"She has a lovely voice."
"She does, she did."
"Oh."
"She died young."
"Oh."
"Are you hungry? You didn't finish all your breakfast." He glances quickly at me, disapproval outlined on his face.
Uh-oh. "Yes."
"Lunch first, then."
Christian drives toward the waterfront then heads north along the Alaskan Way. It's another beautiful day in Seattle. It's been uncharacteristically fine for the last few weeks, I muse.
Christian looks happy and relaxed as we sit back listening to Eva Cassidy's sweet, soulful voice and cruise down the highway. Have I ever felt this comfortable in his company before? I don't know.
I am less nervous of his moods, confident that he won't punish me, and he seems more comfortable with me, too. He turns left, following the coast road, and eventually pulls up in a parking lot opposite a vast marina.
"We'll eat here. I'll open your door," he says in such a way that I know it's not wise to move, and I watch him move around the car. Will this ever get old?
We stroll arm in arm to the waterfront where the marina stretches out in front of us.
"So many boats," I murmur in wonder. There are hundreds of them in all shapes and sizes, bobbing up and down on the calm, still waters of the marina. Out on the Sound there are dozens of sails in the wind, weaving to and fro, enjoying the fine weather. It's a wholesome, outdoorsy sight. The wind has picked up a little, so I pull my jacket around me.
"Cold?" he asks and pulls me tightly against him.
"No, just admiring the view."
"I could stare at it all day. Come, this way."
Christian leads me into a large seafront bar and makes his way to the counter. The de-
cor is more New England than West Coast - white-limed walls, pale blue furnishings, and boating paraphernalia hanging everywhere. It's a bright, cheery place.
"Mr. Grey!" the barman greets Christian warmly. "What can I get you this afternoon?"
"Dante, good afternoon." Christian grins as we both slip onto bar stools. "This lovely lady is Anastasia Steele."
"Welcome to SP's Place." Dante gives me a friendly smile. He's black and beautiful, his dark eyes assessing me and not finding me wanting, it seems. One large diamond stud winks at me from his ear. I like him immediately.
"What would you like to drink, Anastasia?"
I glance at Christian, who regards me expectantly. Oh, he's going to let me choose.
"Please, call me Ana, and I'll have whatever Christian's drinking." I smile shyly at Dante. Fifty's so much better at wine than I am.
"I'm going to have a beer. This is the only bar in Seattle where you can get Adnam's Explorer."
"A beer?"
"Yes." He grins at me. "Two Explorers, please, Dante."
Dante nods and sets up the beers on the bar.
"They do a delicious seafood chowder here," Christian says.
He's asking me.
"Chowder and beer sounds great." I smile at him.
"Two chowders?" Dante asks.
"Please." Christian grins at him.
We talk through our meal, as we never have before. Christian is relaxed and calm - he looks young, happy, and animated despite all that transpired yesterday. He recounts the history of Grey Enterprises Holdings, and the more he reveals, the more I sense his passion for fixing problem companies, his hopes for the technology he's developing, and his dreams of making land in the third world more productive. I listen enraptured. He's funny, clever, philanthropic, and beautiful, and he loves me.
In turn, he plagues me with questions about Ray and my mom, about growing up in the lush forests of Montesano, and my brief stints in Texas and Vegas. He demands to know my favorite books and films, and I'm surprised by how much we have in common.
As we talk, it strikes me that he's turned from Hardy's Alec to Angel, debasement to high ideal in such a short space of time.
It's after two when we finish our meal. Christian settles the tab with Dante, who wishes us a fond farewell.
"This is a great place. Thank you for lunch," I say as Christian takes my hand and we leave the bar.
"We'll come again," he says, and we stroll along the waterfront. "I wanted to show you something."
"I know... and I can't wait to see it, whatever it is."
We wander hand in hand along the marina. It is such a pleasant afternoon. People are out enjoying their Sunday - walking dogs, admiring the boats, watching their kids run along the promenade.
As we head down the marina, the boats are getting progressively larger. Christian leads me on to the dock and stops in front of a huge catamaran.
"I thought we'd go sailing this afternoon. This is my boat."
Holy cow. It must be at least forty, maybe fifty feet. Two sleek white hulls, a deck, a roomy cabin, and towering over them a very tall mast. I know nothing about boats, but I can tell this one is special.
