Slowly, Christian eases The Grace out of her berth
　　and toward the marina entrance. Behind us, a small crowd
　　has gathered on the dockside to watch our departure.
　　Small children are waving, and I wave back.
　　Christian glances over his shoulder, then pulls me
　　between his legs and points out various dials and gadgets
　　in the cockpit. “Grab the wheel,” he orders, bossy as ever,
　　but I do as I’m told.
　　“Aye, aye, captain!” I giggle.
　　Placing his hands snugly over mine, he continues to
　　steer our course out of the marina, and within a few
　　minutes, we are out on the open sea, slap into the cold
　　minutes, we are out on the open sea, slap into the cold
　　blue waters of Puget Sound. Away from the shelter of the
　　marina’s protective wall, the wind is stronger, and the sea
　　pitches and rolls beneath us.
　　I can’t help but grin, feeling Christian’s excitement—
　　this is such fun. We make a large curve until we are
　　heading west toward the Olympic Peninsula, the wind
　　behind us.
　　“Sail time,” Christian says, excited. “Here—you take
　　her. Keep her on this course.”
　　What? He grins, reacting to the horror in my face.
　　“Baby, it’s really easy. Hold the wheel and keep your
　　eye on the horizon over the bow. You’ll do great; you
　　always do. When the sails go up, you’ll feel the drag. Just
　　hold her steady. I’ll signal like this”—he makes a slashing
　　motion across his throat—“and you can cut the engines.
　　This button here.” He points to a large black button.
　　“Understand?”
　　“Yes.” I nod frantically, feeling panicky. Jeez—I
　　hadn’t expected to do anything!
　　He kisses me quickly, then he steps off his captain’s
　　chair and bounds up to the front of the boat to join Mac
　　where he starts unfurling sails, untying ropes, and operating
　　winches and pulleys. They work well together in a team,
　　shouting various nautical terms to each other, and it’s
　　warming to see Fifty interacting with someone else in such
　　a carefree manner.
　　Perhaps Mac is Fifty’s friend. He doesn’t seem to
　　have many, as far as I can tell, but then, I don’t have many
　　either. Well, not here in Seattle. The only friend I have is
　　on vacation sunning herself in St. James on the west coast
　　of Barbados.
　　I have a sudden pang for Kate. I miss my roommate
　　more than I thought I would when she left. I hope she
　　changes her mind and comes home with her brother Ethan,
　　rather than prolong her stay with Christian’s brother Elliot.
　　Christian and Mac hoist the mainsail. It fills and billows
　　out as the wind seizes it hungrily, and the boat lurches
　　suddenly, zipping forward. I feel it through the wheel.
　　Whoa!
　　Whoa!
　　They get to work on the headsail, and I watch
　　fascinated as it flies up the mast. The wind catches it,
　　stretching it taut.
　　“Hold her steady, baby, and cut the engines!” Christian
　　cries out to me over the wind, motioning me to switch off
　　the engines. I can only just hear his voice, but I nod
　　enthusiastically, gazing at the man I love, all windswept,
　　exhilarated, and bracing himself against the pitch and yaw
　　of the boat.
　　I press the button, the roar of the engines ceases, and
　　The Grace soars toward the Olympic Peninsula, skimming
　　across the water as if she’s flying. I want to yell and
　　scream and cheer—this has to be one of the most
　　exhilarating experiences of my life—except perhaps the
　　glider, and maybe the Red Room of Pain.
　　Holy cow, this boat can move! I stand firm, grasping
　　the wheel, fighting the rudder, and Christian is behind me
　　once more, his hands on mine.
　　“What do you think?” he shouts above the sound of
　　“What do you think?” he shouts above the sound of
　　the wind and the sea.
　　“Christian! This is fantastic.”
　　He beams, grinning from ear to ear. “You wait until the
　　spinney’s up.” He points with his chin toward Mac, who is
　　unfurling the spinnaker—a sail that’s a dark, rich red. It
　　reminds me of the walls in the playroom.
　　“Interesting color,” I shout.
　　He gives me a wolfish grin and winks. Oh, it’s
　　deliberate.
　　The spinney balloons out—a large, odd elliptical shape
　　—putting The Grace in overdrive. Finding her head, she
　　speeds over the Sound.
　　“Asymmetrical sail. For speed.” Christian answers my
　　unasked question.
　　“It’s amazing.” I can think of nothing better to say. I
　　have the most ridiculous grin on my face as we whip
　　through the water, heading for the majesty of the Olympic
　　Mountains and Bainbridge Island. Glancing back, I see
　　Seattle shrinking behind us, Mount Rainier in the far
　　distance.
　　I had not really appreciated how beautiful and rugged
　　Seattle’s surrounding landscape is—verdant, lush, and
　　temperate, tall evergreens and cliff faces jutting out here
　　and there. It has a wild but serene beauty on this glorious
　　sunny afternoon that takes my breath away. The stillness is
　　stunning compared to our speed as we whip across the
　　water.
　　“How fast are we going?”
　　“She’s doing 15 knots.”
　　“I have no idea what that means.”
　　“It’s about 17 miles an hour.”
　　“Is that all? It feels much faster.”
　　He squeezes my hands, smiling. “You look lovely,
　　Anastasia. It’s good to see some color in your cheeks . . .
　　and not from blushing. You look like you do in José’s
　　photos.”
　　I turn and kiss him.
　　“You know how to show a girl a good time, Mr.
　　Grey.”
　　Grey.”
　　“We aim to please, Miss Steele.” He scoops my hair
　　out of the way and kisses the back of my neck, sending
　　delicious tingles down my spine. “I like seeing you happy,”
　　he murmurs and tightens his arms around me.
　　I gaze out over the wide blue water, wondering what I
　　could possibly have done in the past to have fortune smile
　　and deliver this beautiful man to me.
　　Yes, you’re a lucky bitch, my subconscious snaps.
　　But you have your work cut out with him. He’s not
　　going to want this vanilla crap forever . . . you’re
　　going to have to compromise. I glare mentally at her
　　snarky, insolent face and rest my head against Christian’s
　　chest. But deep down I know my subconscious is right,
　　but I banish the thoughts. I don’t want to spoil my day.
