The white-suited servers move effortlessly through the growing crowd of guests with bottles of champagne, topping off my glass with worrying regularity. I must not drink too much. I must not drink too much, I repeat to myself, but I’m beginning to feel light-headed, and I don’t know if it’s the champagne, the charged atmosphere of know if it’s the champagne, the charged atmosphere of mystery and excitement created by the masks, or the secret silver balls. The dull ache below my waist is becoming impossible to ignore. “So you work at SIP?” asks a balding gentleman in a half-bear—or is it a dog?—mask. “Heard rumors of a hostile takeover.” I flush. There is a hostile takeover from a man who has more money than sense and is a stalker par excellence. “I’m just a lowly assistant, Mr. Eccles. I wouldn’t know about these things.” Christian says nothing and smiles blandly at Eccles. “Ladies and gentlemen!” The master of ceremonies, wearing an impressive black and white harlequin mask, interrupts us. “Please take your seats. Dinner is served.” Christian takes my hand, and we follow the chattering crowd to the large marquee. The interior is stunning. Three enormous, shallow chandeliers throw rainbow-colored sparkles over the ivory silk lining of the ceiling and walls. There must be at least thirty tables, and they remind me of the private dining room at the Heathman—crystal glasses, crisp white linen covering the tables and chairs, and in the center, an exquisite display of pale pink peonies gathered around a silver candelabra. Wrapped in gossamer silk beside it is a basket of goodies. Christian consults the seating plan and leads me to a table in the center. Mia and Grace are already in situ, deep in conversation with a young man I don’t know. Grace is wearing a shimmering mint green gown with a Venetian mask to match. She looks radiant, not stressed at all, and she greets me warmly. “Ana, how delightful to see you again! And looking so beautiful, too.” “Mother,” Christian greets her stiffly and kisses her on both cheeks. “Oh, Christian, so formal!” she scolds him teasingly. Grace’s parents, Mr. and Mrs. Trevelyan, join us at our table. They seem exuberant and youthful, though it’s difficult to tell beneath their matching bronze masks. They difficult to tell beneath their matching bronze masks. They are delighted to see Christian. “Grandmother, Grandfather, may I introduce Anastasia Steele?” Mrs. Trevelyan is all over me like a rash. “Oh, he’s finally found someone, how wonderful and so pretty! Well I do hope you make an honest man of him,” she gushes, shaking my hand. Holy cow. I thank the hea一vens for my mask. “Mother, don’t embarrass Ana.” Grace comes to my rescue. “Ignore the silly old coot, m’dear.” Mr. Trevelyan shakes my hand. “She thinks because she’s so old, she has a God-given right to say whatever nonsense pops into that woolly head of hers.” “Ana, this is my date, Sean.” Mia shyly introduces her young man. He gives me a wicked grin, and his brown eyes dance with amusement as we shake hands. “Pleased to meet you, Sean.” Christian shakes Sean’s hand as he regards him Christian shakes Sean’s hand as he regards him shrewdly. Don’t tell me that poor Mia suffers from her overbearing brother, too. I smile at Mia in sympathy. Lance and Janine, Grace’s friends, are the last couple at our table, but there is still no sign of Mr. Grey. Abruptly, there’s the hiss of a microphone, and Mr. Grey’s voice booms over the PA system, causing the babble of voices to die down. Carrick stands on a small stage at one end of the marquee, wearing an impressive, gold, Punchinello mask. “Welcome, ladies and gentleman, to our annual charity ball. I hope that you enjoy what we ha一ve laid out for you tonight and that you’ll dig deep into your pockets to support the fantastic work that our team does with Coping Together. As you know, it’s a cause that is very close to my wife’s heart, and mine.” I peek nervously at Christian, who is staring impassively, I think, at the stage. He glances at me and smirks. “I’ll hand you over now to our master of ceremonies. Please be seated, and enjoy,” Carrick finishes. Polite applause follows, then the babble in the tent starts again. I am seated between Christian and his grandfather. I admire the small white place card with fine silver calligraphy that bears my name as a waiter lights the candelabra with a long taper. Carrick joins us, kissing me on both cheeks, surprising me. “Good to see you again, Ana,” he murmurs. He really looks very striking in his extraordinary gold mask. “Ladies and gentlemen, please nominate a table head,” the MC calls out. “Ooo—me, me!” says Mia immediately, bouncing enthusiastically in her seat. “In the center of the table you will find an envelope,” the MC continues. “Would everyone find, beg, borrow, or steal a bill of the highest denomination you can manage, write your name on it, and place it inside the envelope. Table heads, please guard these envelopes carefully. We will need them later.” Holy crap. I ha一ven’t brought any money with me. Holy crap. I ha一ven’t brought any money with me. How stupid—it’s a charity event! Fishing out his wallet, Christian produces two hundreddollar bills. “Here,” he says. What? “I’ll pay you back,” I whisper. His mouth twists slightly, and I know he’s not happy, but he doesn’t comment. I sign my name using his fountain pen—it’s black, with a white flower motif on the cap— and Mia passes the envelope round. In front of me I find another card inscribed with silver calligraphy—our menu. ~~~~~~~~~~ A Masked Ball in aid of Coping Together Menu Salmon Tartare with Cr&egra一ve;me Fraiche and Cucumber on Toasted Brioche Alban Estate