The white-suited servers move effortlessly through the
　　growing crowd of guests with bottles of champagne,
　　topping off my glass with worrying regularity. I must not
　　drink too much. I must not drink too much, I repeat to
　　myself, but I’m beginning to feel light-headed, and I don’t
　　know if it’s the champagne, the charged atmosphere of
　　know if it’s the champagne, the charged atmosphere of
　　mystery and excitement created by the masks, or the
　　secret silver balls. The dull ache below my waist is
　　becoming impossible to ignore.
　　“So you work at SIP?” asks a balding gentleman in a
　　half-bear—or is it a dog?—mask. “Heard rumors of a
　　hostile takeover.”
　　I flush. There is a hostile takeover from a man who has
　　more money than sense and is a stalker par excellence.
　　“I’m just a lowly assistant, Mr. Eccles. I wouldn’t
　　know about these things.”
　　Christian says nothing and smiles blandly at Eccles.
　　“Ladies and gentlemen!” The master of ceremonies,
　　wearing an impressive black and white harlequin mask,
　　interrupts us. “Please take your seats. Dinner is served.”
　　Christian takes my hand, and we follow the chattering
　　crowd to the large marquee.
　　The interior is stunning. Three enormous, shallow
　　chandeliers throw rainbow-colored sparkles over the ivory
　　silk lining of the ceiling and walls. There must be at least
　　thirty tables, and they remind me of the private dining room
　　at the Heathman—crystal glasses, crisp white linen
　　covering the tables and chairs, and in the center, an
　　exquisite display of pale pink peonies gathered around a
　　silver candelabra. Wrapped in gossamer silk beside it is a
　　basket of goodies.
　　Christian consults the seating plan and leads me to a
　　table in the center. Mia and Grace are already in situ, deep
　　in conversation with a young man I don’t know. Grace is
　　wearing a shimmering mint green gown with a Venetian
　　mask to match. She looks radiant, not stressed at all, and
　　she greets me warmly.
　　“Ana, how delightful to see you again! And looking so
　　beautiful, too.”
　　“Mother,” Christian greets her stiffly and kisses her on
　　both cheeks.
　　“Oh, Christian, so formal!” she scolds him teasingly.
　　Grace’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan, join us at
　　our table. They seem exuberant and youthful, though it’s
　　difficult to tell beneath their matching bronze masks. They
　　difficult to tell beneath their matching bronze masks. They
　　are delighted to see Christian.
　　“Grandmother, Grandfather, may I introduce Anastasia
　　Steele?”
　　Mrs. Trevelyan is all over me like a rash. “Oh, he’s
　　finally found someone, how wonderful and so pretty! Well
　　I do hope you make an honest man of him,” she gushes,
　　shaking my hand.
　　Holy cow. I thank the heavens for my mask.
　　“Mother, don’t embarrass Ana.” Grace comes to my
　　rescue.
　　“Ignore the silly old coot, m’dear.” Mr. Trevelyan
　　shakes my hand. “She thinks because she’s so old, she has
　　a God-given right to say whatever nonsense pops into that
　　woolly head of hers.”
　　“Ana, this is my date, Sean.” Mia shyly introduces her
　　young man. He gives me a wicked grin, and his brown
　　eyes dance with amusement as we shake hands.
　　“Pleased to meet you, Sean.”
　　Christian shakes Sean’s hand as he regards him
　　Christian shakes Sean’s hand as he regards him
　　shrewdly. Don’t tell me that poor Mia suffers from her
　　overbearing brother, too. I smile at Mia in sympathy.
　　Lance and Janine, Grace’s friends, are the last couple
　　at our table, but there is still no sign of Mr. Grey.
　　Abruptly, there’s the hiss of a microphone, and Mr.
　　Grey’s voice booms over the PA system, causing the
　　babble of voices to die down. Carrick stands on a small
　　stage at one end of the marquee, wearing an impressive,
　　gold, Punchinello mask.
　　“Welcome, ladies and gentleman, to our annual charity
　　ball. I hope that you enjoy what we have laid out for you
　　tonight and that you’ll dig deep into your pockets to
　　support the fantastic work that our team does with Coping
　　Together. As you know, it’s a cause that is very close to
　　my wife’s heart, and mine.”
　　I peek nervously at Christian, who is staring
　　impassively, I think, at the stage. He glances at me and
　　smirks.
　　“I’ll hand you over now to our master of ceremonies.
　　Please be seated, and enjoy,” Carrick finishes.
　　Polite applause follows, then the babble in the tent
　　starts again. I am seated between Christian and his
　　grandfather. I admire the small white place card with fine
　　silver calligraphy that bears my name as a waiter lights the
　　candelabra with a long taper. Carrick joins us, kissing me
　　on both cheeks, surprising me.
　　“Good to see you again, Ana,” he murmurs. He really
　　looks very striking in his extraordinary gold mask.
　　“Ladies and gentlemen, please nominate a table head,”
　　the MC calls out.
　　“Ooo—me, me!” says Mia immediately, bouncing
　　enthusiastically in her seat.
　　“In the center of the table you will find an envelope,”
　　the MC continues. “Would everyone find, beg, borrow, or
　　steal a bill of the highest denomination you can manage,
　　write your name on it, and place it inside the envelope.
　　Table heads, please guard these envelopes carefully. We
　　will need them later.”
　　Holy crap. I haven’t brought any money with me.
　　Holy crap. I haven’t brought any money with me.
　　How stupid—it’s a charity event!
　　Fishing out his wallet, Christian produces two hundreddollar
　　bills.
　　“Here,” he says.
　　What?
　　“I’ll pay you back,” I whisper.
　　His mouth twists slightly, and I know he’s not happy,
　　but he doesn’t comment. I sign my name using his fountain
　　pen—it’s black, with a white flower motif on the cap—
　　and Mia passes the envelope round.
　　In front of me I find another card inscribed with silver
　　calligraphy—our menu.