　　An hour later, we are anchored in a small, secluded cove
　　off Bainbridge Island. Mac has gone ashore in the
　　inflatable—for what, I don’t know—but I have my
　　inflatable—for what, I don’t know—but I have my
　　suspicions because as soon as Mac starts the outboard
　　engine, Christian grabs my hand and practically drags me
　　into his cabin, a man with a mission.
　　Now he stands before me, exuding his intoxicating
　　sensuality as his deft fingers make quick work of the straps
　　on my lifejacket. He tosses it to one side and gazes intently
　　down at me, eyes dark, dilated.
　　I’m already lost and he’s barely touched me. He raises
　　his hand to my face, and his fingers move down my chin,
　　the column of my throat, my sternum, searing me with his
　　touch, to the first button of my blue blouse.
　　“I want to see you,” he breathes and dexterously
　　undoes the button. Bending, he plants a soft kiss on my
　　parted lips. I am panting and eager, aroused by the potent
　　combination of his captivating beauty, his raw sexuality in
　　the confines of this cabin, and the gentle sway of the boat.
　　He stands back.
　　“Strip for me,” he whispers, eyes burning.
　　Oh my. I’m only too happy to comply. Not taking my
　　Oh my. I’m only too happy to comply. Not taking my
　　eyes off his, I slowly undo each button, savoring his
　　scorching gaze. Oh, this is heady stuff. I can see his desire
　　—it’s evident on his face . . . and elsewhere.
　　I let my shirt fall to the floor and reach for the button
　　on my jeans.
　　“Stop,” he orders. “Sit.”
　　I sit down on the edge of the bed, and in one fluid
　　movement he’s on his knees in front of me, undoing the
　　laces of first one and then the other sneaker, pulling each
　　off, followed by my socks. He picks up my left foot and
　　raising it, plants a soft kiss on the pad of my big toe, then
　　grazes his teeth against it.
　　“Ah!” I moan as I feel the effect in my groin. He stands
　　in one smooth move, holds his hand out to me, and pulls
　　me up off the bed.
　　“Continue,” he says and stands back to watch me.
　　I ease the zipper of my jeans down and hook my
　　thumbs in the waistband as I sashay then slide the denim
　　down my legs. A soft smile plays on his lips, but his eyes
　　remain dark.
　　And I don’t know if it’s because he made love to me
　　this morning, and I mean really made love to me, gently,
　　sweetly, or if it was his impassioned declaration—yes . . . I
　　do—but I don’t feel embarrassed at all. I want to be sexy
　　for this man. He deserves sexy—he makes me feel sexy.
　　Okay, it’s new to me, but I’m learning under his expert
　　tutelage. And then again, so much is new to him, too. It
　　balances the seesaw between us, a little, I think.
　　I am wearing some of my new underwear—a white
　　lacy thong and matching bra—a designer brand with a
　　price tag to match. I step out of my jeans and stand there
　　for him in the lingerie he’s paid for, but I no longer feel
　　cheap. I feel his.
　　Reaching behind I unhook my bra, sliding the straps
　　down my arms, and drop it on top of my blouse. Slowly, I
　　slip my panties off, letting them fall to my ankles, and step
　　out of them, surprised by my grace.
　　Standing before him, I am naked and unashamed, and
　　I know it’s because he loves me. I no longer have to hide.
　　I know it’s because he loves me. I no longer have to hide.
　　He says nothing, just gazes at me. All I see is his desire, his
　　adoration even, and something else, the depth of his need
　　—the depth of his love for me.
　　He reaches down, lifts the hem of his cream-colored
　　sweater, and pulls it over his head, followed by his T-shirt,
　　revealing his chest, never taking his bold gray eyes off
　　mine. His shoes and socks follow before he grasps the
　　button of his jeans.
　　Reaching over, I whisper, “Let me.”
　　His lips purse briefly into an ooh shape, and he smiles.
　　“Be my guest.”
　　I step toward him, slip my fearless fingers inside the
　　waistband of his jeans, and tug so he’s forced to take a
　　step closer to me. He gasps involuntarily at my unexpected
　　audacity then smiles down at me. I undo the button, but
　　before I unzip him I let my fingers wander, tracing his
　　erection through the soft denim. He flexes his hips into my
　　palm and closes his eyes briefly, relishing my touch.
　　“You’re getting so bold, Ana, so brave,” he whispers
　　“You’re getting so bold, Ana, so brave,” he whispers
　　and clasps my face with both hands, bending to kiss me
　　deeply.
　　I put my hands on his hips—half on his cool skin and
　　half on the low-slung waistband of his jeans. “So are you,”
　　I murmur against his lips as my thumbs rub slow circles on
　　his skin, and he smiles.
　　“Getting there.”
　　I move my hands to the front of his jeans and pull
　　down the zipper. My intrepid fingers move through his
　　pubic hair to his erection, and I grasp him tightly.
　　He makes a low sound in his throat, his sweet breath
　　washing over me, and he kisses me again, lovingly. As my
　　hand moves over him, around him, stroking him, squeezing
　　him tightly, he puts his arms around me, his right hand flat
　　against the middle of my back and his fingers spread. His
　　left hand is in my hair, holding me to his mouth.
　　“Oh, I want you so much, baby,” he breathes, and
　　steps back suddenly to remove his jeans and boxers in one
　　swift, agile move. He is a fine, fine sight in or out of
　　clothes, every single inch of him.
　　He is perfect. His beauty desecrated only by his scars,
　　I think sadly. And they run so much deeper than his skin.
　　“What’s wrong, Ana?” he murmurs and gently strokes
　　my cheek with his knuckles.
　　“Nothing. Love me, now.”
　　He pulls me into his arms, kissing me, twisting his
　　hands into my hair. Our tongues entwined, he walks me
　　backward to the bed and gently lowers me onto it,
　　following me down so that he’s lying by my side.
　　He runs his nose along my jawline as my hands move
　　to his hair.
