"Well, let's go see the boy's photos." He holds his hand out to me and taking it, I climb out of Charlie Tango.

A gray-haired man with a beard walks over to meet us, smiling broadly, and I recognize him as the old-timer from the last time we were here.

"Joe." Christian smiles and releases my hand to shake Joe's warmly.

"Keep her safe for Stephan. He'll be along around eight or nine."

"Will do, Mr. Grey. Ma'am," he says, nodding at me. "Your car's waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator's out of order; you'll need to use the stairs."

"Thank you, Joe."

Christian takes my hand, and we head to the emergency stairs.

"Good thing for you this is only three foors, in those heels," he mutters to me in disap- proval.

No kidding.

"Don't you like the boots?""I like them very much, Anastasia." His gaze darkens and I think he might say some- thing else, but he stops. "Come. We'll take it slow. I don't want you falling and breaking your neck."

We sit in silence as our driver takes us to the gallery. My anxiety has returned full force, and I realize that our time in Charlie Tango has been the eye of the storm. Christian is quiet and brooding ... apprehensive even; our lighter mood from earlier has dissipated. There's so much I want to say, but this journey is too short. Christian stares pensively out the window.

"Jose is just a friend," I murmur.

Christian turns and gazes at me, his eyes dark and guarded, giving nothing away. His mouth-oh, his mouth is distracting, and unbidden. I remember it on me-everywhere. My skin heats. He shifts in his seat and frowns.

"Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face, Anastasia. Please tell me you'll eat."

"Yes, Christian, I'll eat," I answer automatically, a plat.i.tude.

"I mean it."

"Do you now?" I cannot keep the disdain out of my voice. Honestly, the audacity of this man-this man who has put me through h.e.l.l over the last few days. No, that's wrong.

I've put myself through h.e.l.l. No. It's him. I shake my head, confused.

"I don't want to fght with you, Anastasia. I want you back, and I want you healthy,"

he says softly.

What? What does that mean? "But nothing's changed." You're still ffty shades.

"Let's talk on the way back. We're here."

The car pulls up in front of the gallery, and Christian climbs out, leaving me speech- less. He opens the car door for me, and I clamber out.

"Why do you do that?" My voice is louder than I expected.

"Do what?" Christian is taken aback.

"Say something like that and then just stop."

"Anastasia, we're here. Where you want to be. Let's do this and then talk. I don't par- ticularly want a scene in the street."

I fush and glance around. He's right. It's too public. I press my lips together as he glares down at me.

"Okay," I mutter sulkily. Taking my hand, he leads me into the building.

We are in a converted warehouse-brick walls, dark wood foors, white ceilings, and white pipe work. It's airy and modern, and there are several people wandering across the gallery foor, sipping wine and admiring Jose's work. For a moment, my troubles melt away as I grasp that Jose has realized his dream. Way to go, Jose!

"Good evening and welcome to Jose Rodriguez's show." A young woman dressed in black with very short brown hair, bright red lipstick, and large hooped earrings greets us.

She glances briefy at me, then much longer than is strictly necessary at Christian, then turns back to me, blinking as she blushes.

My brow creases. He's mine-or was. I try hard not to scowl at her. As her eyes regain their focus, she blinks again."Oh, it's you, Ana. We'll want your take on all this, too." Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me to a table laden with drinks and snacks.

How does she know my name?

"You know her?" Christian frowns.

I shake my head, equally puzzled.

He shrugs, distracted. "What would you like to drink?"

"I'll have a gla.s.s of white wine, thank you."

His brow furrows, but he holds his tongue and heads for the open bar.

"Ana!"

Jose comes barreling through a throng of people.

Holy cow! He's wearing a suit. He looks good and he's beaming at me. He enfolds me in his arms, hugging me hard. And it's all I can do not to burst into tears. My friend, my only friend while Kate is away. Tears pool in my eyes.

"Ana, I'm so glad you made it," he whispers in my ear, then pauses and abruptly holds me at arm's length, staring at me.

"What?"

"Hey are you okay? You look, well, odd. Dios mio, have you lost weight?"

I blink back my tears. "Jose, I'm fne. I'm just so happy for you." c.r.a.p-not him, too.

"Congratulations on the show." My voice wavers as I see his concern etched on his oh-so- familiar face, but I have to hold myself together.

"How did you get here?" he asks.

"Christian brought me," I say, suddenly apprehensive.

"Oh." Jose's face falls and he releases me. "Where is he?" His expression darkens.

"Over there, fetching drinks." I nod in Christian's direction and see he's exchanging pleasantries with someone waiting in line. Christian glances up when I look his way and our eyes lock. And in that brief moment, I'm paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man who gazes at me with some unfathomable emotion. His gaze hot, burning into me, and we're lost for a moment staring at each other.

