I flush at this compliment in front of Taylor and the other men.

“A glass of champagne before we go?”

“Please,” I murmur, far too quickly.

Christian nods to Taylor who heads into the foyer with his three cohorts.

In the great room, Christian retrieves a bottle of champagne from the fridge.

“Security team?” I ask.

“Close protection. They’re under Taylor’s control. He’s trained in that, too.” Christian

hands me a champagne flute.

“He’s very versatile.”

“Yes, he is.” Christian smiles. “You look lovely, Anastasia. Cheers.” He raises his

glass, and I clink it with mine. The champagne is a pale rose color. It tastes deliciously

crisp and light.

“How are you feeling?” he asks, his eyes heated.

“Fine, thank you.” I smile sweetly, giving nothing away, knowing full well he’s refer-

ring to the silver balls.

He smirks at me.

“Here, you’re going to need this.” He hands me a large velvet pouch that was resting

on the kitchen island. “Open it,” he says between sips of champagne. Intrigued, I reach

into the bag and pull out an intricate silver masquerade mask with cobalt blue feathers in a

plume crowning the top.

“It’s a masked ball,” he states matter-of-factly.

“I see.” The mask is beautiful. A silver ribbon is threaded around the edges and exqui-

site silver filigree is etched around the eyes.

“This will show off your beautiful eyes, Anastasia.”

I grin at him, shyly.

“Are you wearing one?”

“Of course. They’re very liberating in a way,” he adds, raising an eyebrow, and he

smirks.

Oh. This is going to be fun.

“Come. I want to show you something.” Holding out his hand, he leads me out into

the hallway and to a door beside the stairs. He opens it, revealing a large room roughly the

same size as his playroom, which must be directly above us. This one is filled with books.

Wow, a library, every wall crammed floor to ceiling. In the center is a full-size billiard table

illuminated by a long triangular-prism-shaped Tiffany lamp.

“You have a library!” I squeak in awe, overwhelmed with excitement.

“Yes, the balls room as Elliot calls it. The apartment is quite spacious. I realized today,

when you mentioned exploring, that I’ve never given you a tour. We don’t have time now,

but I thought I’d show you this room, and maybe challenge you to a game of billiards in

the not-too-distant future.”

I grin at him.

“Bring it on.” I secretly hug myself with glee. José and I bonded over pool. We’ve been

playing for the last three years. I am ace with a cue. José has been a good teacher.

“What?” Christian asks, amused.

Oh! I really must stop expressing every emotion I feel the instant I feel it,I scold my-

self.“Nothing,” I say quickly.

Christian narrows his eyes.

“Well, maybe Doctor Flynn can uncover your secrets. You’ll meet him this evening.”

“The expensive charlatan?” Holy shit.

“The very same. He’s dying to meet you.”

Christian takes my hand and gently skims his thumb across my knuckles as we sit in the

back of the Audi heading north. I squirm, and feel the sensation in my groin. I resist the

urge to moan, as Taylor is in the front, not wearing his iPod, with one of the security guys

whose name I think is Sawyer.

I am beginning to feel a dull, pleasurable ache deep in my belly, caused by the balls.

Idly, I wonder, how long will I be able to manage without some, um . . . relief? I cross my

legs. As I do, something that’s been niggling me in the back of my mind suddenly surfaces.

“Where did you get the lipstick?” I ask Christian quietly.

He smirks at me and points toward the front. “Taylor,” he mouths.

I burst out laughing. “Oh.” And stop quickly—the balls.

I bite my lip. Christian smiles at me, his eyes gleaming wickedly. He knows exactly

what he’s doing, sexy beast that he is.

“Relax,” he breathes. “If it’s too much . . .” His voice trails off, and he gently kisses

each knuckle in turn, then gently sucks the tip of my little finger.

Now I know he’s doing this on purpose. I close my eyes as dark desire unfolds through-

out my body. I surrender briefly to the sensation, my muscles clenching deep inside me.

Oh my.

When I open my eyes again, Christian is regarding me closely, a dark prince. It must be

the dinner jacket and bow tie, but he looks older, sophisticated, a devastatingly handsome

roué with licentious intent.

He simply takes my breath away. I’m in his sexual thrall, and if I’m to believe him, he’s

in mine. The thought brings a smile to my face, and his answering grin is blinding.

“So what can we expect at this event?”

“Oh, the usual stuff,” Christian says breezily.

“Not usual for me,” I remind him.

Christian smiles fondly and kisses my hand again. “Lots of people flashing their cash.

Auction, raffle, dinner, dancing—my mother knows how to throw a party.” He smiles and

for the first time all day, I allow myself to feel a little excited about this party.

There is a line of expensive cars heading up the driveway of the Grey mansion. Long,

pale pink paper lanterns hang over the drive, and as we inch closer in the Audi, I can see

they are everywhere. In the early evening light, they look magical, as if we’re entering an

enchanted kingdom. I glance at Christian. How suitable for my prince—and my childish

excitement blooms, eclipsing all other feelings.

“Masks on,” Christian grins, and as he dons his simple black mask, my prince becomes

something darker, more sensual.

All I can see of his face is his beautiful chiseled mouth and strong jaw.

Holy fuck . . .My heartbeat lurches at the sight of him. I fasten my mask and grin at

him, ignoring the hunger deep in my body.

Taylor pulls into the driveway, and a valet opens Christian’s door. Sawyer leaps out to

open mine.

“Ready?” Christian asks.

“As I’ll ever be.”

“You look beautiful, Anastasia.” He kisses my hand and exits the car.

A dark green carpet runs along the lawn to one side of the house, leading to the impres-

sive grounds at the rear. Christian has a protective arm around me, resting his hand on my

waist, as we follow the green carpet with a steady stream of Seattle’s elite dressed in their

finery and wearing all manner of masks the lanterns lighting the way. Two photographers

marshal guests to pose for pictures against the backdrop of an ivy-strewn arbor.

“Mr. Grey!” one of the photographers calls. Christian nods in acknowledgement and

pulls me close as we pose quickly for a photo. How do they know it’s him? His trademark,

unruly copper hair no doubt.

“Two photographers?” I ask Christian.

“One is from the Seattle Times; the other is for a souvenir. We’ll be able to buy a copy

later.”

Oh, my picture in the press again. Leila briefly enters my mind. This is how she found

me, posing with Christian. The thought is unsettling, though it’s comforting that I am un-

recognizable beneath my mask.

At the end of the line, white-suited servers hold trays of glasses brimming with cham-

pagne, and I’m grateful when Christian passes me a glass—effectively distracting me from

my dark thoughts.

We approach a large white pergola hung with smaller versions of the paper lanterns.

Beneath it, shines a black and white checkered dance floor surrounded by a low fence with

entrances on three sides. At each entrance stand two elaborate ice sculptures of swans. The

fourth side of the pergola is occupied by a stage where a string quartet is playing softly, a