　　~~~~~~~~~~
　　A Masked Ball in aid of Coping Together
　　Menu
　　Salmon Tartare with Crème Fraiche and Cucumber
　　on Toasted Brioche
　　Alban Estate Roussanne 2006
　　Alban Estate Roussanne 2006
　　Roasted Muscovy Duck Breast
　　Creamy Sunchoke Purée, Thyme Roasted Bing
　　Cherries, Foie Gras
　　Chateauneuf-du-Pape Vieilles Vignes 2006 Domaine
　　de la Janasse
　　Sugared Crusted Walnut Chiffon
　　Candied figs, Sabayon, Maple Ice Cream
　　Vin de Constance 2004 Klein Constantia
　　Selection of Local Cheeses and Breads
　　Alban Estate Grenache 2006
　　Coffee and Petits Fours
　　~~~~~~~~~~~~~
　　Well, that accounts for the number of crystal glasses in
　　Well, that accounts for the number of crystal glasses in
　　every size that crowd my place setting. Our waiter is back,
　　offering wine and water. Behind me, the sides of the tent
　　through which we entered are being closed, while at the
　　front, two servers pull back the canvas, revealing the
　　sunset over Seattle and Meydenbauer Bay.
　　It’s an absolutely breathtaking view, the twinkling lights
　　of Seattle in the distance and the orange, dusky calm of the
　　bay reflecting the opal sky. Wow. It’s so calm and
　　peaceful.
　　Ten servers, each holding a plate, come to stand
　　between us. On a silent cue, they serve us our starters in
　　complete synchronization, then vanish again. The salmon
　　looks delicious, and I realize I am famished.
　　“Hungry?” Christian murmurs so only I can hear. I
　　know he’s not referring to the food, and the muscles deep
　　in my belly respond.
　　“Very,” I whisper, boldly meeting his gaze, and
　　Christian’s lips part as he inhales.
　　Ha! See . . . two can play at this game.
　　Christian’s grandfather engages me in conversation
　　immediately. He’s a wonderful old man, so proud of his
　　daughter and three children.
　　It is weird to think of Christian as a child. The memory
　　of his burn scars come unbidden to my mind, but I quickly
　　quash it. I don’t want to think about that now, though
　　ironically, it’s the reason behind this party.
　　I wish Kate was here with Elliot. She would fit in so
　　well—the sheer number of forks and knives laid out before
　　her wouldn’t daunt Kate—she would command the table.
　　I imagine her duking it out with Mia over who should be
　　table head. The thought makes me smile.
　　The conversation at the table ebbs and flows. Mia is
　　entertaining, as usual, and quite eclipses poor Sean, who
　　mostly stays quiet like me. Christian’s grandmother is the
　　most vocal. She, too, has a biting sense of humor, usually
　　at the expense of her husband. I begin to feel a little sorry
　　for Mr. Trevelyan.
　　Christian and Lance talk animatedly about a device
　　Christian’s company is developing, inspired by
　　Christian’s company is developing, inspired by
　　Schumacher’s principle Small is Beautiful. It’s hard to
　　keep up. Christian seems intent on empowering
　　impoverished communities all over the world with wind-up
　　technology—devices that need no electricity or batteries
　　and minimal maintenance.
　　Watching him in full flow is astonishing. He’s
　　passionate and committed to improving the lives of the less
　　fortunate. Through his telecommunications company, he’s
　　intent on being first to market with a wind-up mobile
　　phone.
　　Whoa. I had no idea. I mean I knew about his passion
　　about feeding the world, but this . . .
　　Lance seems unable to comprehend Christian’s plan to
　　give the technology away and not patent it. I wonder
　　vaguely how Christian made all his money if he’s so willing
　　to give it all away.
　　Throughout dinner a steady stream of men in smartly
　　tailored dinner jackets and dark masks stop by the table,
　　keen to meet Christian, shake his hand, and exchange
　　keen to meet Christian, shake his hand, and exchange
　　pleasantries. He introduces me to some but not others. I’m
　　intrigued to know how and why he makes the distinction.
　　During one such conversation, Mia leans across and
　　smiles.
　　“Ana, will you help in the auction?”
　　“Of course,” I respond only too willing.
　　By the time dessert is served, night has fallen, and I’m
　　really uncomfortable. I need to get rid of the balls. Before I
　　can excuse myself, the master of ceremonies appears at
　　our table, and with him—if I’m not mistaken—is Miss
　　European Pigtails.
　　What’s her name? Hansel, Gretel . . . Gretchen.
　　She’s masked of course, but I know it’s her when her
　　gaze doesn’t move beyond Christian. She blushes, and
　　selfishly I’m beyond pleased that Christian doesn’t
　　acknowledge her at all.
　　The MC asks for our envelope and with a very
　　practiced and eloquent flourish, asks Grace to pull out the
　　winning bill. It’s Sean’s, and the silk-wrapped basket is
　　awarded to him.
　　I applaud politely, but I’m finding it impossible to
　　concentrate on any more of the proceedings.
　　“If you’ll excuse me,” I murmur to Christian.
　　He looks at me intently.
　　“Do you need the powder room?”
　　I nod.
　　“I’ll show you,” he says darkly.
　　When I stand, all the other men round the table stand
　　with me. Oh, such manners.
　　“No, Christian! You’re not taking Ana—I will.”
　　Mia is on her feet before Christian can protest. His jaw
　　tenses, I know he’s not pleased. Quite frankly, neither am
　　I. I have . . . needs. I shrug apologetically at him, and he
　　sits down quickly, resigned.
　　On our return, I feel a little better, though the relief of
　　removing the balls has not been as instantaneous as I’d
　　hoped. They’re now stashed safely in my clutch purse.
　　Why did I think I could last the whole evening? I am
　　still yearning—perhaps I can persuade Christian to take
　　still yearning—perhaps I can persuade Christian to take
　　me to the boathouse later. I flush at the thought and glance
　　at him as I take my seat. He stares at me, the ghost of a
　　smile crossing his lips.
　　Phew . . . he’s no longer mad at a missed
　　opportunity, though maybe I am. I feel frustrated—
　　irritable even. Christian squeezes my hand, and we both
　　listen attentively to Carrick, who is back on stage talking
　　about Coping Together. Christian passes me another card
　　—a list of the auction prizes. I scan them quickly.
