My subconscious glares at me. Well, that will be you and your big mouth.

Why did he take me at my word? My mother's advice comes back to haunt me, "Men are so literal, darling." I pout, staring at the empty s.p.a.ce. There were some lovely clothes, too, like the silver dress I wore to the ball.

I wander disconsolately into the bedroom, Wait a moment-what is going on? The iPad is gone. Where's my Mac? Oh no. My frst uncharitable thought is that Leila may have stolen them.

I fy back downstairs and back into Christian's bedroom. On the bedside table are my Mac, my iPad, and my satchel. It's all here.

I open the walk-in closet door. My clothes are here-all of them-sharing s.p.a.ce with Christian's clothes. When did this happen? Why does he never warn me before he does things like this?I turn, and he's standing in the doorway.

"Oh, they managed the move," he mutters, distracted.

"What's wrong?" I ask. His face is grim.

"Taylor thinks Leila was getting in through the emergency stairwell. She must have had a key. All the locks have been changed now. Taylor's team has done a sweep of every room in the apartment. She's not here." He stops and runs a hand through his hair. "I wish I knew where she was. She's evading all our attempts to fnd her when she needs help."

He frowns, and my earlier pique vanishes. I put my arms around him. Folding me into his embrace, he kisses my hair.

"What will you do when you fnd her?" I ask.

"Dr. Flynn has a place."

"What about her husband?"

"He's washed his hands of her." Christian's tone is bitter. "Her family is in Connecti- cut. I think she's very much on her own out there."

"That's sad."

"Are you okay with all your stuff being here? I want you to share my room," he mur- murs.

Whoa, quick change of direction.

"Yes."

"I want you sleeping with me. I don't have nightmares when you're with me."

"You have nightmares?"

"Yes."

I tighten my hold around him. Holy cow. More baggage. My heart contracts for this man.

"I was just getting my clothes ready for work tomorrow," I mutter.

"Work!" Christian exclaims as if it's a dirty word, and he releases me, glaring.

"Yes, work," I reply, confused by his reaction.

He stares at me with complete incomprehension. "But Leila-she's out there," he pauses. "I don't want you to go to work."

What? "That's ridiculous, Christian. I have to go to work."

"No, you don't."

"I have a new job, which I enjoy. Of course I have to go to work." What does he mean?

"No, you don't," he repeats, emphatically.

"Do you think I am going to stay here twiddling my thumbs while you're off being Master of the Universe?"

"Frankly ... yes."

Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty ... give me strength.

"Christian, I need to go to work."

"No, you don't."

"Yes. I. Do." I say it slowly as if he's a child.

He scowls at me. "It's not safe."

"Christian ... I need to work for a living, and I'll be fne."

"No, you don't need to work for a living-and how do you know you'll be fne?" He's almost shouting.What does he mean? He's going to support me? Oh, this is beyond ridiculous-I've known him for what-fve weeks?

He's angry now, his gray eyes stormy and fashing, but I don't give a s.h.i.t.

"For heaven's sake, Christian, Leila was standing at the end of your bed, and she didn't harm me, and yes, I do need to work. I don't want to be beholden to you. I have my student loans to pay."

His mouth presses into a grim line, as I place my hands on my hips. I am not budging on this. Who the f.u.c.k does he think he is?

"I don't want you going to work."

"It's not up to you, Christian. This is not your decision to make."

He runs his hand through his hair as he stares at me. Seconds, minutes tick by as we glare at each other.

"Sawyer will come with you."

"Christian, that's not necessary. You're being irrational."

"Irrational?" he growls. "Either he comes with you, or I will be really irrational and keep you here."

He wouldn't, would he? "How, exactly?"

"Oh, I'd fnd a way, Anastasia. Don't push me."

"Okay!" I concede, holding up both my hands, placating him. Holy f.u.c.k-Fifty is back with a vengeance.

We stand, scowling at each other.

"Okay-Sawyer can come with me if it makes you feel better." I concede rolling my eyes. Christian narrows his and takes a menacing step in my direction. I immediately step back. He stops and takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and runs both his hands through his hair. Oh no. Fifty is well and truly wound up.