　　“Do you have any idea how exquisite your scent is,
　　Ana? It’s irresistible.”
　　His words do what they always do—flame my blood,
　　quicken my pulse—and he trails his nose down my throat,

　　across my breasts, kissing me reverentially as he does.
　　“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, as he takes one of
　　my nipples in his mouth and softly suckles.
　　I moan as my body bows off the bed.
　　I moan as my body bows off the bed.
　　“Let me hear you, baby.”
　　His hand trails down to my waist, and I glory in the feel
　　of his touch, skin to skin—his hungry mouth at my breasts
　　and his skilled long fingers caressing and stroking me,
　　cherishing me. Moving over my hips, over my behind, and
　　down my leg to my knee, and all this time he’s kissing and
　　sucking my breasts—oh my.
　　Grasping my knee, he suddenly hitches my leg up,
　　curling it over his hips, making me gasp, and I feel rather
　　than see his responding grin against my skin. He rolls over
　　so that I am astride him and hands me a foil packet.
　　I shift back, taking him in my hands, and I just can’t
　　resist him in all his glory. I bend and kiss him, taking him in
　　my mouth, swirling my tongue around him, then sucking
　　hard. He groans and flexes his hips so that he’s deeper in
　　my mouth.
　　Mmm . . . he tastes good. I want him inside me. I sit
　　up and gaze at him; he’s breathless, mouth open, watching
　　me intently.
　　me intently.
　　Hurriedly I tear open the condom and unroll it over
　　him. He holds out his hands for me. I take one and with
　　my other hand, position myself over him, then slowly claim
　　him as mine.
　　He groans low in his throat, closing his eyes.
　　The feel of him in me . . . stretching . . . filling me—
　　I moan softly—it’s divine. He places his hands on my hips
　　and moves me up, down, and pushes into me. Oh . . . it’s
　　so good.
　　“Oh, baby,” he whispers, and suddenly he sits up so
　　we’re nose to nose, and the sensation is extraordinary—so
　　full. I gasp, grabbing his upper arms as he clasps my head
　　in his hands and gazes into my eyes—his intense and gray,
　　burning with desire.
　　“Oh, Ana. What you make me feel,” he murmurs and
　　kisses me passionately with fervent ardor. I kiss him back,
　　dizzy with the delicious feeling of him buried deep inside
　　me.
　　“Oh, I love you,” I murmur. He groans as if pained to
　　hear my whispered words and rolls over, taking me with
　　him without breaking our precious contact, so that I’m
　　lying beneath him. I wrap my legs around his waist.
　　He stares down at me with adoring wonder, and I am
　　sure I mirror his expression as I reach up to caress his
　　beautiful face. Very slowly, he starts to move, closing his
　　eyes as he does and moaning softly.
　　The gentle sway of the boat and the peace and quiet
　　tranquility of the cabin are broken only by our mingled
　　breaths as he moves slowly in and out of me, so controlled
　　and so good—it’s heavenly. He puts his arm over my
　　head, his hand on my hair, and he caresses my face with
　　the other as he bends to kiss me.
　　I’m cocooned by him, as he loves me, slowly moving
　　in and out, savoring me. I touch him—sticking to the
　　boundaries—his arms, his hair, his lower back, his
　　beautiful behind—and my breathing accelerates as his
　　steady rhythm pushes me higher and higher. He’s kissing
　　my mouth, my chin, my jaw, then nibbling my ear. I can
　　hear his staccato breaths with each gentle thrust of his
　　hear his staccato breaths with each gentle thrust of his
　　body.
　　My body starts to quiver. Oh . . . This feeling that I
　　now know so well . . . I am close . . . Oh . . .
　　“That’s right, baby . . . give it up for me . . . Please . . .
　　Ana,” he murmurs and his words are my undoing.
　　“Christian,” I call out, and he groans as we both come
　　together.
　　“Mac will be back soon,” he murmurs.
　　“Hmm.” My eyes flicker open to meet his soft gray gaze.
　　Lord, his eyes are an amazing color—especially here, out
　　on the sea—reflecting the light bouncing off the water
　　through the small portholes into the cabin.
　　“As much as I’d like to lie here with you all afternoon,
　　he’ll need a hand with the dinghy.” Leaning over, Christian
　　kisses me tenderly. “Ana, you look so beautiful right now,
　　all mussed up and sexy. Makes me want you more.” He
　　smiles and rises from the bed. I lay on my front admiring
　　smiles and rises from the bed. I lay on my front admiring
　　the view.
　　“You ain’t so bad yourself, captain.” I smack my lips in
　　admiration and he grins.
　　I watch him move gracefully about the cabin as he
　　dresses. He really is divinely beautiful, and what’s more,
　　he’s just made such sweet love to me again. I can hardly
　　believe my good fortune. I can’t quite believe that this man
　　is mine. He sits down beside me to put on his shoes.
　　“Captain, eh?” he says dryly. “Well, I am master of this
　　vessel.”
　　I cock my head to one side. “You are master of my
　　heart, Mr. Grey.” And my body . . . and my soul.
　　He shakes his head incredulously and bends to kiss
　　me. “I’ll be on deck. There’s a shower in the bathroom if
　　you want one. Do you need anything? A drink?” he asks
　　solicitously, and all I can do is grin at him. Is this the same
　　man? Is this the same Fifty?
　　“What?” he says, reacting to my stupid grin.
　　“You.”
　　“You.”
　　“What about me?”
　　“Who are you and what have you done with
　　Christian?”
　　He lips twitch with a sad smile.
　　“He’s not very far away, baby,” he says softly, and
　　there’s a touch of melancholy in his voice that makes me
　　instantly regret asking the question. But he shakes it off.
　　“You’ll see him soon enough”—he smirks at me
　　—“especially if you don’t get up.” Reaching over, he
　　smacks me hard on my behind so I yelp and laugh at the
　　same time.
　　“You had me worried.”