"Wow... ," I murmur in wonder.
"Built by my company," he says proudly and my heart swells. "She's been designed from the ground up by the very best naval architects in the world and constructed here in Seattle at my yard. She has hybrid electric drives, asymmetric dagger boards, a square-topped mainsail - "
"Okay... you've lost me, Christian."
He grins. "She's a great boat."
"She looks mighty fine, Mr. Grey."
"That she does, Miss Steele."
"What's her name?"
He pulls me to the side so I can see her name: The Grace. I'm surprised. "You named her after your mom?"
"Yes." He cocks his head to one side, quizzical. "Why do you find that strange?"
I shrug. I am surprised - he always seems ambivalent in her presence.
"I adore my mom, Anastasia. Why wouldn't I name a boat after her?"
I flush. "No, it's not that... it's just..." Shit, how can I put this into words?
"Anastasia, Grace Trevelyan saved my life. I owe her everything."
I gaze at him, and let the reverence in his softly spoken admission wash over me. It's obvious to me, for the first time, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strained ambivalence toward her?
"Do you want to come aboard?" he asks, his eyes bright, excited.
"Yes, please." I smile.
He looks delighted and delightful in one yummy scrumptious package. Grasping my hand, he strides up the small gangplank and leads me aboard so that we are standing on deck beneath a rigid canopy.
To one side there's a table and a U-shaped banquette covered in pale blue leather, which must seat at least eight people. I glance through the sliding doors to the interior of the cabin and jump, startled when I spy someone there. The tall blond man opens the sliding doors and emerges - all tanned, curly-haired and brown-eyed - wearing a faded pink short-sleeved polo shirt, shorts, and deck shoes. He must be in his early thirties.
"Mac." Christian beams.
"Mr. Grey! Welcome back." They shake hands.
"Anastasia, this is Liam McConnell. Liam, my girlfriend, Anastasia Steele."
Girlfriend! My inner goddess performs a quick arabesque. She's still grinning over the convertible. I have to get used to this - it's not the first time he's said it, but hearing him say it is still a thrill.
"How do you do?" Liam and I shake hands.
"Call me Mac," he says warmly, and I can't place his accent. "Welcome aboard, Miss Steele."
"Ana, please," I mutter, flushing. He has deep brown eyes.
"How's she shaping up, Mac?" Christian interjects quickly, and for a moment, I think he's talking about me.
"She's ready to rock and roll, sir," Mac beams. Oh, the boat, The Grace . Silly me.
"Let's get underway, then."
"You going to take her out?"
"Yep." Christian flashes Mac a quick wicked grin. "Quick tour, Anastasia?"
"Yes, please."
I follow him inside the cabin. An L-shaped cream leather sofa is directly in front of us, and above it, a massive curved window offers a panoramic view of the marina. To the left is the kitchen area - very well appointed, all pale wood.
"This is the main saloon. Galley beside," Christian says, waving his hand in the direction of the kitchen.
He takes my hand and leads me through the main cabin. It's surprisingly spacious. The floor is the same pale wood. It looks modern and sleek and has a light, airy feel, but it's all very functional, as if he doesn't spend much time here.
"Bathrooms on either side." Christian points to two doors, then opens the small, oddly shaped door directly in front of us and steps in. We're in a plush bedroom. Oh...
It has a king-size cabin bed and is all pale blue linen and pale wood like his bedroom at Escala. Christian obviously chooses a theme and sticks to it.
"This is the master cabin." He gazes down at me, gray eyes glowing. "You're the first girl in here, apart from family," he smirks. "They don't count."
I flush under his heated stare, and my pulse quickens. Really? Another first. He pulls me into his arms, his fingers tangling in my hair, and kisses me, long and hard. We're both breathless when he pulls away.
"Might have to christen this bed," he whispers against my mouth.
Oh, at sea!
"But not right now. Come, Mac will be casting off." I ignore the stab of disappointment as he takes my hand and leads me back through the saloon. He indicates another door.
"Office in there, and at the front here, two more cabins."
"So how many can sleep on board?"
"It's a six-berth cat. I've only ever had the family on board, though. I like to sail alone.
But not when you're here. I need to keep an eye on you."
