Текст книги "Fifty shades darker"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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move, and I watch him move around the car. Will this ever get old?

We stroll arm in arm to the waterfront where the marina stretches out in front of us.

“So many boats,” I murmur in wonder. There are hundreds of them in all shapes and

sizes, bobbing up and down on the calm, still waters of the marina. Out on the Sound there

are dozens of sails in the wind, weaving to and fro, enjoying the fine weather. It’s a whole-

some, outdoorsy sight. The wind has picked up a little, so I pull my jacket around me.

“Cold?” he asks and pulls me tightly against him.

“No, just admiring the view.”

“I could stare at it all day. Come, this way.”

Christian leads me into a large seafront bar and makes his way to the counter. The dé-

cor is more New England than West Coast—white-limed walls, pale blue furnishings, and

boating paraphernalia hanging everywhere. It’s a bright, cheery place.

“Mr. Grey!” the barman greets Christian warmly. “What can I get you this afternoon?”

“Dante, good afternoon.” Christian grins as we both slip onto bar stools. “This lovely

lady is Anastasia Steele.”

“Welcome to SP’s Place.” Dante gives me a friendly smile. He’s black and beautiful,

his dark eyes assessing me and not finding me wanting, it seems. One large diamond stud

winks at me from his ear. I like him immediately.

“What would you like to drink, Anastasia?”

I glance at Christian, who regards me expectantly. Oh, he’s going to let me choose.

“Please, call me Ana, and I’ll have whatever Christian’s drinking.” I smile shyly at

Dante. Fifty’s so much better at wine than I am.

“I’m going to have a beer. This is the only bar in Seattle where you can get Adnam’s

Explorer.”

“A beer?”

“Yes.” He grins at me. “Two Explorers, please, Dante.”

Dante nods and sets up the beers on the bar.

“They do a delicious seafood chowder here,” Christian says.

He’s asking me.

“Chowder and beer sounds great.” I smile at him.

“Two chowders?” Dante asks.

“Please.” Christian grins at him.

We talk through our meal, as we never have before. Christian is relaxed and calm—he

looks young, happy, and animated despite all that transpired yesterday. He recounts the his-

tory of Grey Enterprises Holdings, and the more he reveals, the more I sense his passion for

fixing problem companies, his hopes for the technology he’s developing, and his dreams

of making land in the third world more productive. I listen enraptured. He’s funny, clever,

philanthropic, and beautiful, and he loves me.

In turn, he plagues me with questions about Ray and my mom, about growing up in the

lush forests of Montesano, and my brief stints in Texas and Vegas. He demands to know my

favorite books and films, and I’m surprised by how much we have in common.

As we talk, it strikes me that he’s turned from Hardy’s Alec to Angel, debasement to

high ideal in such a short space of time.

It’s after two when we finish our meal. Christian settles the tab with Dante, who wishes

us a fond farewell.

“This is a great place. Thank you for lunch,” I say as Christian takes my hand and we

leave the bar.

“We’ll come again,” he says, and we stroll along the waterfront. “I wanted to show you

something.”

“I know . . . and I can’t wait to see it, whatever it is.”

We wander hand in hand along the marina. It is such a pleasant afternoon. People are out

enjoying their Sunday—walking dogs, admiring the boats, watching their kids run along

the promenade.

As we head down the marina, the boats are getting progressively larger. Christian leads

me on to the dock and stops in front of a huge catamaran.

“I thought we’d go sailing this afternoon. This is my boat.”

Holy cow.It must be at least forty, maybe fifty feet. Two sleek white hulls, a deck, a

roomy cabin, and towering over them a very tall mast. I know nothing about boats, but I

can tell this one is special.

“Wow . . . ,” I murmur in wonder.

“Built by my company,” he says proudly and my heart swells. “She’s been designed

from the ground up by the very best naval architects in the world and constructed here in

Seattle at my yard. She has hybrid electric drives, asymmetric dagger boards, a square-

topped mainsail—”

“Okay . . . you’ve lost me, Christian.”

He grins. “She’s a great boat.”

“She looks mighty fine, Mr. Grey.”

