wonder idly what he’ll do, but first I need cash.

I stare at my receipt from the ATM: $51,689.16. That’s fifty thousand dollars too much!

Anastasia, you’re going to have to learn to be rich, too, if you say yes.And so it begins. I

take my paltry fifty dollars and make my way to the store.

I head straight to the kitchen when I arrive back, and I can’t help feeling a frisson of alarm.

Christian is still in his study. Jeez, that’s most of the afternoon. I decide my best option is

to face him and see how much damage I’ve done. I peek cautiously around his study door.

He’s on the phone, staring out the window.

“And the Eurocopter specialist is due Monday afternoon? . . . Good. Just keep me

informed. Tell them that I’ll need their initial findings either Monday evening or Tuesday

morning.” He hangs up and swivels his chair round, but stills when he sees me, his expres-

sion impassive.

“Hi,” I whisper. He says nothing, and my heart free-falls into my stomach. Gingerly I

walk into his study and around his desk to where he’s sitting. He still says nothing, his eyes

never leaving mine. I stand in front of him, feeling fifty shades of foolish.

“I’m back. Are you mad at me?”

He sighs, reaches out for my hand, and pulls me into his lap, folding his arms around

me. He buries his nose in my hair.

“Yes,” he says.

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what came over me.” I curl up in his lap inhaling his heavenly

Christian smell, feeling safe regardless of the fact that he’s mad.

“Me neither. Wear what you like,” he murmurs. He runs his hand up my bare leg to my

thigh. “Besides, this dress has its advantages.” He bends to kiss me, and as our lips touch,

passion or lust or a deep-seated need to make amends lances through me and desire flares in

my blood. I seize his head in my hands, fisting my fingers in his hair. He groans as his body

responds, and he hungrily nips at my lower lip—my throat, my ear, his tongue invading

my mouth, and before I’m even aware of it he’s unzipping his pants, pulling me astride his

lap, and sinking into me. I grasp the back of the chair, my feet just touching the ground . . .

and we start to move.

“I like your version of sorry,” he breathes into my hair.

“And I like yours,” I giggle, snuggling against his chest. “Have you finished?”

“Christ, Ana, you want more?”

“No! Your work.”

“I’ll be done in about half an hour. I heard your message on my voicemail.”

“From yesterday.”

“You sounded worried.”

I hug him tightly.

“I was. It’s not like you not to respond.”

He kisses my hair.

“Your cake should be ready in half an hour.” I smile at him and climb off his lap.

“Looking forward to it. It smelled delicious, evocative even, while it was baking.”

I smile shyly down at him, feeling a little self-conscious, and he mirrors my expres-

sion. Jeez, are we really so different? Perhaps it’s his early memories of baking. Leaning

down, I plant a swift kiss on the corner of his mouth and make my way back to the kitchen.

I am all prepared when I hear him come out of his study, and I light the solitary gold candle

on his cake. He gives me an ear-splitting grin as he saunters toward me, and I softly sing

Happy Birthdayto him. Then he leans over and blows it out, closing his eyes.

“I’ve made my wish,” he says as he opens them again, and for some reason his look

makes me flush.

“The frosting is still soft. I hope you like it.”

“I can’t wait to taste it, Anastasia,” he murmurs, and he makes that sound so rude. I cut

us each a slice, and we dig in with small pastry forks.

“Mmm,” he groans in appreciation. “This is why I want to marry you.”

And I laugh with relief . . . he likes it.

“Ready to face my family?” Christian switches the R8 ignition off. We’re parked in his

parents’ driveway.

“Yes. Are you going to tell them?”

“Of course. I’m looking forward to seeing their reactions.” He smiles wickedly at me

and climbs out of the car.

It is seven thirty, and though it’s been a warm day, there’s a cool evening breeze blow-

ing off the bay. I pull my wrap around me as I step out of the car. I’m wearing an emerald

green cocktail dress I found this morning while I was rummaging through the closet. It

has a wide matching belt. Christian takes my hand, and we head to the front door. Carrick

opens it wide before he can knock.

“Christian, hello. Happy birthday, son.” He takes Christian’s proffered hand but pulls

him into a brief hug, surprising him.

“Er . . . thanks, Dad.”

“Ana, how lovely to see you again.” He hugs me, too, and we follow him into the

house.

Before we can set foot in the living room, Kate comes barreling down the hallway

toward the two of us. She looks furious.

Oh no!

“You two! I want to talk to you.” She snarls in her you-better-not-fucking-mess-with-

me voice. I glance nervously at Christian, who shrugs and decides to humor her as we fol-

low her into the dining room, leaving Carrick bemused on the threshold of the living room.

She shuts the door and turns on me.

“What the fuck is this?” she hisses and waves a piece of paper at me. Completely at

a loss, I take it from her and scan it quickly. My mouth dries. Holy shit.It’s my e-mail re-

sponse to Christian, discussing the contract.

All the color drains from my face as my blood turns to ice and fear lances through my body.

Instinctively I step between her and Christian.

“What is it?” Christian murmurs, his tone wary.

I ignore him. I cannot believe Kate is doing this.

“Kate! This is nothing to do with you.” I glare venomously at her, anger replacing my

fear. How dare she do this? Not now, not today. Not on Christian’s birthday. Surprised by

my response, she blinks at me, green eyes wide.

“Ana, what is it?” Christian says again, his tone more menacing.

“Christian, would you just go, please?” I ask him.

“No. Show me.” He holds out his hand, and I know he’s not to be argued with—his

voice is cold and hard. Reluctantly I give him the e-mail.

“What’s he done to you?” Kate asks, ignoring Christian. She looks so apprehensive. I

flush as a myriad of erotic images flit quickly across my mind.

“That’s none of your business, Kate.” I can’t keep the exasperation out of my voice.

“Where did you get this?” Christian asks, his head cocked to one side, his face expres-

sionless, but his voice . . . so menacingly soft. Kate flushes.

“That’s irrelevant.” At his stony glare, she hastily continues. “It was in the pocket of a

jacket—which I assume is yours—that I found on the back of Ana’s bedroom door.” Faced

with Christian’s burning gray gaze, Kate’s steeliness slips a little, but she seems to recover

and scowls at him.

She’s a beacon of hostility in a slinky, bright red dress. She looks magnificent. But

what the hell is she going through my clothes for? It’s usually the other way round.

“Have you told anyone?” Christian’s voice is like a silk glove.

“No! Of course not,” Kate snaps, affronted. Christian nods and appears to relax. He

turns and heads toward the fireplace. Wordlessly Kate and I watch as he picks up a lighter

from the mantelpiece, sets fire to the e-mail, and releases it, letting it float afire slowly into

the grate until it is no more. The silence in the room is oppressive.

“Not even Elliot?” I ask, turning my attention back to Kate.

“No one,” Kate says emphatically, and for the first time she looks puzzled and hurt. “I