Holy cow ... This beautiful man wants me back, and deep down inside me sweet joy slowly unfurls like a morning glory in the early dawn.

"Ana!" Jose distracts me, and I'm dragged back to the here and now. "I am so glad you came-listen, I should warn you-"

Suddenly, Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick cuts him off. "Jose, the journalist from the Portland Printz is here to see you. Come on." She gives me a polite smile.

"How cool is this? The fame." He grins, and I can't help but grin back-he's so happy.

"Catch you later, Ana." He kisses my cheek, and I watch him stroll over to a young woman standing by a tall lanky photographer.

Jose's photographs are everywhere, and in some cases, blown up onto huge canvases.

There are both monochromes and colors. There's an ethereal beauty to many of the land- scapes. In one taken out near the lake at Vancouver, it's early evening and pink clouds are refected in the stillness of the water. Briefy, I'm transported by the tranquility and the peace. It's stunning.

Christian joins me, and I take a deep breath and swallow, trying to recover some of my earlier equilibrium. He hands me my gla.s.s of white wine."Does it come up to scratch?" My voice sounds more normal.

He looks quizzically at me.

"The wine."

"No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy's quite talented, isn't he?" Christian is admiring the lake photo.

"Why else do you think I asked him to take your portrait?" I can't help the pride in my voice. His eyes glide impa.s.sively from the photograph to me.

"Christian Grey?" The photographer from the Portland Printz approaches Christian.

"Can I have a picture, sir?"

"Sure." Christian hides his scowl. I step back, but he grabs my hand and pulls me to his side. The photographer looks at both of us and can't hide his surprise.

"Mr. Grey, thank you." He snaps a couple of photos. "Miss ... ?" he asks.

"Steele," I reply.

"Thank you, Miss Steele." He scurries off.

"I looked for pictures of you with dates on the Internet. There aren't any. That's why Kate thought you were gay."

Christian's mouth twitches with a smile. "That explains your inappropriate question.

No, I don't do dates, Anastasia-only with you. But you know that." His eyes burn with sincerity.

"So you never took your"-I glance around nervously to check no one can overhear us-"subs out?"

"Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know." He shrugs, his eyes not leaving mine.

Oh, so just in the playroom-his Red Room of Pain and his apartment. I don't know what to feel about that.

"Just you, Anastasia," he whispers.

I blush and stare down at my fngers. In his own way, he does care about me.

"Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, not portraits. Let's look round." He holds his hand out to me, and I take it.

We wander past a few more prints, and I notice a couple nodding at me, smiling broadly as if they know me. It must be because I'm with Christian, but one young man is blatantly staring. Odd.

We turn the corner, and I can see why I've been getting strange looks. Hanging on the far wall are seven huge portraits-of me.

I stare blankly at them, stupefed, the blood draining from my face. Me: pouting, laugh- ing, scowling, serious, amused. All in super close up, all in black and white.

Holy c.r.a.p! I remember Jose messing with the camera on a couple of occasions when he was visiting and when I'd been out with him as driver and photographer's a.s.sistant. He took snapshots, or so I thought. Not these invasive candids.

I glance up at Christian, who is staring, transfxed, at each of the pictures in turn.

"Seems I'm not the only one," he mutters cryptically, his mouth settling into a hard line.

I think he's angry. Oh no.

"Excuse me," he says, pinning me with his bright gray gaze for a moment. He turns and heads to the reception desk.What's his problem now? I watch mesmerized as he talks animatedly with Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick. He fshes out his wallet and produces his credit card.

s.h.i.t. He must have bought one of them.

"Hey. You're the muse. These photographs are terrifc." A young man with a shock of bright blond hair startles me. I feel a hand at my elbow and Christian is back.

"You're a lucky guy." Blond Shock smirks at Christian, who gives him a cold stare.

"That I am," he mutters darkly, as he pulls me over to one side.

"Did you just buy one of these?"

"One of these?" he snorts, not taking his eyes off them.

"You bought more than one?"

He rolls his eyes. "I bought them all, Anastasia. I don't want some stranger ogling you in the privacy of their home."

My frst inclination is to laugh. "You'd rather it was you?" I scoff.

He glares down at me, caught off guard by my audacity, I think, but he's trying to hide his amus.e.m.e.nt.

"Frankly, yes."

"Pervert," I mouth at him and bite my lower lip to prevent my smile.

His mouth drops open, and now his amus.e.m.e.nt is obvious. He strokes his chin thought- fully.

"Can't argue with that a.s.sessment, Anastasia." He shakes his head, and his eyes soften with humor.