“That she does, Miss Steele.”

“What’s her name?”

He pulls me to the side so I can see her name: The Grace.I’m surprised. “You named

her after your mom?”

“Yes.” He cocks his head to one side, quizzical. “Why do you find that strange?”

I shrug. I am surprised—he always seems ambivalent in her presence.

“I adore my mom, Anastasia. Why wouldn’t I name a boat after her?”

I flush. “No, it’s not that . . . it’s just . . .” Shit, how can I put this into words?

“Anastasia, Grace Trevelyan saved my life. I owe her everything.”

I gaze at him, and let the reverence in his softly spoken admission wash over me. It’s

obvious to me, for the first time, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strained am-

bivalence toward her?

“Do you want to come aboard?” he asks, his eyes bright, excited.

“Yes, please.” I smile.

He looks delighted and delightful in one yummy scrumptious package. Grasping my

hand, he strides up the small gangplank and leads me aboard so that we are standing on

deck beneath a rigid canopy.

To one side there’s a table and a U-shaped banquette covered in pale blue leather,

which must seat at least eight people. I glance through the sliding doors to the interior of

the cabin and jump, startled when I spy someone there. The tall blond man opens the slid-

ing doors and emerges—all tanned, curly-haired and brown-eyed—wearing a faded pink

short-sleeved polo shirt, shorts, and deck shoes. He must be in his early thirties.

“Mac.” Christian beams.

“Mr. Grey! Welcome back.” They shake hands.

“Anastasia, this is Liam McConnell. Liam, my girlfriend, Anastasia Steele.”

Girlfriend!My inner goddess performs a quick arabesque. She’s still grinning over the

convertible. I have to get used to this—it’s not the first time he’s said it, but hearing him

say it is still a thrill.

“How do you do?” Liam and I shake hands.

“Call me Mac,” he says warmly, and I can’t place his accent. “Welcome aboard, Miss

Steele.”

“Ana, please,” I mutter, flushing. He has deep brown eyes.

“How’s she shaping up, Mac?” Christian interjects quickly, and for a moment, I think

he’s talking about me.

“She’s ready to rock and roll, sir,” Mac beams. Oh, the boat,The Grace . Silly me.

“Let’s get underway, then.”

“You going to take her out?”

“Yep.” Christian flashes Mac a quick wicked grin. “Quick tour, Anastasia?”

“Yes, please.”

I follow him inside the cabin. An L-shaped cream leather sofa is directly in front of us,

and above it, a massive curved window offers a panoramic view of the marina. To the left

is the kitchen area—very well appointed, all pale wood.

“This is the main saloon. Galley beside,” Christian says, waving his hand in the direc-

tion of the kitchen.

He takes my hand and leads me through the main cabin. It’s surprisingly spacious. The

floor is the same pale wood. It looks modern and sleek and has a light, airy feel, but it’s all

very functional, as if he doesn’t spend much time here.

“Bathrooms on either side.” Christian points to two doors, then opens the small, oddly

shaped door directly in front of us and steps in. We’re in a plush bedroom. Oh . . .

It has a king-size cabin bed and is all pale blue linen and pale wood like his bedroom

at Escala. Christian obviously chooses a theme and sticks to it.

“This is the master cabin.” He gazes down at me, gray eyes glowing. “You’re the first

girl in here, apart from family,” he smirks. “They don’t count.”

I flush under his heated stare, and my pulse quickens. Really? Another first.He pulls

me into his arms, his fingers tangling in my hair, and kisses me, long and hard. We’re both

breathless when he pulls away.

“Might have to christen this bed,” he whispers against my mouth.

Oh, at sea!

“But not right now. Come, Mac will be casting off.” I ignore the stab of disappointment

as he takes my hand and leads me back through the saloon. He indicates another door.

“Office in there, and at the front here, two more cabins.”

“So how many can sleep on board?”

“It’s a six-berth cat. I’ve only ever had the family on board, though. I like to sail alone.

But not when you’re here. I need to keep an eye on you.”

He delves into a chest and pulls out a bright red lifejacket.

