“I’m glad you find me amusing, Mr. Grey,” I respond haughtily.

“That you are, Miss Steele—when you’re not being exasperating, of course.”

“I’m usually exasperating when you’re being unreasonable.”

“Me? Unreasonable?”

“Yes, Mr. Grey. Unreasonable could be your middle name.”

“I don’t have a middle name.”

“Unreasonable would suit then.”

“I think that’s a matter of opinion, Miss Steele.”

“I would be interested in Dr. Flynn’s professional opinion.”

Christian smirks.

“I thought Trevelyan was your middle name.”

“No. Surname.”

“But you don’t use it.”

“It’s too long. Come,” he commands. I follow him out of the TV room through the

great room to the main corridor past the utility room and an impressive wine cellar and

into Taylor’s own large, well-equipped office. Taylor stands when we enter. There’s room

in here for a meeting table that seats six. Above one desk is a bank of monitors. I had no

idea the apartment had CCTV. It appears to monitor the balcony, stairwell, service elevator,

and foyer.

“Hi, Taylor. I’m just giving Anastasia a tour.”

Taylor nods but doesn’t smile. I wonder if he’s been told off, too, and why is he still

working? When I smile at him, he nods politely. Christian grabs my hand once more and

leads me to the library.

“And, of course, you’ve been in here.” Christian opens the door. I spy the green baize

of the billiard table.

“Shall we play?” I ask. Christian smiles, surprised.

“Okay. Have you played before?”

“A few times,” I lie, and he narrows his eyes, cocking his head to one side.

“You’re a hopeless liar, Anastasia. Either you’ve never played before or—”

I lick my lips. “Frightened of a little competition?”

“Frightened of a little girl like you?” Christian scoffs good-naturedly.

“A wager, Mr. Grey.”

“You’re that confident, Miss Steele?” He smirks, amused and incredulous at once.

“What would you like to wager?”

“If I win, you’ll take me back into the playroom.”

He gazes at me as if he can’t quite comprehend what I’ve said. “And if I win?” he asks

after several shell-shocked beats.

“Then it’s your choice.”

His mouth twists as he contemplates his answer. “Okay, deal.” He smirks. “Do you

want to play pool, English snooker or carom billiards?”

“Pool, please. I don’t know the others.”

From a cupboard beneath one of the bookshelves, Christian takes out a large leather

case. Inside the pool balls are nested in velvet. Quickly and efficiently, he racks the balls on

the baize. I don’t think I’ve ever played pool on such a large table before. Christian hands

me a cue and some chalk.

“Would you like to break?” He feigns politeness. He’s enjoying himself—he thinks

he’s going to win.

“Okay.” I chalk the end of my cue, and blow the excess chalk off—staring up at Chris-

tian through my lashes. His eyes darken as I do.

I line up on the white ball and with a swift clean stroke, hit the center ball of the trian-

gle square on with such force that a striped ball spins and plunges into the top right pocket.

I’ve scattered the rest of the balls.

“I choose stripes,” I say innocently, smiling coyly at Christian. His mouth twists in

amusement.

“Be my guest,” he says politely.

I proceed to pocket the next three balls in quick succession. Inside, I’m dancing. At this

moment, I am so grateful to José for teaching me to play pool and play it well. Christian

watches impassively, giving nothing away, but his amusement seems to ebb. I miss the

green stripe by a hairsbreadth.

“You know, Anastasia, I could stand here and watch you leaning and stretching across

this billiard table all day,” he says appreciatively.

I flush. Thank heavens I am wearing my jeans. He smirks. He’s trying to put me off

my game, the bastard. He pulls his cream sweater over his head, tosses it onto the back of

a chair, and grins at me, as he saunters over to take his first shot.

He bends low over the table. My mouth goes dry. Oh, I see what he means.Christian in

tight jeans and white T-shirt, bending, like that . . . is something to behold. I quite lose my

train of thought. He sinks four solids rapidly, then fouls by sinking the white.

“A very elementary mistake, Mr. Grey,” I tease.

He smirks. “Ah, Miss Steele, I am but a foolish mortal. Your go, I believe.” He waves

at the table.

“You’re not trying to lose are you?”

“Oh no. For what I have in mind as the prize, I want to win, Anastasia.” He shrugs

casually. “But then, I always want to win.”

I narrow my eyes at him. Right then . . .I’m so glad I’m wearing my blue blouse,

which is pleasingly low-cut. I stalk around the table, bending low at every available op-

portunity—giving Christian an eyeful of my behind and my cleavage whenever I can. Two

can play at that game. I glance at him.

“I know what you’re doing,” he whispers, his eyes dark.

I tilt my head coquettishly to one side, gently fondling my cue, running my hand up and

down it slowly. “Oh. I am just deciding where to take my next shot,” I murmur distractedly.

Leaning across, I hit the orange stripe into a better position. I then stand directly in

front of Christian and take the rest from underneath the table. I line up my next shot, lean-

ing right over the table. I hear Christian’s sharp intake of breath, and of course, I miss. Shit.

He comes to stand behind me while I am still bent over the table and places his hand

on my backside. Hmm . . .

“Are you waving this around to taunt me, Miss Steele?” And he smacks me, hard.

I gasp. “Yes,” I mutter, because it’s true.

“Be careful what you wish for, baby.”

I rub my behind as he wanders to the other end of the table, leans over, and takes his

shot. Jeez, I could look at him all day. He hits the red ball, and it shoots into the left side

pocket. He aims for the yellow, top right, and it just misses. I grin.

“Red Room here we come,” I taunt him.

He merely raises an eyebrow and directs me to continue. I make quick work of the

green stripe and by some fluke, manage to knock in the final orange stripe.

“Name your pocket,” Christian murmurs, and it’s as if he’s talking about something

else, something dark and rude.

“Top left-hand.” I take aim over the black, hit it, but miss. It skirts wide. Damn.

Christian smiles a wicked grin as he leans over the table and makes short work of the

two remaining solids. I am practically panting, watching him, his lithe body stretching over

the table. He stands and chalks his cue, his eyes burning into me.

“If I win . . .”

Oh yes?

“I am going to spank you, then fuck you over this billiard table.”

Holy shit. Every single muscle south of my navel clenches hard.

“Top right,” he murmurs, pointing to the black, and bends to take the shot.

With easy grace, Christian taps the white ball so that it glides across the table, kisses the

black and oh-so-slowly the black rolls, teeters on the edge, and finally drops into the top

right pocket of the billiard table.

Damn.

He stands, and his mouth twists in a triumphant I-so-own-you-Steele smile. Putting

down his cue, he saunters casually toward me, all tousled hair, jeans, and white T-shirt. He

doesn’t look like a CEO—he looks like a bad boy from the wrong side of town. Holy cow,

he’s so fucking sexy.

“You’re not going to be a sore loser, are you?” he murmurs, barely containing his grin.