　　“Did I, now?” Christian’s brow creases. “You do give
　　off some mixed signals, Anastasia. How’s a man supposed
　　to keep up?” He leans down and kisses me again. “Laters,
　　baby,” he adds, and with a dazzling smile, he gets up and
　　leaves me to my scattered thoughts.
　　When I surface on deck, Mac is back on board, but he
　　disappears onto the upper deck as I open the saloon
　　doors. Christian is on his Blackberry. Talking to whom? I
　　wonder. He wanders over and pulls me close, kissing my
　　hair.
　　“Great news . . . good. Yeah . . . Really? The fire
　　escape stairwell? . . . I see . . . Yes, tonight.”
　　He hits the end button, and the sound of the engines
　　firing up startles me. Mac must be in the cockpit above.
　　“Time to head back,” Christian says, kissing me once
　　more as he straps me into my lifejacket.
　　The sun is low in the sky behind us as we make our way
　　back to the marina, and I reflect on a wonderful afternoon.
　　Under Christian’s careful, patient tuition, I have now
　　stowed a mainsail, a headsail, and a spinnaker and learned
　　to tie a reef knot, clove hitch, and sheepshank. His lips
　　were twitching throughout the lesson.
　　“I may tie you up one day,” I mutter crabbily.
　　His mouth twists with humor. “You’ll have to catch me
　　first, Miss Steele.”
　　His words bring to mind him chasing me round the
　　apartment, the thrill, then the hideous aftermath. I frown
　　and shudder. After that, I left him.
　　Would I leave him again now that he’s admitted he
　　loves me? I gaze up into his clear gray eyes. Could I ever
　　leave him again—no matter what he did to me? Could I
　　betray him like that? No. I don’t think I could.
　　He’s given me a more thorough tour of this beautiful
　　boat, explaining all the innovative designs and techniques,
　　and the high-quality materials used to build it. I remember
　　the interview when I first met him. I picked up then on his
　　passion for ships. I thought his love was only for the
　　ocean-going freighters his company builds—not for supersexy,
　　sleek catamarans, too.
　　And, of course, he’s made sweet, unhurried love to
　　me. I shake my head, remembering my body bowed and
　　wanting beneath his expert hands. He is an exceptional
　　wanting beneath his expert hands. He is an exceptional
　　lover, I’m sure—though, of course, I have no comparison.
　　But Kate would have raved more if it was always like this;
　　it’s not like her to hold back on details.
　　But how long will this be enough for him? I just don’t
　　know, and the thought is unnerving.
　　Now he sits, and I stand in the safe circle of his arms
　　for hours, it seems, in comfortable, companionable silence
　　as The Grace glides closer and closer to Seattle. I have
　　the wheel, Christian advising on adjustments every so
　　often.
　　“There is poetry in sailing as old as the world,” he
　　murmurs in my ear.
　　“That sounds like a quote.”
　　I sense his grin. “It is. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.”
　　“Oh . . . I adore The Little Prince.”
　　“Me, too.”
　　It is early evening as Christian, his hands still on mine,
　　It is early evening as Christian, his hands still on mine,
　　steers us into the marina. There are lights winking from the
　　boats, reflecting off the dark water, but it is still light—a
　　balmy, bright evening, an overture for what is sure to be a
　　spectacular sunset.
　　A crowd gathers on the dockside as Christian slowly
　　turns the boat around in a relatively small space. He does it
　　with ease and reverses smoothly into the same berth we
　　left earlier. Mac jumps on to the dock and ties The Grace
　　securely to a bollard.
　　“Back again,” Christian murmurs.
　　“Thank you,” I murmur shyly. “That was a perfect
　　afternoon.”
　　Christian grins. “I thought so, too. Perhaps we can
　　enroll you in sailing school, so we can go out for a few
　　days, just the two of us.”
　　“I’d love that. We can christen the bedroom again and
　　again.”
　　He leans forward and kisses me under my ear.
　　“Hmm . . . I look forward to it, Anastasia,” he whispers,
　　making every single hair follicle on my body stand to
　　attention.
　　How does he do that?
　　“Come, the apartment is clean. We can go back.”
　　“What about our things at the hotel?”
　　“Taylor has collected them already.”
　　Oh! When?
　　“Earlier today, after he did a sweep of The Grace with
　　his team.” Christian answers my unspoken question.
　　“Does that poor man ever sleep?”
　　“He sleeps.” Christian quirks an eyebrow at me,
　　puzzled. “He’s just doing his job, Anastasia, which he’s
　　very good at. Jason is a real find.”
　　“Jason?”
　　“Jason Taylor.”
　　I remember when I thought Taylor was his first name.
　　Jason. It suits him—solid, reliable. For some reason it
　　makes me smile.
　　“You’re fond of Taylor,” Christian says, eyeing me
　　with speculation.
　　with speculation.
　　“I suppose I am.” His question derails me. He frowns.
　　“I’m not attracted to him, if that’s why you’re frowning.
　　Stop.”
　　Christian is almost pouting—sulky.
　　Jeez, he’s such a child sometimes. “I think Taylor
　　looks after you very well. That’s why I like him. He seems
　　kind, reliable and loyal. He has an avuncular appeal to
　　me.”
　　“Avuncular?”
　　“Yes.”
　　“Okay, avuncular.” Christian is testing the word and
　　meaning. I laugh.
　　“Oh, Christian, grow up, for heaven’s sake.”
　　His mouth drops open, surprised by my outburst, but
　　then he frowns as if considering my statement. “I’m trying,”
　　he says eventually.
　　“That you are. Very.” I answer softly but then roll my
　　eyes at him.
　　“What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at
　　“What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at
　　me, Anastasia.” He grins.
　　I smirk at him. “Well, if you behave yourself, maybe
　　we can relive some of those memories.”
　　His mouth twists with humor. “Behave myself?” He
　　raises his eyebrows. “Really, Miss Steele—what makes
　　you think I want to relive them?”
　　“Probably the way your eyes lit up like Christmas
　　when I said that.”
　　“You know me so well already,” he says dryly.
　　“I’d like to know you better.”
　　He smiles softly. “And I you, Anastasia.”