“Here.” Putting it over my head, he tightens all the straps, a faint smile playing on his

lips.“You love strapping me in, don’t you?”

“In any form,” he says, a wicked grin playing on his lips.

“You are a pervert.”

“I know.” He raises his eyebrows and his grin broadens.

“My pervert,” I whisper.

“Yes, yours.”

Once secured, he grabs the sides of the jacket and kisses me. “Always,” he breathes,

then releases me before I have a chance to respond.

Always! Holy shit.

“Come.” He grabs my hand and leads me outside, up some steps, and onto the upper

deck to a small cockpit that houses a big steering wheel and a raised seat. At the prow of

the boat, Mac is doing something with ropes.

“Is this where you learned all your rope tricks?” I ask Christian innocently.

“Clove hitches have come in handy,” he says, looking at me appraisingly. “Miss Steele,

you sound curious. I like you curious, baby. I’d be more than happy to demonstrate what I

can do with a rope.” He smirks at me, and I gaze back impassively as if he’s upset me. His

face falls.

“Gotcha.” I grin.

His mouth twists and he narrows his eyes. “I may have to deal with you later, but right

now, I’ve got to drive my boat.” He sits at the controls, presses a button, and the engines

roar into life.

Mac comes scooting back down the side of the boat, grinning at me, and jumps down

to the deck below where he starts to unfasten a rope. Maybe he knows some rope tricks,

too. The idea pops unwelcome into my head and I flush.

My subconscious glares at me. Mentally I shrug at her and glance at Christian—I

blame Fifty. He picks up the receiver and radios the coastguard as Mac calls up that we are

set to go.

Once more, I am dazzled by Christian’s expertise. He’s so competent. Is there nothing

that this man can’t do? Then I remember his earnest attempt to chop and dice a pepper in

my apartment on Friday. The thought makes me smile.

Slowly, Christian eases The Graceout of her berth and toward the marina entrance. Be-

hind us, a small crowd has gathered on the dockside to watch our departure. Small children

are waving, and I wave back.

Christian glances over his shoulder, then pulls me between his legs and points out vari-

ous dials and gadgets in the cockpit. “Grab the wheel,” he orders, bossy as ever, but I do

as I’m told.

“Aye, aye, captain!” I giggle.

Placing his hands snugly over mine, he continues to steer our course out of the marina,

and within a few minutes, we are out on the open sea, slap into the cold blue waters of

Puget Sound. Away from the shelter of the marina’s protective wall, the wind is stronger,

and the sea pitches and rolls beneath us.

I can’t help but grin, feeling Christian’s excitement—this is such fun. We make a large

curve until we are heading west toward the Olympic Peninsula, the wind behind us.

“Sail time,” Christian says, excited. “Here—you take her. Keep her on this course.”

What?He grins, reacting to the horror in my face.

“Baby, it’s really easy. Hold the wheel and keep your eye on the horizon over the bow.

You’ll do great; you always do. When the sails go up, you’ll feel the drag. Just hold her

steady. I’ll signal like this”—he makes a slashing motion across his throat—“and you can

cut the engines. This button here.” He points to a large black button. “Understand?”

“Yes.” I nod frantically, feeling panicky . Jeez—I hadn’t expected to do anything!

He kisses me quickly, then he steps off his captain’s chair and bounds up to the front of

the boat to join Mac where he starts unfurling sails, untying ropes, and operating winches

and pulleys. They work well together in a team, shouting various nautical terms to each

other, and it’s warming to see Fifty interacting with someone else in such a carefree man-

ner. Perhaps Mac is Fifty’s friend. He doesn’t seem to have many, as far as I can tell, but

then, I don’t have many either. Well, not here in Seattle. The only friend I have is on vaca-

tion sunning herself in St. James on the west coast of Barbados.

I have a sudden pang for Kate. I miss my roommate more than I thought I would when

she left. I hope she changes her mind and comes home with her brother Ethan, rather than

prolong her stay with Christian’s brother Elliot.

Christian and Mac hoist the mainsail. It fills and billows out as the wind seizes it hun-

grily, and the boat lurches suddenly, zipping forward. I feel it through the wheel . Whoa!