Roussanne 2006 Alban Estate Roussanne 2006 Roasted Muscovy Duck Breast Creamy Sunchoke Purée, Thyme Roasted Bing Cherries, Foie Gras Chateauneuf-du-Pape Vieilles Vignes 2006 Domaine de la Janasse Sugared Crusted Walnut Chiffon Candied figs, Sabayon, Maple Ice Cream Vin de Constance 2004 Klein Constantia Selection of Local Cheeses and Breads Alban Estate Grenache 2006 Coffee and Petits Fours ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Well, that accounts for the number of crystal glasses in Well, that accounts for the number of crystal glasses in every size that crowd my place setting. Our waiter is back, offering wine and water. Behind me, the sides of the tent through which we entered are being closed, while at the front, two servers pull back the canvas, revealing the sunset over Seattle and Meydenbauer Bay. It’s an absolutely breathtaking view, the twinkling lights of Seattle in the distance and the orange, dusky calm of the bay reflecting the opal sky. Wow. It’s so calm and peaceful. Ten servers, each holding a plate, come to stand between us. On a silent cue, they serve us our starters in complete synchronization, then vanish again. The salmon looks delicious, and I realize I am famished. “Hungry?” Christian murmurs so only I can hear. I know he’s not referring to the food, and the muscles deep in my belly respond. “Very,” I whisper, boldly meeting his gaze, and Christian’s lips part as he inhales. Ha! See . . . two can play at this game. Christian’s grandfather engages me in conversation immediately. He’s a wonderful old man, so proud of his daughter and three children. It is weird to think of Christian as a child. The memory of his burn scars come unbidden to my mind, but I quickly quash it. I don’t want to think about that now, though ironically, it’s the reason behind this party. I wish Kate was here with Elliot. She would fit in so well—the sheer number of forks and knives laid out before her wouldn’t daunt Kate—she would command the table. I imagine her duking it out with Mia over who should be table head. The thought makes me smile. The conversation at the table ebbs and flows. Mia is entertaining, as usual, and quite eclipses poor Sean, who mostly stays quiet like me. Christian’s grandmother is the most vocal. She, too, has a biting sense of humor, usually at the expense of her husband. I begin to feel a little sorry for Mr. Trevelyan. Christian and Lance talk animatedly about a device Christian’s company is developing, inspired by Christian’s company is developing, inspired by Schumacher’s principle Small is Beautiful. It’s hard to keep up. Christian seems intent on empowering impoverished communities all over the world with wind-up technology—devices that need no electricity or batteries and minimal maintenance. Watching him in full flow is astonishing. He’s passionate and committed to improving the lives of the less fortunate. Through his telecommunications company, he’s intent on being first to market with a wind-up mobile phone. Whoa. I had no idea. I mean I knew about his passion about feeding the world, but this . . . Lance seems unable to comprehend Christian’s plan to give the technology away and not patent it. I wonder vaguely how Christian made all his money if he’s so willing to give it all away. Throughout dinner a steady stream of men in smartly tailored dinner jackets and dark masks stop by the table, keen to meet Christian, shake his hand, and exchange keen to meet Christian, shake his hand, and exchange pleasantries. He introduces me to some but not others. I’m intrigued to know how and why he makes the distinction. During one such conversation, Mia leans across and smiles. “Ana, will you help in the auction?” “Of course,” I respond only too willing. By the time dessert is served, night has fallen, and I’m really uncomfortable. I need to get rid of the balls. Before I can excuse myself, the master of ceremonies appears at our table, and with him—if I’m not mistaken—is Miss European Pigtails. What’s her name? Hansel, Gretel . . . Gretchen. She’s masked of course, but I know it’s her when her gaze doesn’t move beyond Christian. She blushes, and selfishly I’m beyond pleased that Christian doesn’t acknowledge her at all. The MC asks for our envelope and with a very practiced and eloquent flourish, asks Grace to pull out the winning bill. It’s Sean’s, and the silk-wrapped basket is awarded to him. I applaud politely, but I’m finding it impossible to concentrate on any more of the proceedings. “If you’ll excuse me,” I murmur to Christian. He looks at me intently. “Do you need the powder room?” I nod. “I’ll show you,” he says darkly. When I stand, all the other men round the table stand with me. Oh, such manners. “No, Christian! You’re not taking Ana—I will.” Mia is on her feet before Christian can protest. His jaw tenses, I know he’s not pleased. Quite frankly, neither am I. I ha一ve . . . needs. I shrug apologetically at him, and he sits down quickly, resigned. On our return, I feel a little better, though the relief of removing the balls has not been as instantaneous as I’d hoped. They’re now stashed safely in my clutch purse. Why did I think I could last the whole evening? I am still yearning—perhaps I can persuade Christian to take still yearning—perhaps I can persuade Christian to take me to the boathouse later. I flush at the thought and glance at him as I take my seat. He stares at me, the ghost of a smile crossing his lips. Phew . . . he’s no longer mad at a missed opportunity, though maybe I am. I feel frustrated— irritable even. Christian squeezes my hand, and we both listen attentively to Carrick, who is back on stage talking about Coping Together. Christian passes me another card —a list of the auction prizes. I scan them quickly. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Auction Gifts And Gracious Donors for Coping Together Signed Baseball Bat from the Mariners – Dr. Emily Mainwaring Gucci Purse, Wallet & Keyring – Andrea Washington One Day Voucher for Two at Escla一va, Braeburn Center – Elena Lincoln Center – Elena Lincoln Landscape and Garden Design – Gia Matteo Coco De Mer Coffret & Perfume Beauty Selection – Elizabeth Austin Venetian Mirror – Mr. and Mrs. J. Bailey Two Cases of Wine of Your Choice from Alban Estates – Alban Estates 2 VIP Tickets for XTY in Concert – Mrs. L. Yesyov Race Day at Daytona – EMC Britt Inc. Pride & Prejudice by Jane Austen First Edition – Dr. A. F. M. Lace-Field Drive an Aston Martin DB7 for a day – Mr. & Mrs. L. W. Nora Oil Painting Into the Blue by J. Trouton – Kelly Trouton Gliding Lesson – Seattle Soarers Club Weekend Break for Two at the Heathman, Portland – The Heathman One weekend stay in Aspen, Colorado (Sleeps 6) – Mr. C. Grey One Week Stay Aboard the SusieCue Yacht (6 berths) Moored in St Lucia – Dr. & Mrs. Larin One Week at Lake Adriana, MONTANA (sleeps 8) – Mr. & Dr. Grey ~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Holy shit. I blink up at Christian. “You own property in Aspen?” I hiss. The auction is underway, and I ha一ve to keep my voice down. He nods, surprised at my outburst and irritated, I think. He puts his finger to his lips to silence me. “Do you ha一ve property elsewhere?” I whisper. He nods again and inclines his head to one side in a warning. The whole room erupts with cheering and applause; one of the prizes has gone for twelve thousand dollars. “I’ll tell you later,” Christian says quietly. “I wanted to come with you,” he adds rather sulkily. come with you,” he adds rather sulkily. Well, you didn’t. I pout and I realize that I’m still querulous, and no doub一t, it’s the frustrating effect of the balls. My mood darkens after seeing Mrs. Robinson on the list of generous donors. I glance around the marquee to see if I can spot her, but I can’t see her telltale hair. Surely Christian would ha一ve warned me if she was invited tonight. I sit and stew, applauding when necessary, as each lot is sold for astonishing amounts of money. The bidding moves to Christian’s place in Aspen and reaches twenty thousand dollars. “Going once, going twice,” the MC calls. And I don’t know what possesses me, but I suddenly hear my own voice ringing out clearly over the throng. “Twenty-four thousand dollars!” Every mask at the table turns to me in shocked amazement, the biggest reaction of all coming from beside me. I hear his sharp intake of breath and feel his wrath washing over me like a tidal wa一ve. washing over me like a tidal wa一ve. “Twenty-four thousand dollars, to the lovely lady in silver, going once, going twice . . . Sold!” Holy shit, did I really just do that? It must be the alcohol. I’ve had champagne plus four glasses of four different wines. I glance up at Christian who’s busy applauding. Crap, he’s going to be so angry, and we’ve been getting on so well. My subconscious has finally decided to make an appearance, and she’s wearing her Edvard Munch Scream face. Christian leans over to me, a large fake smile plastered across his face. He kisses my cheek and then moves closer to whisper in my ear in a very cold, controlled voice. “I don’t know whether to worship at your feet or spank the living shit out of you.” Oh, I know what I want right now. I gaze up at him, blinking through my mask. I just wish I could read what’s in his eyes. “I’ll take option two, please,” I whisper frantically as the applause dies down. His lips part as he inhales sharply. Oh that chiseled mouth—I want it on me, now. I ache Oh that chiseled mouth—I want it on me, now. I ache for him. He gives me a radiant sincere smile that lea一ves me breathless. “Suffering, are you? We’ll ha一ve to see what we can do about that,” he murmurs as he runs his fingers along my jaw. His touch resonates deep, deep inside where that ache has spawned and grown. I want to jump him right here, right now, but we sit back to watch the auction of the next lot. I can barely sit still. Christian drapes an arm around my shoulders, his thumb rhythmically stroking my back, sending delicious tingles down my spine. His free hand clasps mine, bringing it to his lips, then letting it rest on his lap. Slowly and surreptitiously, so I don’t realize his game until it’s too late, he eases my hand up his leg and against his erection. I gasp, and my eyes dart in panic around the table, but all eyes are fixed on the stage. Thank hea一vens for my mask. Taking full advantage, I slowly caress him, letting my fingers explore. Christian keeps his hand over mine, hiding my bold fingers, while his thumb skates softly over the nape of my neck. His mouth opens as he gasps softly, and it’s the only reaction I can see to my inexperienced touch. But it means so much. He wants me. Everything south of my na一vel contracts. This is becoming unbearable. A week by Lake Adriana in Montana is the final lot for auction. Of course Mr. and Dr. Grey ha一ve a house in Montana, and the bidding escalates rapidly, but I am Montana, and the bidding escalates rapidly, but I am barely aware of it. I feel him growing beneath my fingers, and it makes me feel so powerful. “Sold, for one hundred ten thousand dollars!” the MC declares victoriously. The whole room bursts into applause, and reluctantly I follow as does Christian, ruining our fun. He turns to me and his lips twitch. “Ready?” he mouths over the rapturous cheering. “Yes,” I mouth back “Ana!” Mia calls. “It’s time!” What? No. Not