A/N: Thanks to Calicutie77 for catching all those mistakes I miss when I type too fast.

Chapter Three

Ana

Ana shook her head in disbelief. Her father wouldn't just do something like that. He wouldn't just send a private detective to the island without checking with her first. Would he? And even if he did, he wouldn't just say it over the phone; he would say it in code in case their communication was being tapped. That was one of the reasons they normally discussed important matters by phone rather than by mail.

"Mami, that can't be, I'm sure you heard wrong." Poor Mami must have misunderstood, English was her second language after all.

"No, no. My English is good enough, mija, I understood everything." Her grandmother replied as though she'd been reading Ana's mind.

"Whenever there is sensitive information like that, we have a code." Ana retorted. It was standard procedure. Anyone could be listening to the conversations; there was no privacy in Cuba. It was so unlike her dad to share that type of information so carelessly. They had a system. Usually, her father called the Neighbor-with whom they shared a wall. In turn, the neighbor who would come and get Ana. They used the neighbors as intermediaries, and it had been working perfectly.

"I know. He didn't come out and say it; it was in code. He mentioned Magnum P.I, your mama's favorite TV show," Gladys said, a bit choked up when saying her late daughter's name, and Ana couldn't help but respond with a sympathetic nod. "His exact words were: Magnum P.I will be coming soon to take her where she belongs. It was obvious to me."

Ana felt a rush of affection for her sweet grandmother and pulled her into a hug. She felt bad for her now that she was not able to cash her retirement checks which meant she couldn't afford any luxuries like getting her favorite brand of shampoo. So Ana had to find creative ways to get everything they needed. Thankfully, the nuns at the convent would often share their food and toiletries (now considered a luxury) with her so that she and Mami wouldn't have to do without.

The next day, Ana tried to call her father and went to the nearest phone booth to the convent to make an international call to her father. "Daddy, what's going on? Are you really sending Magnum P.I to the island?"

...

Christian

The Cuban next to Christian took a swig of rum from those silly little bottles the stewardess give you with a sneer when you ask for a triple. He looked at him and said: "Cuban vibes."

Next thing he knew, he and the rest of the passengers were trudging along to the immigration counters.

"Passport please-stamp, stamp, and "Gracias, welcome to Cuba."

The immigration officials were surprised Christian carried no luggage. He traveled light with a backpack as his the goal was to blend in with the locals as much as possible of course. At least as long as he didn't open his mouth to speak, that is. Even though Christian had good command of the language, he still sounded like a gringo speaking Spanish. He kept moving forward, bypassing the baggage claim area and headed for the exit doors with confidence. Several taxi men were standing around waiting for fares, making eye contact with him, competing for his attention.

It was a split moment decision; he chose the youngest driver who sported tattoos on his forearm and who appeared like at one time he might have been a gang member.

He had done his homework; he knew that as a tourist, he was expected to stay in the dollar economy rather than negotiate with the local currency. In reality, he had no choice but to hire a dollar taxi. Even if he wanted to, he knew he wouldn't be allowed to ride the cheap pesos taxis crammed in with Cubans. As a tourist, he was expected to stay with his kind and on the outside. But of course, Christian had every intention of mixing in with the locals. The restrictions were too limiting, however, and made his job a lot harder. Somehow, he would have to find the way to operate outside of the confines of the category he'd been boxed in. It was going to be difficult though because he didn't sound like a Cuban or look like a Cuban—his complexion was too pale.

"My name is Jose," the taxi driver said in English as Christian climbed in the back seat of the vehicle. "Welcome to Cuba," he smiled a practiced smile.

