We glare at each other.
　　Okay, I can see this will end in a fight if I don’t tell him.
　　“She’s threatening to come after me if I hurt you again—
　　probably with a whip,” I snap at him.
　　Relief flashes across his face, his mouth softening with
　　humor. “Surely the irony of that isn’t lost on you?” he says,
　　and I can tell he’s trying hard to stifle his amusement.
　　“This isn’t funny, Christian!”
　　“No, you’re right. I’ll talk to her.” He adopts his
　　serious face, though he’s still suppressing his amusement.
　　“You will do no such thing.” I fold my arms, my anger
　　spiking again.
　　He blinks at me, surprised by my outburst.
　　“Look, I know you’re tied up with her financially,
　　forgive the pun, but—” I stop. What am I asking him to
　　do? Give her up? Stop seeing her? Can I do that? “I need
　　the restroom.” I glare up at him, my mouth set in a grim
　　line.
　　He sighs and cocks his head to one side. Could he
　　look any hotter? Is it the mask or just him?
　　“Please don’t be mad. I didn’t know she was here.
　　She said she wasn’t coming.” His tone is placating as if
　　he’s talking to a child. Reaching up he runs his thumb along
　　my pouting bottom lip. “Don’t let Elena ruin our evening,
　　please, Anastasia. She’s really old news.”
　　Old being the operative word, I think uncharitably, as
　　he tips my chin up and gently grazes his lips against mine. I
　　sigh in agreement, blinking up at him. He straightens and
　　takes my elbow.
　　“I’ll accompany you to the powder room so you don’t
　　get interrupted again.”
　　He leads me across the lawn toward the luxurious
　　temporary restrooms. Mia said they had been delivered
　　for the occasion, but I had no idea they came in deluxe
　　versions.
　　“I’ll wait here for you, baby,” he murmurs.
　　When I come out, my mood has moderated. I have
　　decided not to let Mrs. Robinson blight my evening
　　because that’s probably what she wants. Christian is on
　　the phone some distance away and out of earshot of the
　　few people laughing and chatting nearby. As I get closer, I
　　can hear him. He’s very terse.
　　“Why did you change your mind? I thought we’d
　　agreed. Well, leave her alone . . . This is the first regular
　　relationship I’ve ever had, and I don’t want you
　　jeopardizing it through some misplaced concern for me.
　　Leave. Her. Alone. I mean it, Elena.” He pauses, listening.
　　“No, of course not.” He frowns deeply as he says this.
　　Glancing up, he sees me regarding him. “I have to go.
　　Goodnight.” He presses the off button.
　　I cock my head to one side and raise an eyebrow at
　　him. Why is he phoning her?
　　“How’s the old news?”
　　“Cranky,” he replies sardonically. “Do you want to
　　dance some more? Or would you like to go?” He glances
　　at his watch. “The fireworks start in five minutes.”
　　“I love fireworks.”
　　“We’ll stay and watch them, then.” He puts his arms
　　around me and pulls me close. “Don’t let her come
　　between us, please.”
　　“She cares about you,” I mutter.
　　“Yes, and I her . . . as a friend.”
　　“I think it’s more than a friendship to her.”
　　His brow furrows. “Anastasia, Elena and I . . . it’s
　　complicated. We have a shared history. But it is just that,
　　history. As I’ve said to you time and time again, she’s a
　　good friend. That’s all. Please, forget about her.” He
　　kisses my hair, and in the interest of not ruining our
　　evening, I let it go. I am just trying to understand.
　　We wander hand in hand back to the dance floor. The
　　band is still in full swing.
　　“Anastasia.”
　　I turn to find Carrick standing behind us.
　　“I wondered if you’d do me the honor of the next
　　dance.” Carrick holds his hand out to me. Christian shrugs
　　and smiles, releasing my hand, and I let Carrick lead me
　　onto the dance floor. Sam the bandleader launches into
　　“Come Fly with Me,” and Carrick puts his arm around my
　　waist and gently whirls me into the throng.
　　“I wanted to thank you for the generous contribution to
　　our charity, Anastasia.”
　　From his tone, I suspect this is his roundabout way of
　　asking whether I can afford it.
　　“Mr. Grey—”
　　“Call me Carrick, please, Ana.”
　　“I’m delighted to be able to contribute. I unexpectedly
　　came into some money. I don’t need it. And it’s such a
　　worthy cause.”
　　He smiles down at me, and I seize the opportunity for
　　some innocent inquiries. Carpe diem, my subconscious
　　hisses from behind her hand.
　　“Christian told me a little about his past, so I think it’s
　　appropriate to support your work,” I add, hoping that this
　　might encourage Carrick to give me a small insight into the
　　mystery that is his son.
　　Carrick is surprised. “Did he? That’s unusual. You
　　certainly have had a very positive effect on him, Anastasia.
　　I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so, so . . . buoyant.”
　　I flush.
　　“Sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
　　“Well, in my limited experience, he’s a very unusual
　　man,” I murmur.
　　“He is,” Carrick agrees quietly.
　　“Christian’s early childhood sounds hideously
　　traumatic, from what he’s told me.”
　　Carrick frowns, and I worry if I’ve overstepped the
　　mark.
　　“My wife was the doctor on duty when the police
　　brought him in. He was skin and bones, and badly
　　brought him in. He was skin and bones, and badly
　　dehydrated. He wouldn’t speak.” Carrick frowns again,
　　lost in the awful memory, despite the up-tempo music
　　surrounding us. “In fact, he didn’t speak for nearly two
　　years. It was playing the piano that eventually brought him
　　out of himself. Oh, and Mia’s arrival, of course.” He smiles
　　down at me fondly.
　　“He plays beautifully. And he’s accomplished so much,
　　you must be very proud of him.” I sound distracted. Holy
　　Shit. Didn’t speak for two years.
　　“Immensely so. He’s a very determined, very capable,
　　very bright young man. But between you and me,
　　Anastasia, it’s seeing him like he is this evening—carefree,
　　acting his age—that’s the real thrill for his mother and me.
　　We were both commenting on it today. I believe we have
　　you to thank for that.”
　　I think I blush to my roots. What am I supposed to say
　　to this?