again! “Time for what?” “The First Dance Auction. Come on!” She stands and holds out her hand. I glance at Christian who is, I think, scowling at Mia, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but it’s laughter that wins. I succumb to a cathartic bubble of schoolgirl giggles, as we are thwarted once more by the tall, pink powerhouse that is Mia Grey. Christian peers at me, and after a beat, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips. “The first dance will be with me, okay? And it won’t be on the dance floor,” he murmurs lasciviously into my ear. My giggles subside as anticipation fans the flames of my need. Oh, yes! My inner goddess performs a perfect triple Salchow in her ice skates. “I look forward to it.” I lean over and plant a soft, chaste kiss on his mouth. Glancing around, I realize that our fellow guests at the table are astonished. Of course, they’ve never seen Christian with a date before. He smiles broadly at me. And he looks . . . happy. He smiles broadly at me. And he looks . . . happy. Wow. “Come on, Ana,” Mia nags. Taking her outstretched hand, I follow her onto the stage where ten more young women ha一ve assembled, and I note with vague unease that Lily is one of them. “Gentlemen, the highlight of the evening!” the MC booms over the babble of voices. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for! These twelve lovely ladies ha一ve all agreed to auction their first dance to the highest bidder!” Oh no. I blush from head to toe. I hadn’t realized what this meant. How humiliating! “It’s for a good cause,” Mia hisses at me, sensing my discomfort. “Besides, Christian will win.” She rolls her eyes. “I can’t imagine him letting anyone outbid him. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all evening.” Yes, focus on the good cause, and Christian is bound to win. Let’s face it, he’s not short of a dime or two. But it means spending more money on you! my subconscious snarls at me. But I don’t want to dance with anyone else—I can’t dance with anyone else—and it’s not spending money on me, he’s donating it to the charity. Like the twenty-four thousand dollars he’s already spent? My subconscious narrows her eyes. Shit. I seem to ha一ve gotten away with my impulsive bid. Why am I arguing with myself? “Now, gentlemen, pray gather round, and take a good look at what could be yours for the first dance. Twelve comely and compliant wenches.” Jeez! I feel like I’m in a meat market. I watch, Jeez! I feel like I’m in a meat market. I watch, horrified, as at least twenty men make their way to the stage area, Christian included, moving with easy grace between the tables and pausing to say a few hellos on the way. Once the bidders are assembled, the MC begins. “Ladies and gentlemen, in the tradition of the masquerade we shall maintain the mystery behind the masks and stick to first names only. First up we ha一ve the lovely Jada.” Jada is giggling like a schoolgirl, too. Maybe I won’t be so out of place. She’s dressed head to foot in na一vy taffeta with a matching mask. Two young men step forward expectantly. Lucky Jada. “Jada speaks fluent Japanese, is a qualified fighter pilot, and an Olympic gymnast . . . hmm.” The MC winks. “Gentleman, what am I bid?” Jada gapes, astounded at the MC; obviously, he’s talking complete garbage. She grins shyly back at the two contenders. “A thousand bucks!” one calls. Very quickly the bidding escalates to five thousand dollars. “Going once . . . going twice . . . sold!” the MC declares loudly, “to the gentleman in the mask!” And of course all the men are wearing masks so there are hoots of laughter, applause, and cheering. Jada beams at her purchaser and quickly exits the stage. “See? This is fun!” whispers Mia. “I hope Christian wins you, though . . . We don’t want a brawl,” she adds. “Brawl?” I answer horrified. “Brawl?” I answer horrified. “Oh yes. He was very hot-headed when he was younger.” She shudders. Christian brawling? Refined, sophisticated, likes- Tudor-choral-music Christian? I can’t see it. The MC distracts me with his next introduction—a young woman in red, with long jet-black hair. “Gentlemen, may I present the wonderful Mariah. What are we going to do about Mariah? She’s an experienced matador, plays the cello to concert standard, and she’s a champion pole-vaulter . . . how about that, gentlemen? What am I bid, please, for a dance with the delightful Mariah?” Mariah glares at the MC and someone yells, very loudly, “Three thousand dollars!” It’s a masked man with blond hair and beard. There is one counter-bid, but Mariah sells for four thousand dollars. Christian is watching me like a hawk. Brawler Trevelyan-Grey—who would ha一ve known? “How long ago?” I ask Mia. She glances at me, nonplussed. “How long ago was Christian brawling?” “Early teens. Drove my parents crazy, coming home with cut lips and black eyes. He was expelled from two schools. He inflicted some serious damage on his opponents.” I gape at her. “Hasn’t he told you?” She sighs. “He got quite a bad rep among my friends. He was really persona non grata rep among my friends. He was really persona non grata for a few years. But it stopped when he was about fifteen or sixteen.” She shrugs. Holy fuck. Another piece of the jigsaw falls into place. “So, what am I bid for the gorgeous Jill?” “Four thousand dollars,” a deep voice calls from the left side. Jill squeals in delight. I stop paying attention to the auction. So Christian was in that kind of trouble at school, fighting. I wonder why. I stare at him. Lily is watching us closely. “And now, allow me to introduce the beautiful Ana.” Oh shit, that’s me. I glance nervously at Mia, and she shoos me center