wistfully.

“You said your mom saved you. How?”

His reverie is broken, and he gazes at me as if I don’t understand the elementary math

of two plus two.

“She adopted me,” he says simply. “I thought she was an angel when I first met her. She

was dressed in white and so gentle and calm as she examined me. I’ll never forget that. If

she’d said no or if Carrick had said no . . .” He shrugs and glances over his shoulder at the

alarm clock. “This is all a little deep for so early in the morning,” he mutters.

“I have made a vow to get to know you better.”

“Did you now, Miss Steele? I thought you wanted to know if I preferred coffee or tea.”

He smirks. “Anyway, I can think of one way you can get to know me.” He pushes his hips

suggestively against me.

“I think I know you quite well enough that way.” My voice is haughty and scolding,

and it makes him smile more broadly.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get to know you well enough that way,” he murmurs. “There

are definite advantages to waking up beside you.” His voice is soft and bone-meltingly

seductive.

“Don’t you have to get up?” My voice is low and husky. Jeez, what he does to me . . .

“Not this morning. Only one place I want to be up right now, Miss Steele.” And his

eyes sparkle salaciously.

“Christian!” I gasp, shocked. He shifts suddenly so that he’s on top of me, pressing me

into the bed. Grabbing my hands, he pulls them up above my head and begins to kiss my

throat.

“Oh, Miss Steele.” He smiles against my skin, sending delicious tingles through me,

as his hand travels down my body and starts to slowly hitch up my satin nightdress. “Oh,

what I’d like to do to you,” he murmurs.

And I am lost, interrogation over.

Mrs. Jones sets down my breakfast of pancakes and bacon, and for Christian an omelet and

bacon. We sit side by side at the bar in a comfortable silence.

“When am I going to meet your trainer, Claude, and put him through his paces?” I ask.

Christian glances down at me, grinning.

“Depends if you want to go to New York this weekend or not—unless you’d like to

see him early one morning this week. I’ll ask Andrea to check on his schedule and come

back to you.”

“Andrea?”

“My PA.”

Oh yes. “One of your many blondes,” I tease him.

“She’s not mine. She works for me. You’re mine.”

“I work for you,” I mutter sourly.

He grins as if he’s forgotten. “So you do.” His beaming smile is infectious.

“Maybe Claude can teach me to kickbox,” I warn.

“Oh yeah? Fancy your chances against me?” Christian raises an eyebrow, amused.

“Bring it on, Miss Steele.” He is so damned happy compared to yesterday’s foul mood after

Elena left. It’s totally disarming. Maybe it’s all the sex . . . perhaps that’s what’s making

him so buoyant.

I glance behind me at the piano, savoring the memory of last night. “You put the lid of

the piano back up.”

“I closed it last night so as not to disturb you. Guess it didn’t work, but I’m glad it

didn’t.” Christian’s lips twitch into a lascivious smile as he takes a bite of omelet. I go

crimson and smirk back at him.

Oh yes . . . fun times on the piano.

Mrs. Jones leans over and places a paper bag containing my lunch in front of me, mak-

ing me flush guiltily.

“For later, Ana. Tuna okay?”

“Oh yes. Thank you, Mrs. Jones.” I give her a shy smile, which she reciprocates warm-

ly before leaving the great room. I suspect it’s to give us some privacy.

“Can I ask you something?” I turn back to Christian.

His amused expression slips. “Of course.”

“And you won’t be angry?”

“Is it about Elena?”

“No.”

“Then I won’t be angry.”

“But I now have a supplementary question.”

“Oh?”

“Which is about her.”

He rolls his eyes. “What?” he says, and now he’s exasperated.

“Why do you get so mad when I ask you about her?”

“Honestly?”

I scowl at him. “I thought you were always honest with me.”

“I endeavor to be.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “That sounds like a very evasive answer.”

“I am always honest with you, Ana. I don’t want to play games. Well, not those sorts of

games,” he qualifies, as his eyes heat.

“What sort of games do you want to play?”

He inclines his head to one side and smirks at me. “Miss Steele, you are so easily dis-

tracted.”

I giggle. He’s right. “Mr. Grey, you are distracting on so many levels.” I gaze at his

dancing gray eyes alight with humor.

“My favorite sound in the whole world is your giggle, Anastasia. Now—what was

your original question?” he asks smoothly, and I think he’s laughing at me. I try to twist my

mouth to show my displeasure, but I like playful Fifty—he’s fun. I love some early morn-

ing banter. I frown, trying to recall my question.

“Oh yes. You only saw your subs on the weekends?”

“Yes, that’s correct,” he says regarding me nervously.

I grin at him. “So, no sex during the week.”

He laughs. “Oh, that’s where we’re going with this.” He looks vaguely relieved. “Why

do you think I work out every weekday?” Now he really is laughing at me, but I don’t care.

I want to hug myself with glee. Another first—well, several firsts.

“You look very pleased with yourself, Miss Steele.”

“I am, Mr. Grey.”

“You should be.” He grins. “Now eat your breakfast.”

Oh, bossy Fifty . . . he’s never far away.

We are in the back of the Audi. Taylor is driving with the intention of dropping me off at

work, then Christian. Sawyer is riding shotgun.

“Didn’t you say your roommate’s brother was arriving today?” Christian asks, almost

casually, his voice and expression giving nothing away.

“Oh, Ethan,” I gasp. “I forgot. Oh Christian, thank you for reminding me. I’ll have to

go back to the apartment.”

His face falls. “What time?”

“I’m not sure what time he’s arriving.”

“I don’t want you going anywhere on your own,” he says sharply.

“I know,” I mutter and resist rolling my eyes at Mr. Over-Reaction. “Will Sawyer be

spying—um . . . patrolling today?” I glance slyly in Sawyer’s direction to see the backs of

his ears turn red.

“Yes,” Christian snaps, his eyes glacial.

“If I was driving the Saab it would be easier,” I mutter petulantly.

“Sawyer will have a car, and he can drive you to your apartment, depending on what

time.”

“Okay. I think Ethan will probably contact me during the day. I’ll let you know what

the plans are then.”

He gazes at me, saying nothing. Oh, what is he thinking?

“Okay,” he acquiesces. “Nowhere on your own. Do you understand?” He waves a long

finger at me.

“Yes, dear,” I mutter.

There’s a trace of a smile on his face. “And maybe you should just use your Blackber-

ry—I’ll e-mail you on it. That should prevent my IT guy having a thoroughly interesting

morning, okay?” His voice is sardonic.

“Yes, Christian.” I can’t resist. I roll my eyes at him, and he smirks at me.

“Why Miss Steele, I do believe you’re making my palm twitch.”

“Ah, Mr. Grey, your perpetually twitching palm. What are we going to do with that?”

He laughs and then is distracted by his Blackberry, which must be on vibrate because

it doesn’t ring. He frowns when he sees the caller ID.

“What is it?” he snaps into the phone, then listens intently. I use the opportunity to

study his lovely features—his straight nose, his hair hanging scruffily over his forehead. I

am distracted from my surreptitious ogling by his expression, which turns from incredulity

to amusement. I pay attention.

“You’re kidding . . . For a scene . . . When did he tell you this?” Christian chuckles,