I scowl at him. "Keep your eyes on the road!" he shouts.

My blood boils. Right! I pull over to the curb just before a stoplight and storm out of the car, slamming the door, and stand on the sidewalk, arms folded, I glare at him. He climbs out of the car.

"What are you doing?" he asks angrily, staring down at me.

"No. What are you doing?"

"You can't park here."

"I know that."

"So why have you?"

"Because I've had it with you barking orders. Either you drive or you shut up about my driving!"

"Anastasia, get back in the car before we get a ticket."

"No."

He blinks at me, at a total loss, then runs his hands through his hair, and his anger becomes bewilderment. He looks so comical all of a sudden, and I can't help but smile at him. He frowns.

"What?" he snaps once more.

"You."

"Oh, Anastasia! You are the most frustrating female on the planet." He throws his hands in the air. "Fine-I'll drive." I grab the edges of his jacket and pull him to me.

"No-you are the most frustrating man on the planet, Mr. Grey."

He gazes down at me, his eyes dark and intense, he snakes his arms around my waist and embraces me, holding me close."Maybe we're meant for each other, then," he says softly and inhales deeply, his nose in my hair. I wrap my arms around him and close my eyes. For the frst time since this morning, I feel myself relax.

"Oh . . . Ana, Ana, Ana," he breathes, his lips pressed against my hair. I tighten my arms around him, and we stand, immobile, enjoying a moment of unexpected tranquility, on the street. Releasing me, he opens the pa.s.senger door. I climb in and sit quietly, watch- ing him walk around the car.

Restarting the car, Christian pulls out into the traffc, absentmindedly humming along to Van Morrison.

Whoa. I've never heard him sing, not even in the shower, ever. I frown. He has a lovely voice-of course. Hmm ... has he heard me sing?

He wouldn't be asking you to marry him if he had! My subconscious has her arms crossed and is wearing Burberry check ... jeez. The song fnishes and Christian smirks.

"You know, if we had gotten a ticket, the t.i.tle of this car is in your name."

"Well, good thing I've been promoted-I can afford the fne," I say smugly, staring at his lovely profle. His lips twitch. Another Van Morrison song starts playing as he takes the on-ramp to I-5, heading north.

"Where are we going?"

"It's a surprise. What else did Flynn say?"

I sigh. "He talked about FFFSTB or something."

"SFBT. The latest therapy option," he mutters.

"You've tried others?"

Christian snorts. "Baby, I've been subjected to them all. Cognitivism, Freud, function- alism, Gestalt, behaviorism ... You name it, over the years I've done it," he says and his tone betrays his bitterness. The rancor in his voice is distressing.

"Do you think this latest approach will help?"

"What did Flynn say?"

"He said not to dwell on your past. Focus on the future-on where you want to be."

Christian nods but shrugs at the same time, his expression cautious.

"What else?" he persists.

"He talked about your fear of being touched, although he called it something else. And about your nightmares and your self-abhorrence." I glance at him, and in the evening light, he's pensive, chewing on his thumbnail as he drives. He glances quickly at me.

"Eyes on the road, Mr. Grey," I admonish, my eyebrow c.o.c.ked at him.

He looks amused, and slightly exasperated. "You were talking forever, Anastasia. What else did he say?"

I swallow. "He doesn't think you're a s.a.d.i.s.t," I whisper.

"Really?" Christian says quietly and frowns. The atmosphere in the car takes a nose- dive.

"He says that term's not recognized in psychiatry. Not since the nineties," I mutter, quickly trying to rescue the mood between us.

Christian's face darkens, and he exhales slowly.

"Flynn and I have differing opinions on this," he says quietly."He said you always think the worst of yourself. I know that's true," I murmur. "He also mentioned s.e.xual sadism-but he said that was a lifestyle choice, not a psychiatric condition. Maybe that's what you're thinking about."

His gray eyes fash toward me again, and his mouth sets in a grim line.

"So-one talk with the good doctor and you're an expert," he says acidly and turns his eyes front.

Oh dear ... I sigh.

"Look-if you don't want to hear what he said, don't ask me," I mutter softly.

I don't want to argue. Anyway he's right-what the h.e.l.l do I know about all his s.h.i.t?

Do I even want to know? I can list the salient points-his control freakery, his possessive- ness, his jealousy, his overprotectiveness-and I completely understand where he's com- ing from. I can even understand why he doesn't like to be touched-I've seen the physical scars. I can only imagine the mental ones, and I've only glimpsed his nightmares once. And Dr. Flynn said- "I want to know what you discussed." Christian interrupts my thoughts as he heads off I-5 on exit 172, heading west toward the slowly sinking sun.

"He called me your lover."

"Did he now?" His tone is conciliatory. "Well, he's nothing if not fastidious about his terms. I think that's an accurate description. Don't you?"

"Did you think of your subs as lovers?"

Christian's brow creases once more, but this time he's thinking. He turns the Saab smoothly north once again. Where are we going?

"No. They were s.e.xual partners," he murmurs, his voice cautious again. "You're my only lover. And I want you to be more."

Oh ... there's that magical word again, br.i.m.m.i.n.g with possibility. It makes me smile, and inside I hug myself, my inner G.o.ddess radiating joy.

"I know," I whisper, trying hard to hide my excitement. "I just need some time, Chris- tian. To get my head around these last few days." He glances at me oddly, perplexed, his head inclined to one side.

After a beat, the stoplight we're stationed at turns green. He nods and turns the music up, and our discussion is over.