They get to work on the headsail, and I watch fascinated as it flies up the mast. The

wind catches it, stretching it taut.

“Hold her steady, baby, and cut the engines!” Christian cries out to me over the wind,

motioning me to switch off the engines. I can only just hear his voice, but I nod enthusiasti-

cally, gazing at the man I love, all windswept, exhilarated, and bracing himself against the

pitch and yaw of the boat.

I press the button, the roar of the engines ceases, and The Gracesoars toward the

Olympic Peninsula, skimming across the water as if she’s flying. I want to yell and scream

and cheer—this has to be one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life—except per-

haps the glider, and maybe the Red Room of Pain.

Holy cow, this boat can move! I stand firm, grasping the wheel, fighting the rudder, and

Christian is behind me once more, his hands on mine.

“What do you think?” he shouts above the sound of the wind and the sea.

“Christian! This is fantastic.”

He beams, grinning from ear to ear. “You wait until the spinney’s up.” He points with

his chin toward Mac, who is unfurling the spinnaker—a sail that’s a dark, rich red. It re-

minds me of the walls in the playroom.

“Interesting color,” I shout.

He gives me a wolfish grin and winks. Oh, it’s deliberate.

The spinney balloons out—a large, odd elliptical shape—putting The Gracein over-

drive. Finding her head, she speeds over the Sound.

“Asymmetrical sail. For speed.” Christian answers my unasked question.

“It’s amazing.” I can think of nothing better to say. I have the most ridiculous grin on

my face as we whip through the water, heading for the majesty of the Olympic Mountains

and Bainbridge Island. Glancing back, I see Seattle shrinking behind us, Mount Rainier in

the far distance.

I had not really appreciated how beautiful and rugged Seattle’s surrounding landscape

is—verdant, lush, and temperate, tall evergreens and cliff faces jutting out here and there.

It has a wild but serene beauty on this glorious sunny afternoon that takes my breath away.

The stillness is stunning compared to our speed as we whip across the water.

“How fast are we going?”

“She’s doing 15 knots.”

“I have no idea what that means.”

“It’s about 17 miles an hour.”

“Is that all? It feels much faster.”

He squeezes my hands, smiling. “You look lovely, Anastasia. It’s good to see some

color in your cheeks . . . and not from blushing. You look like you do in José’s photos.”

I turn and kiss him.

“You know how to show a girl a good time, Mr. Grey.”

“We aim to please, Miss Steele.” He scoops my hair out of the way and kisses the back

of my neck, sending delicious tingles down my spine. “I like seeing you happy,” he mur-

murs and tightens his arms around me.

I gaze out over the wide blue water, wondering what I could possibly have done in the

past to have fortune smile and deliver this beautiful man to me.

Yes, you’re a lucky bitch,my subconscious snaps. But you have your work cut out with

him. He’s not going to want this vanilla crap forever . . . you’re going to have to compro-

mise.I glare mentally at her snarky, insolent face and rest my head against Christian’s

chest. But deep down I know my subconscious is right, but I banish the thoughts. I don’t

want to spoil my day.

An hour later, we are anchored in a small, secluded cove off Bainbridge Island. Mac has

gone ashore in the inflatable—for what, I don’t know—but I have my suspicions because

as soon as Mac starts the outboard engine, Christian grabs my hand and practically drags

me into his cabin, a man with a mission.

Now he stands before me, exuding his intoxicating sensuality as his deft fingers make

quick work of the straps on my lifejacket. He tosses it to one side and gazes intently down

at me, eyes dark, dilated.

I’m already lost and he’s barely touched me. He raises his hand to my face, and his

fingers move down my chin, the column of my throat, my sternum, searing me with his

touch, to the first button of my blue blouse.

“I want to see you,” he breathes and dexterously undoes the button. Bending, he plants

a soft kiss on my parted lips. I am panting and eager, aroused by the potent combination of

his captivating beauty, his raw sexuality in the confines of this cabin, and the gentle sway

of the boat. He stands back.

“Strip for me,” he whispers, eyes burning.