　　“Thanks, Mac.” Christian shakes McConnell’s hand and
　　steps on the dock.
　　“Always a pleasure, Mr. Grey, and good-bye. Ana,
　　great to meet you.”
　　I shake his hand shyly. He must know what Christian
　　and I were up to on the boat while he went ashore.

　　“Good day, Mac, and thank you.”
　　He grins at me and winks, making me flush. Christian
　　takes my hand, and we walk up the dock to the marina’s
　　promenade.
　　“Where’s Mac from?” I ask, curious about his accent.
　　“Ireland . . . Northern Ireland,” Christian corrects
　　himself.
　　“Is he your friend?”
　　“Mac? He works for me. Helped build The Grace.”
　　“Do you have many friends?”
　　He frowns. “Not really. Doing what I do . . . I don’t
　　cultivate friendships. There’s only—” He stops, his frown
　　deepening, and I know he was going to mention Mrs.
　　Robinson.
　　“Hungry?” he asks, trying to change the subject.
　　I nod. Actually, I’m famished.
　　“We’ll eat where I left the car. Come.”
　　Next to SP’s is a small Italian bistro called Bee’s. It
　　reminds me of the place in Portland—a few tables and
　　booths, the décor very crisp and modern with a large
　　black and white photograph of a turn-of-the-century fiesta
　　serving as a mural.
　　Christian and I are seated in a booth, poring over the
　　menu and sipping a delicious light Frascati. When I glance
　　up from the menu, having made my choice, Christian is
　　gazing at me speculatively.
　　“What?” I ask.
　　“You look lovely, Anastasia. The outdoors agrees with
　　you.”
　　I flush. “I feel rather wind-burned to tell the truth. But I
　　had a lovely afternoon. A perfect afternoon. Thank you.”
　　He smiles, his eyes warm. “My pleasure,” he murmurs.
　　“Can I ask you something?” I decide on a fact-finding
　　mission.
　　“Anything, Anastasia. You know that.” He cocks his
　　head to one side, looking delicious.
　　“You don’t seem to have many friends. Why is that?”
　　“You don’t seem to have many friends. Why is that?”
　　He shrugs and frowns. “I told you, I don’t really have
　　time. I have business associates—though that’s very
　　different from friendships, I suppose. I have my family and
　　that’s it. Apart from Elena.”
　　I ignore the mention of the bitch-troll. “No male friends
　　your own age that you can go out with and let off steam?”
　　“You know how I like to let off steam, Anastasia.”
　　Christian’s mouth twists. “And I’ve been working, building
　　up the business.” He looks puzzled. “That’s all I do—
　　except sail and fly occasionally.”
　　“Not even in college?”
　　“Not really.”
　　“Just Elena, then?”
　　He nods, his expression wary.
　　“Must be lonely.”
　　His lips curl in a small wistful smile. “What would you
　　like to eat?” he asks, changing the subject again.
　　“I’m going for the risotto.”
　　“Good choice.” Christian summons the waiter, putting
　　“Good choice.” Christian summons the waiter, putting
　　an end to that conversation.
　　After we’ve placed our order, I shift uncomfortably in
　　my seat, staring at my knotted fingers. If he’s in a talking
　　mood, I need to take advantage.
　　I have to talk to him about his expectations, about his,
　　um . . . needs.
　　“Anastasia, what’s wrong? Tell me.”
　　I glance up into his concerned face.
　　“Tell me,” he says more forcefully, and his concern
　　evolves into what? Fear? Anger?
　　I take a deep breath. “I’m just worried that this isn’t
　　enough for you. You know, to let off steam.”
　　His jaw tenses and his eyes harden. “Have I given you
　　any indication that this isn’t enough?”
　　“No.”
　　“Then why do you think that?”
　　“I know what you’re like. What you . . . um . . . need,”
　　I stutter.
　　He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with long
　　fingers.
　　“What do I have to do?” His voice is ominously soft as
　　if he’s angry, and my heart sinks.
　　“No, you misunderstand—you have been amazing, and
　　I know it’s just been a few days, but I hope I’m not
　　forcing you to be someone you’re not.”
　　“I’m still me, Anastasia—in all my fifty shades of
　　fuckedupness. Yes, I have to fight the urge to be
　　controlling . . . but that’s my nature, how I’ve dealt with
　　my life. Yes, I expect you to behave a certain way, and
　　when you don’t it’s both challenging and refreshing. We
　　still do what I like to do. You let me spank you after your
　　outrageous bid yesterday.” He smiles fondly at the
　　memory. “I enjoy punishing you. I don’t think the urge will
　　ever go . . . but I’m trying, and it’s not as hard as I thought
　　it would be.”
　　I squirm and flush, remembering our illicit tryst in his
　　childhood bedroom. “I didn’t mind that,” I whisper, smiling
　　shyly.
　　“I know.” His lips curl in a reluctant smile. “Neither did
　　“I know.” His lips curl in a reluctant smile. “Neither did
　　I. But let me tell you, Anastasia, this is all new to me and
　　these last few days have been the best in my life. I don’t
　　want to change anything.”
　　Oh!
　　“They’ve been the best in my life, too, without
　　exception,” I murmur and his smile broadens. My inner
　　goddess nods frantically in agreement—and nudges me
　　hard. Okay, okay.
　　“So you don’t want to take me into your playroom?”
　　He swallows and pales, all trace of humor gone. “No, I
　　don’t.”
　　“Why not?” I whisper. This is not the answer I
　　expected.
　　And yes, there it is, that little pinch of disappointment.
　　My inner goddess stomps off pouting, her arms crossed
　　like an angry toddler.
　　“The last time we were in there you left me,” he says
　　quietly. “I will shy away from anything that could make you
　　leave me again. I was devastated when you left. I
　　leave me again. I was devastated when you left. I
　　explained that. I never want to feel like that again. I’ve told
　　you how I feel about you.” His gray eyes are wide and
　　intense with his sincerity.
　　“But it hardly seems fair. It can’t be very relaxing for
　　you—to be constantly concerned about how I feel.
