"Yes, I am," I murmur back at him. "I wanted to ask you something."

"Go ahead."

"Your biological father ... do you know who he was?" This thought has been bugging me.

His brow creases, and then he shakes his head. "I have no idea. Wasn't the savage who was her pimp, which is good."

"How do you know?"

"Something my dad ... something Carrick said to me."I gaze at my Fifty expectantly, waiting. He smirks at me.

"So hungry for information, Anastasia," he sighs, shaking his head. "The pimp discov- ered the crack wh.o.r.e's body and phoned it in to the authorities. Took him four days to make the discovery though. He shut the door when he left ... left me with her ... her body." His eyes cloud at the memory.

I inhale sharply. Poor baby boy-the horror is too grim to contemplate.

"Police interviewed him later. He denied fat out I was anything to do with him, and Carrick said he looked nothing like me."

"Do you remember what he did look like?"

"Anastasia, this isn't a part of my life I revisit very often. Yes, I remember what he looked like. I'll never forget him." Christian's face darkens and hardens, becoming more angular, his eyes frosting with anger. "Can we talk about something else?"

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

He shakes his head. "It's old news, Ana. Not something I want to think about."

"So what's this surprise, then?" I need to change the subject before he goes all Fifty on me. His expression lightens immediately.

"Can you face going out for some fresh air? I want to show you something."

"Of course."

I marvel how quickly he turns-mercurial as ever. He grins at me with his boyish, care- free, I'm-only-twenty-seven smile, and my heart lurches into my mouth. So it's something close to his heart, I can tell. He swats me playfully on my behind.

"Get dressed. Jeans will be good. I hope Taylor's packed some for you."

He rises and pulls on his boxer briefs. Oh . . . I could sit here all day, watching him wander around the room. My inner G.o.ddess agrees, swooning as she ogles from her chaise longue.

"Up," he scolds, bossy as ever. I gaze at him, grinning.

"Just admiring the view."

He rolls his eyes at me.

As we dress, I notice that we move with the synchronization of two people who know each other well, each watchful and acutely aware of the other, exchanging the occasional shy smile and sweet touch. And it dawns on me that this is just as new for him as it is for me.

"Dry your hair," Christian orders once we're dressed.

"Domineering as ever." I smirk at him, and he leans down to kiss my hair.

"That's never going to change, baby. I don't want you sick."

I roll my eyes at him, and his mouth twists in amus.e.m.e.nt.

"My palms still twitch, you know, Miss Steele."

"I am glad to hear it, Mr. Grey. I was beginning to think you were losing your edge,"

I retort.

"I could easily demonstrate that is not the case, should you so wish." Christian drags a large, cream, cable-knit sweater out of his bag and drapes it artfully over his shoulders.

With his white T-shirt and jeans, his artfully rumpled hair, and now this, he looks as if he's stepped out of the pages of a high-end glossy magazine. No one should look this good. And I don't know if it's the momentary distraction of his sheer perfect looks or the knowledge that he loves me, but his threat no longer flls me with dread. This is my Fifty Shades; this is the way he is.

As I reach for the hairdryer, a tangible ray of hope blossoms. We will fnd a middle way. We just have to recognize each other's needs and accommodate them. I can do that, surely?

I gaze at myself in the dresser mirror. I'm wearing the pale blue shirt that Taylor bought and had packed for me. My hair is a mess, my face fushed, my lips swollen-I touch them, remembering Christian's searing kisses, and I can't help a small smile as I stare. Yes, I do, he said.

"Where are we going exactly?" I ask as we wait in the lobby for the parking valet.

Christian taps the side of his nose and winks at me conspiratorially, looking like he's desperately trying to contain his glee. Frankly, it's very un-Fifty.

He was like this when we went gliding-perhaps that's what we're doing. I beam back at him. He stares down his nose at me in that superior way he has with his lopsided grin.

Leaning down, he kisses me gently.

"Do you have any idea how happy you make me feel?" he murmurs.

"Yes ... I know exactly. Because you do the same for me."

The valet zooms up in Christian's car, wearing a face-splitting grin. Jeez, everyone is so happy today.

"Great car, sir," he mumbles as he hands over the keys. Christian winks and gives him an obscenely large tip.

I frown at him. Honestly.

As we cruise through the traffc, 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 G.o.ddess is bouncing about like a fve-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 h.e.l.l? And this is a Saab dealership.

"Not an Audi?" is, stupidly, the only thing I can think of to say, and bless him, he actu- ally fushes.

Holy cow-Christian, embarra.s.sed. This is a frst.

"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."

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 have to do this."

"Yes, I do. Please. Come." His tone says he's not to be trifed 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 suit. He can smell a sale.

Weirdly his accent sounds mid-Atlantic, maybe British? It's diffcult to tell.

"A Saab, sir? Pre-owned?" He rubs his hands with glee.

"New." Christian's lips set into a hard line.

New!

"Did you have a model in mind, sir?" And he's smarmy, too.

"9-3 2.0T Sport Sedan."

"An excellent choice, sir."

"What color, Anastasia?" Christian inclines his head.

"Er ... black?" I shrug. "You really don't need to do this."

He frowns. "Black's not easily seen at night."

Oh, for heaven's sake. I resist the temptation to roll my eyes. "You have a black car."

He scowls at me.

"Bright canary yellow then." I shrug.

Christian makes a face-canary yellow is obviously not his thing.

"What color do you want me to have?" I ask as if he's a small child, which he is in many ways. The thought is unwelcome-sad and sobering at once.

"Silver or white."

"Silver, then. You know I'll take the Audi," I add, chastened by my thoughts.

Troy pales, sensing he's losing a sale. "Perhaps you'd like the convertible, ma'am?" he asks, clapping his hands with enthusiasm.

My subconscious is cringing in disgust, mortifed by the whole buying-a-car business, but my inner G.o.ddess tackles her to the foor. Convertible? Drool!

Christian frowns and peers at me. "Convertible?" he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I fush. It's like he has a direct hotline to my inner G.o.ddess, which of course, he has. It's most inconvenient at times. I stare down at my hands.

Christian turns to Troy. "What are the safety stats on the convertible?"

Troy, sensing Christian's vulnerability, heads in for the kill, reeling off all manner of statistics.Of course, Christian wants me safe. It's a religion with him, and like the zealot he is, he listens intently to Troy's well-honed patter. Fifty really does care.

Yes. I do. I remember his whispered, choked words from this morning, and a melting glow spreads like warm honey through my veins. This man-G.o.d's gift to women-loves me.

I fnd myself grinning goofly at him, and when he glances down at me, he's amused yet puzzled by my expression. I just want to hug myself, I am so happy.

"Whatever you're high on, I'd like some, Miss Steele," he murmurs as Troy heads off to his computer.

"I'm high on you, Mr. Grey."

"Really? Well you certainly look intoxicated." He kisses me briefy. "And thank you for accepting the car. That was easier than last time."

"Well, it's not an Audi A3."

He smirks. "That's not the car for you."

"I liked it."

"Sir, the 9-3? I've located one at our Beverly Hills dealership. We can have it here for you in a couple of days." Troy glows with triumph.

"Top of the range?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent." Christian produces his credit card, or is it Taylor's? The thought is unnerv- ing. I wonder how Taylor is, and if he's located Leila in the apartment. I rub my forehead.