　　~~~~~~~~~~~~~
　　Auction Gifts And Gracious Donors for Coping
　　Together
　　Signed Baseball Bat from the Mariners – Dr. Emily

　　Mainwaring
　　Gucci Purse, Wallet & Keyring – Andrea
　　Washington
　　One Day Voucher for Two at Esclava, Braeburn
　　Center – Elena Lincoln
　　Center – Elena Lincoln
　　Landscape and Garden Design – Gia Matteo
　　Coco De Mer Coffret & Perfume Beauty Selection –
　　Elizabeth Austin
　　Venetian Mirror – Mr. and Mrs. J. Bailey
　　Two Cases of Wine of Your Choice from Alban
　　Estates – Alban Estates
　　2 VIP Tickets for XTY in Concert – Mrs. L. Yesyov
　　Race Day at Daytona – EMC Britt Inc.
　　Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen First Edition – Dr.
　　A. F. M. Lace-Field
　　Drive an Aston Martin DB7 for a day – Mr. & Mrs.
　　L. W. Nora
　　Oil Painting Into the Blue by J. Trouton – Kelly
　　Trouton
　　Gliding Lesson – Seattle Soarers Club
　　Weekend Break for Two at the Heathman, Portland
　　– The Heathman
　　One weekend stay in Aspen, Colorado (Sleeps 6) –
　　Mr. C. Grey
　　One Week Stay Aboard the SusieCue Yacht (6
　　berths) Moored in St Lucia – Dr. & Mrs. Larin
　　One Week at Lake Adriana, MONTANA (sleeps 8)
　　– Mr. & Dr. Grey
　　~~~~~~~~~~~~~
　　Holy shit. I blink up at Christian.
　　“You own property in Aspen?” I hiss. The auction is
　　underway, and I have to keep my voice down.
　　He nods, surprised at my outburst and irritated, I
　　think. He puts his finger to his lips to silence me.
　　“Do you have property elsewhere?” I whisper.
　　He nods again and inclines his head to one side in a
　　warning.
　　The whole room erupts with cheering and applause;
　　one of the prizes has gone for twelve thousand dollars.
　　“I’ll tell you later,” Christian says quietly. “I wanted to
　　come with you,” he adds rather sulkily.
　　come with you,” he adds rather sulkily.
　　Well, you didn’t. I pout and I realize that I’m still
　　querulous, and no doubt, it’s the frustrating effect of the
　　balls. My mood darkens after seeing Mrs. Robinson on
　　the list of generous donors.
　　I glance around the marquee to see if I can spot her,
　　but I can’t see her telltale hair. Surely Christian would have
　　warned me if she was invited tonight. I sit and stew,
　　applauding when necessary, as each lot is sold for
　　astonishing amounts of money.
　　The bidding moves to Christian’s place in Aspen and
　　reaches twenty thousand dollars.
　　“Going once, going twice,” the MC calls.
　　And I don’t know what possesses me, but I suddenly
　　hear my own voice ringing out clearly over the throng.
　　“Twenty-four thousand dollars!”
　　Every mask at the table turns to me in shocked
　　amazement, the biggest reaction of all coming from beside
　　me. I hear his sharp intake of breath and feel his wrath
　　washing over me like a tidal wave.
　　washing over me like a tidal wave.
　　“Twenty-four thousand dollars, to the lovely lady in
　　silver, going once, going twice . . . Sold!”
　　Holy shit, did I really just do that? It must be the alcohol.
　　I’ve had champagne plus four glasses of four different
　　wines. I glance up at Christian who’s busy applauding.
　　Crap, he’s going to be so angry, and we’ve been getting
　　on so well. My subconscious has finally decided to make
　　an appearance, and she’s wearing her Edvard Munch
　　Scream face.
　　Christian leans over to me, a large fake smile plastered
　　across his face. He kisses my cheek and then moves
　　closer to whisper in my ear in a very cold, controlled
　　voice.
　　“I don’t know whether to worship at your feet or
　　spank the living shit out of you.”
　　Oh, I know what I want right now. I gaze up at him,
　　blinking through my mask. I just wish I could read what’s
　　in his eyes.
　　“I’ll take option two, please,” I whisper frantically as
　　the applause dies down. His lips part as he inhales sharply.
　　Oh that chiseled mouth—I want it on me, now. I ache
　　Oh that chiseled mouth—I want it on me, now. I ache
　　for him. He gives me a radiant sincere smile that leaves me
　　breathless.
　　“Suffering, are you? We’ll have to see what we can do
　　about that,” he murmurs as he runs his fingers along my
　　jaw.
　　His touch resonates deep, deep inside where that ache
　　has spawned and grown. I want to jump him right here,
　　right now, but we sit back to watch the auction of the next
　　lot.
　　I can barely sit still. Christian drapes an arm around my
　　shoulders, his thumb rhythmically stroking my back,
　　sending delicious tingles down my spine. His free hand
　　clasps mine, bringing it to his lips, then letting it rest on his
　　lap.
　　Slowly and surreptitiously, so I don’t realize his game
　　until it’s too late, he eases my hand up his leg and against
　　his erection. I gasp, and my eyes dart in panic around the
　　table, but all eyes are fixed on the stage. Thank heavens
　　for my mask.
　　Taking full advantage, I slowly caress him, letting my
　　fingers explore. Christian keeps his hand over mine, hiding
　　my bold fingers, while his thumb skates softly over the
　　nape of my neck. His mouth opens as he gasps softly, and
　　it’s the only reaction I can see to my inexperienced touch.
　　But it means so much. He wants me. Everything south of
　　my navel contracts. This is becoming unbearable.
　　A week by Lake Adriana in Montana is the final lot for
　　auction. Of course Mr. and Dr. Grey have a house in
　　Montana, and the bidding escalates rapidly, but I am
　　Montana, and the bidding escalates rapidly, but I am
　　barely aware of it. I feel him growing beneath my fingers,
　　and it makes me feel so powerful.
　　“Sold, for one hundred ten thousand dollars!” the MC
　　declares victoriously. The whole room bursts into
　　applause, and reluctantly I follow as does Christian, ruining
　　our fun.