　　You’ve made all these changes for me, and I . . . I think I
　　should reciprocate in some way. I don’t know—
　　maybe . . . try . . . some role-playing games,” I stutter, my
　　face as crimson as the walls of the playroom.
　　Why is this so hard to talk about? I have done all
　　manner of kinky fuckery with this man, things I hadn’t even
　　heard of a few weeks ago, things that I would never have
　　thought possible, yet the hardest of all is talking to him.
　　“Ana, you do reciprocate, more than you know.
　　Please, please don’t feel like this.”
　　Gone is carefree Christian. His eyes are wider now
　　with alarm, and it’s gut-wrenching. “Baby, it’s only been
　　one weekend,” he continues. “Give us some time. I
　　thought a great deal about us last week when you left. We
　　need time. You need to trust me, and I you. Maybe in time
　　we can indulge, but I like how you are now. I like seeing
　　you this happy, this relaxed and carefree, knowing that I
　　had something to do with it. I have never—” He stops and
　　runs his hand through his hair. “We have to walk before
　　we can run.” Suddenly he smirks.
　　“What’s so funny?”
　　“Flynn. He says that all the time. I never thought I’d be
　　quoting him.”
　　“A Flynnism.”
　　Christian laughs. “Exactly.”
　　The waiter arrives with our starters and bruschetta, and
　　our conversation changes tack as Christian relaxes.
　　But when the unfeasibly large plates are placed before
　　us, I can’t help think how I have thought of Christian today
　　—relaxed, happy and carefree. At least he’s laughing now,
　　at ease again.
　　I breathe an inward sigh of relief as he starts quizzing
　　me about places I’ve been. This is a short discussion, since
　　I have never been anywhere except the continental US.
　　I have never been anywhere except the continental US.
　　Christian, on the other hand, has traveled the world. We
　　slip into an easier, happier conversation, talking about all
　　the places he’s visited.
　　After our tasty and filling meal, Christian drives back to
　　Escala, Eva Cassidy’s gentle sweet voice singing over the
　　speakers. It allows me a peaceful interlude in which to
　　think. I have had a mind-blowing day. Dr. Greene, our
　　shower, Christian’s admission, making love at the hotel
　　and on the boat, buying the car. Even Christian himself has
　　been so different. It’s as if he’s letting go of something or
　　rediscovering something—I don’t know.
　　Who knew he could be so sweet? Did he?
　　When I glance at him, he, too, looks lost in thought. It
　　strikes me then that he never really had an adolescence—a
　　normal one anyway. I shake my head.
　　My mind drifts back to the ball and dancing with Dr.
　　Flynn and Christian’s fear that Flynn had told me all about
　　Flynn and Christian’s fear that Flynn had told me all about
　　him. Christian is still hiding something from me. How can
　　we move on if he feels that way?
　　He thinks I might leave if I know him. He thinks that I
　　might leave if he’s himself. Oh, this man is so
　　complicated.
　　As we get closer to his home, he starts radiating
　　tension until it becomes palpable. As we drive, he scans
　　the sidewalks and side alleys, his eyes darting everywhere,
　　and I know he’s looking for Leila. I start looking, too.
　　Every young brunette is a suspect, but we don’t see her.
　　When he pulls into the garage, his mouth is set in a
　　tense, grim line. I wonder why we’ve come back here if
　　he’s going to be so wary and uptight. Sawyer is in the
　　garage, patrolling. The defiled Audi is gone. He comes to
　　open my door as Christian pulls in beside the SUV.
　　“Hello, Sawyer,” I murmur my greeting.
　　“Miss Steele.” He nods. “Mr. Grey.”
　　“No sign?” Christian asks.
　　“No, sir.”
　　Christian nods, grasps my hand, and heads for the
　　elevator. I know his brain is working overtime—he’s
　　distracted. Once we’re inside he turns to me.
　　“You are not allowed out of here alone. You
　　understand?” he snaps.
　　“Okay.” Jeez—keep your hair on. But his attitude
　　makes me smile. I want to hug myself—now this man, all
　　domineering and short with me I know. I marvel that I
　　would have found it so threatening only a week or so ago
　　when he spoke to me this way. But now, I understand him
　　so much better. This is his coping mechanism. He’s
　　stressed about Leila, he loves me, and he wants to protect
　　me.
　　“What’s so funny?” he murmurs, a hint of amusement
　　in his expression.
　　“You are.”
　　“Me? Miss Steele? Why am I funny?” he pouts.
　　Christian pouting is . . . hot.
　　“Don’t pout.”
　　“Why?” He’s even more amused.
　　“Why?” He’s even more amused.
　　“Because it has the same effect on me as I have on you
　　when I do this.” I bite my lip deliberately.
　　He raises his eyebrows, surprised and pleased at the
　　same time. “Really?” He pouts again and leans down to
　　give me a swift chaste kiss.
　　I raise my lips to meet his, and in the nanosecond when
　　our lips touch, the nature of the kiss changes—wildfire
　　spreading through my veins from this intimate point of
　　contact, driving me to him.
　　Suddenly, my fingers are curling in his hair as he grabs
　　me and pushes me against the elevator wall, his hands
　　framing my face, holding me to his lips as our tongues
　　thrash against each other. And I don’t know if it’s the
　　confines of the elevator making everything much more real,
　　but I feel his need, his anxiety, his passion.
　　Holy shit. I want him, here, now.
　　The elevator pings to a halt, the doors slide open, and
　　Christian drags his face from mine, his hips still pinning me
　　to the wall, his erection digging into me.
　　to the wall, his erection digging into me.
　　“Whoa,” he murmurs panting.
　　“Whoa,” I mirror him, dragging a welcome breath into
　　my lungs.
　　He gazes at me, eyes blazing. “What you do to me,
　　Ana.” He traces my lower lip with his thumb.
　　Out of the corner of my eye, Taylor steps backward
　　so he’s no longer in my line of sight. I reach up and kiss
　　Christian at the corner of his beautifully sculptured mouth.
　　“What you do to me, Christian.”
　　He steps back and takes my hand, his eyes darker

　　now, hooded. “Come,” he orders.