stage. Fortunately, I don’t fall over, but stand embarrassed as hell on display for everyone. When I look at Christian, he’s smirking at me. The bastard. “Beautiful Ana plays six musical instruments, speaks fluent Mandarin, and is keen on yoga . . . well, gentlemen —” Before he can even finish his sentence Christian interrupts him, glaring at the MC through his mask. “Ten thousand dollars.” I hear Lily’s gasp of disbelief behind me. Oh fuck. “Fifteen.” What? We all turn as one to a tall, impeccably dressed man standing to the left of the stage. I blink at Fifty. Shit, what will he make of this? But he’s scratching his chin and giving the stranger an ironic smile. It’s obvious Christian knows him. The stranger nods politely at Christian. “Well, gentlemen! We ha一ve high rollers in the house this evening.” The MC’s excitement emanates through his harlequin mask as he turns to beam at Christian. This is a great show, but it’s at my expense. I want to wail. “Twenty,” counters Christian quietly. The babble of the crowd has died. Everyone is staring at me, Christian, and Mr. Mysterious by the stage. “Twenty-five,” the stranger says. Could this be any more embarrassing? Christian stares at him impassively, but he’s amused. All eyes are on Christian. What’s he going to do? My heart is in my mouth. I feel sick. “One hundred thousand dollars,” he says his voice ringing clear and loud through the marquee. “What the fuck?” Lily hisses audibly behind me, and a general gasp of dismay and amusement ripples through the crowd. The stranger holds his hands up in defeat, laughing, and Christian smirks at him. From the corner of my eye, I can see Mia bouncing up and down with glee. My subconscious is gazing at Christian, utterly gobsmacked. “One-hundred thousand dollars for the lovely Ana! Going once . . . going twice . . .” The MC stares at the stranger who shakes his head with mock regret and bows chivalrously. “Sold!” the MC cries out triumphantly. In a deafening round of applause and cheering, Christian steps forward to take my hand and help me from the stage. He gazes at me with an amused grin as I make my way down, kisses the back of my hand then tucks it into the crook of his arm, and leads me toward the marquee’s exit. “Who was that?” I ask. He gazes down at me. “Someone you can meet later. Right now, I want to show you something. We ha一ve about thirty minutes until the First Dance Auction finishes. Then we ha一ve to be back on the dance floor so that I can enjoy that dance I’ve paid for.” “A very expensive dance,” I mutter disapprovingly. “I’m sure it’ll be worth every single cent.” He smiles down at me wickedly. Oh, he has a glorious smile, and the ache is back, blossoming in my body. We’re out on the lawn. I thought we would be heading to the boathouse, but disappointingly we seem to be heading for the dance floor where the big band is now setting up. There are at least twenty musicians, and a few guests are milling about, furtively smoking—but since most of the action is back in the marquee, we don’t attract too much attention. Christian leads me to the rear of the house and opens a French window leading into a large comfortable sitting room that I’ve not seen before. He walks through the deserted hall toward the sweeping staircase with its elegant, polished wooden balustrade. Taking my hand from the crook of his arm, he leads me up to the second floor and up another flight of stairs to the third. Opening a white door, he ushers me into one of the bedrooms. “This was my room,” he says quietly, standing by the door and locking it behind him. It’s large, stark, and sparsely furnished. The walls are white as is the furniture; a spacious double bed, a desk and chair, shelves crammed with books and lined with various trophies for kickboxing by the look of them. The walls are hung with movie posters: The Matrix, Fight Club, The Truman Show, and two framed posters featuring kick boxers. One is named Guiseppe DeNatale —I’ve never heard of him. But what catches my eye is the white pin board above the desk, studded with a myriad of photographs, Mariners pennants, and ticket stubs. It’s a slice of young Christian. My eyes come back to the magnificent, beautiful man now standing in the center of the room. He looks at me darkly, brooding and sexy. “I’ve never brought a girl in here,” he murmurs. “Never?” I whisper. He shakes his head. I swallow convulsively, and the ache that has been bothering me for the last couple of hours is roaring now, raw and wanting. Seeing him standing there on the royal blue carpet in that mask . . . it’s beyond erotic. I want him. Now. Any way I can get him. I ha一ve to resist launching myself at him and ripping his clothes off. He waltzes over to me slowly. “We don’t ha一ve long, Anastasia, and the way I’m feeling right this moment, we won’t need long. Turn round. Let me get you out of that dress.” I turn and stare at the door, grateful that he’s locked it. Bending down he whispers softly in my ear, “Keep the mask on.” mask on.” I groan as my body clenches in response. He’s not even touched me yet. He grasps the top of my dress, his fingers sliding against my skin, and the touch reverberates through my body. In one swift move, he opens the zipper. Holding my dress, he helps me to step out of it, then turns and drapes it artfully over the back of a chair. Removing his jacket, he places it over my dress. He pauses, and stares at me for a moment, drinking me in. I’m in the basque and matching panties, and I revel in his sensuous gaze. “You know, Anastasia,” he says softly as he stalks toward me, undoing his bow tie so it hangs from either side of his neck, then undoing the top three buttons