"Thank you," he says grudgingly. Oh, the sulky schoolboy is back.

"Where to now?"

"You really want your hair cut?"

"Yes, look at it."

"You look lovely to me. You always do."

I blush and stare down at my fngers knotted in my lap. "And there's your father's func- tion this evening."

"Remember, it's black tie."

Oh Jeez. "Where is it?"

"At my parents' house. They have a marquee. You know, the works."

"What's the charity?"

Christian rubs his hands down his thighs, looking uncomfortable.

"It's a drug rehab program for parents with young kids called Coping Together."

"Sounds like a good cause," I say softly.

"Come, let's go." He stands, effectively halting that topic of conversation and holds out his hand. As I take it, he tightens his fngers around mine.

It's strange. He's so demonstrative in some ways and yet so closed in others. He leads me out of the restaurant, and we walk down the street. It is a lovely, mild morning. The sun is shining, and the air smells of coffee and freshly baked bread.

"Where are we going?"

"Surprise."

Oh, okay. I don't really like surprises.We walk for two blocks, and the stores become decidedly more exclusive. I haven't yet had an opportunity to explore, but this really is just around the corner from where I live. Kate will be pleased. There are plenty of small boutiques to feed her fashion pa.s.sion.

Actually, I need to buy some foaty skirts for work.

Christian stops outside a large, slick-looking beauty salon and opens the door for me.

It's called Esclava. The interior is all white and leather. At the stark white reception desk sits a young blond woman in a crisp white uniform. She glances up as we enter.

"Good morning, Mr. Grey," she says brightly, color rising in her cheeks as she bats her eyelashes at him. It's the Grey effect, but she knows him! How?

"h.e.l.lo Greta."

And he knows her. What is this?

"Is this the usual, sir?" she asks politely. She's wearing very pink lipstick.

"No," he says quickly, with a nervous glance at me.

The usual? What does that mean?

Holy f.u.c.k! It's Rule no 6, the d.a.m.ned beauty salon. All the waxing nonsense ... s.h.i.t!

This is where he brought all his subs? Maybe Leila, too? What the h.e.l.l am I supposed to make of this?

"Miss Steele will tell you what she wants."

I glare at him. He's introducing the Rules by stealth. I've agreed to the personal train- er-and now this?

"Why here?" I hiss at him.

"I own this place, and three more like it."

"You own it?" I gasp in surprise. Well, that's unexpected.

"Yes. It's a sideline. Anyway-whatever you want, you can have it here, on the house.

All sorts of ma.s.sage; Swedish, shiatsu, hot stones, refexology, seaweed baths, facials, all that stuff that women like-everything. It's done here." He waves his long-fngered hand dismissively.

"Waxing?"

He laughs. "Yes waxing, too. Everywhere," he whispers conspiratorially, enjoying my discomfort.

I blush and glance at Greta, who is looking at me expectantly.

"I'd like a haircut, please."

"Certainly, Miss Steele."

Greta is all pink lipstick and bustling Germanic effciency as she checks her computer screen.

"Franco is free in fve minutes."

"Franco's fne," says Christian rea.s.suringly to me. I am trying to wrap my head around this. Christian Grey CEO owns a chain of beauty salons.

I peek up at him, and suddenly he blanches-something, or someone, has caught his eye. I turn to see where he's looking, and right at the back of the salon a sleek platinum blonde has appeared, closing a door behind her and speaking to one of the hair stylists.

Platinum Blonde is tall, tanned, lovely, and in her late thirties or forties-it's diffcult to tell. She's wearing the same uniform as Greta, but in black. She looks stunning. Her hair shines like a halo, cut in sharp bob. As she turns, she catches sight of Christian and smiles at him, a dazzling smile of warm recognition.

"Excuse me," Christian mumbles hurriedly.

He strides quickly through the salon, past the hair stylists all in white, past the appren- tices at the sinks, and over to her, too far away for me to hear their conversation. Platinum Blonde greets him with obvious affection, kissing both his cheeks, her hands resting on his upper arms, and they talk animatedly together.

