“That sounds like a quote.”

I sense his grin. “It is. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.”

“Oh . . . I adore The Little Prince.”

“Me, too.”

It is early evening as Christian, his hands still on mine, steers us into the marina. There are

lights winking from the boats, reflecting off the dark water, but it is still light—a balmy,

bright evening, an overture for what is sure to be a spectacular sunset.

A crowd gathers on the dockside as Christian slowly turns the boat around in a rela-

tively small space. He does it with ease and reverses smoothly into the same berth we left

earlier. Mac jumps on to the dock and ties The Gracesecurely to a bollard.

“Back again,” Christian murmurs.

“Thank you,” I murmur shyly. “That was a perfect afternoon.”

Christian grins. “I thought so, too. Perhaps we can enroll you in sailing school, so we

can go out for a few days, just the two of us.”

“I’d love that. We can christen the bedroom again and again.”

He leans forward and kisses me under my ear. “Hmm . . . I look forward to it, Anasta-

sia,” he whispers, making every single hair follicle on my body stand to attention.

How does he do that?

“Come, the apartment is clean. We can go back.”

“What about our things at the hotel?”

“Taylor has collected them already.”

Oh! When?

“Earlier today, after he did a sweep of The Gracewith his team.” Christian answers my

unspoken question.

“Does that poor man ever sleep?”

1 de Saint-Exupéry, Antoine. Night Flight.Translated by Stuart Gilbert. New Jersey: Prentice Hall, June 1932. (First published in 1931 under the original title of Vol de nuit.)

“He sleeps.” Christian quirks an eyebrow at me, puzzled. “He’s just doing his job,

Anastasia, which he’s very good at. Jason is a real find.”

“Jason?”

“Jason Taylor.”

I remember when I thought Taylor was his first name. Jason. It suits him—solid, reli-

able. For some reason it makes me smile.

“You’re fond of Taylor,” Christian says, eyeing me with speculation.

“I suppose I am.” His question derails me. He frowns. “I’m not attracted to him, if

that’s why you’re frowning. Stop.”

Christian is almost pouting—sulky.

Jeez, he’s such a child sometimes.“I think Taylor looks after you very well. That’s why

I like him. He seems kind, reliable and loyal. He has an avuncular appeal to me.”

“Avuncular?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, avuncular.” Christian is testing the word and meaning. I laugh.

“Oh, Christian, grow up, for heaven’s sake.”

His mouth drops open, surprised by my outburst, but then he frowns as if considering

my statement. “I’m trying,” he says eventually.

“That you are. Very.” I answer softly but then roll my eyes at him.

“What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at me, Anastasia.” He grins.

I smirk at him. “Well, if you behave yourself, maybe we can relive some of those

memories.”

His mouth twists with humor. “Behave myself?” He raises his eyebrows. “Really, Miss

Steele—what makes you think I want to relive them?”

“Probably the way your eyes lit up like Christmas when I said that.”

“You know me so well already,” he says dryly.

“I’d like to know you better.”

He smiles softly. “And I you, Anastasia.”

“Thanks, Mac.” Christian shakes McConnell’s hand and steps on the dock.

“Always a pleasure, Mr. Grey, and good-bye. Ana, great to meet you.”

I shake his hand shyly. He must know what Christian and I were up to on the boat while

he went ashore.

“Good day, Mac, and thank you.”

He grins at me and winks, making me flush. Christian takes my hand, and we walk up

the dock to the marina’s promenade.

“Where’s Mac from?” I ask, curious about his accent.

“Ireland . . . Northern Ireland,” Christian corrects himself.

“Is he your friend?”

“Mac? He works for me. Helped build The Grace.”

“Do you have many friends?”

He frowns. “Not really. Doing what I do . . . I don’t cultivate friendships. There’s

only—” He stops, his frown deepening, and I know he was going to mention Mrs. Robin-

son.“Hungry?” he asks, trying to change the subject.

I nod. Actually, I’m famished.

“We’ll eat where I left the car. Come.”

Next to SP’s is a small Italian bistro called Bee’s. It reminds me of the place in Portland—a

few tables and booths, the décor very crisp and modern with a large black and white pho-

tograph of a turn-of-the-century fiesta serving as a mural.

Christian and I are seated in a booth, poring over the menu and sipping a delicious light

Frascati. When I glance up from the menu, having made my choice, Christian is gazing at

me speculatively.

“What?” I ask.

“You look lovely, Anastasia. The outdoors agrees with you.”

I flush. “I feel rather wind-burned to tell the truth. But I had a lovely afternoon. A per-

fect afternoon. Thank you.”

He smiles, his eyes warm. “My pleasure,” he murmurs.

“Can I ask you something?” I decide on a fact-finding mission.

“Anything, Anastasia. You know that.” He cocks his head to one side, looking deli-

cious.

“You don’t seem to have many friends. Why is that?”

He shrugs and frowns. “I told you, I don’t really have time. I have business associ-

ates—though that’s very different from friendships, I suppose. I have my family and that’s

it. Apart from Elena.”

I ignore the mention of the bitch-troll. “No male friends your own age that you can go

out with and let off steam?”

“You know how I like to let off steam, Anastasia.” Christian’s mouth twists. “And I’ve

been working, building up the business.” He looks puzzled. “That’s all I do—except sail

and fly occasionally.”

“Not even in college?”

“Not really.”

“Just Elena, then?”

He nods, his expression wary.

“Must be lonely.”

His lips curl in a small wistful smile. “What would you like to eat?” he asks, changing

the subject again.

“I’m going for the risotto.”

“Good choice.” Christian summons the waiter, putting an end to that conversation.

After we’ve placed our order, I shift uncomfortably in my seat, staring at my knotted

fingers. If he’s in a talking mood, I need to take advantage.

I have to talk to him about his expectations, about his, um . . . needs.

“Anastasia, what’s wrong? Tell me.”

I glance up into his concerned face.

“Tell me,” he says more forcefully, and his concern evolves into what? Fear? Anger?

I take a deep breath. “I’m just worried that this isn’t enough for you. You know, to let

off steam.”

His jaw tenses and his eyes harden. “Have I given you any indication that this isn’t

enough?”

“No.”

“Then why do you think that?”

“I know what you’re like. What you . . . um . . . need,” I stutter.

He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with long fingers.

“What do I have to do?” His voice is ominously soft as if he’s angry, and my heart

sinks.

“No, you misunderstand—you have been amazing, and I know it’s just been a few

days, but I hope I’m not forcing you to be someone you’re not.”

“I’m still me, Anastasia—in all my fifty shades of fuckedupness. Yes, I have to fight the

urge to be controlling . . . but that’s my nature, how I’ve dealt with my life. Yes, I expect

you to behave a certain way, and when you don’t it’s both challenging and refreshing. We

still do what I like to do. You let me spank you after your outrageous bid yesterday.” He

smiles fondly at the memory. “I enjoy punishing you. I don’t think the urge will ever go . . .

but I’m trying, and it’s not as hard as I thought it would be.”