of his shirt. “I was so mad when you bought my auction lot. All manner of ideas ran through my head. I had to remind myself that punishment is off the menu. But then you volunteered.” He gazes down at me through his mask. “Why did you do that?” he whispers. “Volunteer? I don’t know. Frustration . . . too much alcohol . . . worthy cause,” I mutter meekly, shrugging. Maybe to get his attention? I needed him then. I need him more now. The ache is worse, and I know he can soothe it, calm this roaring, salivating beast in me with the beast in him. His mouth presses into a line, and he slowly licks his upper lip. I want that tongue on me. “I vowed to myself I would not spank you again, even if you begged me.” “Please,” I beg. “Please,” I beg. “But then I realized, you’re probably very uncomfortable at the moment, and it’s not something you’re used to.” He smirks at me knowingly, arrogant bastard, but I don’t care because he’s absolutely right. “Yes,” I breathe. “So, there might be a certain . . . latitude. If I do this, you must promise me one thing.” “Anything.” “You will safe word if you need to, and I will just make love to you, okay?” “Yes.” I’m panting. I want his hands on me. He swallows, then takes my hand, and moves toward the bed. Throwing the duvet aside, he sits down, grabs a pillow, and places it beside him. He gazes up at me standing beside him and suddenly tugs hard on my hand so that I fall across his lap. He shifts slightly so my body is resting on the bed, my chest on the pillow, my face to one side. Leaning over, he sweeps my hair over my shoulder and runs his fingers through the plume of feathers on my mask. “Put your hands behind your back,” he murmurs. Oh! He removes his bow tie and uses it to quickly bind my wrists so that my hands are tied behind me, resting in the small of my back. “You really want this, Anastasia?” I close my eyes. This is the first time since I met him that I really want this. I need it. “Yes,” I whisper. “Why?” he asks softly as he caresses my behind with “Why?” he asks softly as he caresses my behind with his palm. I groan as soon as his hand makes contact with my skin. I don’t know why . . . You tell me not to overthink. After a day like today—arguing about the money, Leila, Mrs. Robinson, the dossier on me, the roadmap, this la一vish party, the masks, the alcohol, the silver balls, the auction . . . I want this. “Do I need a reason?” “No, baby, you don’t,” he says. “I’m just trying to understand you.” His left hand curls round my waist, holding me in place as his palm lea一ves my behind and lands hard, just above the junction of my thighs. The pain connects directly with the ache in my belly Oh man . . . I moan loudly. He hits me again, in exactly the same place. I groan again. “Two,” he murmurs. “We’ll go with twelve.” Oh my! This feels different than the last time—so carnal, so . . . necessary. He caresses my behind with his long-fingered hands, and I’m helpless, trussed up and pressed into the mattress, at his mercy, and of my own free will. He hits me again, slightly to the side, and again, to the other side, then pauses as he slowly peels my panties down and pulls them off. He gently trails his palm across my behind again before continuing my spanking—each stinging smack taking the edge off my need—or fueling it —I don’t know. I surrender myself to the rhythm of blows, absorbing each one, sa一voring each one. “Twelve,” he murmurs his voice low and harsh. He caresses my behind again and trails his fingers down caresses my behind again and trails his fingers down toward my sex and slowly sinks two fingers inside me, moving them in a circle, round and round and round, torturing me. I moan loudly as my body takes over, and I come and come, convulsing around his fingers. It’s so intense, unexpected, and quick. “That’s right, baby,” he murmurs appreciatively. He unties my wrists, keeping his fingers inside me as I lie panting and spent over him. “I’ve not finished with you yet, Anastasia,” he says and shifts without removing his fingers. He eases my knees on to the floor so that now I’m leaning over the bed. He kneels on the floor behind me and undoes his zipper. He slides his fingers out of me, and I hear the familiar tear of a foil packet. “Open your legs,” he growls and I comply. He strokes my behind and eases into me. “This is going to be quick, baby,” he murmurs and grabbing my hips, he eases out then slams into me. “Ah!” I cry out but the fullness is hea一venly. He’s hitting the bellyache square on, again and again, eradicating it with each sharp, sweet thrust. The feeling is mind-blowing, just what I need. I push back to meet him, thrust for thrust. “Ana, no,” he grunts, trying to still me. But I want him too much, and I grind against him, matching him thrust for thrust. “Ana, shit,” he hisses as he comes, and the tortured sound sets me off again, spiraling into a healing orgasm that goes on and on and wrings me out and lea一ves me spent and breathless. and breathless. Christian bends and kisses my shoulder then pulls out of me. Placing his arms around me, he rests his head in the middle of my back, and we lie like this, both kneeling at the bedside, for what? Seconds? Minutes even as our breathing calms. My bellyache has disappeared, and all I feel is a soothing, satisfying serenity. Christian stirs and kisses my back. “I believe you owe me a dance, Miss Steele,” he murmurs. “Hmm,” I respond, sa一voring the absence of achiness and basking in the afterglow. He sits back on his heels and pulls me off the bed onto his lap. “We don’t ha一ve long. Come on.” He kisses my hair and forces me to stand. I grumble but sit back down on the bed and collect my