Christian looked out the rear passenger window of the taxi-a small blue car whose make he couldn't readily identify- as they drove past the airport toward downtown Havana. He saw the same decrepit billboards that Ana had seen a few days ago when as Manuel had taken her to his family farm. They passed run-down factories and a stream of buildings trimmed in bright blue as if no other color could possibly be found. Closer to the city, they followed a truck laying down a fog of blue smoke through a quivering exhaust pipe. The back of the vehicle had wooden sides, and the people holding on, not workers but ordinary people, nicely dressed, women mostly, and some children. Why were they riding in the back of a truck? Was this their regular mode of transportation? He was about to ask when they spotted a 1953 Dodge.

"My grandfather had one just like it," Christian said out loud. Metal pipes formed the front bumper of the ancient machine and brake lights had been welded on top of the rear fenders.

As they drove through the city, Christian caught himself looking at his phone every five minutes and finding it strange that there were no notifications on the screen, and he had to remind himself he had no signal or Wi-Fi connection. He spotted a collarless dog limping across the sidewalk; it was amazingly skinny. Behind it were gray concrete apartment buildings. Further ahead was the ministry building, the cab driver announced. In front of the building was a smooth stone facade looking out into the city with the image of Che Guevara. It was not a photograph but a line drawing made of steel and amazingly accurate: the firm mouth and flowing hair; the piercing eyes fixed on the glorious future; the beret with its star. Acting the part of a tourist, Christian took out his phone and took a picture of the sculpture with the vehicle in motion.

The little blue car swerved to avoid a series of potholes, and in the next moment, they arrived at their destination. Jose repeated the address out loud: 1222 Los Coches just as he pulled at the curve.

At first glance, it appeared as though he was staring at a single story dwelling with four doors and eight windows. But it wasn't a house. Beside each door there was a number nailed to the wall; the building was a four dwelling unit with shared walls. Christian looked down on his phone to verify the address. Even though he had no internet access, he could still view his old emails and browsing history.

Ana's home was on the left-hand corner. The number was 1222. It was painted green and with a yellow door, and there were bars on the tall skinny windows. The other three connecting homes were painted in different colors. All four showed their age and were in need of painting. Christian was glad Ana didn't live at one of those gray concrete apartments. Palm trees and an overhanging poinciana tree gave the property a homey feeling. He figured the home had been in the family for generations and that Ana's family had been in the upper middle class before the revolution of 1959.

Christian was tempted to exit the cab and knock on the front door. But no, he was here to get a good look at the neighborhood and take mental notes. He couldn't stay long; there was no telling when Ana or her grandmother might spot him, and his goal was to make himself invisible in order to gather enough intel before he met Ana. So he asked the Jose to take him back to Hotel Santa Isabel, a colonial style, waterfront hotel. It was not the best on the island, it was a four-star hotel, but Christian thought it was in a good location and it would allow him to move around the island without attracting too much attention to himself.

The hotel was located in what was known as the tourist district. After checking in the hotel, Christian left his backpack in the room with his passport and wallet in the front pocket of his jeans. His plan was to become familiar with his surroundings and observe how the locals behaved and somehow, find a way of blending in. Before wandering the streets of Havana he pulled out from a secret compartment of his backpack, a carbon fiber ventilator knife shaped like a regular cheap pen. He slid it in the front pocket of his short sleeved dress shirt for self-defense. That same afternoon he went for a walk along Cuba's famous esplanade called El Malecon which stretches for kilometers along the waterfront . Here the city's soul can be felt like the thump thump rhythm of a bass guitar. He felt dazzled by the smells, noises and color. For a few moments Christian thought he'd traveled back in time to the fifties and sixties as old Chevys, Fords, Dodges and Cadillacs whizzed by. Further south he hit the tourist trail and was swallowed by the crowds of people milling about the crafts fair, lines of booths with hand carved ox carts and maracas and the other assorted trash that tourists took home.

Before dropping him off, Jose had given him the name of a place where he could get a tattoo. Jose had been more than happy to tell him about the tattoo parlor where he's gotten his tattoos. Even though it was quite a bit of a walk, Christian decided to walk there instead of taking a dollar taxi. As a seasoned traveler, he knew that the best way to assimilate was to walk everywhere and observe people. He'd been to Australia, Europe and China. However, his only experience with Spanish speaking countries was his visit to socialist Venezuela three years ago. He figured he'd learned a thing or two while he was there and he could use his experience there to help him navigate around Cuba.