　　“He’s always been such a loner. We never thought
　　we’d see him with anyone. Whatever you’re doing, please
　　don’t stop. We’d like to see him happy.” He stops
　　suddenly as if he’s overstepped the mark. “I’m sorry, I
　　don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
　　I shake my head. “I’d like to see him happy, too,” I
　　mutter, unsure of what else to say.
　　“Well, I’m very glad you came this evening. It’s been a
　　real pleasure seeing the two of you together.”
　　As the final strains of “Come Fly with Me” fade away,
　　Carrick releases me and bows, and I curtsey, mirroring his
　　civility.
　　civility.
　　“That’s enough dancing with old men.” Christian is at
　　my side again. Carrick laughs.
　　“Less of the ‘old,’ son. I’ve been known to have my
　　moments.” Carrick winks at me playfully and saunters into
　　the crowd.
　　“I think my dad likes you,” Christian mutters as he
　　watches his father mingle with the crowd..
　　“What’s not to like?” I peek coquettishly up at him
　　through my lashes.
　　“Good point well made, Miss Steele.” He pulls me into
　　an embrace as the band starts to play “It Had to Be You.”
　　“Dance with me,” he whispers seductively.
　　“With pleasure, Mr. Grey.” I smile in response, and he
　　sweeps me across the dance floor once more.
　　At midnight, we stroll down toward the shore between the
　　marquee and the boathouse where the other partygoers
　　are gathered to watch the fireworks. The MC, back in
　　charge, has permitted the removal of masks, the better to
　　see the display. Christian has his arm around me, but I’m
　　aware that Taylor and Sawyer are close by, probably
　　because we’re in the crowd now. They are looking
　　anywhere but at the dockside where two pyrotechnicians
　　dressed in black are making their final preparations. Seeing
　　Taylor reminds me of Leila. Perhaps she’s here. Shit. The
　　thought chills my blood, and I huddle closer to Christian.
　　He gazes down at me as he pulls me closer.
　　“You okay, baby? Cold?”
　　“You okay, baby? Cold?”
　　“I’m fine.” I glance quickly behind us and see the other
　　two security guys, whose names I forget, standing close
　　by. Moving me in front of him, Christian puts both his arms
　　around me over my shoulders.
　　Suddenly, a stirring classical soundtrack booms over
　　the dock and two rockets soar into the air, exploding with
　　a deafening bang over the bay, lighting it all in a dazzling
　　canopy of sparkling orange and white that’s reflected in a
　　glittering shower over the still calm water of the bay. My
　　jaw drops as several more rockets fire into the air and
　　explode in a kaleidoscope of color.
　　I can’t recall ever seeing a display this impressive,
　　except perhaps on television, and it never looks this good
　　on TV. They’re all in time to the music. Volley after volley,
　　bang after bang, and light after light as the crowd answers
　　with gasps and ooohs and ahhs. It is out of this world.
　　On the pontoon in the bay several silver fountains of
　　light shoot up twenty feet in the air, changing color through
　　blue, red, orange, and back to silver—and yet more
　　rockets explode as the music reaches its crescendo.
　　My face is beginning to ache from the ridiculous grin of
　　wonder plastered across it. I glance at Fifty, and he’s the
　　same, marveling like a child at the sensational show. For
　　the finale a volley of six rockets shoot into the dark and
　　explode simultaneously, bathing us in a glorious golden
　　light as the crowd erupts into frantic, enthusiastic applause.
　　“Ladies and gentlemen,” the MC calls out as the
　　cheers and whistles fade. “Just one note to add at the end
　　of this wonderful evening; your generosity has raised a
　　of this wonderful evening; your generosity has raised a
　　total of one million, eight hundred and fifty three thousand
　　dollars!”
　　Spontaneous applause erupts again, and out on the
　　pontoon, a message lights up in silver streams of sparks
　　forming the words Thank You From Coping Together,
　　sparkling and shimmering over the water.
　　“Oh, Christian . . . that was wonderful.” I grin up at
　　him and he bends down to kiss me.
　　“Time to go,” he murmurs, a broad smile on his
　　beautiful face, and his words hold so much promise.
　　Suddenly, I feel very tired.
　　He glances up again, and Taylor is close, the crowd
　　dispersing around us. They don’t speak but something
　　passes between them.
　　“Stay with me a moment. Taylor wants us to wait while
　　the crowd disperses.”
　　Oh.
　　“I think that firework display probably aged him a
　　hundred years,” he adds.
　　“Doesn’t he like fireworks?”
　　Christian gazes down at me fondly and shakes his head
　　but doesn’t elaborate.
　　“So, Aspen,” he says, and I know he’s trying to
　　distract me from something. It works.
　　“Oh . . . I haven’t paid for my bid,” I gasp.
　　“You can send a check. I have the address.”
　　“You were really mad.”
　　“Yes, I was.”
　　I grin. “I blame you and your toys.”
　　I grin. “I blame you and your toys.”
　　“You were quite overcome, Miss Steele. A most
　　satisfactory outcome if I recall.” He smiles salaciously.
　　“Incidentally, where are they?”
　　“The silver balls? In my bag.”
　　“I’d like them back.” He smirks down at me. “They
　　are far too potent a device to be left in your innocent
　　hands.”
　　“Worried I might be quite overcome again, maybe with
　　somebody else?”
　　His eyes glitter dangerously. “I hope that’s not going to
　　happen,” he says, a cool edge to his voice. “But no, Ana. I
　　want all your pleasure.”
　　Whoa. “Don’t you trust me?”
　　“Implicitly. Now, can I have them back?”
　　“I’ll think about it.”
　　He narrows his eyes at me.
　　There’s music once more from the dance floor but it’s
　　a DJ playing a thumping dance number, the bass pounding
　　out a relentless beat.
　　“Do you want to dance?”
　　“I’m really tired, Christian. I’d like to go, if that’s
　　okay.”
　　Christian glances at Taylor, who nods, and we set off
　　toward the house, following a couple of drunken guests.

　　I’m grateful when Christian takes my hand—my feet are
　　aching from the dizzying height and tight confinement of my
　　shoes.
　　Mia comes bounding up to us. “You’re not going, are
　　you? The real music’s just beginning. Come on, Ana.” She
　　grabs my hand.
