I be so stupid? I smile sweetly at him. “What would Sir like to eat?”
He smirks. “Whatever Madam can find,” he says darkly.
Inspecting the impressive contents of the fridge, I decide on Spanish omelet. There are even cold potatoes—perfect. It’s quick and easy. Christian is still in his study, no doubt invading some poor, unsuspecting fool’s privacy and compiling information. The thought is unpleasant and leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. My mind is reeling. He really knows no bounds.
I need music if I’m going to cook, and I’m going to cook unsubmissively! I wander over to the iPod dock beside the fireplace and pick up Christian’s iPod. I bet there are more of Leila’s choices on here,—I dread the very idea.
Where is she? I wonder. What does she want?
I shudder. What a legacy. I can’t wrap my head around it.
I scroll through the extensive list. I want something upbeat. Hmm, Beyoncé—doesn’t sound like Christian’s taste. Crazy in Love. Oh yes! How apt. I hit the repeat button and put it on loud.
I sashay back to the kitchen and find a bowl, open the fridge, and take out the eggs. I crack them open and begin to whisk, dancing the whole time.
Raiding the fridge once more, I gather potatoes, ham, and—Yes!—peas from the freezer. All of these will do. Finding a pan, I place it on the stove, put in a little olive oil, and go back to whisking.
No empathy, I muse. Is this unique to Christian? Maybe all men are like this, baffled by women. I just don’t know. Perhaps it’s not such a revelation.
I wish Kate were home; she would know. She’s been in Barbados far too long. She should be back at the end of the week after her additional vacation with Elliot. I wonder if