The tattoo parlor was located in a colonial building where there were several businesses including a travel agency. When he got inside, he referenced Jose by name and asked to see a tattoo artist. The tattoo artist asked him some questions and was a bit nervous about doing a tattoo for a tourist since his business was technically illegal in Cuba. Yes, this was something he couldn't avoid. His pale skin was a dead giveaway of his foreigner status.

Christian put on the counter a couple of hundreds and asked the man for a snake tattoo on his forearm like the one he'd seen on Jose. He wasn't particularly crazy about getting a tattoo, but it was a small price to pay in order to accomplish his mission. After the man finished with the design, Christian asked where he could get a good old fashioned portable Swiss army knife. The man hesitated for a moment before bringing out a collection of knives. Even though Christian had packed a couple of non-metallic knives that would not be detected by airport security, nothing beat the utility of a Swiss army knife. Luckily, the tattoo man had one. Christian smoothly slid another 100 dollar bill on the counter and asked if he had a handgun he could buy. Guns were also illegal, so he was taking a chance.

Tattoo man set a small pistol on the counter and an ankle holster to carry it as a concealed weapon. "This is going to cost you much more," he said with a sleazy smile.

Christian produced another couple of 100 dollar bills which earned him a satisfied nod from the other man.

For the next three days, Christian wandered through the city streets until he was sure he knew his way around with his eyes closed. It was hot, and he was frequently thirsty and had to ask for water at different establishments. Thank goodness he'd brought his water purification tablets. He concentrated his efforts in the Tourist District and Anastasia Steele's neighborhood. He walked by different times of the day wearing a baseball cap, watching the comings and goings.

The first time Christian saw Ana, he thought she looked like a vision with her sun-kissed brown strands glowing in the sun with natural highlights; her hair piled on top of her head and with tendrils falling haphazardly around her face. She looked lovely dressed in jeans and a short-sleeved buttoned down shirt. Even if he hadn't seen her walk out of unit 1222, he would have recognized her as the little girl in the picture that Raymond Steele had shown him in his office. He could only imagine what it would be like meeting her face to face and hearing the sound of her voice.

From his hiding place, he watched her every morning exiting her house. He would then follow her from a safe distance, breathing the crisp morning air all the way to the convent. There, he would watch her bent over in the garden on the front yard with two or three small children around her picking tomatoes. At times he saw her kneeling. Once he saw her hunkering like a small child, rocking back and forth on her toes.

He looked forward to seeing her every morning. She was so incredibly slender. She had nice breasts though and girlish hips and long hair that hung in wisps around her shoulders. Every once in a while, she would look up after picking the tomatoes and look up in his direction. She had a beautiful smile. A pleasant smile, a smile that spoke of friendliness. But that smile of hers always seemed so far away, unreachable, as though they were navigating in different continents.

On the sixth day, a Monday, Christian went to Ana's house when he knew she would be at the convent. He took a dollar taxi part of the way and walked the rest of the way, about three blocks, to the house. He exited the cab swinging his backpack on one shoulder and knocked on the front door.

Gladys welcomed him in inside with a smile, and he knew at once that he would love this lovely older lady. Actually, looking at her face, she wasn't even that old, not nearly as old as he imagined a grandmother to be. Her face placed her in her fifties and yet she dressed in loose fitting/depressing kind of clothing which made her look at least fifteen years older, he later realized.

As soon as she realized who he was, she greeted him with a hug, making him feel as though he was her long-lost grandson. Realizing he'd traveled with no luggage beside the backpack, she gave him a long quizzical look. Then, she led him to her small living room/dining room combo. The room had polished terrazzo floor and heavy furniture with a big television in the corner.