　　“Mia,” Christian admonishes her. “Anastasia’s tired.
　　We’re going home. Besides, we have a big day
　　tomorrow.”
　　We do?
　　Mia pouts but surprisingly doesn’t push Christian.
　　“You must come by sometime next week. Maybe we
　　can hit the mall?”
　　“Sure, Mia.” I grin, though in the back of my mind I’m
　　wondering how since I have to work for a living.
　　She gives me a quick kiss then hugs Christian fiercely,
　　taking us both by surprise. More astoundingly still, she
　　places her hands directly on the lapels of his jacket, and he
　　just gazes down at her, indulgently.
　　“I like seeing you this happy,” she says sweetly and
　　kisses him on the cheek. “Bye. You guys have fun.” She
　　skips off toward her waiting friends—among them Lily,
　　who looks even more sour-faced without her mask.
　　I wonder idly where Sean is.
　　“We’ll say goodnight to my parents before we leave.
　　Come.” Christian leads me through a gaggle of guests to
　　Grace and Carrick, who wish us fond and warm farewells.
　　“Please do come again, Anastasia, it’s been lovely
　　having you here,” says Grace kindly.
　　I am a little overwhelmed by both her and Carrick’s
　　reaction. Fortunately, Grace’s parents have retired for the
　　evening, so at least I am spared their enthusiasm.
　　Quietly, Christian and I walk hand in hand to the front
　　of the house where countless cars are lined up and waiting
　　to collect guests. I glance up at Fifty. He looks happy and
　　relaxed. It’s a real pleasure to see him this way, though I
　　suspect it’s unusual after such an extraordinary day.
　　“Are you warm enough?” he asks.
　　“Yes, thank you.” I clasp my satin wrap.
　　“I really enjoyed this evening, Anastasia. Thank you.”
　　“Me too, some parts more than others.” I grin.
　　He grins and nods, then his brow creases. “Don’t bite
　　your lip,” he warns in a way that makes my blood sing.
　　“What did you mean about a big day tomorrow?” I
　　ask to distract myself.
　　“Dr. Greene is coming to sort you out. Plus, I have a
　　surprise for you.”
　　“Dr. Greene!” I halt.
　　“Yes.”
　　“Why?”
　　“Because I hate condoms,” he says quietly. His eyes
　　glint in the soft light from the paper lanterns, gauging my
　　reaction.
　　“It’s my body,” I mutter, annoyed that he hasn’t asked
　　me.
　　“It’s mine, too,” he whispers.
　　I gaze up at him as various guests pass by, ignoring us.
　　He looks so earnest. Yes, my body is his . . . he knows it
　　better than I do.
　　I reach up, and he flinches ever so slightly but stays
　　still. Grasping the corner of his bow tie, I pull so it
　　unravels, revealing the top button of his shirt. Gently I undo
　　it.
　　“You look hot like this,” I whisper. Actually he looks
　　hot all the time, but really hot like this.
　　He smirks at me. “I need to get you home. Come.”
　　At the car, Sawyer hands Christian an envelope. He
　　frowns at it and glances at me as Taylor ushers me into the
　　car. Taylor looks relieved for some reason. Christian
　　climbs in and hands me the envelope, unopened, as Taylor
　　and Sawyer take their seats in the front.
　　“It’s addressed to you. One of the staff gave it to
　　Sawyer. No doubt from yet another ensnared heart.”
　　Christian’s mouth twists. It’s obvious this is an unpleasant
　　concept to him.
　　I stare at the note. Who is this from? Ripping it open, I
　　read it quickly in the dim light. Holy shit, it’s from her!
　　Why won’t she leave me alone?
　　Fuck, she’s signed it Mrs. Robinson! He told her. The
　　bastard.
　　“You told her?”
　　“Told who, what?”
　　“That I call her Mrs. Robinson,” I snap.
　　“It’s from Elena?” Christian is shocked. “This is
　　ridiculous,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair,
　　and I can tell he’s irritated. “I’ll deal with her tomorrow.
　　Or Monday,” he mutters bitterly.
　　And though I’m ashamed to admit it, a very small part
　　of me is pleased. My subconscious nods sagely. Elena is
　　pissing him off, and this can only be good—surely. I
　　decide to say nothing for now but stash her note in my
　　bag, and in a gesture guaranteed to lighten his mood, I
　　hand him back the balls.
　　“Until next time,” I murmur.
　　He glances at me, and it’s hard to see his face in the
　　dark, but I think he’s smirking. He reaches for my hand
　　and squeezes it.
　　I gaze out of the window into the darkness, reflecting
　　on this long day. I’ve learned so much about him, gleaned
　　so many missing details—the salons, the road map, his
　　childhood—but there’s still so much more to discover.
　　And what about Mrs. R? Yes, she cares for him, and
　　deeply, it would appear. I can see that, and he cares for
　　her—but not in the same way. I don’t know what to think
　　anymore. All this information is making my head hurt.
　　Christian wakes me just as we pull up outside Escala. “Do
　　I need to carry you in?” he asks gently.
　　I shake my head sleepily. No way.
　　As we stand in the elevator, I lean against him, putting
　　my head against his shoulder. Sawyer stands in front of us,
　　shifting uncomfortably.
　　“It’s been a long day, eh, Anastasia?”
　　I nod.
　　“Tired?”
　　I nod.
　　“You’re not very talkative.”
　　I nod and he grins.
　　“Come. I’ll put you to bed.” He takes my hand as we
　　exit the elevator, but we stop in the foyer when Sawyer
　　holds up his hand. In that split second, I am instantly wide
　　awake. Sawyer talks into his sleeve. I had no idea that he
　　was wearing a radio.
　　“Will do, T,” he says and turns to face us. “Mr. Grey,
　　the tires on Ms. Steele’s Audi have been slashed and paint
　　thrown all over it.”
　　Holy shit. My car! Who would do that? And I know
　　Holy shit. My car! Who would do that? And I know
　　the answer as soon as the question materializes in my
　　mind. Leila. I glance up at Christian, and he blanches.
　　“Taylor is concerned that the perp may have entered
　　the apartment and may still be there. He wants to make
　　sure.”
　　“I see,” Christian whispers. “What’s Taylor’s plan?”