"Shall I give you a tour?"

A tour? Are you kidding me? "Okay," I mutter warily. Another change of tack-Mr.

Mercurial is back in town. He holds out his hand and when I take it, he squeezes mine softly.

"I didn't mean to frighten you."

"You didn't. I was just getting ready to run," I quip.

"Run?" Christian eyes widen.

"I'm joking!" Oh jeez.

He leads me out of the closet, and I take a moment to calm down. Adrenaline is still coursing through my body. A fght with Fifty is not to be undertaken lightly.

He gives me a tour of the apartment, showing me the various rooms. Along with the playroom and three spare bedrooms upstairs, I'm intrigued to fnd that Taylor and Mrs.

Jones have a wing to themselves-a kitchen, s.p.a.cious living area, and a bedroom each.

Mrs. Jones has not yet returned from visiting her sister who lives in Portland.

Downstairs, the room that catches my eye is opposite his study-a TV room with a too-large plasma screen and a.s.sorted games consoles. It's cozy.

"So you do have an Xbox?" I smirk."Yes, but I'm c.r.a.p at it. Elliot always beats me. That was funny, when you thought I meant this room was my playroom." He grins down at me his snit-ft forgotten. Thank heavens he's recovered his good mood.

"I'm glad you fnd me amusing, Mr. Grey," I respond haughtily.

"That you are, Miss Steele-when you're not being exasperating, of course."

"I'm usually exasperating when you're being unreasonable."

"Me? Unreasonable?"

"Yes, Mr. Grey. Unreasonable could be your middle name."

"I don't have a middle name."

"Unreasonable would suit then."

"I think that's a matter of opinion, Miss Steele."

"I would be interested in Dr. Flynn's professional opinion."

Christian smirks.

"I thought Trevelyan was your middle name."

"No. Surname."

"But you don't use it."

"It's too long. Come," he commands. I follow him out of the TV room through the great room to the main corridor past the utility room and an impressive wine cellar and into Taylor's own large, well-equipped offce. Taylor stands when we enter. There's room in here for a meeting table that seats six. Above one desk is a bank of monitors. I had no idea the apartment had CCTV. It appears to monitor the balcony, stairwell, service elevator, and foyer.

"Hi, Taylor. I'm just giving Anastasia a tour."

Taylor nods but doesn't smile. I wonder if he's been told off, too, and why is he still working? When I smile at him, he nods politely. Christian grabs my hand once more and leads me to the library.

"And, of course, you've been in here." Christian opens the door. I spy the green baize of the billiard table.

"Shall we play?" I ask. Christian smiles, surprised.

"Okay. Have you played before?"

"A few times," I lie, and he narrows his eyes, c.o.c.king his head to one side.

"You're a hopeless liar, Anastasia. Either you've never played before or-"

I lick my lips. "Frightened of a little compet.i.tion?"

"Frightened of a little girl like you?" Christian scoffs good-naturedly.

"A wager, Mr. Grey."

"You're that confdent, Miss Steele?" He smirks, amused and incredulous at once.

"What would you like to wager?"

"If I win, you'll take me back into the playroom."

He gazes at me as if he can't quite comprehend what I've said. "And if I win?" he asks after several sh.e.l.l-shocked beats.

"Then it's your choice."

His mouth twists as he contemplates his answer. "Okay, deal." He smirks. "Do you want to play pool, English snooker or carom billiards?"

"Pool, please. I don't know the others."From a cupboard beneath one of the bookshelves, Christian takes out a large leather case. Inside the pool b.a.l.l.s are nested in velvet. Quickly and effciently, he racks the b.a.l.l.s on the baize. I don't think I've ever played pool on such a large table before. Christian hands me a cue and some chalk.

"Would you like to break?" He feigns politeness. He's enjoying himself-he thinks he's going to win.

"Okay." I chalk the end of my cue, and blow the excess chalk off-staring up at Chris- tian through my lashes. His eyes darken as I do.

I line up on the white ball and with a swift clean stroke, hit the center ball of the trian- gle square on with such force that a striped ball spins and plunges into the top right pocket.

I've scattered the rest of the b.a.l.l.s.