Van Morrison is still singing-more optimistically now-about it being a marvelous night for moondancing. I gaze out the windows at the pines and spruce dusted gold by the fading light of the sun, their long shadows stretching across the road. Christian has turned into a more residential street, and we're heading west toward the Sound.

"Where are we going?" I ask again as we turn into a road. I catch a road sign-9tH ave nW. I am baffed.

"Surprise," he says and smiles mysteriously.

CHAPTER 18

Christian continues to drive past single-story, well-kept, clapboard houses where kids play either cl.u.s.tered around their basketball hoops in their yards or cycling and running around in the street. It all looks affuent and wholesome with the houses nestling among the trees.

Perhaps we're going to visit someone? Who?

A few minutes later, Christian turns sharply left, and we're confronted by two ornate white metal gates set in a six-foot-high, sandstone wall. Christian presses a b.u.t.ton on his door handle and the electric window hums quietly down into the doorframe. He punches a number into the keypad and the gates swing open in welcome.

He glances at me, and his expression has changed. He looks uncertain, nervous even.

"What is it?" I ask, and I can't mask the concern in my voice.

"An idea," he says quietly and eases the Saab through the gates.

We head up a tree-lined lane just wide enough for two cars. On one side, the trees ring a densely wooded area, and on the other there's a vast area of gra.s.sland where a once- cultivated feld has been left fallow. Gra.s.ses and wildfowers have reclaimed it, creating a rural idyll-a meadow, where the late evening breeze softly ripples through the gra.s.s and the evening sun gilds the wildfowers. It's lovely-utterly tranquil, and suddenly I imagine myself lying in the gra.s.s and gazing up at a clear blue summer sky. The thought is tantaliz- ing yet makes me feel homesick for some strange reason. How odd.

The lane curves around and opens into a sweeping driveway in front of an impressive Mediterranean-style house of soft pink sandstone. It's palatial. All the lights are on, each window brightly illuminated in the dusk. There's a smart, black BMW parked in front of the four-car garage, but Christian pulls up outside the grand portico.

Hmm ... I wonder who lives here? Why are we visiting?

Christian glances anxiously at me as he switches off the car engine.

"Will you keep an open mind?" he asks.

I frown.

"Christian, I've needed an open mind since the day I met you."

He smiles ironically and nods. "Fair point well made, Miss Steele. Let's go."

The dark wood doors open, and a woman with dark brown hair, a sincere smile, and a sharp lilac suit stands waiting. I'm grateful I changed into my new navy shift dress to impress Dr. Flynn. Okay, I'm not wearing killer heels like her-but still, I'm not in jeans.

"Mr. Grey." She smiles warmly and they shake hands.

"Miss Kelly," he says politely.

She smiles at me and holds out her hand, which I shake. Her isn't-he-dreamily-gor- geous-wish-he-was-mine fush does not go unnoticed.

"Olga Kelly," she announces breezily.

"Ana Steele," I mutter back at her. Who is this woman? She stands aside, welcoming us into the house. It's a shock when I step in. The place is empty-completely empty. We fnd ourselves in a large entrance hall. The walls are a faded primrose yellow with scuff- marks where pictures must once have hung. All that remains are the old-fashioned crystal light fxtures. The foors are dull hardwood. There are closed doors to either side of us, but Christian gives me no time to a.s.similate what's happening.

"Come," he says, and taking my hand, he leads me through the archway in front of us into a larger inner vestibule. It's dominated by a curved, sweeping staircase with an intri- cate iron bal.u.s.trade but still he doesn't stop. He takes me through to the main living area, which is empty, save for a large faded gold rug-the biggest rug I have ever seen. Oh-and there are four crystal chandeliers.

But Christian's intention is now clear as we head across the room and outside through open French doors to a large stone terrace. Below us there's half a football feld of mani- cured lawn, but beyond that is the view. Wow.

The panoramic, uninterrupted vista is breathtaking-staggering even: twilight over the Sound. Oh my.

In the distance lies Bainbridge Island, and further still on this crystal clear evening, the setting sun sinks slowly, glowing blood and fame orange, beyond Olympic National Park. Vermillion hues bleed into the sky-opals, aquamarines, ceruleans-melding with the darker purples of the scant wispy clouds and the land beyond the Sound. It is nature's best, a visual symphony orchestrated in the sky and refected in the deep, still waters of the Sound. I am lost to the view-staring, trying to absorb such beauty.

I realize I'm holding my breath in awe, and Christian is still holding my hand. As I reluctantly turn my eyes away from the view, he's gazing anxiously at me."You brought me here to admire the view?" I whisper. He nods, his expression serious.

"It's staggering, Christian. Thank you," I murmur, letting my eyes feast on it once more. He releases my hand.

"How would you like to look at it for the rest of your life?" he breathes.

What? I whip my face back to his, startled blue eyes to pensive gray. I think my mouth drops open, and I gape at him blankly.

"I've always wanted to live on the coast. I sail up and down the Sound coveting these houses. This place hasn't been on the market long. I want to buy it, demolish it, and build a new house-for us," he whispers, and his eyes glow, translucent with his hopes and dreams.

Holy cow. Somehow I remain upright. I'm reeling. Live, here! In this beautiful haven!

For the rest of my life ...

"It's just an idea," he adds, cautiously.

I glance back to a.s.sess the interior of the house. How much is it worth? It must be, what-fve, ten million dollars? I have no idea. Holy s.h.i.t.

"Why do you want to demolish it?" I ask, looking back at him. His face falls slightly.

Oh no.

"I'd like to make a more sustainable home, using the latest ecological techniques. El- liot could build it."