　　He turns to me and his lips twitch. “Ready?” he mouths
　　over the rapturous cheering.
　　“Yes,” I mouth back
　　“Ana!” Mia calls. “It’s time!”
　　What? No. Not again! “Time for what?”
　　“The First Dance Auction. Come on!” She stands and
　　holds out her hand.
　　I glance at Christian who is, I think, scowling at Mia,
　　and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but it’s laughter
　　that wins. I succumb to a cathartic bubble of schoolgirl
　　giggles, as we are thwarted once more by the tall, pink
　　powerhouse that is Mia Grey. Christian peers at me, and
　　after a beat, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.
　　“The first dance will be with me, okay? And it won’t
　　be on the dance floor,” he murmurs lasciviously into my
　　ear. My giggles subside as anticipation fans the flames of
　　my need. Oh, yes! My inner goddess performs a perfect
　　triple Salchow in her ice skates.
　　“I look forward to it.” I lean over and plant a soft,
　　chaste kiss on his mouth. Glancing around, I realize that
　　our fellow guests at the table are astonished. Of course,
　　they’ve never seen Christian with a date before.
　　He smiles broadly at me. And he looks . . . happy.
　　He smiles broadly at me. And he looks . . . happy.
　　Wow.
　　“Come on, Ana,” Mia nags. Taking her outstretched
　　hand, I follow her onto the stage where ten more young
　　women have assembled, and I note with vague unease that
　　Lily is one of them.
　　“Gentlemen, the highlight of the evening!” the MC
　　booms over the babble of voices. “The moment you’ve all
　　been waiting for! These twelve lovely ladies have all
　　agreed to auction their first dance to the highest bidder!”
　　Oh no. I blush from head to toe. I hadn’t realized what
　　this meant. How humiliating!
　　“It’s for a good cause,” Mia hisses at me, sensing my
　　discomfort. “Besides, Christian will win.” She rolls her
　　eyes. “I can’t imagine him letting anyone outbid him. He
　　hasn’t taken his eyes off you all evening.”
　　Yes, focus on the good cause, and Christian is bound
　　to win. Let’s face it, he’s not short of a dime or two.
　　But it means spending more money on you! my
　　subconscious snarls at me. But I don’t want to dance with
　　anyone else—I can’t dance with anyone else—and it’s not
　　spending money on me, he’s donating it to the charity.
　　Like the twenty-four thousand dollars he’s already
　　spent? My subconscious narrows her eyes.
　　Shit. I seem to have gotten away with my impulsive
　　bid. Why am I arguing with myself?
　　“Now, gentlemen, pray gather round, and take a good
　　look at what could be yours for the first dance. Twelve
　　comely and compliant wenches.”
　　Jeez! I feel like I’m in a meat market. I watch,
　　Jeez! I feel like I’m in a meat market. I watch,
　　horrified, as at least twenty men make their way to the
　　stage area, Christian included, moving with easy grace
　　between the tables and pausing to say a few hellos on the
　　way. Once the bidders are assembled, the MC begins.
　　“Ladies and gentlemen, in the tradition of the
　　masquerade we shall maintain the mystery behind the
　　masks and stick to first names only. First up we have the
　　lovely Jada.”
　　Jada is giggling like a schoolgirl, too. Maybe I won’t
　　be so out of place. She’s dressed head to foot in navy
　　taffeta with a matching mask. Two young men step
　　forward expectantly. Lucky Jada.
　　“Jada speaks fluent Japanese, is a qualified fighter
　　pilot, and an Olympic gymnast . . . hmm.” The MC winks.
　　“Gentleman, what am I bid?”
　　Jada gapes, astounded at the MC; obviously, he’s
　　talking complete garbage. She grins shyly back at the two
　　contenders.
　　“A thousand bucks!” one calls.
　　Very quickly the bidding escalates to five thousand
　　dollars.
　　“Going once . . . going twice . . . sold!” the MC
　　declares loudly, “to the gentleman in the mask!” And of
　　course all the men are wearing masks so there are hoots of
　　laughter, applause, and cheering. Jada beams at her
　　purchaser and quickly exits the stage.
　　“See? This is fun!” whispers Mia. “I hope Christian
　　wins you, though . . . We don’t want a brawl,” she adds.
　　“Brawl?” I answer horrified.
　　“Brawl?” I answer horrified.
　　“Oh yes. He was very hot-headed when he was
　　younger.” She shudders.
　　Christian brawling? Refined, sophisticated, likes-
　　Tudor-choral-music Christian? I can’t see it. The MC
　　distracts me with his next introduction—a young woman in
　　red, with long jet-black hair.
　　“Gentlemen, may I present the wonderful Mariah.
　　What are we going to do about Mariah? She’s an
　　experienced matador, plays the cello to concert standard,
　　and she’s a champion pole-vaulter . . . how about that,
　　gentlemen? What am I bid, please, for a dance with the
　　delightful Mariah?”
　　Mariah glares at the MC and someone yells, very
　　loudly, “Three thousand dollars!” It’s a masked man with
　　blond hair and beard.
　　There is one counter-bid, but Mariah sells for four
　　thousand dollars.
　　Christian is watching me like a hawk. Brawler
　　Trevelyan-Grey—who would have known?
　　“How long ago?” I ask Mia.
　　She glances at me, nonplussed.
　　“How long ago was Christian brawling?”
　　“Early teens. Drove my parents crazy, coming home
　　with cut lips and black eyes. He was expelled from two
　　schools. He inflicted some serious damage on his
　　opponents.”
　　I gape at her.
　　“Hasn’t he told you?” She sighs. “He got quite a bad
　　rep among my friends. He was really persona non grata
　　rep among my friends. He was really persona non grata
　　for a few years. But it stopped when he was about fifteen
　　or sixteen.” She shrugs.
　　Holy fuck. Another piece of the jigsaw falls into place.
　　“So, what am I bid for the gorgeous Jill?”
　　“Four thousand dollars,” a deep voice calls from the
　　left side. Jill squeals in delight.