　　“He’s coming up in the service elevator with Ryan and
　　Reynolds. They’ll do a sweep then give us the all clear.
　　I’m to wait with you, sir.”
　　“Thank you, Sawyer.” Christian tightens his arm
　　around me. “This day just gets better and better,” he sighs
　　bitterly, nuzzling my hair. “Listen, I can’t stand here and
　　wait. Sawyer, take care of Miss Steele. Don’t let her in
　　until you have the all clear. I am sure Taylor is
　　overreacting. She can’t get into the apartment.”
　　What? “No, Christian—you have to stay with me,” I
　　plead.
　　Christian releases me. “Do as you’re told, Anastasia.
　　Wait here.”
　　No!
　　“Sawyer?” Christian says.
　　Sawyer opens the foyer door to let Christian enter the
　　apartment then shuts the door behind him and stands in
　　front of it, staring impassively down at me.
　　Holy shit. Christian! All manner of horrific outcomes
　　run through my mind, but all I can do is stand and wait.
　　Sawyer talks into his sleeve again.
　　“Taylor, Mr. Grey has entered the apartment.” He flinches
　　and grabs the earpiece, pulling it out of his ear, presumably
　　receiving some powerful invective from Taylor.
　　Oh no—if Taylor is worried . . .
　　“Please let me go in,” I plead.
　　“Sorry, Miss Steele. This won’t take long.” Sawyer
　　holds both hands up in a defensive gesture. “Taylor and
　　the guys are just coming into the apartment now.”
　　Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock-still, I listen
　　Oh. I feel so impotent. Standing stock-still, I listen
　　avidly for the slightest sound, but all I hear is my
　　aggravated breathing. It’s loud and shallow, my scalp
　　prickles, my mouth is dry, and I feel faint. Please, let
　　Christian be okay, I pray silently.
　　I have no idea how much time passes, and still we hear
　　nothing. Surely no sound is good—there are no gunshots. I
　　begin pacing around the table in the foyer and examine the
　　paintings on the walls to distract myself.
　　I’ve never really looked at them before: all figurative
　　paintings, all religious—the Madonna and child, all sixteen
　　of them. How odd?
　　Christian isn’t religious, is he? All of the paintings in the
　　great room are abstracts—these are so different. They
　　don’t distract me for long—Where is Christian?
　　I stare at Sawyer and he watches me impassively.
　　“What’s happening?”
　　“No news, Miss Steele.”
　　Abruptly, the doorknob moves. Sawyer spins like a
　　top and draws a gun from his shoulder holster.
　　top and draws a gun from his shoulder holster.
　　I freeze. Christian appears at the door.
　　“All clear,” he says, frowning at Sawyer, who puts his
　　gun away immediately and steps back to let me in.
　　“Taylor is overreacting,” Christian grumbles as he
　　holds out his hand to me. I stand gaping at him, unable to
　　move, drinking in every little detail: his unruly hair, the
　　tightness round his eyes, the tense jaw, the top two buttons
　　of his shirt undone. I think I must have aged ten years.
　　Christian frowns at me in concern, his eyes dark.
　　“It’s alright, baby.” He moves toward me, enveloping
　　me in his arms, and kisses my hair. “Come on, you’re
　　tired. Bed.”
　　“I was so worried,” I murmur, rejoicing in his embrace
　　and inhaling his sweet, sweet scent with my head against
　　his chest.
　　“I know. We’re all jumpy.”
　　Sawyer has disappeared, presumably into the
　　apartment.
　　“Honestly, your exes are proving to be very
　　challenging, Mr. Grey,” I mutter wryly. Christian relaxes.
　　“Yes. They are.”
　　He releases me and taking my hand, leads me across
　　the hallway and into the great room.
　　“Taylor and his crew are checking all the closets and
　　cupboards. I don’t think she’s here.”
　　“Why would she be here?” It makes no sense.
　　“Exactly.”
　　“Could she get in?”
　　“I don’t see how. But Taylor is overcautious
　　sometimes.”
　　“Have you searched your playroom?” I whisper.
　　Christian glances quickly at me, his brow creasing.
　　“Yes, it’s locked—but Taylor and I checked.”
　　I take a deep, cleansing breath.
　　“Do you want a drink or anything?” Christian asks.
　　“No.” Fatigue sweeps through me—I just want to go
　　to bed.
　　“Come. Let me put you to bed. You look exhausted.”
　　Christian’s expression softens.
　　Christian’s expression softens.
　　I frown. Isn’t he coming, too? Does he want to sleep
　　alone?
　　I’m relieved when he leads me into his bedroom. I
　　place my clutch bag on the chest of drawers and open it to
　　empty the contents. I spy Mrs. Robinson’s note.
　　“Here.” I pass it to Christian. “I don’t know if you
　　want to read this. I want to ignore it.”
　　Christian scans it briefly and his jaw tenses.
　　“I’m not sure what blanks she can fill in,” he says
　　dismissively. “I need to talk to Taylor.” He gazes down at
　　me. “Let me unzip your dress.”
　　“Are you going to call the police about the car?” I ask
　　as I turn around.
　　He sweeps my hair out of the way, his fingers softly
　　grazing my naked back, and tugs down my zipper.
　　“No. I don’t want the police involved. Leila needs
　　help, not police intervention, and I don’t want them here.
　　We just have to double our efforts to find her.” He leans
　　down and plants a gentle kiss on my shoulder.
　　down and plants a gentle kiss on my shoulder.
　　“Go to bed,” he orders and then he’s gone.
　　I lie, staring at the ceiling, waiting for him to return. So
　　much has happened today, so much to process. Where to
　　start?
　　I wake with a jolt—disorientated. Have I been asleep?
　　Blinking in the dim glow the hallway casts through the
　　slightly open bedroom door, I notice that Christian is not
　　with me. Where is he? I glance up. Standing at the end of
　　the bed is a shadow. A woman, maybe? Dressed in
　　black? It’s difficult to tell.
　　In my befuddled state, I reach across and switch on
　　the bedside light, then turn back to look but there’s no one
　　there. I shake my head. Did I imagine it? Dream it?
　　I sit up and look around the room, a vague, insidious

　　unease gripping me—but I am quite alone.
