"Be careful," I murmur.

"Yes, Miss Steele," he mutters.

Christian frowns at me and then looks questioningly at Taylor, who smiles very slightly and adjusts his tie.

"Let me know where I'm going." Christian says.

Taylor reaches into his jacket, pulls out his wallet, and hands Christian a credit card.

"You might want to use this when you get there."

Christian nods. "Good thinking."

Ryan joins us. "Sawyer and Reynolds found nothing," he says to Taylor.

"Accompany Mr. Grey and Miss Steele to the garage," Taylor orders.

The garage is deserted. Well, it is nearly three in the morning. Christian ushers me into the pa.s.senger seat of the R8 and puts my case and his bag in the trunk at the front of the car.

The Audi beside us is a complete mess-every tire slashed, white paint splattered all over it. It's chilling and makes me grateful that Christian is taking me somewhere else.

"A replacement will arrive on Monday," Christian says bleakly when he's seated be- side me.

"How could she have known it was my car?"

He glances anxiously at me and sighs. "She had an Audi A3. I buy one for all my sub- missives-it's one of the safest cars in its cla.s.s."

Oh. "So, not so much a graduation present, then."

"Anastasia, despite what I hoped, you have never been my submissive, so technically it is a graduation present." He pulls out of the parking s.p.a.ce and speeds to the exit.

Despite what he hoped. Oh no ... my subconscious shakes her head sadly. This is what we come back to all the time.

"Are you still hoping?" I whisper.

The in-car phone buzzes. "Grey," Christian snaps.

"Fairmont Olympic. In my name."

"Thank you, Taylor. And, Taylor, be careful."

Taylor pauses. "Yes, sir," he says quietly, and Christian hangs up.

The streets of Seattle are deserted, and Christian roars up Fifth Avenue toward the I-5.

Once on the interstate, he foors the gas pedal, heading north. He accelerates so quickly I'm momentarily thrown back in my seat.

I peek at him. He's deep in thought, radiating a deadly brooding silence. He hasn't answered my question. He glances frequently at the rearview mirror, and I realize he's checking that we're not being followed. Perhaps that's why we're on the I-5. I thought the Fairmont was in Seattle. I gaze out of the window, trying to rationalize my exhausted, overactive mind. If she'd wanted to hurt me, she had ample opportunity in the bedroom.

"No. It's not what I hope for, not anymore. I thought that was obvious." Christian inter- rupts my introspection, his voice soft.

I blink at him, pulling his denim jacket tighter around me, and I don't know if the chill is emanating from within me or from outside.

"I worry that, you know ... that I'm not enough."

"You're more than enough. For the love of G.o.d, Anastasia, what do I have to do?"

Tell me about yourself. Tell me you love me.

"Why did you think I'd leave when I told you Dr. Flynn had told me all there was to know about you?"

He sighs heavily, closing his eyes for a moment, and for the longest time he doesn't answer. "You cannot begin to understand the depths of my depravity, Anastasia. And it's not something I want to share with you."

"And you really think I'd leave, if I knew?" My voice is high, incredulous. Doesn't he understand that I love him? "Do you think so little of me?"

"I know you'll leave," he says sadly.

"Christian ... I think that's very unlikely. I can't imagine being without you." Ever ...

"You left me once-I don't want to go there again."

"Elena said she saw you last Sat.u.r.day," I whisper quietly.

"She didn't." He frowns.

"You didn't go to see her, when I left?"

"No," he snaps, irritated. "I just told you I didn't-and I don't like to be doubted," he scolds. "I didn't go anywhere last weekend. I sat and made the glider you gave me. Took me forever," he adds quietly.

My heart clenches again. Mrs. Robinson said she saw him.

Did she or didn't she? She's lying. Why?

"Contrary to what Elena thinks, I don't rush to her with all my problems, Anastasia. I don't rush to anybody. You may have noticed-I'm not much of a talker." He tightens his hold on the steering wheel.

"Carrick told me you didn't talk for two years."

"Did he now?" Christian's mouth presses into a hard line.

"I kind of pumped him for information." Embarra.s.sed, I stare at my fngers.

"So what else did Daddy say?"

"He said your mom was the doctor who examined you when you were brought into the hospital. After you were discovered in your apartment."

Christian's expression remains blank ... careful.

"He said learning the piano helped. And Mia."

His lips curl in a fond smile at the mention of her name. After a moment he says, "She was about six months old when she arrived. I was thrilled, Elliot less so. He'd already had to contend with my arrival. She was perfect." The sweet, sad awe in his voice is affecting.

"Less so now, of course," he mutters, and I recall her successful attempts at the ball to thwart our lascivious intentions. It makes me giggle.

Christian gives me a sideways glance. "You fnd that amusing, Miss Steele?"

"She seemed determined to keep us apart."He laughs mirthlessly. "Yes, she's quite accomplished." He reaches across and squeez- es my knee. "But we got there in the end." He smiles then glances in the rearview mirror once more. "I don't think we've been followed." He turns off the I-5 and heads back to central Seattle.

