are dozens of sails in the wind, weaving to and fro, enjoying the fine weather. It’s a whole-

some, outdoorsy sight. The wind has picked up a little, so I pull my jacket around me.

“Cold?” he asks and pulls me tightly against him.

“No, just admiring the view.”

“I could stare at it all day. Come, this way.”

Christian leads me into a large seafront bar and makes his way to the counter. The dé-

cor is more New England than West Coast—white-limed walls, pale blue furnishings, and

boating paraphernalia hanging everywhere. It’s a bright, cheery place.

“Mr. Grey!” the barman greets Christian warmly. “What can I get you this afternoon?”

“Dante, good afternoon.” Christian grins as we both slip onto bar stools. “This lovely

lady is Anastasia Steele.”

“Welcome to SP’s Place.” Dante gives me a friendly smile. He’s black and beautiful,

his dark eyes assessing me and not finding me wanting, it seems. One large diamond stud

winks at me from his ear. I like him immediately.

“What would you like to drink, Anastasia?”

I glance at Christian, who regards me expectantly. Oh, he’s going to let me choose.

“Please, call me Ana, and I’ll have whatever Christian’s drinking.” I smile shyly at

Dante. Fifty’s so much better at wine than I am.

“I’m going to have a beer. This is the only bar in Seattle where you can get Adnam’s

Explorer.”

“A beer?”

“Yes.” He grins at me. “Two Explorers, please, Dante.”

Dante nods and sets up the beers on the bar.

“They do a delicious seafood chowder here,” Christian says.

He’s asking me.

“Chowder and beer sounds great.” I smile at him.

“Two chowders?” Dante asks.

“Please.” Christian grins at him.

We talk through our meal, as we never have before. Christian is relaxed and calm—he

looks young, happy, and animated despite all that transpired yesterday. He recounts the his-

tory of Grey Enterprises Holdings, and the more he reveals, the more I sense his passion for

fixing problem companies, his hopes for the technology he’s developing, and his dreams

of making land in the third world more productive. I listen enraptured. He’s funny, clever,

philanthropic, and beautiful, and he loves me.

In turn, he plagues me with questions about Ray and my mom, about growing up in the

lush forests of Montesano, and my brief stints in Texas and Vegas. He demands to know my

favorite books and films, and I’m surprised by how much we have in common.

As we talk, it strikes me that he’s turned from Hardy’s Alec to Angel, debasement to

high ideal in such a short space of time.

It’s after two when we finish our meal. Christian settles the tab with Dante, who wishes

us a fond farewell.

“This is a great place. Thank you for lunch,” I say as Christian takes my hand and we

leave the bar.

“We’ll come again,” he says, and we stroll along the waterfront. “I wanted to show you

something.”

“I know . . . and I can’t wait to see it, whatever it is.”

We wander hand in hand along the marina. It is such a pleasant afternoon. People are out

enjoying their Sunday—walking dogs, admiring the boats, watching their kids run along

the promenade.

As we head down the marina, the boats are getting progressively larger. Christian leads

me on to the dock and stops in front of a huge catamaran.

“I thought we’d go sailing this afternoon. This is my boat.”

Holy cow.It must be at least forty, maybe fifty feet. Two sleek white hulls, a deck, a

roomy cabin, and towering over them a very tall mast. I know nothing about boats, but I

can tell this one is special.

“Wow . . . ,” I murmur in wonder.

“Built by my company,” he says proudly and my heart swells. “She’s been designed

from the ground up by the very best naval architects in the world and constructed here in

Seattle at my yard. She has hybrid electric drives, asymmetric dagger boards, a square-

topped mainsail—”

“Okay . . . you’ve lost me, Christian.”

He grins. “She’s a great boat.”

“She looks mighty fine, Mr. Grey.”

“That she does, Miss Steele.”

“What’s her name?”

He pulls me to the side so I can see her name: The Grace.I’m surprised. “You named

her after your mom?”

“Yes.” He cocks his head to one side, quizzical. “Why do you find that strange?”

I shrug. I am surprised—he always seems ambivalent in her presence.

“I adore my mom, Anastasia. Why wouldn’t I name a boat after her?”

I flush. “No, it’s not that . . . it’s just . . .” Shit, how can I put this into words?

“Anastasia, Grace Trevelyan saved my life. I owe her everything.”

I gaze at him, and let the reverence in his softly spoken admission wash over me. It’s

obvious to me, for the first time, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strained am-

bivalence toward her?

“Do you want to come aboard?” he asks, his eyes bright, excited.

“Yes, please.” I smile.

He looks delighted and delightful in one yummy scrumptious package. Grasping my

hand, he strides up the small gangplank and leads me aboard so that we are standing on

deck beneath a rigid canopy.

To one side there’s a table and a U-shaped banquette covered in pale blue leather,

which must seat at least eight people. I glance through the sliding doors to the interior of

the cabin and jump, startled when I spy someone there. The tall blond man opens the slid-

ing doors and emerges—all tanned, curly-haired and brown-eyed—wearing a faded pink

short-sleeved polo shirt, shorts, and deck shoes. He must be in his early thirties.

“Mac.” Christian beams.

“Mr. Grey! Welcome back.” They shake hands.

“Anastasia, this is Liam McConnell. Liam, my girlfriend, Anastasia Steele.”

Girlfriend!My inner goddess performs a quick arabesque. She’s still grinning over the

convertible. I have to get used to this—it’s not the first time he’s said it, but hearing him

say it is still a thrill.

“How do you do?” Liam and I shake hands.

“Call me Mac,” he says warmly, and I can’t place his accent. “Welcome aboard, Miss

Steele.”

“Ana, please,” I mutter, flushing. He has deep brown eyes.

“How’s she shaping up, Mac?” Christian interjects quickly, and for a moment, I think

he’s talking about me.

“She’s ready to rock and roll, sir,” Mac beams. Oh, the boat,The Grace . Silly me.

“Let’s get underway, then.”

“You going to take her out?”

“Yep.” Christian flashes Mac a quick wicked grin. “Quick tour, Anastasia?”

“Yes, please.”

I follow him inside the cabin. An L-shaped cream leather sofa is directly in front of us,

and above it, a massive curved window offers a panoramic view of the marina. To the left

is the kitchen area—very well appointed, all pale wood.

“This is the main saloon. Galley beside,” Christian says, waving his hand in the direc-

tion of the kitchen.

He takes my hand and leads me through the main cabin. It’s surprisingly spacious. The

floor is the same pale wood. It looks modern and sleek and has a light, airy feel, but it’s all

very functional, as if he doesn’t spend much time here.

“Bathrooms on either side.” Christian points to two doors, then opens the small, oddly

shaped door directly in front of us and steps in. We’re in a plush bedroom. Oh . . .

It has a king-size cabin bed and is all pale blue linen and pale wood like his bedroom

at Escala. Christian obviously chooses a theme and sticks to it.

“This is the master cabin.” He gazes down at me, gray eyes glowing. “You’re the first

girl in here, apart from family,” he smirks. “They don’t count.”