　　Taylor is still in the foyer, waiting discreetly for us.
　　“Good evening, Taylor,” Christian says cordially.
　　“Mr. Grey, Miss Steele.”
　　“I was Mrs. Taylor yesterday.” I grin at Taylor, who
　　flushes.
　　“That has a nice ring to it, Miss Steele,” Taylor says
　　matter-of-factly.
　　“I thought so, too.”
　　Christian tightens his hold on my hand, scowling. “If
　　you two have quite finished, I’d like a debrief.” He glares
　　at Taylor, who now looks uncomfortable, and I cringe
　　inwardly. I have overstepped the mark.
　　“Sorry,” I mouth at Taylor, who shrugs and smiles
　　kindly before I turn to follow Christian.
　　“I’ll be with you shortly. I just want a word with Miss
　　Steele,” Christian says to Taylor, and I know I’m in
　　trouble.
　　Christian leads me into his bedroom and closes the
　　door.
　　“Don’t flirt with the staff, Anastasia,” he scolds.
　　I open my mouth to defend myself—then close it again,
　　then open it. “I wasn’t flirting. I was being friendly—there
　　is a difference.”
　　“Don’t be friendly with the staff or flirt with them. I
　　don’t like it.”
　　Oh. Good-bye, carefree Christian. “I’m sorry,” I
　　mutter and stare down at my fingers. He hasn’t made me
　　feel like a child all day. Reaching down he cups my chin,
　　feel like a child all day. Reaching down he cups my chin,
　　pulling my head up to meet his eyes.
　　“You know how jealous I am,” he whispers.
　　“You have no reason to be jealous, Christian. You
　　own me body and soul.”
　　He blinks as if he’s finding this fact hard to process. He
　　leans down and kisses me quickly, but with none of the
　　passion we experienced a moment ago in the elevator.
　　“I won’t be long. Make yourself at home,” he says
　　sulkily and turns, leaving me standing in his bedroom,
　　dazed and confused.
　　Why on earth would he be jealous of Taylor? I
　　shake my head in disbelief.
　　Glancing at the alarm clock, I notice it’s just after eight.
　　I decide to get my clothes ready for work tomorrow. I
　　head upstairs to my room and open the walk-in closet. It’s
　　empty. All the clothes have gone. Oh no! Christian has
　　taken me at my word and disposed of the clothes. Shit.
　　My subconscious glares at me. Well, that will be you
　　and your big mouth.
　　and your big mouth.
　　Why did he take me at my word? My mother’s advice
　　comes back to haunt me, “Men are so literal, darling.” I
　　pout, staring at the empty space. There were some lovely
　　clothes, too, like the silver dress I wore to the ball.
　　I wander disconsolately into the bedroom, Wait a
　　moment—what is going on? The iPad is gone. Where’s
　　my Mac? Oh no. My first uncharitable thought is that Leila
　　may have stolen them.
　　I fly back downstairs and back into Christian’s
　　bedroom. On the bedside table are my Mac, my iPad, and
　　my satchel. It’s all here.
　　I open the walk-in closet door. My clothes are here—
　　all of them—sharing space with Christian’s clothes. When
　　did this happen? Why does he never warn me before he
　　does things like this?
　　I turn, and he’s standing in the doorway.
　　“Oh, they managed the move,” he mutters, distracted.
　　“What’s wrong?” I ask. His face is grim.
　　“Taylor thinks Leila was getting in through the
　　emergency stairwell. She must have had a key. All the
　　locks have been changed now. Taylor’s team has done a
　　sweep of every room in the apartment. She’s not here.”
　　He stops and runs a hand through his hair. “I wish I knew
　　where she was. She’s evading all our attempts to find her
　　when she needs help.” He frowns, and my earlier pique
　　vanishes. I put my arms around him. Folding me into his
　　embrace, he kisses my hair.
　　“What will you do when you find her?” I ask.
　　“Dr. Flynn has a place.”
　　“What about her husband?”
　　“He’s washed his hands of her.” Christian’s tone is
　　bitter. “Her family is in Connecticut. I think she’s very
　　much on her own out there.”
　　“That’s sad.”
　　“Are you okay with all your stuff being here? I want
　　you to share my room,” he murmurs.
　　Whoa, quick change of direction.
　　“Yes.”
　　“I want you sleeping with me. I don’t have nightmares
　　“I want you sleeping with me. I don’t have nightmares
　　when you’re with me.”
　　“You have nightmares?”
　　“Yes.”
　　I tighten my hold around him. Holy cow. More
　　baggage. My heart contracts for this man.
　　“I was just getting my clothes ready for work
　　tomorrow,” I mutter.
　　“Work!” Christian exclaims as if it’s a dirty word, and
　　he releases me, glaring.
　　“Yes, work,” I reply, confused by his reaction.
　　He stares at me with complete incomprehension. “But
　　Leila—she’s out there,” he pauses. “I don’t want you to
　　go to work.”
　　What? “That’s ridiculous, Christian. I have to go to
　　work.”
　　“No, you don’t.”
　　“I have a new job, which I enjoy. Of course I have to
　　go to work.” What does he mean?
　　“No, you don’t,” he repeats, emphatically.
　　“No, you don’t,” he repeats, emphatically.
　　“Do you think I am going to stay here twiddling my
　　thumbs while you’re off being Master of the Universe?”
　　“Frankly . . . yes.”
　　Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty . . . give me strength.
　　“Christian, I need to go to work.”
　　“No, you don’t.”
　　“Yes. I. Do.” I say it slowly as if he’s a child.
　　He scowls at me. “It’s not safe.”
　　“Christian . . . I need to work for a living, and I’ll be
　　fine.”
　　“No, you don’t need to work for a living—and how do
　　you know you’ll be fine?” He’s almost shouting.
　　What does he mean? He’s going to support me? Oh,
　　this is beyond ridiculous—I’ve known him for what—five
　　weeks?
　　He’s angry now, his gray eyes stormy and flashing, but
　　I don’t give a shit.