　　I stop paying attention to the auction. So Christian was
　　in that kind of trouble at school, fighting. I wonder why. I
　　stare at him. Lily is watching us closely.
　　“And now, allow me to introduce the beautiful Ana.”
　　Oh shit, that’s me. I glance nervously at Mia, and she
　　shoos me center stage. Fortunately, I don’t fall over, but
　　stand embarrassed as hell on display for everyone. When I
　　look at Christian, he’s smirking at me. The bastard.
　　“Beautiful Ana plays six musical instruments, speaks
　　fluent Mandarin, and is keen on yoga . . . well, gentlemen
　　—” Before he can even finish his sentence Christian
　　interrupts him, glaring at the MC through his mask.

　　“Ten thousand dollars.” I hear Lily’s gasp of disbelief
　　behind me.
　　Oh fuck.
　　“Fifteen.”
　　What? We all turn as one to a tall, impeccably dressed
　　man standing to the left of the stage. I blink at Fifty. Shit,
　　what will he make of this? But he’s scratching his chin and
　　giving the stranger an ironic smile. It’s obvious Christian
　　knows him. The stranger nods politely at Christian.
　　“Well, gentlemen! We have high rollers in the house
　　this evening.” The MC’s excitement emanates through his
　　harlequin mask as he turns to beam at Christian. This is a
　　great show, but it’s at my expense. I want to wail.
　　“Twenty,” counters Christian quietly.
　　The babble of the crowd has died. Everyone is staring
　　at me, Christian, and Mr. Mysterious by the stage.
　　“Twenty-five,” the stranger says.
　　Could this be any more embarrassing?
　　Christian stares at him impassively, but he’s amused.
　　All eyes are on Christian. What’s he going to do? My
　　heart is in my mouth. I feel sick.
　　“One hundred thousand dollars,” he says his voice
　　ringing clear and loud through the marquee.
　　“What the fuck?” Lily hisses audibly behind me, and a
　　general gasp of dismay and amusement ripples through the
　　crowd. The stranger holds his hands up in defeat, laughing,
　　and Christian smirks at him. From the corner of my eye, I
　　can see Mia bouncing up and down with glee. My
　　subconscious is gazing at Christian, utterly gobsmacked.
　　“One-hundred thousand dollars for the lovely Ana!
　　Going once . . . going twice . . .” The MC stares at the
　　stranger who shakes his head with mock regret and bows
　　chivalrously.
　　“Sold!” the MC cries out triumphantly.
　　In a deafening round of applause and cheering,
　　Christian steps forward to take my hand and help me from
　　the stage. He gazes at me with an amused grin as I make
　　my way down, kisses the back of my hand then tucks it
　　into the crook of his arm, and leads me toward the
　　marquee’s exit.
　　“Who was that?” I ask.
　　He gazes down at me. “Someone you can meet later.
　　Right now, I want to show you something. We have about
　　thirty minutes until the First Dance Auction finishes. Then
　　we have to be back on the dance floor so that I can enjoy
　　that dance I’ve paid for.”
　　“A very expensive dance,” I mutter disapprovingly.
　　“I’m sure it’ll be worth every single cent.” He smiles
　　down at me wickedly. Oh, he has a glorious smile, and the
　　ache is back, blossoming in my body.
　　We’re out on the lawn. I thought we would be heading
　　to the boathouse, but disappointingly we seem to be
　　heading for the dance floor where the big band is now
　　setting up. There are at least twenty musicians, and a few
　　guests are milling about, furtively smoking—but since most
　　of the action is back in the marquee, we don’t attract too
　　much attention.
　　Christian leads me to the rear of the house and opens a
　　French window leading into a large comfortable sitting
　　room that I’ve not seen before. He walks through the
　　deserted hall toward the sweeping staircase with its
　　elegant, polished wooden balustrade. Taking my hand
　　from the crook of his arm, he leads me up to the second
　　floor and up another flight of stairs to the third. Opening a
　　white door, he ushers me into one of the bedrooms.
　　“This was my room,” he says quietly, standing by the
　　door and locking it behind him.
　　It’s large, stark, and sparsely furnished. The walls are
　　white as is the furniture; a spacious double bed, a desk
　　and chair, shelves crammed with books and lined with
　　various trophies for kickboxing by the look of them. The
　　walls are hung with movie posters: The Matrix, Fight
　　Club, The Truman Show, and two framed posters
　　featuring kick boxers. One is named Guiseppe DeNatale
　　—I’ve never heard of him.
　　But what catches my eye is the white pin board above
　　the desk, studded with a myriad of photographs, Mariners
　　pennants, and ticket stubs. It’s a slice of young Christian.
　　My eyes come back to the magnificent, beautiful man now
　　standing in the center of the room. He looks at me darkly,
　　brooding and sexy.
　　“I’ve never brought a girl in here,” he murmurs.
　　“Never?” I whisper.
　　He shakes his head.
　　I swallow convulsively, and the ache that has been
　　bothering me for the last couple of hours is roaring now,
　　raw and wanting. Seeing him standing there on the royal
　　blue carpet in that mask . . . it’s beyond erotic. I want him.
　　Now. Any way I can get him. I have to resist launching
　　myself at him and ripping his clothes off. He waltzes over
　　to me slowly.
　　“We don’t have long, Anastasia, and the way I’m
　　feeling right this moment, we won’t need long. Turn round.
　　Let me get you out of that dress.”
　　I turn and stare at the door, grateful that he’s locked it.
　　Bending down he whispers softly in my ear, “Keep the
　　mask on.”
　　mask on.”
　　I groan as my body clenches in response. He’s not
　　even touched me yet.
　　He grasps the top of my dress, his fingers sliding
　　against my skin, and the touch reverberates through my
　　body. In one swift move, he opens the zipper. Holding my
　　dress, he helps me to step out of it, then turns and drapes
　　it artfully over the back of a chair. Removing his jacket, he
　　places it over my dress. He pauses, and stares at me for a
　　moment, drinking me in. I’m in the basque and matching
　　panties, and I revel in his sensuous gaze.
