“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 cocked 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 sadist,” 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 sexual sadism—but he said that was a lifestyle choice, not a psychiatric

condition. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking about.”

His gray eyes flash 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 hell do I know about all his shit?

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 sexual 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, brimming with possibility. It makes me smile,

and inside I hug myself, my inner goddess 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 baffled.

“Surprise,” he says and smiles mysteriously.

Christian continues to drive past single-story, well-kept, clapboard houses where kids play

either clustered around their basketball hoops in their yards or cycling and running around

in the street. It all looks affluent 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 button 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 grassland where a once-

cultivated field has been left fallow. Grasses and wildflowers have reclaimed it, creating a

rural idyll—a meadow, where the late evening breeze softly ripples through the grass and

the evening sun gilds the wildflowers. It’s lovely—utterly tranquil, and suddenly I imagine

myself lying in the grass 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 flush 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

find 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 fixtures. The floors are dull hardwood. There are closed doors to either side of us, but

Christian gives me no time to assimilate 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 balustrade 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 field 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,