“You look very relaxed in these photographs, Anastasia. I don’t see you like that very

often.”

What? Whoa! Change of subject—talk about non sequitur—from playful to serious.

I flush and glance down at my fingers. He tilts my head back, and I inhale sharply at

the contact with his long fingers.

“I want you that relaxed with me,” he whispers. All trace of humor has gone.

Deep inside me that joy stirs again. But how can this be?We have issues.

“You have to stop intimidating me if you want that,” I snap.

“You have to learn to communicate and tell me how you feel,” he snaps back, eyes

blazing.

I take a deep breath. “Christian, you wanted me as a submissive. That’s where the

problem lies. It’s in the definition of a submissive—you e-mailed it to me once.” I pause,

trying to recall the wording. “I think the synonyms were, and I quote, ‘compliant, pliant,

amenable, passive, tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.’ I wasn’t supposed to

look at you. Not talk to you unless you gave me permission to do so. What do you expect?”

I hiss at him.

He blinks, and his frown deepens as I continue.

“It’s very confusing being with you. You don’t want me to defy you, but then you like

my ‘smart mouth.’ You want obedience, except when you don’t, so you can punish me. I

just don’t know which way is up when I’m with you.”

He narrows his eyes. “Good point well made, as usual, Miss Steele.” His voice is

frigid. “Come, let’s go eat.”

“We’ve only been here for half an hour.”

“You’ve seen the photos; you’ve spoken to the boy.”

“His name is José.”

“You’ve spoken to José—the man who, the last time I met him, was trying to push his

tongue into your reluctant mouth while you were drunk and ill,” he snarls.

“He’s never hit me,” I spit at him.

Christian scowls at me, fury emanating from every pore. “That’s a low blow, Anasta-

sia,” he whispers menacingly.

I flush, and Christian runs his hands through his hair, bristling with barely contained

anger. I glare back at him.

“I’m taking you for something to eat. You’re fading away in front of me. Find the boy,

say good-bye.”

“Please, can we stay longer?”

“No. Go. Now. Say good-bye.”

I glare at him, my blood boiling. Mr. Damned Control Freak. Angry is good. Angry is

better than tearful.

I drag my gaze away from him and scan the room for José. He’s talking to a group of

young women. I stalk off toward him and away from Fifty. Just because he brought me

here, I have to do as he says? Who the hell does he think he is?

The girls are hanging on José’s every word. One of them gasps as I approach, no doubt

recognizing me from the portraits.

“José.”

“Ana. Excuse me, girls.” José grins at them and puts his arm around me, and on some

level I’m amused—José all smooth, impressing the ladies.

“You look mad,” he says.

“I have to go,” I mutter mulishly.

“You just got here.”

“I know but Christian needs to get back. The pictures are fantastic, José—you’re very

talented.”

He beams. “It was so cool seeing you.”

Jose sweeps me into a big bear hug, spinning me so I can see Christian across the gal-

lery. He’s scowling, and I realize it’s because I’m in José’s arms. So in a very calculating

move, I wrap my arms around José’s neck. I think Christian is going to expire. His glare

darkens to something quite sinister, and slowly he makes his way toward us.

“Thanks for the warning about the portraits of me,” I mumble.

“Shit. Sorry, Ana. I should have told you. D’you like them?”

“Um . . . I don’t know,” I answer truthfully, momentarily knocked off balance by his

question.

“Well, they’re all sold, so somebody likes them. How cool is that? You’re a poster

girl.” He hugs me tighter still as Christian reaches us, glowering at me now, though fortu-

nately José doesn’t see.

José releases me. “Don’t be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr. Grey, good evening.”

“Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive.” Christian sounds icily polite. “I’m sorry we can’t

stay longer, but we need to head back to Seattle. Anastasia?” He subtly stresses weand

takes my hand as he does so.

“Bye, José. Congratulations again.” I give him a quick kiss on the cheek, and before I

know it Christian is dragging me out of the building. I know he’s boiling with silent wrath,

but so am I.

He looks quickly up and down the street then heads left and suddenly sweeps me into

a side alley, abruptly pushing me up against a wall. He grabs my face between his hands,

forcing me to look up into his ardent determined eyes.

I gasp, and his mouth swoops down. He’s kissing me, violently. Briefly our teeth clash,

then his tongue is in my mouth.

Desire explodes like the Fourth of July throughout my body, and I’m kissing him back,

matching his fervor, my hands knotting in his hair, pulling it, hard. He groans, a low sexy

sound in the back of his throat that reverberates through me, and his hand moves down my

body to the top of my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh through the plum dress.

I pour all the angst and heartbreak of the last few days into our kiss, binding him to

me, and it hits me—in this moment of blinding passion—he’s doing the same, he feels the

same.

He breaks off the kiss, panting. His eyes are luminous with desire, firing the already

heated blood that is pounding through my body. My mouth is slack as I try to drag precious

air into my lungs.

“You. Are. Mine,” he snarls, emphasizing each word. He pushes away from me and

bends, hands on his knees as if he’s run a marathon. “For the love of God, Ana.”

I lean against the wall, panting, trying to control the riotous reaction in my body, trying

to find my equilibrium again.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper once my breath has returned.

“You should be. I know what you were doing. Do you want the photographer, Anasta-

sia? He obviously has feelings for you.”

I flush and shake my head.

“No. He’s just a friend.”

“I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any extreme emotion. Yet you . . . you

bring out feelings in me that are completely alien. It’s very . . .” He frowns, grasping for

the word. “Unsettling.

“I like control, Ana, and around you that just”—he stands, his gaze intense—

“evaporates.” He waves his hand vaguely, then runs it through his hair and takes a deep

breath. He clasps my hand.

“Come, we need to talk, and you need to eat.”

He leads me into a small, intimate restaurant.

“This place will have to do,” Christian grumbles. “We don’t have much time.”

The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linen tablecloths, and walls the same

color as Christian’s playroom—deep blood red—with small gilt mirrors randomly placed,

white candles, and small vases of white roses. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the back-

ground about this thing called love. It’s very romantic.

The waiter leads us to a table for two in a small alcove, and I sit, apprehensive and

wondering what he’s going to say.

“We don’t have long,” Christian says to the waiter as we sit. “So we’ll each have sirloin

steak cooked medium, béarnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables, whatever

the chef has; and bring me the wine list.”

“Certainly, sir.” The waiter, taken aback by Christian’s cool, calm efficiency, scuttles

off. Christian places his Blackberry on the table. Jeez, don’t I get a choice?

“And if I don’t like steak?”

He sighs. “Don’t start, Anastasia.”