　　I rub my face. What time is it? Where’s Christian? The
　　alarm says it’s two fifteen in the morning.
　　Climbing groggily out of bed, I set off to hunt him
　　down, disconcerted by my overactive imagination. I am
　　seeing things now. It must be a reaction to the dramatic
　　events of the evening.
　　The main room is empty, the only light emanating from
　　the three pendulum lamps above the breakfast bar. But his
　　study door is ajar, and I hear him on the phone.
　　“I don’t know why you’re calling at this hour. I have
　　nothing to say to you . . . well, you can tell me now. You
　　don’t have to leave a message.”
　　I stand motionless by the door, eavesdropping guiltily.
　　Who is he talking to?
　　“No, you listen. I asked you, and now I am telling you.
　　Leave her alone. She’s nothing to do with you. Do you
　　understand?”
　　He sounds belligerent and angry. I hesitate to knock.
　　“I know you do. But I mean it, Elena. Leave her the
　　fuck alone. Do I need to put it in triplicate for you? Are
　　you hearing me? . . . Good. Good night.” He slams the
　　phone down on the desk.
　　phone down on the desk.
　　Oh shit. I knock tentatively on the door.
　　“What?” he snarls, and I almost want to run and hide.
　　He sits at his desk with his head in his hands. He
　　glances up, his expression ferocious, but his face softens
　　immediately when he sees me. His eyes are wide and
　　cautious. Suddenly, he looks so tired and my heart
　　constricts.
　　He blinks, and his eyes sweep down my legs and back
　　again. I am wearing one of his T-shirts.
　　“You should be in satin or silk, Anastasia,” he
　　breathes. “But even in my T-shirt you look beautiful.”
　　Oh, an unexpected compliment. “I missed you. Come
　　to bed.”
　　He rises slowly out of the chair still in his white shirt
　　and black dress pants. But now his eyes are shining and
　　full of promise . . . but there’s a trace of sadness, too. He
　　stands in front of me, staring intently but not touching me.
　　“Do you know what you mean to me?” he murmurs.
　　“If something happened to you, because of me . . .” His
　　“If something happened to you, because of me . . .” His
　　voice trails off, his brow creasing, and the pain that flashes
　　across his face is almost palpable. He looks so vulnerable
　　—his fear very much apparent.
　　“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I reassure him, my
　　voice soothing. I reach up and stroke his face, running my
　　fingers through the stubble on his cheek. It’s unexpectedly
　　soft. “Your beard grows quickly,” I whisper, unable to
　　hide the wonder in my voice at this beautiful, fucked-up
　　man who stands before me.
　　I trace the line of his bottom lip then trail my fingers
　　down his throat, to the faint smudge of lipstick at the base
　　of his neck. He gazes down at me, still not touching me, his
　　lips parted. I run my index finger along the line, and he
　　closes his eyes. His soft breathing quickens. My fingers
　　reach the edge of his shirt, and I run them down to the next
　　fastened button.
　　“I’m not going to touch you. I just want to undo your
　　shirt,” I whisper.
　　His eyes open wide, regarding me with alarm. But he
　　doesn’t move, and he doesn’t stop me. Very slowly I
　　unfasten the button, holding the material away from his
　　skin, and move tentatively down to the next button,
　　repeating the process—slowly, concentrating on what I am
　　doing.
　　I don’t want to touch him. Well, I do . . . but I won’t .
　　On the fourth button, the red line reappears, and I smile
　　shyly up at him.
　　“Back on home territory.” I trace the line with my
　　fingers before undoing the final button. I pull his shirt open
　　and move to his cuffs, removing his black polished stone
　　cufflinks one at a time.
　　“Can I take your shirt off?” I ask, my voice low.
　　He nods, eyes still wide, as I reach up and pull his shirt
　　over his shoulders. He frees his hands so he’s standing in
　　front of me naked from the waist up. With his shirt off, he
　　seems to recover his equilibrium. He smirks down at me.
　　“What about my pants, Miss Steele?” he asks, raising
　　an eyebrow.
　　“In the bedroom. I want you in your bed.”
　　“In the bedroom. I want you in your bed.”
　　“Do you now? Miss Steele, you are insatiable.”
　　“I can’t think why.” I grab his hand, pull him from his
　　study, and lead him to his bedroom. The room is chilly.
　　“You opened the balcony door?” he asks, frowning
　　down at me as we arrive in his room.
　　“No.” I don’t remember doing that. I recall scanning
　　the room when I woke. The door was definitely closed.
　　Oh shit . . . All the blood rushes from my face, and I
　　stare at Christian as my mouth falls open.
　　“What?” he snaps, glaring at me.
　　“When I woke . . . there was someone in here,” I
　　whisper. “I thought it was my imagination.”
　　“What?” He looks horrified and dashes to the balcony
　　door, peers out, then steps back into the room and locks
　　the door behind him. “Are you sure? Who?” he asks his
　　voice tight.
　　“A woman, I think. It was dark. I’d only just woken
　　up.”
　　“Get dressed,” he snarls at me on his way back in.
　　“Get dressed,” he snarls at me on his way back in.
　　“Now!”
　　“My clothes are upstairs,” I whimper.
　　He pulls open one of the drawers in his chest of
　　drawers and fishes out a pair of sweatpants.
　　“Put these on.” They are far too big, but he is not to be
　　argued with.
　　He swipes a T-shirt, too, and quickly pulls it over his
　　head. Grabbing the bedside phone, he presses two
　　buttons.
　　“She’s still fucking here,” he hisses down the phone.
　　Approximately three seconds later, Taylor and one of
　　the other security guys, burst into Christian’s bedroom.
　　Christian gives them a précis of what has happened.
　　“How long ago?” Taylor demands, staring at me all
　　businesslike. He’s still wearing his jacket. Does this man
　　ever sleep?
　　“About ten minutes,” I mutter, for some reason feeling
　　guilty.
　　“She knows the apartment like the back of her hand,”
　　says Christian. “I am taking Anastasia away now. She’s
　　hiding here somewhere. Find her. When is Gail back?
　　“Tomorrow evening, sir.”
　　“She’s not to return until this place is secure.
　　Understand?” Christian snaps.
　　“Yes, sir. Will you be going to Bellevue?”