　　“You know, Anastasia,” he says softly as he stalks
　　toward me, undoing his bow tie so it hangs from either side
　　of his neck, then undoing the top three buttons of his shirt.
　　“I was so mad when you bought my auction lot. All
　　manner of ideas ran through my head. I had to remind
　　myself that punishment is off the menu. But then you
　　volunteered.” He gazes down at me through his mask.
　　“Why did you do that?” he whispers.
　　“Volunteer? I don’t know. Frustration . . . too much
　　alcohol . . . worthy cause,” I mutter meekly, shrugging.
　　Maybe to get his attention?
　　I needed him then. I need him more now. The ache is
　　worse, and I know he can soothe it, calm this roaring,
　　salivating beast in me with the beast in him. His mouth
　　presses into a line, and he slowly licks his upper lip. I want
　　that tongue on me.
　　“I vowed to myself I would not spank you again, even
　　if you begged me.”
　　“Please,” I beg.
　　“Please,” I beg.
　　“But then I realized, you’re probably very
　　uncomfortable at the moment, and it’s not something
　　you’re used to.” He smirks at me knowingly, arrogant
　　bastard, but I don’t care because he’s absolutely right.
　　“Yes,” I breathe.
　　“So, there might be a certain . . . latitude. If I do this,
　　you must promise me one thing.”
　　“Anything.”
　　“You will safe word if you need to, and I will just make
　　love to you, okay?”
　　“Yes.” I’m panting. I want his hands on me.
　　He swallows, then takes my hand, and moves toward
　　the bed. Throwing the duvet aside, he sits down, grabs a
　　pillow, and places it beside him. He gazes up at me
　　standing beside him and suddenly tugs hard on my hand so
　　that I fall across his lap. He shifts slightly so my body is
　　resting on the bed, my chest on the pillow, my face to one
　　side. Leaning over, he sweeps my hair over my shoulder
　　and runs his fingers through the plume of feathers on my
　　mask.
　　“Put your hands behind your back,” he murmurs.
　　Oh! He removes his bow tie and uses it to quickly bind
　　my wrists so that my hands are tied behind me, resting in
　　the small of my back.
　　“You really want this, Anastasia?”
　　I close my eyes. This is the first time since I met him
　　that I really want this. I need it.
　　“Yes,” I whisper.
　　“Why?” he asks softly as he caresses my behind with
　　“Why?” he asks softly as he caresses my behind with
　　his palm.
　　I groan as soon as his hand makes contact with my
　　skin. I don’t know why . . . You tell me not to
　　overthink. After a day like today—arguing about the
　　money, Leila, Mrs. Robinson, the dossier on me, the
　　roadmap, this lavish party, the masks, the alcohol, the
　　silver balls, the auction . . . I want this.
　　“Do I need a reason?”
　　“No, baby, you don’t,” he says. “I’m just trying to
　　understand you.” His left hand curls round my waist,
　　holding me in place as his palm leaves my behind and lands
　　hard, just above the junction of my thighs. The pain
　　connects directly with the ache in my belly
　　Oh man . . . I moan loudly. He hits me again, in
　　exactly the same place. I groan again.
　　“Two,” he murmurs. “We’ll go with twelve.”
　　Oh my! This feels different than the last time—so
　　carnal, so . . . necessary. He caresses my behind with his
　　long-fingered hands, and I’m helpless, trussed up and
　　pressed into the mattress, at his mercy, and of my own
　　free will. He hits me again, slightly to the side, and again, to
　　the other side, then pauses as he slowly peels my panties
　　down and pulls them off. He gently trails his palm across
　　my behind again before continuing my spanking—each
　　stinging smack taking the edge off my need—or fueling it
　　—I don’t know. I surrender myself to the rhythm of
　　blows, absorbing each one, savoring each one.
　　“Twelve,” he murmurs his voice low and harsh. He
　　caresses my behind again and trails his fingers down
　　caresses my behind again and trails his fingers down
　　toward my sex and slowly sinks two fingers inside me,
　　moving them in a circle, round and round and round,
　　torturing me.
　　I moan loudly as my body takes over, and I come and
　　come, convulsing around his fingers. It’s so intense,
　　unexpected, and quick.
　　“That’s right, baby,” he murmurs appreciatively. He
　　unties my wrists, keeping his fingers inside me as I lie
　　panting and spent over him.
　　“I’ve not finished with you yet, Anastasia,” he says and
　　shifts without removing his fingers. He eases my knees on
　　to the floor so that now I’m leaning over the bed. He
　　kneels on the floor behind me and undoes his zipper. He
　　slides his fingers out of me, and I hear the familiar tear of a
　　foil packet. “Open your legs,” he growls and I comply. He
　　strokes my behind and eases into me.
　　“This is going to be quick, baby,” he murmurs and
　　grabbing my hips, he eases out then slams into me.
　　“Ah!” I cry out but the fullness is heavenly. He’s hitting
　　the bellyache square on, again and again, eradicating it
　　with each sharp, sweet thrust. The feeling is mind-blowing,
　　just what I need. I push back to meet him, thrust for thrust.
　　“Ana, no,” he grunts, trying to still me. But I want him
　　too much, and I grind against him, matching him thrust for
　　thrust.
　　“Ana, shit,” he hisses as he comes, and the tortured
　　sound sets me off again, spiraling into a healing orgasm that
　　goes on and on and wrings me out and leaves me spent
　　and breathless.
　　and breathless.
　　Christian bends and kisses my shoulder then pulls out
　　of me. Placing his arms around me, he rests his head in the
　　middle of my back, and we lie like this, both kneeling at
　　the bedside, for what? Seconds? Minutes even as our
　　breathing calms. My bellyache has disappeared, and all I
　　feel is a soothing, satisfying serenity.
　　Christian stirs and kisses my back. “I believe you owe
　　me a dance, Miss Steele,” he murmurs.
　　“Hmm,” I respond, savoring the absence of achiness
　　and basking in the afterglow.
　　He sits back on his heels and pulls me off the bed onto
　　his lap. “We don’t have long. Come on.” He kisses my
　　hair and forces me to stand.
