Christian smiles down at me, takes me in his arms, and starts to move. Oh, he dances

so well, making it easy to follow. We grin at each other like idiots as he whirls me around

the dance floor.

“I love this song,” Christian murmurs, gazing down at me. “Seems very fitting.” He’s

no longer grinning, but serious.

“You’re under my skin, too,” I respond. “Or you were in your bedroom.”

He purses his lips but he’s unable to hide his amusement.

“Miss Steele,” he admonishes me teasingly, “I had no idea you could be so crude.”

“Mr. Grey, neither did I. I think it’s all my recent experiences. They’ve been an educa-

tion.”

“For both of us.” Christian is serious again, and it could just be the two of us and the

band. We are in our own private bubble.

As the song finishes we both applaud. Sam the singer bows graciously and introduces

his band.

“May I cut in?”

I recognize the man who bid on me at the auction. Christian grudgingly lets me go, but

he’s amused, too.

“Be my guest. Anastasia, this is John Flynn. John, Anastasia.”

Shit!

Christian smirks at me and wanders off to one side of the dance floor.

“How do you do, Anastasia?” Dr. Flynn says smoothly, and I realize he’s British.

“Hello,” I stutter.

The band strikes up another song, and Dr. Flynn pulls me into his arms. He’s much

younger than I imagined, though I can’t see his face. He’s wearing a mask similar to Chris-

tian’s. He’s tall, but not as tall as Christian, and he doesn’t move with Christian’s easy

grace.

What do I say to him? Why is Christian so fucked-up? Why did he bid on me? It’s the

only thing I want to ask him, but somehow that seems rude.

“I’m glad to finally meet you, Anastasia. Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks.

“I was,” I whisper.

“Oh. I hope I’m not responsible for your change of heart.” He gives me a brief, warm

smile that puts me a little more at ease.

“Doctor Flynn, you’re the shrink. You tell me.”

He grins. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? The shrink bit?”

I giggle. “I’m worried what I might reveal, so I’m a little self-conscious and intimi-

dated. And really I only want to ask you about Christian.”

He smiles. “First, this is a party so I’m not on duty,” he whispers conspiratorially. “And

second, I really can’t talk to you about Christian. Besides,” he teases, “we’d need until

Christmas.”

I gasp in shock.

“That’s a doctor’s joke, Anastasia.”

I flush, embarrassed, and then feel slightly resentful. He’s making a joke at Christian’s

expense. “You’ve just confirmed what I’ve been saying to Christian . . . that you’re an ex-

pensive charlatan,” I admonish him.

Dr. Flynn snorts with laughter. “You could be onto something there.”

“You’re British?”

“Yes. Originally from London.”

“How did you find yourself here?”

“Happy circumstance.”

“You don’t give much away, do you?”

“There’s not much to give away. I’m really a very dull person.”

“That’s very self-deprecating.”

“It’s a British trait. Part of our national character.”

“Oh.”

“And I could accuse you of the same, Anastasia.”

“That I’m a dull person, too, Dr. Flynn?”

He snorts. “No, Anastasia, that you don’t give much away.”

“There’s not much to give away.” I smile.

“I sincerely doubt that.” He unexpectedly frowns.

I flush, but the music finishes and Christian is once more by my side. Dr. Flynn releases

me. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Anastasia.” He gives me his warm smile again, and

I feel that I’ve passed some kind of hidden test.

“John.” Christian nods at him.

“Christian.” Dr. Flynn returns his nod, turns on his heel, and disappears through the

crowd.

Christian pulls me into his arms for the next dance.

“He’s much younger than I expected,” I murmur to him. “And terribly indiscreet.”

Christian cocks his head to one side. “Indiscreet?”

“Oh yes, he told me everything,” I tease.

Christian tenses. “Well, in that case, I’ll get your bag. I’m sure you want nothing more

to do with me,” he says softly.

I stop. “He didn’t tell me anything!” My voice fills with panic.

Christian blinks before relief floods his face. He pulls me into his arms again. “Then

let’s enjoy this dance.” He beams down, reassuring me, then spins me round.

Why would he think that I’d want to leave? It makes no sense.

We dance for two more numbers, and I realize I need the restroom.

“I won’t be long.”

As I make my way to the powder room, I remember I have left my purse on the dinner

table, so I head down to the marquee. When I enter, it’s still lit but quite deserted, except

for a couple at the other end, who really ought to get a room! I reach for my bag.

“Anastasia?”

A soft voice startles me, and I turn to see a woman dressed in a long, tight, black velvet

gown. Her mask is unique. It covers her face to her nose but also covers her hair. It’s stun-

ning with elaborate gold filigree.

“I’m so glad you’re on your own,” she says softly. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you

all evening.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are.”

She pulls the mask from her face and releases her hair.

Shit! It’s Mrs. Robinson.

“I’m sorry, I startled you.”

I gape at her. Holy cow—what the fuck does this woman want?

I don’t know what the social conventions are for meeting known molesters of children.

She’s smiling sweetly and gesturing for me to sit at the table. And because I am lacking

any sphere of reference, I do as she asks out of stunned politeness, grateful that I am still

wearing my mask.

“I’ll be brief, Anastasia. I know what you think of me . . . Christian’s told me.”

I gaze at her impassively, giving nothing away, but I’m pleased that she knows. It saves

me telling her, and she’s cutting to the chase. Part of me is beyond intrigued as to what she

could have to say.

She pauses, glancing over my shoulder. “Taylor’s watching us.”

I peek around to see him scanning the tent by the doorway. Sawyer is with him. They

are looking anywhere but at us.

“Look, we don’t have long,” she says hurriedly. “It must be obvious to you that Chris-

tian is in love with you. I have never seen him like this, ever.” She emphasizes the last

word.

What? Loves me?No. Why is she telling me? To reassure me? I don’t understand.

“He won’t tell you because he probably doesn’t realize it himself, notwithstanding

what I’ve said to him, but that’s Christian. He’s not very attuned to any positive feelings

and emotions he may have. He dwells far too much on the negative. But then you’ve prob-

ably worked that out for yourself. He doesn’t think he’s worthy.”

I am reeling. Christian loves me?He hasn’t said it, and this woman has told him that’s

how he feels? How bizarre.

A hundred images dance through my head: the iPad, the gliding, flying to see me, all

his actions, his possessiveness, one hundred thousand dollars for a dance. Is this love?

And hearing it from this woman, having her confirm it for me is, frankly, unwelcome.

I’d rather hear it from him.

My heart constricts. He feels unworthy? Why?

“I’ve never seen him so happy, and it’s obvious that you have feelings for him, too.” A

brief smile flits across her lips. “That’s great, and I wish you both the best of everything.

But what I wanted to say is if you hurt him again, I will find you, lady, and it won’t be

pleasant when I do.”

She stares at me, ice-cold blue eyes boring into my skull, trying to get under my mask.

Her threat is so astonishing, so off the wall that an involuntary, disbelieving giggle escapes