She stood at the threshold to the kitchen and offered him something to drink—soda, coffee, juice. No liquor.

He choose a cola type drink. The kitchen, with its dated appliances and tile floor, was scrupulously clean. There were wooden shelves on the walls instead of cabinets, holding dishes and spices, and a wide window that led to the backyard. There were rows of plants in bright jars lining up on a ledge above the sink, just below the window.

"Christian, you're six days late," Ana's grandmother said in English. "We were expecting you, but you did not come," Gladys said handing him the soda in a crystal clear glass.

The woman had a thick Cuban accent, and yet her command of English was quite good, Christian decided, taking a long sip of his drink. "Sorry about that."

She nodded as if to say it was okay. She then led the way to the living room where they sat together in the pin-cushioned sofa. He noticed her hands, she was fiddling with piece of string. Her nails were unpolished and her hands roughed by work. And just for an instant, he found himself thinking of Ana's hands. He imagined them soft and delicate, but also at the same time, roughed by manual labor. The contradiction was decidedly striking.

"And Ana is not here; she's working at the convent. She works there every day, all day, except on Sundays."

I know, I've been watching her. "Mrs. Salgedo-" He nearly said.

"Please call me Gladys.

"I will come back and meet her at a later time." He smiled.

Gladys raised a brow of alarm. "Wh-what? Where are you going? You just arrived!"

Christian smiled, leaning back on the couch, making himself more comfortable. "I'm staying at a hotel in the Tourist District."

"Oh, no. I won't hear of it," she said with a dismissive wave of the hand. "You can stay here with us. We have an extra room. As a matter of fact, it's perfect. We've been looking for a tenant. But I have been-how do you say-selective? Yes, I've been selective. I only rent to women, but with you, I will make an exception, of course." she said with a sheepish smile that he found rather charming as it reminded him of his own dear grandmother.

"Gladys, thanks so much for the offer but I would really feel more comfortable in a hotel." He paused noting that Gladys was shaking her head sadly. "I'm glad we're getting a chance to get to know each other before I meet Ana. You're the most important person in her life. Before we go any further, however, I want to make sure you understand." He paused for effect. "I'm here to take Ana to the United States to be reunited with her father... and that once that's accomplished, it will be for good...forever. Ana will never be able to come back to Cuba."

Gladys smile faded. "Yes, yes, I understand."

"All right. In that case, I hope you will be accompanying your granddaughter."

"Oh, no, dear. This is my home. I would never leave Cuba. Even though I lived in the United States when I was young, I have come back to my roots and I'm just...estoy muy vieja.

"No, you're not too old," Christian said sincerely. "Please don't think that way."

"Oh, no. I'm no spring chicken...I'm a grandmother," she said coyly.

"Yes...a grandmother who is younger than most," Christian pointed out, and Gladys smiled at that. After a moment, he spoke again. "How long did you live in the United States?"

"Over eighteen years. My husband and I moved shortly after we got married. We had our daughter Carla there. And well, I suppose you know the story, Carla got herself pregnant. As it happened, my mother who was living in this same house was diagnosed with dementia at around that same time. As her only child, I needed to come back and take care of her."

"So you uprooted your entire family."

"I did," she nodded with a thin smile.

"And if you don't mind me asking, do you believe it was for the best?"

"Well, let's just say, lo que paso paso. That's just life. My husband died of a heart attack and my only daughter, my only child also died. Ana is all I have left." She said with a heavy expression. "But I want a better life for Ana. My heart will always be broken, but at least I will know she has a better life. Do you understand?"

Christian nodded. "I do hope that you reconsider and decide to come back to the US with us." He paused. There was a short comfortable silence. "Tell me more about Ana. If you had to use three adjectives to describe her, which ones would you choose?"

"Oh, that's a hard one. Only three?" She chuckled, and Christian decided she was trustworthy. "Well, okay. Hmm... Loving, smart, outspoken."

