dinary gold mask.

“Ladies and gentlemen, please nominate a table head,” the MC calls out.

“Ooo—me, me!” says Mia immediately, bouncing enthusiastically in her seat.

“In the center of the table you will find an envelope,” the MC continues. “Would ev-

eryone find, beg, borrow, or steal a bill of the highest denomination you can manage, write

your name on it, and place it inside the envelope. Table heads, please guard these envelopes

carefully. We will need them later.”

Holy crap.I haven’t brought any money with me. How stupid—it’s a charity event!

Fishing out his wallet, Christian produces two hundred-dollar bills.

“Here,” he says.

What?

“I’ll pay you back,” I whisper.

His mouth twists slightly, and I know he’s not happy, but he doesn’t comment. I sign

my name using his fountain pen—it’s black, with a white flower motif on the cap—and

Mia passes the envelope round.

In front of me I find another card inscribed with silver calligraphy—our menu.

Well, that accounts for the number of crystal glasses in every size that crowd my

place setting. Our waiter is back, offering wine and water. Behind me, the sides of the tent

through which we entered are being closed, while at the front, two servers pull back the

canvas, revealing the sunset over Seattle and Meydenbauer Bay.

It’s an absolutely breathtaking view, the twinkling lights of Seattle in the distance and

the orange, dusky calm of the bay reflecting the opal sky. Wow. It’s so calm and peaceful.

Ten servers, each holding a plate, come to stand between us. On a silent cue, they serve

us our starters in complete synchronization, then vanish again. The salmon looks delicious,

and I realize I am famished.

“Hungry?” Christian murmurs so only I can hear. I know he’s not referring to the food,

and the muscles deep in my belly respond.

“Very,” I whisper, boldly meeting his gaze, and Christian’s lips part as he inhales.

Ha! See . . . two can play at this game.

Christian’s grandfather engages me in conversation immediately. He’s a wonderful old

man, so proud of his daughter and three children.

It is weird to think of Christian as a child. The memory of his burn scars come unbid-

den to my mind, but I quickly quash it. I don’t want to think about that now, though ironi-

cally, it’s the reason behind this party.

I wish Kate was here with Elliot. She would fit in so well—the sheer number of forks

and knives laid out before her wouldn’t daunt Kate—she would command the table. I

imagine her duking it out with Mia over who should be table head. The thought makes me

smile.

The conversation at the table ebbs and flows. Mia is entertaining, as usual, and quite

eclipses poor Sean, who mostly stays quiet like me. Christian’s grandmother is the most

vocal. She, too, has a biting sense of humor, usually at the expense of her husband. I begin

to feel a little sorry for Mr. Trevelyan.

Christian and Lance talk animatedly about a device Christian’s company is develop-

ing, inspired by Schumacher’s principle Small is Beautiful. It’s hard to keep up. Christian

seems intent on empowering impoverished communities all over the world with wind-up

technology—devices that need no electricity or batteries and minimal maintenance.

Watching him in full flow is astonishing. He’s passionate and committed to improving

the lives of the less fortunate. Through his telecommunications company, he’s intent on

being first to market with a wind-up mobile phone.

Whoa. I had no idea. I mean I knew about his passion about feeding the world, but

this . . .

Lance seems unable to comprehend Christian’s plan to give the technology away and

not patent it. I wonder vaguely how Christian made all his money if he’s so willing to give

it all away.

Throughout dinner a steady stream of men in smartly tailored dinner jackets and dark

masks stop by the table, keen to meet Christian, shake his hand, and exchange pleasantries.

He introduces me to some but not others. I’m intrigued to know how and why he makes

the distinction.

During one such conversation, Mia leans across and smiles.

“Ana, will you help in the auction?”

“Of course,” I respond only too willing.

By the time dessert is served, night has fallen, and I’m really uncomfortable. I need to

get rid of the balls. Before I can excuse myself, the master of ceremonies appears at our

table, and with him—if I’m not mistaken—is Miss European Pigtails.

What’s her name? Hansel, Gretel . . . Gretchen.

She’s masked of course, but I know it’s her when her gaze doesn’t move beyond Chris-

tian. She blushes, and selfishly I’m beyond pleased that Christian doesn’t acknowledge her

at all.The MC asks for our envelope and with a very practiced and eloquent flourish, asks

Grace to pull out the winning bill. It’s Sean’s, and the silk-wrapped basket is awarded to

him.I applaud politely, but I’m finding it impossible to concentrate on any more of the

proceedings.

“If you’ll excuse me,” I murmur to Christian.

He looks at me intently.

“Do you need the powder room?”

I nod.

“I’ll show you,” he says darkly.

When I stand, all the other men round the table stand with me. Oh, such manners.

“No, Christian! You’re not taking Ana—I will.”

Mia is on her feet before Christian can protest. His jaw tenses, I know he’s not pleased.

Quite frankly, neither am I. I have . . . needs.I shrug apologetically at him, and he sits down

quickly, resigned.

On our return, I feel a little better, though the relief of removing the balls has not been

as instantaneous as I’d hoped. They’re now stashed safely in my clutch purse.

Why did I think I could last the whole evening? I am still yearning—perhaps I can per-

suade Christian to take me to the boathouse later. I flush at the thought and glance at him

as I take my seat. He stares at me, the ghost of a smile crossing his lips.

Phew . . . he’s no longer mad at a missed opportunity, though maybe I am.I feel

frustrated—irritable even. Christian squeezes my hand, and we both listen attentively to

Carrick, who is back on stage talking about Coping Together. Christian passes me another

card—a list of the auction prizes. I scan them quickly.

Holy shit. I blink up at Christian.

“You own property in Aspen?” I hiss. The auction is underway, and I have to keep my

voice down.

He nods, surprised at my outburst and irritated, I think. He puts his finger to his lips

to silence me.

“Do you have property elsewhere?” I whisper.He nods again and inclines his head to

one side in a warning.

The whole room erupts with cheering and applause; one of the prizes has gone for

twelve thousand dollars.

“I’ll tell you later,” Christian says quietly. “I wanted to come with you,” he adds rather

sulkily.

Well, you didn’t. I pout and I realize that I’m still querulous, and no doubt, it’s the

frustrating effect of the balls. My mood darkens after seeing Mrs. Robinson on the list of

generous donors.

I glance around the marquee to see if I can spot her, but I can’t see her telltale hair.

Surely Christian would have warned me if she was invited tonight. I sit and stew, applaud-

ing when necessary, as each lot is sold for astonishing amounts of money.

The bidding moves to Christian’s place in Aspen and reaches twenty thousand dollars.