“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. 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 squeez-

es 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.”

“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.

“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 mut-

ters, 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.”

“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, rath-

er—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? 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 bran-

dy, 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.