　　“For heaven’s sake, Christian, Leila was standing at
　　the end of your bed, and she didn’t harm me, and yes, I
　　do need to work. I don’t want to be beholden to you. I
　　have my student loans to pay.”
　　His mouth presses into a grim line, as I place my hands
　　on my hips. I am not budging on this. Who the fuck does
　　he think he is?
　　“I don’t want you going to work.”
　　“It’s not up to you, Christian. This is not your decision
　　to make.”
　　He runs his hand through his hair as he stares at me.
　　Seconds, minutes tick by as we glare at each other.
　　“Sawyer will come with you.”
　　“Christian, that’s not necessary. You’re being
　　irrational.”
　　“Irrational?” he growls. “Either he comes with you, or I
　　will be really irrational and keep you here.”
　　He wouldn’t, would he? “How, exactly?”
　　“Oh, I’d find a way, Anastasia. Don’t push me.”
　　“Okay!” I concede, holding up both my hands,
　　placating him. Holy fuck—Fifty is back with a
　　vengeance.
　　vengeance.
　　We stand, scowling at each other.
　　“Okay—Sawyer can come with me if it makes you feel
　　better.” I concede rolling my eyes. Christian narrows his
　　and takes a menacing step in my direction. I immediately
　　step back. He stops and takes a deep breath, closes his
　　eyes, and runs both his hands through his hair. Oh no. Fifty
　　is well and truly wound up.
　　“Shall I give you a tour?”
　　A tour? Are you kidding me? “Okay,” I mutter
　　warily. Another change of tack—Mr. Mercurial is back in
　　town. He holds out his hand and when I take it, he
　　squeezes mine softly.
　　“I didn’t mean to frighten you.”
　　“You didn’t. I was just getting ready to run,” I quip.
　　“Run?” Christian eyes widen.
　　“I’m joking!” Oh jeez.
　　He leads me out of the closet, and I take a moment to
　　calm down. Adrenaline is still coursing through my body.
　　A fight with Fifty is not to be undertaken lightly.
　　A fight with Fifty is not to be undertaken lightly.
　　He gives me a tour of the apartment, showing me the
　　various rooms. Along with the playroom and three spare
　　bedrooms upstairs, I’m intrigued to find that Taylor and
　　Mrs. Jones have a wing to themselves—a kitchen,
　　spacious living area, and a bedroom each. Mrs. Jones has
　　not yet returned from visiting her sister who lives in
　　Portland.
　　Downstairs, the room that catches my eye is opposite
　　his study—a TV room with a too-large plasma screen and
　　assorted games consoles. It’s cozy.
　　“So you do have an Xbox?” I smirk.
　　“Yes, but I’m crap at it. Elliot always beats me. That
　　was funny, when you thought I meant this room was my
　　playroom.” He grins down at me his snit-fit forgotten.
　　Thank heavens he’s recovered his good mood.
　　“I’m glad you find me amusing, Mr. Grey,” I respond
　　haughtily.
　　“That you are, Miss Steele—when you’re not being
　　exasperating, of course.”
　　“I’m usually exasperating when you’re being
　　unreasonable.”
　　“Me? Unreasonable?”
　　“Yes, Mr. Grey. Unreasonable could be your middle
　　name.”
　　“I don’t have a middle name.”
　　“Unreasonable would suit then.”
　　“I think that’s a matter of opinion, Miss Steele.”
　　“I would be interested in Dr. Flynn’s professional
　　opinion.”
　　Christian smirks.
　　“I thought Trevelyan was your middle name.”
　　“No. Surname.”
　　“But you don’t use it.”
　　“It’s too long. Come,” he commands. I follow him out
　　of the TV room through the great room to the main
　　corridor past the utility room and an impressive wine cellar
　　and into Taylor’s own large, well-equipped office. Taylor
　　stands when we enter. There’s room in here for a meeting
　　table that seats six. Above one desk is a bank of monitors.
　　table that seats six. Above one desk is a bank of monitors.
　　I had no idea the apartment had CCTV. It appears to
　　monitor the balcony, stairwell, service elevator, and foyer.
　　“Hi, Taylor. I’m just giving Anastasia a tour.”
　　Taylor nods but doesn’t smile. I wonder if he’s been
　　told off, too, and why is he still working? When I smile at
　　him, he nods politely. Christian grabs my hand once more
　　and leads me to the library.
　　“And, of course, you’ve been in here.” Christian opens
　　the door. I spy the green baize of the billiard table.
　　“Shall we play?” I ask. Christian smiles, surprised.
　　“Okay. Have you played before?”
　　“A few times,” I lie, and he narrows his eyes, cocking
　　his head to one side.
　　“You’re a hopeless liar, Anastasia. Either you’ve never
　　played before or—”
　　I lick my lips. “Frightened of a little competition?”
　　“Frightened of a little girl like you?” Christian scoffs
　　good-naturedly.
　　“A wager, Mr. Grey.”
　　“A wager, Mr. Grey.”
　　“You’re that confident, Miss Steele?” He smirks,
　　amused and incredulous at once. “What would you like to
　　wager?”
　　“If I win, you’ll take me back into the playroom.”
　　He gazes at me as if he can’t quite comprehend what
　　I’ve said. “And if I win?” he asks after several shellshocked
　　beats.
　　“Then it’s your choice.”
　　His mouth twists as he contemplates his answer.
　　“Okay, deal.” He smirks. “Do you want to play pool,
　　English snooker or carom billiards?”
　　“Pool, please. I don’t know the others.”
　　From a cupboard beneath one of the bookshelves,
　　Christian takes out a large leather case. Inside the pool
　　balls are nested in velvet. Quickly and efficiently, he racks
　　the balls on the baize. I don’t think I’ve ever played pool
　　on such a large table before. Christian hands me a cue and
　　some chalk.
　　“Would you like to break?” He feigns politeness. He’s
　　enjoying himself—he thinks he’s going to win.
　　“Okay.” I chalk the end of my cue, and blow the
　　excess chalk off—staring up at Christian through my
　　lashes. His eyes darken as I do.