　　I grumble but sit back down on the bed and collect my
　　panties from the floor and scoop them on. Lazily I walk to
　　the chair to retrieve my dress. I note with dispassionate
　　interest that I did not remove my shoes during our illicit
　　tryst. Christian is tying his bow tie, having finished
　　straightening himself and the bed.
　　As I slip my dress back on, I check out the
　　photographs on the pin board. Christian as a sullen teen
　　was gorgeous even then: with Elliot and Mia on the ski
　　slopes; on his own in Paris, the Arc de Triomphe serving
　　as a giveaway background; in London; New York; the

　　Grand Canyon; Sydney Opera House; even the Great
　　Wall of China. Master Grey was well traveled at a young
　　age.
　　There are ticket stubs to various concerts: U2,
　　Metallica, The Verve, Sheryl Crow, the New York
　　Metallica, The Verve, Sheryl Crow, the New York
　　Philharmonic performing Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet—
　　what an eclectic mix! And in the corner, there’s a
　　passport-size photograph of a young woman. It’s in black
　　and white. She looks familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t
　　place her. Not Mrs. Robinson, thank heavens.
　　“Who’s this?” I ask.
　　“No one of consequence,” he mutters as he slips on his
　　jacket and straightens his bow tie. “Shall I zip you up?”
　　“Please. Then why is she on your pin board?”
　　“An oversight on my part. How’s my tie?” He raises
　　his chin like a small boy, and I grin and straighten it for
　　him.
　　“Now it’s perfect.”
　　“Like you,” he murmurs and grabs me, kissing me
　　passionately. “Feeling better?”
　　“Much, thank you, Mr. Grey.”
　　“The pleasure was all mine, Miss Steele.”
　　The guests are assembling on the dance floor. Christian
　　grins at me—we’ve made it just in time—and he leads me
　　onto the checkered floor.
　　“And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the first
　　dance. Mr. and Dr. Grey, are you ready?” Carrick nods in
　　agreement, his arms around Grace.
　　“Ladies and gentlemen of the First Dance Auction, are
　　you ready?” We all nod in agreement. Mia is with
　　someone I don’t recognize. I wonder what happened to
　　Sean?
　　“Then we shall begin. Take it away, Sam!”
　　A young man strolls onto the stage amid warm
　　applause, turns to the band behind him and snaps his
　　fingers. The familiar strains of “I’ve Got You Under My
　　Skin” fill the air.
　　Christian smiles down at me, takes me in his arms, and
　　starts to move. Oh, he dances so well, making it easy to
　　follow. We grin at each other like idiots as he whirls me
　　around the dance floor.
　　“I love this song,” Christian murmurs, gazing down at
　　me. “Seems very fitting.” He’s no longer grinning, but
　　serious.
　　“You’re under my skin, too,” I respond. “Or you were
　　in your bedroom.”
　　He purses his lips but he’s unable to hide his
　　amusement.
　　“Miss Steele,” he admonishes me teasingly, “I had no
　　idea you could be so crude.”
　　“Mr. Grey, neither did I. I think it’s all my recent
　　experiences. They’ve been an education.”
　　“For both of us.” Christian is serious again, and it could
　　just be the two of us and the band. We are in our own
　　private bubble.
　　As the song finishes we both applaud. Sam the singer
　　bows graciously and introduces his band.
　　“May I cut in?”
　　I recognize the man who bid on me at the auction.
　　Christian grudgingly lets me go, but he’s amused, too.
　　“Be my guest. Anastasia, this is John Flynn. John,
　　Anastasia.”
　　Shit!
　　Christian smirks at me and wanders off to one side of
　　the dance floor.
　　“How do you do, Anastasia?” Dr. Flynn says
　　smoothly, and I realize he’s British.
　　“Hello,” I stutter.
　　The band strikes up another song, and Dr. Flynn pulls
　　me into his arms. He’s much younger than I imagined,
　　though I can’t see his face. He’s wearing a mask similar to
　　Christian’s. He’s tall, but not as tall as Christian, and he
　　doesn’t move with Christian’s easy grace.
　　What do I say to him? Why is Christian so fucked-up?
　　Why did he bid on me? It’s the only thing I want to ask
　　him, but somehow that seems rude.
　　“I’m glad to finally meet you, Anastasia. Are you
　　enjoying yourself?” he asks.
　　“I was,” I whisper.
　　“Oh. I hope I’m not responsible for your change of
　　heart.” He gives me a brief, warm smile that puts me a little
　　more at ease.
　　“Doctor Flynn, you’re the shrink. You tell me.”
　　He grins. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? The shrink bit?”
　　I giggle. “I’m worried what I might reveal, so I’m a
　　little self-conscious and intimidated. And really I only want
　　to ask you about Christian.”
　　He smiles. “First, this is a party so I’m not on duty,” he
　　whispers conspiratorially. “And second, I really can’t talk
　　whispers conspiratorially. “And second, I really can’t talk
　　to you about Christian. Besides,” he teases, “we’d need
　　until Christmas.”
　　I gasp in shock.
　　“That’s a doctor’s joke, Anastasia.”
　　I flush, embarrassed, and then feel slightly resentful.
　　He’s making a joke at Christian’s expense. “You’ve just
　　confirmed what I’ve been saying to Christian . . . that
　　you’re an expensive charlatan,” I admonish him.
　　Dr. Flynn snorts with laughter. “You could be onto
　　something there.”
　　“You’re British?”
　　“Yes. Originally from London.”
　　“How did you find yourself here?”
　　“Happy circumstance.”
　　“You don’t give much away, do you?”
　　“There’s not much to give away. I’m really a very dull
　　person.”
　　“That’s very self-deprecating.”
　　“It’s a British trait. Part of our national character.”
　　“Oh.”
　　“And I could accuse you of the same, Anastasia.”
　　“That I’m a dull person, too, Dr. Flynn?”
　　He snorts. “No, Anastasia, that you don’t give much
　　away.”
　　“There’s not much to give away.” I smile.
　　“I sincerely doubt that.” He unexpectedly frowns.
　　I flush, but the music finishes and Christian is once
　　more by my side. Dr. Flynn releases me.