"Can I ask you something about Elena?" We are stopped at some traffc lights.

He gazes at me warily. "If you must," he mutters sullenly, but I don't let his irritability deter me.

"You told me ages ago that she loved you in a way you found acceptable. What did that mean?"

"Isn't it obvious?" he asks.

"Not to me."

"I was out of control. I couldn't bear to be touched. I can't bear it now. For a fourteen, ffteen-year-old adolescent boy with hormones raging, it was a diffcult time. She showed me a way to let off steam."

Oh. "Mia said you were a brawler."

"Christ, what is it with my loquacious family? Actually-it's you." We've stopped at more lights, and he narrows his eyes at me. "You inveigle information out of people." He shakes his head in mock disgust.

"Mia volunteered that information. In fact, she was very forthcoming. She was worried you'd start a brawl in the marquee if you didn't win me at the auction," I mutter indignantly.

"Oh, baby, there was no danger of that. There was no way I would let anyone else dance with you."

"You let Dr. Flynn."

"He's always the exception to the rule."

Christian pulls into the impressive, leafy driveway of the Fairmont Olympic Hotel and parks near the front door, beside a quaint stone fountain.

"Come." He climbs out of the car and retrieves our luggage. A valet rushes toward us, looking surprised-no doubt at our late arrival. Christian tosses him the car keys.

"Name of Taylor," he says. The valet nods and can't contain his glee as he leaps into the R8 and drives off. Christian takes my hand and strides into the lobby.

As I stand beside him at the reception desk, I feel utterly, utterly ridiculous. Here I am, in Seattle's most prestigious hotel, dressed in an oversized denim jacket, oversized sweatpants, and an old T-shirt next to this elegant, beautiful, Greek G.o.d. No wonder the receptionist is looking from one to the other as if the equation doesn't add up. Of course, she's over-awed by Christian. I roll my eyes as she fushes crimson and stutters. Jeez, even her hands are shaking.

"Do ... you need a hand ... with your bags, Mr. Taylor?" she asks, going scarlet again.

"No, Mrs. Taylor and I can manage."

Mrs. Taylor! But I'm not wearing a ring. I put my hands behind my back.

"You're in the Cascade Suite, Mr. Taylor, eleventh foor. Our bellboy will help with your bags."

"We're fne," Christian says curtly. "Where are the elevators?"

Miss Flushing Crimson explains, and Christian grasps my hand once more. I glance briefy round the impressive, sumptuous lobby full of overstuffed chairs, deserted save for a dark-haired woman sitting on a cozy sofa, feeding tidbits to her westie. She glances up and smiles at us as we make our way to the elevators. So the hotel allows pets? Odd for a place so grand!

The suite has two bedrooms, a formal dining room, and comes complete with grand piano. A log fre blazes in the ma.s.sive main room. Jeez ... This suite is bigger than my apartment.

"Well, Mrs. Taylor, I don't know about you, but I'd really like a drink," Christian mut- ters, locking the front door securely.

In the bedroom, he puts my case and his satchel on the ottoman at the foot of the king- size four-poster bed and leads me by the hand into the main room where the fre is burning brightly. It's a welcome sight. I stand and warm my hands while Christian fxes us both a drink.

"Armagnac?"

"Please."

After a moment, he joins me by the fre and hands me a crystal brandy gla.s.s.

"It's been quite a day, huh?"

I nod and his gray eyes gaze at me searchingly, concerned.

"I'm okay," I whisper rea.s.suringly. "How about you?"

"Well, right now I'd like to drink this and then, if you're not too tired, take you to bed and lose myself in you."

"I think that can be arranged, Mr. Taylor." I smile shyly at him as he shuffes out of his shoes and peels off his socks.

"Mrs. Taylor, stop biting your lip," he whispers.

I blush into my gla.s.s. The Armagnac is delicious, leaving a burning warmth in its wake as it glides silkily down my throat. When I glance up at Christian, he's sipping his brandy, watching me, his eyes dark-hungry.

"You never cease to amaze me, Anastasia. After a day like today-or yesterday, rath- er-you're not whining or running off into the hills screaming. I am in awe of you. You're very strong."

"You're a very good reason to stay," I murmur. "I told you, Christian, I'm not going anywhere, no matter what you've done. You know how I feel about you."

His mouth twists as if he doubts my words, and his brow creases as if what I'm saying is painful for him to hear. Oh, Christian, what do I have to do to make you realize how I feel?

Let him beat you, my subconscious sneers at me. I scowl inwardly at her.

"Where are you going to hang Jose's portraits of me?" I try to lighten the mood.

"That depends." His lips twitch. This is obviously a much more palatable topic of conversation for him.

"On what?"

"Circ.u.mstances," he says mysteriously. "His show's not over yet, so I don't have to decide straight away."

I c.o.c.k my head to one side and narrow my eyes.

"You can look as sternly as you like, Mrs. Taylor. I'm saying nothing," he teases.

"I may torture the truth from you."He raises an eyebrow. "Really, Anastasia, I don't think you should make promises you can't fulfll."