Oh my.I’m only too happy to comply. Not taking my eyes off his, I slowly undo each

button, savoring his scorching gaze. Oh, this is heady stuff. I can see his desire—it’s evi-

dent on his face . . . and elsewhere.

I let my shirt fall to the floor and reach for the button on my jeans.

“Stop,” he orders. “Sit.”

I sit down on the edge of the bed, and in one fluid movement he’s on his knees in front

of me, undoing the laces of first one and then the other sneaker, pulling each off, followed

by my socks. He picks up my left foot and raising it, plants a soft kiss on the pad of my big

toe, then grazes his teeth against it.

“Ah!” I moan as I feel the effect in my groin. He stands in one smooth move, holds his

hand out to me, and pulls me up off the bed.

“Continue,” he says and stands back to watch me.

I ease the zipper of my jeans down and hook my thumbs in the waistband as I sashay

then slide the denim down my legs. A soft smile plays on his lips, but his eyes remain dark.

And I don’t know if it’s because he made love to me this morning, and I mean really

made love to me, gently, sweetly, or if it was his impassioned declaration– yes . . . I do—

but I don’t feel embarrassed at all. I want to be sexy for this man. He deserves sexy—he

makes me feel sexy.

Okay, it’s new to me, but I’m learning under his expert tutelage. And then again, so

much is new to him, too. It balances the seesaw between us, a little, I think.

I am wearing some of my new underwear—a white lacy thong and matching bra—a

designer brand with a price tag to match. I step out of my jeans and stand there for him in

the lingerie he’s paid for, but I no longer feel cheap. I feel his.

Reaching behind I unhook my bra, sliding the straps down my arms, and drop it on top

of my blouse. Slowly, I slip my panties off, letting them fall to my ankles, and step out of

them, surprised by my grace.

Standing before him, I am naked and unashamed, and I know it’s because he loves

me. I no longer have to hide. He says nothing, just gazes at me. All I see is his desire, his

adoration even, and something else, the depth of his need—the depth of his love for me.

He reaches down, lifts the hem of his cream-colored sweater, and pulls it over his head,

followed by his T-shirt, revealing his chest, never taking his bold gray eyes off mine. His

shoes and socks follow before he grasps the button of his jeans.

Reaching over, I whisper, “Let me.”

His lips purse briefly into an oohshape, and he smiles. “Be my guest.”

I step toward him, slip my fearless fingers inside the waistband of his jeans, and tug so

he’s forced to take a step closer to me. He gasps involuntarily at my unexpected audacity

then smiles down at me. I undo the button, but before I unzip him I let my fingers wander,

tracing his erection through the soft denim. He flexes his hips into my palm and closes his

eyes briefly, relishing my touch.

“You’re getting so bold, Ana, so brave,” he whispers and clasps my face with both

hands, bending to kiss me deeply.

I put my hands on his hips—half on his cool skin and half on the low-slung waistband

of his jeans. “So are you,” I murmur against his lips as my thumbs rub slow circles on his

skin, and he smiles.

“Getting there.”

I move my hands to the front of his jeans and pull down the zipper. My intrepid fingers

move through his pubic hair to his erection, and I grasp him tightly.

He makes a low sound in his throat, his sweet breath washing over me, and he kisses

me again, lovingly. As my hand moves over him, around him, stroking him, squeezing him

tightly, he puts his arms around me, his right hand flat against the middle of my back and

his fingers spread. His left hand is in my hair, holding me to his mouth.

“Oh, I want you so much, baby,” he breathes, and steps back suddenly to remove his

jeans and boxers in one swift, agile move. He is a fine, fine sight in or out of clothes, every

single inch of him.

He is perfect. His beauty desecrated only by his scars, I think sadly. And they run so

much deeper than his skin.

“What’s wrong, Ana?” he murmurs and gently strokes my cheek with his knuckles.

“Nothing. Love me, now.”

He pulls me into his arms, kissing me, twisting his hands into my hair. Our tongues

entwined, he walks me backward to the bed and gently lowers me onto it, following me

down so that he’s lying by my side.