　　“I’m not leading this problem to my parents. Book me
　　somewhere.”
　　“Yes. I’ll call you.”
　　“Aren’t we all overreacting slightly?” I ask.
　　Christian glowers at me. “She may have a gun,” he
　　growls.
　　“Christian, she was standing at the end of the bed. She
　　could have shot me then, if that’s what she wanted to do.”
　　Christian pauses for a moment to rein in his temper, I
　　think. In a menacingly soft voice he says, “I’m not
　　prepared to take the risk. Taylor, Anastasia needs shoes.”
　　Christian disappears into his closet while the security
　　guy watches me. I can’t remember his name, Ryan maybe.
　　He looks alternately down the hall and to the balcony
　　He looks alternately down the hall and to the balcony
　　windows. Christian emerges a couple of minutes later with
　　a leather messenger bag, wearing jeans and his pinstriped
　　blazer. He drapes a denim jacket around my shoulders.
　　“Come.” He clasps my hand tightly, and I have to
　　practically run to keep up with his long strides into the
　　great room.
　　“I can’t believe she could hide somewhere in here,” I
　　mutter, staring out the balcony doors.
　　“It’s a big place. You haven’t seen it all yet.”
　　“Why don’t you just call her . . . tell her you want to
　　talk to her?”
　　“Anastasia, she’s unstable, and she may be armed,” he
　　says irritably.
　　“So we just run?”
　　“For now—yes.”
　　“Supposing she tries to shoot Taylor?”
　　“Taylor knows and understands guns,” he says with
　　distaste. “He’ll be quicker with a gun than she is.”
　　“Ray was in the army. He’s taught me to shoot.”
　　“Ray was in the army. He’s taught me to shoot.”
　　Christian raises his eyebrows and for a moment looks
　　utterly bemused. “You, with a gun?” he says incredulously.
　　“Yes.” I am affronted. “I can shoot, Mr. Grey, so
　　you’d better beware. It’s not just crazy ex-subs you need
　　to worry about.”
　　“I’ll bear that in mind, Miss Steele,” he answers dryly,
　　amused, and it feels good to know that even in this
　　ridiculously tense situation, I can make him smile.
　　Taylor meets us in the foyer and hands me my small
　　suitcase and my black Converse. I am stunned that he’s
　　packed me some clothes. I smile shyly at him with
　　gratitude, and his returning smile is swift and reassuring.
　　Before I can stop myself—I hug him, hard. He’s taken by
　　surprise, and when I release him, he’s pink in both cheeks.
　　“Be careful,” I murmur.
　　“Yes, Miss Steele,” he mutters.
　　Christian frowns at me and then looks questioningly at
　　Taylor, who smiles very slightly and adjusts his tie.
　　“Let me know where I’m going.” Christian says.
　　Taylor reaches into his jacket, pulls out his wallet, and
　　hands Christian a credit card.
　　“You might want to use this when you get there.”
　　Christian nods. “Good thinking.”
　　Ryan joins us. “Sawyer and Reynolds found nothing,”
　　he says to Taylor.
　　“Accompany Mr. Grey and Miss Steele to the
　　garage,” Taylor orders.
　　The garage is deserted. Well, it is nearly three in the
　　morning. Christian ushers me into the passenger seat of the
　　R8 and puts my case and his bag in the trunk at the front
　　of the car. The Audi beside us is a complete mess—every
　　tire slashed, white paint splattered all over it. It’s chilling
　　and makes me grateful that Christian is taking me
　　somewhere else.
　　“A replacement will arrive on Monday,” Christian says
　　bleakly when he’s seated beside me.
　　“How could she have known it was my car?”
　　He glances anxiously at me and sighs. “She had an
　　Audi A3. I buy one for all my submissives—it’s one of the
　　Audi A3. I buy one for all my submissives—it’s one of the
　　safest cars in its class.”
　　Oh. “So, not so much a graduation present, then.”
　　“Anastasia, despite what I hoped, you have never been
　　my submissive, so technically it is a graduation present.”
　　He pulls out of the parking space and speeds to the exit.
　　Despite what he hoped. Oh no . . . my subconscious
　　shakes her head sadly. This is what we come back to all
　　the time.
　　“Are you still hoping?” I whisper.
　　The in-car phone buzzes. “Grey,” Christian snaps.
　　“Fairmont Olympic. In my name.”
　　“Thank you, Taylor. And, Taylor, be careful.”
　　Taylor pauses. “Yes, sir,” he says quietly, and
　　Christian hangs up.
　　The streets of Seattle are deserted, and Christian roars
　　up Fifth Avenue toward the I-5. Once on the interstate, he
　　floors the gas pedal, heading north. He accelerates so
　　quickly I’m momentarily thrown back in my seat.
　　I peek at him. He’s deep in thought, radiating a deadly
　　I peek at him. He’s deep in thought, radiating a deadly
　　brooding silence. He hasn’t answered my question. He
　　glances frequently at the rearview mirror, and I realize he’s
　　checking that we’re not being followed. Perhaps that’s
　　why we’re on the I-5. I thought the Fairmont was in
　　Seattle.
　　I gaze out of the window, trying to rationalize my
　　exhausted, overactive mind. If she’d wanted to hurt me,
　　she had ample opportunity in the bedroom.
　　“No. It’s not what I hope for, not anymore. I thought
　　that was obvious.” Christian interrupts my introspection,
　　his voice soft.
　　I blink at him, pulling his denim jacket tighter around
　　me, and I don’t know if the chill is emanating from within
　　me or from outside.
　　“I worry that, you know . . . that I’m not enough.”
　　“You’re more than enough. For the love of God,
　　Anastasia, what do I have to do?”
　　Tell me about yourself. Tell me you love me.
　　“Why did you think I’d leave when I told you Dr.
　　Flynn had told me all there was to know about you?”
　　He sighs heavily, closing his eyes for a moment, and for
　　the longest time he doesn’t answer. “You cannot begin to
　　understand the depths of my depravity, Anastasia. And it’s
　　not something I want to share with you.”
　　“And you really think I’d leave, if I knew?” My voice
　　is high, incredulous. Doesn’t he understand that I love him?

　　“Do you think so little of me?”
　　“I know you’ll leave,” he says sadly.
