vulnerable adolescent, robbing him of his teenage years, no matter what he says.

“So you desired her? When you were younger.”

“Yes.”

Oh.

“She taught me a great deal. She taught me to believe in myself.”

Oh.“But she also beat the shit out of you.”

He smiles fondly. “Yes, she did.”

“And you liked that?”

“At the time I did.”

“So much that you wanted to do it to others?”

His eyes grow wide and serious. “Yes.”

“Did she help you with that?”

“Yes.”

“Did she sub for you?”

“Yes.”

Holy fuck.“Do you expect me to like her?” My voice sounds brittle and bitter.

“No. Though it would make my life a hell of a lot easier,” he says wearily. “I do under-

stand your reticence.”

“Reticence! Jeez, Christian—if that were your son, how would you feel?”

He blinks at me as though he doesn’t comprehend the question. He frowns. “I didn’t

have to stay with her. It was my choice, too, Anastasia,” he murmurs.

This is getting me nowhere.

“Who’s Linc?”

“Her ex-husband.”

“Lincoln Timber?”

“The very same,” he smirks.

“And Isaac?”

“Her current submissive.”

Oh no.

“He’s in his mid-twenties, Anastasia. You know—a consenting adult,” he adds quickly,

correctly deciphering my look of disgust.

I flush. “Your age,” I mutter.

“Look, Anastasia, as I said to her, she’s part of my past. You are my future. Don’t let

her come between us, please. And quite frankly, I’m really bored of this subject. I’m going

to do some work.” He stands and gazes down at me. “Let it go. Please.”

I stare mulishly up at him.

“Oh, I almost forgot,” he adds. “Your car arrived a day early. It’s in the garage. Taylor

has the key.”

Whoa . . . the Saab? “Can I drive it tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“You know why not. And that reminds me. If you are going to leave your office, let me

know. Sawyer was there, watching you. It seems I can’t trust you to look after yourself at

all.” He scowls down at me, making me feel like an errant child—again. And I would argue

with him, but he’s pretty worked up over Elena, and I don’t want to push him any further,

but I can’t resist one comment.

“Seems I can’t trust you either,” I mutter. “You could have told me Sawyer was watch-

ing me.”

“Do you want to fight about that, too?” he snaps.

“I wasn’t aware we were fighting. I thought we were communicating,” I mumble petu-

lantly.

He closes his eyes briefly as he struggles to contain his temper. I swallow and watch

anxiously. Jeez, this could go either way.

“I have to work,” he says quietly, and with that, he leaves the room.

I exhale. I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. I flop back onto the bed, staring

at the ceiling.

Can we ever have a normal conversation without it disintegrating into an argument?

It’s exhausting.

We just don’t know each other that well. Do I really want to move in with him? I don’t

even know if I should make him a cup of tea or coffee while he’s working. Should I disturb

him at all? I have no idea of his likes and dislikes.

Evidently he’s bored with the whole Elena thing—he’s right, I need to move on. Let it

go. Well, at least he’s not expecting me to be friends with her, and I hope that she’ll now

stop hassling me for a meeting.

I get off the bed and wander to the window. Unlocking the balcony door, I open it and

stroll over to the glass railing. Its transparency is unnerving. The air’s chilly and fresh, as

I’m up so high.

I gaze out over the twinkling lights of Seattle. He’s so far removed from everything

up here in his fortress. Answerable to no one. He’d just told me he loves me, then all this

crap comes up because of that dreadful woman.I roll my eyes. His life is so complicated.

He’s so complicated.

With a heavy sigh and a last glance at Seattle spread like cloths of gold at my feet, I

decide to call Ray. I haven’t spoken to him for a while. It’s a brief conversation as per usual,

but I ascertain he’s fine and that I’m interrupting an important soccer match.

“Hope all is well with Christian,” he says casually, and I know he’s fishing for informa-

tion but doesn’t really want to know.

“Yeah. We’re cool.” Sort of, and I’m moving in with him. Though we haven’t dis-

cussed a timetable.

“Love you, Dad.”

“Love you, too, Annie.”

I hang up and check my watch. It’s only ten. Because of our discussion, I am feeling

strangely innervated and restless.

I shower quickly, and back in the bedroom, decide to wear one of the nightdresses that

Caroline Acton procured for me from Neiman Marcus. Christian’s always moaning about

my T-shirts. There are three. I choose the pale pink and put it on over my head. The fabric

skims across my skin, caressing and clinging to me as it falls around my body. It feels luxu-

rious—the finest, thinnest satin. Holy crap.In the mirror, I look like a 1930s movie star. It’s

long, elegant—and very un-me.

I grab the matching robe and decide to hunt out a book in the library. I could read on

my iPad—but right now, I want the comfort and reassurance of a physical book. I’ll leave

Christian alone. Perhaps he’ll recover his good humor once he’s finished working.

There are so many books in Christian’s library. Scanning every title will take forever.

I glance occasionally at the billiard table and flush as I recall our previous evening. I smile

when I see that the ruler is still on the floor. Picking it up, I swat my palm. Ow! It stings.

Why can’t I take a little more pain for my man? Disconsolately, I place it on the desk

and continue my hunt for a good read.

Most of the books are first editions. How can he have amassed a collection like this

in such a short time? Perhaps Taylor’s job description includes book buying. I settle on

Rebeccaby Daphne Du Maurier. I haven’t read this for a long time. I smile as I curl up in

one of the overstuffed armchairs and read the first line:

Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again . . .

I am jostled awake as Christian lifts me in his arms.

“Hey,” he murmurs, “you fell asleep. I couldn’t find you.” He nuzzles my hair. Sleep-

ily, I put my arms around his neck and breathe in his scent—oh, he smells so good—as he

carries me back to the bedroom. He lays me down on the bed and covers me.

“Sleep, baby,” he whispers and he presses his lips against my forehead.

I wake suddenly from a disturbing dream and am momentarily disorientated. I find myself

anxiously checking the end of the bed, but there’s no one there. Drifting from the great

room, I hear the faint strains of a complex melody from the piano.

What time is it? I check the alarm clock—two in the morning. Has Christian come to

sleep at all? I disentangle my legs from my robe, which I’m still wearing, and clamber out

of bed.

In the great room, I stand in the shadows, listening. Christian is lost to the music. He

looks safe and secure in his bubble of light. And the tune he plays has a lilting melody,

parts of which sound familiar, but so elaborate. Jeez, he’s good.Why does this always take

me by surprise?

The whole scene looks different somehow, and I realize that the piano lid is down, giv-

ing me an unhindered view. He glances up and our eyes lock, his gray and softly luminous

in the diffuse glow of the lamp. He continues to play, not faltering at all, as I make my way

over to him. His eyes follow me, drinking me in, burning brighter. As I reach him, he stops.