remembering Christian’s searing kisses, and I can’t help a small smile as I stare. Yes, I do,

he said.

“Where are we going exactly?” I ask as we wait in the lobby for the parking valet.

Christian taps the side of his nose and winks at me conspiratorially, looking like he’s

desperately trying to contain his glee. Frankly, it’s very un-Fifty.

He was like this when we went gliding—perhaps that’s what we’re doing. I beam back

at him. He stares down his nose at me in that superior way he has with his lopsided grin.

Leaning down, he kisses me gently.

“Do you have any idea how happy you make me feel?” he murmurs.

“Yes . . . I know exactly. Because you do the same for me.”

The valet zooms up in Christian’s car, wearing a face-splitting grin. Jeez, everyone is

so happy today.

“Great car, sir,” he mumbles as he hands over the keys. Christian winks and gives him

an obscenely large tip.

I frown at him. Honestly.

As we cruise through the traffic, Christian is deep in thought. A young woman’s voice

comes over the loudspeakers; it has a beautiful, rich, mellow timbre, and I lose myself in

her sad, soulful voice.

“I need to make a detour. It shouldn’t take long,” he says absentmindedly, distracting

me from the song.

Oh, why?I’m intrigued to know the surprise. My inner goddess is bouncing about like

a five-year-old.

“Sure,” I murmur. Something is amiss. Suddenly, he looks grimly determined.

He pulls into the parking lot of large car dealership, stops the car, and turns to face me,

his expression wary.

“We need to get you a new car,” he says. I gape at him.

Now?On a Sunday? What the hell? And this is a Saab dealership.

“Not an Audi?” is, stupidly, the only thing I can think of to say, and bless him, he actu-

ally flushes.

Holy cow—Christian, embarrassed. This is a first.

“I thought you might like something else,” he mutters. He’s almost squirming.

Oh, please . . .This is too valuable an opportunity not to tease him. I smirk. “A Saab?”

“Yeah. A 9-3. Come.”

“What is it with you and foreign cars?”

“The Germans and the Swedes make the safest cars in the world, Anastasia.”

Do they?“I thought you’d already ordered me another Audi A3?”

He gives me a darkly amused look. “I can cancel that. Come.” Climbing smoothly out

of the car, he strolls gracefully to my side and opens my door.

“I owe you a graduation present,” he says softly and holds his hand out for me.

“Christian, you really don’t have to do this.”

“Yes, I do. Please. Come.” His tone says he’s not to be trifled with.

I resign myself to my fate. A Saab? Do I want a Saab? I quite like the Audi Submissive

Special. It was very nifty.

Of course, now it’s under a ton of white paint . . . I shudder. And she’s still out there.

I take Christian’s hand, and we wander into the showroom.

Troy Turniansky, the salesman, is all over Fifty like a cheap suit. He can smell a sale.

Weirdly his accent sounds mid-Atlantic, maybe British? It’s difficult to tell.

“A Saab, sir? Pre-owned?” He rubs his hands with glee.

“New.” Christian’s lips set into a hard line.

New!

“Did you have a model in mind, sir?” And he’s smarmy, too.

“9-3 2.0T Sport Sedan.”

“An excellent choice, sir.”

“What color, Anastasia?” Christian inclines his head.

“Er . . . black?” I shrug. “You really don’t need to do this.”

He frowns. “Black’s not easily seen at night.”

Oh, for heaven’s sake.I resist the temptation to roll my eyes. “You have a black car.”

He scowls at me.

“Bright canary yellow then.” I shrug.

Christian makes a face—canary yellow is obviously not his thing.

“What color do you want me to have?” I ask as if he’s a small child, which he is in

many ways. The thought is unwelcome—sad and sobering at once.

“Silver or white.”

“Silver, then. You know I’ll take the Audi,” I add, chastened by my thoughts.

Troy pales, sensing he’s losing a sale. “Perhaps you’d like the convertible, ma’am?” he

asks, clapping his hands with enthusiasm.

My subconscious is cringing in disgust, mortified by the whole buying-a-car business,

but my inner goddess tackles her to the floor. Convertible? Drool!

Christian frowns and peers at me. “Convertible?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

I flush. It’s like he has a direct hotline to my inner goddess, which of course, he has. It’s

most inconvenient at times. I stare down at my hands.

Christian turns to Troy. “What are the safety stats on the convertible?”

Troy, sensing Christian’s vulnerability, heads in for the kill, reeling off all manner of

statistics.

Of course, Christian wants me safe. It’s a religion with him, and like the zealot he is,

he listens intently to Troy’s well-honed patter. Fifty really does care.

Yes. I do.I remember his whispered, choked words from this morning, and a melting

glow spreads like warm honey through my veins. This man—God’s gift to women—loves

me. I find myself grinning goofily at him, and when he glances down at me, he’s amused

yet puzzled by my expression. I just want to hug myself, I am so happy.

“Whatever you’re high on, I’d like some, Miss Steele,” he murmurs as Troy heads off

to his computer.

“I’m high on you, Mr. Grey.”

“Really? Well you certainly look intoxicated.” He kisses me briefly. “And thank you

for accepting the car. That was easier than last time.”

“Well, it’s not an Audi A3.”

He smirks. “That’s not the car for you.”

“I liked it.”

“Sir, the 9-3? I’ve located one at our Beverly Hills dealership. We can have it here for

you in a couple of days.” Troy glows with triumph.

“Top of the range?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent.” Christian produces his credit card, or is it Taylor’s? The thought is unnerv-

ing. I wonder how Taylor is, and if he’s located Leila in the apartment. I rub my forehead.

Yes, there’s all of Christian’s baggage, too.

“If you’ll come this way, Mr.”—Troy glances at the name on the card—“Grey.”

Christian opens my door, and I climb back into the passenger seat.

“Thank you,” I say when he’s seated beside me.

He smiles.

“You’re most welcome, Anastasia.”

The music starts again as Christian starts the engine.

“Who’s this?” I ask.

“Eva Cassidy.”

“She has a lovely voice.”

“She does, she did.”

“Oh.”

“She died young.”

“Oh.”

“Are you hungry? You didn’t finish all your breakfast.” He glances quickly at me, dis-

approval outlined on his face.

Uh-oh.“Yes.”

“Lunch first, then.”

Christian drives toward the waterfront then heads north along the Alaskan Way. It’s

another beautiful day in Seattle. It’s been uncharacteristically fine for the last few weeks,

I muse.

Christian looks happy and relaxed as we sit back listening to Eva Cassidy’s sweet,

soulful voice and cruise down the highway. Have I ever felt this comfortable in his com-

pany before? I don’t know.

I am less nervous of his moods, confident that he won’t punish me, and he seems more

comfortable with me, too. He turns left, following the coast road, and eventually pulls up

in a parking lot opposite a vast marina.

“We’ll eat here. I’ll open your door,” he says in such a way that I know it’s not wise to

move, and I watch him move around the car. Will this ever get old?

We stroll arm in arm to the waterfront where the marina stretches out in front of us.

“So many boats,” I murmur in wonder. There are hundreds of them in all shapes and

sizes, bobbing up and down on the calm, still waters of the marina. Out on the Sound there