"Miss Steele?"

Greta the receptionist is trying to get my attention.

"Hang on a moment, please." I watch Christian, fascinated.

Platinum Blonde turns and looks at me, and gives me the same dazzling smile, as if she knows me. I smile politely back.

Christian looks upset about something. He's reasoning with her, and she's acquiesc- ing, holding her hands up and smiling at him. He's smiling at her-clearly they know each other well. Perhaps they've worked together for a long time? Maybe she runs the place; after all, she has a certain look of authority.

Then it hits me like a wrecking ball, and I know, deep down in my gut on a visceral level, I know who it is. It's her. Stunning, older, beautiful.

It's Mrs. Robinson.

CHAPTER 5.

"Greta, who is Mr. Grey talking to?" My scalp is trying to leave the building. It's p.r.i.c.kling with apprehension, and my subconscious is screaming at me to follow it. But I sound non- chalant enough.

"Oh, that's Mrs. Lincoln. She owns the place with Mr. Grey." Greta seems more than happy to share.

"Mrs. Lincoln?" I thought Mrs. Robinson was divorced. Perhaps she's remarried to some poor sap.

"Yes. She's not usually here, but one of our technicians is sick today so she's flling in."

"Do you know Mrs. Lincoln's frst name?"

Greta looks up at me, frowning, and purses her bright pink lips, questioning my curios- ity. s.h.i.t, perhaps this is a step too far.

"Elena," she says, almost reluctantly.

I'm swamped by a strange sense of relief that my spidey sense has not let me down.

Spidey sense? My subconscious snorts, Paedo sense.

They are still deep in discussion. Christian is talking rapidly to Elena, and she looks worried, nodding, grimacing, and shaking her head. Reaching out, she rubs his arm sooth-ingly while biting her lip. Another nod, and she glances at me and offers me a small reas- suring smile.

I can only stare at her stony-faced. I think I'm in shock. How could he bring me here?

She murmurs something to Christian, and he looks my way briefy then turns back to her and replies. She nods, and I think she's wishing him luck, but my lip-reading skills aren't highly developed.

Fifty strides back to me, anxiety etched on his face. d.a.m.n right. Mrs. Robinson returns to the back room, closing the door behind her.

Christian frowns. "Are you okay?" he asks, but his voice is strained, cautious.

"Not really. You didn't want to introduce me?" My voice sounds cold, hard.

His mouth drops open, he looks as if I've pulled the rug from under his feet.

"But I thought-"

"For a bright man, sometimes ..." Words fail me. "I'd like to go, please."

"Why?"

"You know why." I roll my eyes.

He gazes down at me, his eyes burning.

"I'm sorry, Ana. I didn't know she'd be here. She's never here. She's opened a new branch at the Bravern Center, and that's where she's normally based. Someone was sick today."

I turn on my heel and head for the door.

"We won't need Franco, Greta," Christian snaps as we head out of the door. I have to suppress the impulse to run. I want to run fast and far away. I have an overwhelming urge to cry. I just need to get away from all this f.u.c.kedupness.

Christian walks wordlessly beside me as I try to mull all this over in my head. Wrap- ping my arms protectively around myself, I keep my head down, avoiding the trees on Sec- ond Avenue. Wisely, he makes no move to touch me. My mind is boiling with unanswered questions. Will Mr. Evasive fess up?

"You used to take your subs there?" I snap.

"Some of them, yes," he says quietly, his tone clipped.

"Leila?"

"Yes."

"The place looks very new."

"It's been refurbished recently."

"I see. So Mrs. Robinson met all your subs."

"Yes."

"Did they know about her?"

"No. None of them did. Only you."

"But I'm not your sub."

"No, you most defnitely are not."

I stop and face him. His eyes are wide, fearful. His lips are pressed into a hard, uncom- promising line.

"Can you see how f.u.c.ked-up this is?" I glare up at him, my voice low.

"Yes. I'm sorry." And he has the grace to look contrite."I want to get my hair cut, preferably somewhere where you haven't f.u.c.ked either the staff or the clientele."