panties from the floor and scoop them on. Lazily I walk to the chair to retrieve my dress. I note with dispassionate interest that I did not remove my shoes during our illicit tryst. Christian is tying his bow tie, ha一ving finished straightening himself and the bed. As I slip my dress back on, I check out the photographs on the pin board. Christian as a sullen teen was gorgeous even then: with Elliot and Mia on the ski slopes; on his own in Paris, the Arc de Triomphe serving as a giveaway background; in London; New York; the Grand Canyon; Sydney Opera House; even the Great Wall of China. Master Grey was well tra一veled at a young age. There are ticket stubs to various concerts: U2, Metallica, The Verve, Sheryl Crow, the New York Metallica, The Verve, Sheryl Crow, the New York Philharmonic performing Prokofiev’s Romeo and Juliet— what an eclectic mix! And in the corner, there’s a passport-size photograph of a young woman. It’s in black and white. She looks familiar, but for the life of me, I can’t place her. Not Mrs. Robinson, thank hea一vens. “Who’s this?” I ask. “No one of consequence,” he mutters as he slips on his jacket and straightens his bow tie. “Shall I zip you up?” “Please. Then why is she on your pin board?” “An oversight on my part. How’s my tie?” He raises his chin like a small boy, and I grin and straighten it for him. “Now it’s perfect.” “Like you,” he murmurs and grabs me, kissing me passionately. “Feeling better?” “Much, thank you, Mr. Grey.” “The pleasure was all mine, Miss Steele.” The guests are assembling on the dance floor. Christian grins at me—we’ve made it just in time—and he leads me onto the checkered floor. “And now, ladies and gentlemen, it’s time for the first dance. Mr. and Dr. Grey, are you ready?” Carrick nods in agreement, his arms around Grace. “Ladies and gentlemen of the First Dance Auction, are you ready?” We all nod in agreement. Mia is with someone I don’t recognize. I wonder what happened to Sean? “Then we shall begin. Take it away, Sam!” A young man strolls onto the stage amid warm applause, turns to the band behind him and snaps his fingers. The familiar strains of “I’ve Got You Under My Skin” fill the air. Christian smiles down at me, takes me in his arms, and starts to move. Oh, he dances so well, making it easy to follow. We grin at each other like idiots as he whirls me around the dance floor. “I love this song,” Christian murmurs, gazing down at me. “Seems very fitting.” He’s no longer grinning, but serious. “You’re under my skin, too,” I respond. “Or you were in your bedroom.” He purses his lips but he’s unable to hide his amusement. “Miss Steele,” he admonishes me teasingly, “I had no idea you could be so crude.” “Mr. Grey, neither did I. I think it’s all my recent experiences. They’ve been an education.” “For both of us.” Christian is serious again, and it could just be the two of us and the band. We are in our own private bubble. As the song finishes we both applaud. Sam the singer bows graciously and introduces his band. “May I cut in?” I recognize the man who bid on me at the auction. Christian grudgingly lets me go, but he’s amused, too. “Be my guest. Anastasia, this is John Flynn. John, Anastasia.” Shit! Christian smirks at me and wanders off to one side of the dance floor. “How do you do, Anastasia?” Dr. Flynn says smoothly, and I realize he’s British. “Hello,” I stutter. The band strikes up another song, and Dr. Flynn pulls me into his arms. He’s much younger than I imagined, though I can’t see his face. He’s wearing a mask similar to Christian’s. He’s tall, but not as tall as Christian, and he doesn’t move with Christian’s easy grace. What do I say to him? Why is Christian so fucked-up? Why did he bid on me? It’s the only thing I want to ask him, but somehow that seems rude. “I’m glad to finally meet you, Anastasia. Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks. “I was,” I whisper. “Oh. I hope I’m not responsible for your change of heart.” He gives me a brief, warm smile that puts me a little more at ease. “Doctor Flynn, you’re the shrink. You tell me.” He grins. “That’s the problem, isn’t it? The shrink bit?” I giggle. “I’m worried what I might reveal, so I’m a little self-conscious and intimidated. And really I only want to ask you about Christian.” He smiles. “First, this is a party so I’m not on duty,” he whispers conspiratorially. “And second, I really can’t talk whispers conspiratorially. “And second, I really can’t talk to you about Christian. Besides,” he teases, “we’d need until Christmas.” I gasp in shock. “That’s a doctor’s joke, Anastasia.” I flush, embarrassed, and then feel slightly resentful. He’s making a joke at Christian’s expense. “You’ve just confirmed what I’ve been saying to Christian . . . that you’re an expensive charlatan,” I admonish him. Dr. Flynn snorts with laughter. “You could be onto something there.” “You’re British?” “Yes. Originally from London.” “How did you find yourself here?” “Happy circumstance.” “You don’t give much away, do you?” “There’s not much to give away. I’m really a very dull person.” “That’s very self-deprecating.” “It’s a British trait. Part of our national character.” “Oh.” “And I could accuse you of the same, Anastasia.” “That I’m a dull person, too, Dr. Flynn?” He snorts. “No, Anastasia, that you don’t give much away.” “There’s not much to give away.” I smile. “I sincerely doub一t that.” He unexpectedly frowns. I flush, but the music finishes and Christian is once more by my side. Dr. Flynn releases me. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Anastasia.” He gives “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Anastasia.” He gives me his warm smile again, and I feel that I’ve passed some kind of hidden test. “John.” Christian nods at him. “Christian.” Dr. Flynn returns his nod, turns on his heel, and disappears through the crowd. Christian pulls me into his arms for the next dance. “He’s much younger than I expected,” I murmur to him. “And terribly indiscreet.” Christian cocks his head to one side. “Indiscreet?” “Oh yes, he told me everything,” I tease. Christian tenses. “Well, in that case, I’ll get your bag. I’m sure you want nothing more to do with me,” he says softly. I stop. “He didn’t tell me anything!” My voice fills with panic. Christian blinks before relief floods his face. He pulls me into his arms again. “Then let’s enjoy this dance.” He beams down, reassuring me, then spins me round. Why would he think that I’d want to lea一ve? It makes no sense. We dance for two more numbers, and I realize I need the restroom. “I won’t be long.” As I make my way to the powder room, I remember I ha一ve left my purse on the dinner table, so I head down to the marquee. When I enter, it’s still lit but quite deserted, except for a couple at the other end, who really ought to get a room! I reach for my bag. “Anastasia?” “Anastasia?” A soft voice startles me, and I turn to see a woman dressed in a long, tight, black velvet gown. Her mask is unique. It covers her face to her nose but also covers her hair. It’s stunning with elaborate gold filigree. “I’m so glad you’re on your own,” she says softly. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you all evening.” “I’m sorry, I don’t know who you are.” She pulls the mask from her face and releases her hair. Shit! It’s Mrs. Robinson. “I’m sorry, I startled you.” I gape at her. Holy cow—what the fuck does this woman want? I don’t know what the social conventions are for meeting known molesters of children. She’s smiling sweetly and gesturing for me to sit at the table. And because I am lacking any sphere of reference, I do as she asks out of stunned politeness, grateful that I am still wearing my mask. “I’ll be brief, Anastasia. I know what you think of me . . . Christian’s told me.” I gaze at her impassively, giving nothing away, but I’m pleased that she knows. It sa一ves me telling her, and she’s cutting to the chase. Part of me is beyond intrigued as to what she could ha一ve to say. She pauses, glancing over my shoulder. “Taylor’s watching us.” I peek around to see him scanning the tent by the doorway. Sawyer is with him. They are looking anywhere but at us. but at us. “Look, we don’t ha一ve long,” she says hurriedly. “It must be obvious to you that Christian is in love with you. I ha一ve never seen him like this, ever.” She emphasizes the last word. What? Loves me? No. Why is she telling me? To reassure me? I don’t understand. “He won’t tell you because he probably doesn’t realize it himself, notwithstanding what I’ve said to him, but that’s Christian. He’s not very attuned to any positive feelings and emotions he may ha一ve. He dwells far too much on the negative. But then you’ve probably worked that out for yourself. He doesn’t think he’s worthy.” I am reeling. Christian loves me? He hasn’t said it, and this woman has told him that’s how he feels? How bizarre. A hundred images dance through my head: the iPad, the gliding, flying to see me, all his actions, his possessiveness, one hundred thousand dollars for a dance. Is this love? And hearing it from this woman, ha一ving her confirm it for me is, frankly, unwelcome. I’d rather hear it from him. My heart constricts. He feels unworthy? Why? “I’ve never seen him so happy, and it’s obvious that you ha一ve feelings for him, too.” A brief smile flits across her lips. “That’s great, and I wish you both the best of everything. But what I wanted to say is if you hurt him again, I will find you, lady, and it won’t be pleasant when I do.” She stares at me, ice-cold blue eyes boring into my She stares at me, ice-cold blue eyes boring into my skull, trying to get under my mask. Her threat is so astonishing, so off the wall that an involuntary, disbelieving giggle escapes me. Of all the things she could say to me, this is the least expected. “You think this is funny, Anastasia?” she splutters in dismay. “You didn’t see him last Saturday.” My face falls and darkens. The thought of Christian unhappy is not a palatable one, and last Saturday I left him. He must ha一ve gone to her. The idea makes me queasy. Why am I sitting here listening to this shit from her of all people? I slowly rise, gazing at her intently. “I’m laughing at your audacity, Mrs. Lincoln. Christian and I ha一ve nothing to do with you. And if I do lea一ve him and you come looking for me, I’ll be waiting—don’t doub一t it. And maybe I’ll give you a taste of your own medicine on behalf of the fifteen-year-old child you molested and probably fucked-up even more than he already was.” Her mouth falls open. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I ha一ve better things to do than waste my time with you.” I turn on my heel, adrenaline and anger coursing through my body, and stalk toward the entrance of the tent where Taylor is standing just as Christian arrives, looking flustered and worried. “There you are,” he mutters, then frowns when he sees Elena. I stride past him, saying nothing, giving him the opportunity to choose—her or me. He makes the right choice. “Ana,” he calls. I stop and face him as he catches up “Ana,” he calls. I stop and face him as he catches up with me. “What’s wrong?” He gazes down at me, concern etched on his face. “Why don’t you ask your ex?” I hiss acidly. His mouth twists and his eyes frost. “I’m asking you,” he says, his voice soft but with an undertone of something far more menacing.