　　“It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Anastasia.” He gives
　　“It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Anastasia.” He gives
　　me his warm smile again, and I feel that I’ve passed some
　　kind of hidden test.
　　“John.” Christian nods at him.
　　“Christian.” Dr. Flynn returns his nod, turns on his heel,
　　and disappears through the crowd.
　　Christian pulls me into his arms for the next dance.
　　“He’s much younger than I expected,” I murmur to
　　him. “And terribly indiscreet.”
　　Christian cocks his head to one side. “Indiscreet?”
　　“Oh yes, he told me everything,” I tease.
　　Christian tenses. “Well, in that case, I’ll get your bag.
　　I’m sure you want nothing more to do with me,” he says
　　softly.
　　I stop. “He didn’t tell me anything!” My voice fills with
　　panic.
　　Christian blinks before relief floods his face. He pulls
　　me into his arms again. “Then let’s enjoy this dance.” He
　　beams down, reassuring me, then spins me round.
　　Why would he think that I’d want to leave? It makes
　　no sense.
　　We dance for two more numbers, and I realize I need
　　the restroom.
　　“I won’t be long.”
　　As I make my way to the powder room, I remember I
　　have left my purse on the dinner table, so I head down to
　　the marquee. When I enter, it’s still lit but quite deserted,
　　except for a couple at the other end, who really ought to
　　get a room! I reach for my bag.
　　“Anastasia?”
　　“Anastasia?”
　　A soft voice startles me, and I turn to see a woman
　　dressed in a long, tight, black velvet gown. Her mask is
　　unique. It covers her face to her nose but also covers her
　　hair. It’s stunning with elaborate gold filigree.
　　“I’m so glad you’re on your own,” she says softly.
　　“I’ve been wanting to talk to you all evening.”
　　“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are.”
　　She pulls the mask from her face and releases her hair.
　　Shit! It’s Mrs. Robinson.
　　“I’m sorry, I startled you.”
　　I gape at her. Holy cow—what the fuck does this
　　woman want?
　　I don’t know what the social conventions are for
　　meeting known molesters of children. She’s smiling
　　sweetly and gesturing for me to sit at the table. And
　　because I am lacking any sphere of reference, I do as she
　　asks out of stunned politeness, grateful that I am still
　　wearing my mask.
　　“I’ll be brief, Anastasia. I know what you think of
　　me . . . Christian’s told me.”
　　I gaze at her impassively, giving nothing away, but I’m
　　pleased that she knows. It saves me telling her, and she’s
　　cutting to the chase. Part of me is beyond intrigued as to
　　what she could have to say.
　　She pauses, glancing over my shoulder. “Taylor’s
　　watching us.”
　　I peek around to see him scanning the tent by the
　　doorway. Sawyer is with him. They are looking anywhere
　　but at us.
　　but at us.
　　“Look, we don’t have long,” she says hurriedly. “It
　　must be obvious to you that Christian is in love with you. I
　　have never seen him like this, ever.” She emphasizes the
　　last word.
　　What? Loves me? No. Why is she telling me? To
　　reassure me? I don’t understand.
　　“He won’t tell you because he probably doesn’t realize
　　it himself, notwithstanding what I’ve said to him, but that’s
　　Christian. He’s not very attuned to any positive feelings
　　and emotions he may have. He dwells far too much on the
　　negative. But then you’ve probably worked that out for
　　yourself. He doesn’t think he’s worthy.”
　　I am reeling. Christian loves me? He hasn’t said it,
　　and this woman has told him that’s how he feels? How
　　bizarre.
　　A hundred images dance through my head: the iPad,
　　the gliding, flying to see me, all his actions, his
　　possessiveness, one hundred thousand dollars for a dance.
　　Is this love?
　　And hearing it from this woman, having her confirm it
　　for me is, frankly, unwelcome. I’d rather hear it from him.
　　My heart constricts. He feels unworthy? Why?
　　“I’ve never seen him so happy, and it’s obvious that
　　you have feelings for him, too.” A brief smile flits across
　　her lips. “That’s great, and I wish you both the best of
　　everything. But what I wanted to say is if you hurt him
　　again, I will find you, lady, and it won’t be pleasant when I
　　do.”
　　She stares at me, ice-cold blue eyes boring into my
　　She stares at me, ice-cold blue eyes boring into my
　　skull, trying to get under my mask. Her threat is so
　　astonishing, so off the wall that an involuntary, disbelieving
　　giggle escapes me. Of all the things she could say to me,
　　this is the least expected.
　　“You think this is funny, Anastasia?” she splutters in
　　dismay. “You didn’t see him last Saturday.”
　　My face falls and darkens. The thought of Christian
　　unhappy is not a palatable one, and last Saturday I left
　　him. He must have gone to her. The idea makes me
　　queasy. Why am I sitting here listening to this shit from her
　　of all people? I slowly rise, gazing at her intently.
　　“I’m laughing at your audacity, Mrs. Lincoln. Christian
　　and I have nothing to do with you. And if I do leave him
　　and you come looking for me, I’ll be waiting—don’t doubt
　　it. And maybe I’ll give you a taste of your own medicine
　　on behalf of the fifteen-year-old child you molested and
　　probably fucked-up even more than he already was.”
　　Her mouth falls open.
　　“Now if you’ll excuse me, I have better things to do
　　than waste my time with you.” I turn on my heel,
　　adrenaline and anger coursing through my body, and stalk
　　toward the entrance of the tent where Taylor is standing
　　just as Christian arrives, looking flustered and worried.
　　“There you are,” he mutters, then frowns when he sees
　　Elena.
　　I stride past him, saying nothing, giving him the
　　opportunity to choose—her or me. He makes the right
　　choice.
　　“Ana,” he calls. I stop and face him as he catches up
　　“Ana,” he calls. I stop and face him as he catches up
　　with me. “What’s wrong?” He gazes down at me, concern
　　etched on his face.
　　“Why don’t you ask your ex?” I hiss acidly.
　　His mouth twists and his eyes frost. “I’m asking you,”
　　he says, his voice soft but with an undertone of something
　　far more menacing.