He runs his nose along my jawline as my hands move to his hair.

“Do you have any idea how exquisite your scent is, Ana? It’s irresistible.”

His words do what they always do—flame my blood, quicken my pulse—and he trails

his nose down my throat, across my breasts, kissing me reverentially as he does.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, as he takes one of my nipples in his mouth and

softly suckles.

I moan as my body bows off the bed.

“Let me hear you, baby.”

His hand trails down to my waist, and I glory in the feel of his touch, skin to skin—his

hungry mouth at my breasts and his skilled long fingers caressing and stroking me, cherish-

ing me. Moving over my hips, over my behind, and down my leg to my knee, and all this

time he’s kissing and sucking my breasts– oh my.

Grasping my knee, he suddenly hitches my leg up, curling it over his hips, making me

gasp, and I feel rather than see his responding grin against my skin. He rolls over so that I

am astride him and hands me a foil packet.

I shift back, taking him in my hands, and I just can’t resist him in all his glory. I bend

and kiss him, taking him in my mouth, swirling my tongue around him, then sucking hard.

He groans and flexes his hips so that he’s deeper in my mouth.

Mmm . . . he tastes good.I want him inside me. I sit up and gaze at him; he’s breathless,

mouth open, watching me intently.

Hurriedly I tear open the condom and unroll it over him. He holds out his hands for

me. I take one and with my other hand, position myself over him, then slowly claim him

as mine.

He groans low in his throat, closing his eyes.

The feel of him in me . . . stretching . . . filling me—I moan softly– it’s divine.He places his hands on my hips and moves me up, down, and pushes into me. Oh . . . it’s so good.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers, and suddenly he sits up so we’re nose to nose, and the sensa-

tion is extraordinary—so full. I gasp, grabbing his upper arms as he clasps my head in his

hands and gazes into my eyes—his intense and gray, burning with desire.

“Oh, Ana. What you make me feel,” he murmurs and kisses me passionately with fer-

vent ardor. I kiss him back, dizzy with the delicious feeling of him buried deep inside me.

“Oh, I love you,” I murmur. He groans as if pained to hear my whispered words and

rolls over, taking me with him without breaking our precious contact, so that I’m lying

beneath him. I wrap my legs around his waist.

He stares down at me with adoring wonder, and I am sure I mirror his expression as I

reach up to caress his beautiful face. Very slowly, he starts to move, closing his eyes as he

does and moaning softly.

The gentle sway of the boat and the peace and quiet tranquility of the cabin are broken

only by our mingled breaths as he moves slowly in and out of me, so controlled and so

good—it’s heavenly. He puts his arm over my head, his hand on my hair, and he caresses

my face with the other as he bends to kiss me.

I’m cocooned by him, as he loves me, slowly moving in and out, savoring me. I touch

him—sticking to the boundaries—his arms, his hair, his lower back, his beautiful behind—

and my breathing accelerates as his steady rhythm pushes me higher and higher. He’s kiss-

ing my mouth, my chin, my jaw, then nibbling my ear. I can hear his staccato breaths with

each gentle thrust of his body.

My body starts to quiver. Oh . . . This feeling that I now know so well . . . I am close . . .

Oh . . .

“That’s right, baby . . . give it up for me . . . Please . . . Ana,” he murmurs and his words

are my undoing.

“Christian,” I call out, and he groans as we both come together.

“Mac will be back soon,” he murmurs.

“Hmm.” My eyes flicker open to meet his soft gray gaze. Lord, his eyes are an amazing

color—especially here, out on the sea—reflecting the light bouncing off the water through

the small portholes into the cabin.

“As much as I’d like to lie here with you all afternoon, he’ll need a hand with the din-

ghy.” Leaning over, Christian kisses me tenderly. “Ana, you look so beautiful right now, all

mussed up and sexy. Makes me want you more.” He smiles and rises from the bed. I lay on

my front admiring the view.

“You ain’t so bad yourself, captain.” I smack my lips in admiration and he grins.