　　“Christian . . . I think that’s very unlikely. I can’t
　　imagine being without you.” Ever . . .
　　“You left me once—I don’t want to go there again.”
　　“Elena said she saw you last Saturday,” I whisper
　　quietly.
　　“She didn’t.” He frowns.
　　“You didn’t go to see her, when I left?”
　　“No,” he snaps, irritated. “I just told you I didn’t—and
　　I don’t like to be doubted,” he scolds. “I didn’t go
　　anywhere last weekend. I sat and made the glider you
　　gave me. Took me forever,” he adds quietly.
　　gave me. Took me forever,” he adds quietly.
　　My heart clenches again. Mrs. Robinson said she saw
　　him.
　　Did she or didn’t she? She’s lying. Why?
　　“Contrary to what Elena thinks, I don’t rush to her with
　　all my problems, Anastasia. I don’t rush to anybody. You
　　may have noticed—I’m not much of a talker.” He tightens
　　his hold on the steering wheel.
　　“Carrick told me you didn’t talk for two years.”
　　“Did he now?” Christian’s mouth presses into a hard
　　line.
　　“I kind of pumped him for information.” Embarrassed,
　　I stare at my fingers.
　　“So what else did Daddy say?”
　　“He said your mom was the doctor who examined you
　　when you were brought into the hospital. After you were
　　discovered in your apartment.”
　　Christian’s expression remains blank . . . careful.
　　“He said learning the piano helped. And Mia.”
　　His lips curl in a fond smile at the mention of her name.
　　His lips curl in a fond smile at the mention of her name.
　　After a moment he says, “She was about six months old
　　when she arrived. I was thrilled, Elliot less so. He’d
　　already had to contend with my arrival. She was perfect.”
　　The sweet, sad awe in his voice is affecting. “Less so
　　now, of course,” he mutters, and I recall her successful
　　attempts at the ball to thwart our lascivious intentions. It
　　makes me giggle.
　　Christian gives me a sideways glance. “You find that
　　amusing, Miss Steele?”
　　“She seemed determined to keep us apart.”
　　He laughs mirthlessly. “Yes, she’s quite accomplished.”
　　He reaches across and squeezes my knee. “But we got
　　there in the end.” He smiles then glances in the rearview
　　mirror once more. “I don’t think we’ve been followed.”
　　He turns off the I-5 and heads back to central Seattle.
　　“Can I ask you something about Elena?” We are
　　stopped at some traffic lights.
　　He gazes at me warily. “If you must,” he mutters
　　sullenly, but I don’t let his irritability deter me.
　　“You told me ages ago that she loved you in a way you
　　found acceptable. What did that mean?”
　　“Isn’t it obvious?” he asks.
　　“Not to me.”
　　“I was out of control. I couldn’t bear to be touched. I
　　can’t bear it now. For a fourteen, fifteen-year-old
　　adolescent boy with hormones raging, it was a difficult
　　time. She showed me a way to let off steam.”
　　Oh. “Mia said you were a brawler.”
　　“Christ, what is it with my loquacious family? Actually
　　—it’s you.” We’ve stopped at more lights, and he narrows
　　his eyes at me. “You inveigle information out of people.”
　　He shakes his head in mock disgust.
　　“Mia volunteered that information. In fact, she was
　　very forthcoming. She was worried you’d start a brawl in
　　the marquee if you didn’t win me at the auction,” I mutter
　　indignantly.
　　“Oh, baby, there was no danger of that. There was no
　　way I would let anyone else dance with you.”
　　“You let Dr. Flynn.”
　　“You let Dr. Flynn.”
　　“He’s always the exception to the rule.”
　　Christian pulls into the impressive, leafy driveway of
　　the Fairmont Olympic Hotel and parks near the front door,
　　beside a quaint stone fountain.
　　“Come.” He climbs out of the car and retrieves our
　　luggage. A valet rushes toward us, looking surprised—no
　　doubt at our late arrival. Christian tosses him the car keys.
　　“Name of Taylor,” he says. The valet nods and can’t
　　contain his glee as he leaps into the R8 and drives off.
　　Christian takes my hand and strides into the lobby.
　　As I stand beside him at the reception desk, I feel
　　utterly, utterly ridiculous. Here I am, in Seattle’s most
　　prestigious hotel, dressed in an oversized denim jacket,
　　oversized sweatpants, and an old T-shirt next to this
　　elegant, beautiful, Greek god. No wonder the receptionist
　　is looking from one to the other as if the equation doesn’t
　　add up. Of course, she’s over-awed by Christian. I roll my
　　eyes as she flushes crimson and stutters. Jeez, even her
　　hands are shaking.
　　hands are shaking.
　　“Do . . . you need a hand . . . with your bags, Mr.
　　Taylor?” she asks, going scarlet again.
　　“No, Mrs. Taylor and I can manage.”
　　Mrs. Taylor! But I’m not wearing a ring. I put my
　　hands behind my back.
　　“You’re in the Cascade Suite, Mr. Taylor, eleventh
　　floor. Our bellboy will help with your bags.”
　　“We’re fine,” Christian says curtly. “Where are the
　　elevators?”
　　Miss Flushing Crimson explains, and Christian grasps
　　my hand once more. I glance briefly round the impressive,
　　sumptuous lobby full of overstuffed chairs, deserted save
　　for a dark-haired woman sitting on a cozy sofa, feeding
　　tidbits to her westie. She glances up and smiles at us as we
　　make our way to the elevators. So the hotel allows pets?
　　Odd for a place so grand!
　　The suite has two bedrooms, a formal dining room,
　　and comes complete with grand piano. A log fire blazes in
　　the massive main room. Jeez . . . This suite is bigger than
　　my apartment.
　　“Well, Mrs. Taylor, I don’t know about you, but I’d
　　really like a drink,” Christian mutters, locking the front
　　door securely.
　　In the bedroom, he puts my case and his satchel on the
　　ottoman at the foot of the king-size four-poster bed and
　　leads me by the hand into the main room where the fire is
　　burning brightly. It’s a welcome sight. I stand and warm
　　my hands while Christian fixes us both a drink.
　　“Armagnac?”
　　“Please.”
　　After a moment, he joins me by the fire and hands me
　　a crystal brandy glass.
