she rubs his arm soothingly 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 briey 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. Damn 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 fuckedupness.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 denitely 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 fucked-up this is?” I glare up at him, my voice low.“Yes. I’m sorry.” And he has the grace to look contrite.