I watch him move gracefully about the cabin as he dresses. He really is divinely beauti-

ful, and what’s more, he’s just made such sweet love to me again. I can hardly believe my

good fortune. I can’t quite believe that this man is mine. He sits down beside me to put on

his shoes.

“Captain, eh?” he says dryly. “Well, I am master of this vessel.”

I cock my head to one side. “You are master of my heart, Mr. Grey.” And my body . . .

and my soul.

He shakes his head incredulously and bends to kiss me. “I’ll be on deck. There’s a

shower in the bathroom if you want one. Do you need anything? A drink?” he asks solici-

tously, and all I can do is grin at him. Is this the same man? Is this the same Fifty?

“What?” he says, reacting to my stupid grin.

“You.”

“What about me?”

“Who are you and what have you done with Christian?”

He lips twitch with a sad smile.

“He’s not very far away, baby,” he says softly, and there’s a touch of melancholy in his

voice that makes me instantly regret asking the question. But he shakes it off. “You’ll see

him soon enough”—he smirks at me—“especially if you don’t get up.” Reaching over, he

smacks me hard on my behind so I yelp and laugh at the same time.

“You had me worried.”

“Did I, now?” Christian’s brow creases. “You do give off some mixed signals, An-

astasia. How’s a man supposed to keep up?” He leans down and kisses me again. “Lat-

ers, baby,” he adds, and with a dazzling smile, he gets up and leaves me to my scattered

thoughts.

When I surface on deck, Mac is back on board, but he disappears onto the upper deck as

I open the saloon doors. Christian is on his Blackberry. Talking to whom?I wonder. He

wanders over and pulls me close, kissing my hair.

“Great news . . . good. Yeah . . . Really? The fire escape stairwell? . . . I see . . . Yes,

tonight.”

He hits the end button, and the sound of the engines firing up startles me. Mac must be

in the cockpit above.

“Time to head back,” Christian says, kissing me once more as he straps me into my

lifejacket.

The sun is low in the sky behind us as we make our way back to the marina, and I reflect

on a wonderful afternoon. Under Christian’s careful, patient tuition, I have now stowed a

mainsail, a headsail, and a spinnaker and learned to tie a reef knot, clove hitch, and sheep-

shank. His lips were twitching throughout the lesson.

“I may tie you up one day,” I mutter crabbily.

His mouth twists with humor. “You’ll have to catch me first, Miss Steele.”

His words bring to mind him chasing me round the apartment, the thrill, then the hid-

eous aftermath. I frown and shudder. After that, I left him.

Would I leave him again now that he’s admitted he loves me? I gaze up into his clear

gray eyes. Could I ever leave him again—no matter what he did to me? Could I betray him

like that? No. I don’t think I could.

He’s given me a more thorough tour of this beautiful boat, explaining all the innova-

tive designs and techniques, and the high-quality materials used to build it. I remember

the interview when I first met him. I picked up then on his passion for ships. I thought his

love was only for the ocean-going freighters his company builds—not for super-sexy, sleek

catamarans, too.

And, of course, he’s made sweet, unhurried love to me. I shake my head, remember-

ing my body bowed and wanting beneath his expert hands. He is an exceptional lover, I’m

sure—though, of course, I have no comparison. But Kate would have raved more if it was

always like this; it’s not like her to hold back on details.

But how long will this be enough for him? I just don’t know, and the thought is un-

nerving.

Now he sits, and I stand in the safe circle of his arms for hours, it seems, in comfort-

able, companionable silence as The Graceglides closer and closer to Seattle. I have the

wheel, Christian advising on adjustments every so often.

“There is poetry in sailing as old as the world,”1 he murmurs in my ear.

“That sounds like a quote.”

I sense his grin. “It is. Antoine de Saint-Exupéry.”

“Oh . . . I adore The Little Prince.”

“Me, too.”

It is early evening as Christian, his hands still on mine, steers us into the marina. There are

lights winking from the boats, reflecting off the dark water, but it is still light—a balmy,

bright evening, an overture for what is sure to be a spectacular sunset.

A crowd gathers on the dockside as Christian slowly turns the boat around in a rela-

tively small space. He does it with ease and reverses smoothly into the same berth we left