"Your English is excellent. Do you know that?" Christian said taking a long sip of his drink.

"Oh, no, don't say that." Glady's dismissed him with a wave of the hand that he was starting to see more like one of her signature gestures. "You're too kind. Although I do practice my English with Ana sometimes, I know I make mistakes. And when my daughter was alive...well, she always spoke English at home. It was her native language; she was born in the United States you know. My poor Carla did have trouble adjusting to Cuba, poor thing. She wanted to go back to the US, but then she fell in love and got married...and you know how that went," she paused with a pained expression. "Anyway, back to Ana...she's a wonderful girl, one of a kind."

"So she's outspoken you say? Is she a political activist?"

"Yes, she's always been outspoken. My dear husband, God rest his soul, always encouraged that in her. I don't think she's a true political activist, but she's helped her friends contra-revolucionarios."

"Can you tell me more about these friends?"

"Hmm... let's see. She has lots of friends. The most important ones? Hmm...there's Marisol...and Jose and a few others. Marisol is still in prison though; she was not as lucky as Ana. Although while Ana was in prison, they came here and they took everything-our computer, our books," she said, her gaze drifting to the empty bookcases in their living room. They took Raymond's letters to Carla and Ana. Our picture frames we had on display with pictures of our family...even a certificate from Ana's school when she won a prize for writing a short children's story. I will never know why they did that...why did they, Dios Mio (dear Lord) need the pictures or the letters?"

"That was truly despicable for them to do that," Christian said, outraged. "We'll have to find a way to get your stuff back."

...

Ana

"But Mami, WHERE is he staying?"

Gladys shrugged. "I don't know; he didn't tell me.

Ana can't believe this. "Why wouldn't he leave his number or at the very least his room number?

Mami shrugged again. "He says to wait until he comes back for you."

Ana let out a huff. This was truly unbelievable. What on earth could he be doing more important than meeting with her? She was dying to meet him so she could yell at him for making her wait this long. "So what does he look like?"

"Hmm?"

"I'm going to look for him in the tourist district. What does he look like?"

Mami smirked. There was something in her abuela's (granny's) eyes that sparkled in a certain way. It was obvious that Christian Grey had made quite an impression on her.

"Well? Are you gonna tell me?"

"He's nice, very nice...He's tall, very slim and tall. He has gray eyes, broad shoulders and his hair is this elusive shade of copper."

Ana raised a brow, intrigued. "So he's good-looking then?"

"Good looking?" Gladys let out a chuckle. "Mija! He's the epitome of male beauty. Absolutely breathtaking."

Ana was in shock; she'd never heard her grandmother express herself about any member of the opposite sex in such a liberated manner as if she'd been reading too many trashy romance novels. Ana's mind wandered, recalling a couple of Harlequin titles that would make the nuns at the convent blush a deep crimson. But, the thing was, life was not a romance novel, Ana reminded herself. Yet, she couldn't help but wonder about Christian. Was he single? Did he have a girlfriend?

"No, nada. He doesn't have anybody no girlfriend, " Mami answered with a smile as though she'd been reading her mind, and with the tiniest little wink. The wink was so small that Ana wondered if perhaps she had imagined it, for she certainly she'd never seen Mami so excited about any member of the male species. As a matter of fact, her grandma was so choosy she had frowned upon every single one of the boys she'd brought home back in high school.

…...

That Sunday, Ana, rode her bike to the part of town known as the tourist district in Old Havana, determined to find Christian among the tourists. This area was usually densely populated by tourists as it was surrounded by several hotels. Ana went into every hotel asking for the manager. The managers all knew Ana from back when she used to work for the tourist industry. She was looking for a man named Christian Grey who arrived on the island three or four days ago, she told them. Nope, they told her, there was no one by the name. Of course, she should have known.

"What does he look like?" They asked her.