　　“It’s been quite a day, huh?”
　　I nod and his gray eyes gaze at me searchingly,
　　concerned.
　　“I’m okay,” I whisper reassuringly. “How about you?”
　　“Well, right now I’d like to drink this and then, if
　　you’re not too tired, take you to bed and lose myself in
　　you.”
　　you.”
　　“I think that can be arranged, Mr. Taylor.” I smile
　　shyly at him as he shuffles out of his shoes and peels off his
　　socks.
　　“Mrs. Taylor, stop biting your lip,” he whispers.
　　I blush into my glass. The Armagnac is delicious,
　　leaving a burning warmth in its wake as it glides silkily
　　down my throat. When I glance up at Christian, he’s
　　sipping his brandy, watching me, his eyes dark—hungry.
　　“You never cease to amaze me, Anastasia. After a day
　　like today—or yesterday, rather—you’re not whining or
　　running off into the hills screaming. I am in awe of you.
　　You’re very strong.”
　　“You’re a very good reason to stay,” I murmur. “I told
　　you, Christian, I’m not going anywhere, no matter what
　　you’ve done. You know how I feel about you.”
　　His mouth twists as if he doubts my words, and his
　　brow creases as if what I’m saying is painful for him to
　　hear. Oh, Christian, what do I have to do to make you
　　realize how I feel?
　　realize how I feel?
　　Let him beat you, my subconscious sneers at me. I
　　scowl inwardly at her.
　　“Where are you going to hang José’s portraits of me?”
　　I try to lighten the mood.
　　“That depends.” His lips twitch. This is obviously a
　　much more palatable topic of conversation for him.
　　“On what?”
　　“Circumstances,” he says mysteriously. “His show’s
　　not over yet, so I don’t have to decide straight away.”
　　I cock my head to one side and narrow my eyes.
　　“You can look as sternly as you like, Mrs. Taylor. I’m
　　saying nothing,” he teases.
　　“I may torture the truth from you.”
　　He raises an eyebrow. “Really, Anastasia, I don’t think
　　you should make promises you can’t fulfill.”
　　Oh my, is that what he thinks? I place my glass on the
　　mantelpiece, reach over, and much to Christian’s surprise,
　　take his glass and place it beside mine.
　　“We’ll just have to see about that,” I murmur. Very
　　bravely—emboldened by the brandy, no doubt—I take
　　Christian’s hand and pull him toward the bedroom. At the
　　foot of the bed I stop. Christian is trying to hide his
　　amusement.
　　“Now you have me in here, Anastasia, what are you
　　going to do with me?” he teases, his voice low.
　　“I’m going to start by undressing you. I want to finish
　　what I started earlier.” I reach for the lapels on his jacket,
　　careful not to touch him, and he doesn’t flinch but he’s
　　holding his breath.
　　Gently, I push his jacket over his shoulders, and his
　　eyes stay on mine, all traces of humor gone, as they grow
　　larger, burning into me, wary and needful? There are so
　　many interpretations of his look. What is he thinking? I
　　place his jacket on the ottoman.
　　“Now your T-shirt,” I whisper and lift it by the hem.
　　He cooperates, raising his arms and backing away, making
　　it easier for me to pull it off. Once off, he gazes down at
　　me, intently, wearing just his jeans that hang so
　　provocatively from his hips. The band of his boxer briefs is
　　provocatively from his hips. The band of his boxer briefs is
　　visible.
　　My eyes move hungrily up across his taut stomach to
　　the remains of the lipstick line, faded and smudged, then
　　up to his chest. I want nothing more than to run my tongue
　　through his chest hair to savor his taste.
　　“Now what?” he whispers, eyes blazing.
　　“I want to kiss you here.” I run my finger from hipbone
　　to hipbone across his belly.
　　His lips part as he inhales sharply. “I’m not stopping
　　you,” he breathes.
　　I take his hand. “You’d better lie down then,” I
　　murmur and lead him to the side of the four-poster bed.
　　He seems bewildered, and it occurs to me that perhaps no
　　one has taken the lead with him since . . . her. No, don’t
　　go there.
　　Lifting the covers, he sits on the edge of the bed,
　　gazing up at me, waiting, his expression wary and serious.
　　I stand before him and slip off his denim jacket and let it
　　drop to the floor, then I shuffle out of his sweatpants.
　　drop to the floor, then I shuffle out of his sweatpants.
　　He rubs his thumb over the tips of his fingers. He’s
　　itching to touch me, I can tell, but he suppresses the urge.
　　Taking a deep breath and beyond courageous, I reach for
　　the hem of my T-shirt and lift it over my head so I am
　　naked before him. His eyes don’t leave mine, but he
　　swallows and his lips part.
　　“You are Aphrodite, Anastasia,” he murmurs.
　　I clasp his face in my hands, tip his head up, and bend
　　to kiss him. He groans low in his throat.
　　As I place my mouth on his, he grabs my hips, and
　　before I know it, I am pinned beneath him, his legs forcing
　　mine apart so that he’s cradled against my body between
　　my legs. He’s kissing me, ravaging my mouth, our tongues
　　entwined. His hand trails from my thigh, over my hip, along
　　my belly to my breast, squeezing, kneading, and pulling
　　enticingly on my nipple.
　　I groan and tilt my pelvis involuntarily against him,
　　finding a delicious friction against the seam of his fly and his
　　growing erection. He stops kissing me and gazes down at
　　me bemused and breathless. He flexes his hips so his
　　erection pushes against me. . . . Yes. Right there.
　　I close my eyes and moan, and he does it again, but
　　this time I push back, relishing his answering moan as he
　　kisses me again. He continues the slow delicious torture—
　　rubbing me, rubbing him. And he’s right—getting lost in
　　him—it’s intoxicating to the exclusion of everything else.
　　All my worries are obliterated.
　　I am here in this moment with him—my blood singing
　　in my veins, thrumming loudly through my ears, mixed with
　　the sound of our panting breaths. I bury my hands in his
　　hair, holding him to my mouth, consuming him, my tongue
　　as avaricious as his. I trail my fingers down his arms, down
　　his lower back to the waistband of his jeans and push my
　　intrepid, greedy hands inside, urging him on and on—
　　forgetting everything, except us.