Ana pursed her lips. She wished she had a picture, but she figured she needs to zero in on every single guy aged forty and under.

She watched the tourists get in and out of the tourist bus and scanned the faces. There were a lot of couples and some families, but she had yet to spot anyone who could be Christian Grey. She strolled around every restaurant and souvenir shop. It just didn't make sense. Why would Mr. Grey be hanging around with the tourists but then again, where else could he possibly be?

Once she reached the plaza, she hung around the street vendors selling books and fruit and searched the faces of those around her.

...

Unbeknownst to her, Christian was following her movements from a safe distance. He watched her interact with the street vendors and smile at a young boy selling fruit. But then, most unexpectedly, Ana turned in his direction, as if she could sense his presence behind quickly made a turn into an alley to avoid being seen, navigating toward a three-story building where a young girl leaned against the doorway. Christian figured the girl was probably around Ana's age. After making eye contact with him, she made an "O" with the thumb and forefinger of her left hand. Then, with her right hand, she pumped the index finger of her right hand through the "O" and beckoned to him, pointing to the staircase behind her. It was the gesture of the world's oldest profession. Christian made a U-turn and hid behind an alley for a second or two before heading back to where he'd last seen Ana.

...

In the meantime, Ana followed an American tourist who fit Christian's description into a nightclub. The man was in his thirties and had light brown hair. Up close, she was not so sure he was Christian. His hair was light but definitely brown, and she couldn't see any copper in it. Plus, he wasn't all that attractive. Still, she sat beside him on the bar. He was definitely looking for some action tonight and smiled at her in appreciation. She wasted no time with niceties and went straight to the point.

"Are you Christian?" She asked point- blank in English.

"Not really. I'm not a Christian. I'm not exactly religious." The man said with a smirk. "But thanks for asking."

"That's not what I asked," she replied coolly. "I asked if you're name was Christian...but you're obviously not him." The real Christian wouldn't have made such a lame joke.

"Forget him. How about me? Are you from around here?" He asked, cocking his head, his eyes appraising her. "You...you do sound American."

Ana rolled her eyes. If this guy wasn't Christian, she wasn't interested in having any kind of conversation with him, just the way he was looking at her was giving her the creeps. Her girlfriends said she was too choosy and she would wound up alone one-day knitting baby booties for THEIR babies.

"Hey, beautiful," the man said leaning closer. "If you want me to, I can be this Christian...or anyone else for that matter," he said suggestively. "I'm great at role-playing, I've been told."

Ana thought the man was sickening. He knew nothing about her and yet it was clear that he was thinking with his dick. She got up to leave, but he stood and grabbed her elbow holding her back.

" A beautiful girl like you shouldn't be going out into the dark by herself."

She narrowed her gaze, staring him down. The man was barely an inch taller than her. And whatever he saw in her eyes away gave him pause. In the next moment, he released her elbow, and she walked away with her head held high.

Christian watched the whole scene unfold sitting at another bar-stool across from them and partially hidden from their view. It took all his willpower not to intervene at once when the dickhead moved to grab her elbow. It had been beautiful, however, watching the way she'd taken care of herself and put the bastard in his place. This Ana was not the little damsel in distress like he'd envisioned while sitting in her father's office back in Seattle. This amazing young woman was strong, much stronger than that.

He followed her out of the nightclub from a safe distance. Truth to be told, he was shocked by his immediate attachment to her considering he'd only seen her from afar and yet, her essence had captivated his heart. Nothing else mattered in this world except saving her. But in order to do that, he would have to know her well, know her better than she knew herself and he could ONLY do that by stalking her, by watching her from afar. It was a given; people only revealed their true selves when they thought nobody else was watching.

A/N:

I hope this chapter wasn't too long and boring! I have three more chapters pre-written, but I can try to shorten them if there's too much detail and you prefer shorter chapters like the first one.

Have a great weekend, thanks for reading and reviewing :)