He delves into a chest and pulls out a bright red lifejacket.
"Here." Putting it over my head, he tightens all the straps, a faint smile playing on his lips."You love strapping me in, don't you?"
"In any form," he says, a wicked grin playing on his lips.
"You are a pervert."
"I know." He raises his eyebrows and his grin broadens.
"My pervert," I whisper.
"Yes, yours."
Once secured, he grabs the sides of the jacket and kisses me. "Always," he breathes, then releases me before I have a chance to respond.
Always! Holy shit.
"Come." He grabs my hand and leads me outside, up some steps, and onto the upper deck to a small cockpit that houses a big steering wheel and a raised seat. At the prow of the boat, Mac is doing something with ropes.
"Is this where you learned all your rope tricks?" I ask Christian innocently.
"Clove hitches have come in handy," he says, looking at me appraisingly. "Miss Steele, you sound curious. I like you curious, baby. I'd be more than happy to demonstrate what I can do with a rope." He smirks at me, and I gaze back impassively as if he's upset me. His face falls.
"Gotcha." I grin.
His mouth twists and he narrows his eyes. "I may have to deal with you later, but right now, I've got to drive my boat." He sits at the controls, presses a button, and the engines roar into life.
Mac comes scooting back down the side of the boat, grinning at me, and jumps down to the deck below where he starts to unfasten a rope. Maybe he knows some rope tricks, too. The idea pops unwelcome into my head and I flush.
My subconscious glares at me. Mentally I shrug at her and glance at Christian - I blame Fifty. He picks up the receiver and radios the coastguard as Mac calls up that we are set to go.
Once more, I am dazzled by Christian's expertise. He's so competent. Is there nothing that this man can't do? Then I remember his earnest attempt to chop and dice a pepper in my apartment on Friday. The thought makes me smile.
Slowly, Christian eases The Grace out of her berth and toward the marina entrance. Behind us, a small crowd has gathered on the dockside to watch our departure. Small children are waving, and I wave back.
Christian glances over his shoulder, then pulls me between his legs and points out various dials and gadgets in the cockpit. "Grab the wheel," he orders, bossy as ever, but I do as I'm told.
"Aye, aye, captain!" I giggle.
Placing his hands snugly over mine, he continues to steer our course out of the marina, and within a few minutes, we are out on the open sea, slap into the cold blue waters of Puget Sound. Away from the shelter of the marina's protective wall, the wind is stronger, and the sea pitches and rolls beneath us.
I can't help but grin, feeling Christian's excitement - this is such fun. We make a large curve until we are heading west toward the Olympic Peninsula, the wind behind us.
"Sail time," Christian says, excited. "Here - you take her. Keep her on this course."
What? He grins, reacting to the horror in my face.
"Baby, it's really easy. Hold the wheel and keep your eye on the horizon over the bow.
You'll do great; you always do. When the sails go up, you'll feel the drag. Just hold her steady. I'll signal like this" - he makes a slashing motion across his throat - "and you can cut the engines. This button here." He points to a large black button. "Understand?"
"Yes." I nod frantically, feeling panicky . Jeez - I hadn't expected to do anything!
He kisses me quickly, then he steps off his captain's chair and bounds up to the front of the boat to join Mac where he starts unfurling sails, untying ropes, and operating winches and pulleys. They work well together in a team, shouting various nautical terms to each other, and it's warming to see Fifty interacting with someone else in such a carefree manner. Perhaps Mac is Fifty's friend. He doesn't seem to have many, as far as I can tell, but then, I don't have many either. Well, not here in Seattle. The only friend I have is on vacation sunning herself in St. James on the west coast of Barbados.
I have a sudden pang for Kate. I miss my roommate more than I thought I would when she left. I hope she changes her mind and comes home with her brother Ethan, rather than prolong her stay with Christian's brother Elliot.
Christian and Mac hoist the mainsail. It fills and billows out as the wind seizes it hungrily, and the boat lurches suddenly, zipping forward. I feel it through the wheel . Whoa!
They get to work on the headsail, and I watch fascinated as it flies up the mast. The wind catches it, stretching it taut.
"Hold her steady, baby, and cut the engines!" Christian cries out to me over the wind, motioning me to switch off the engines. I can only just hear his voice, but I nod enthusiastically, gazing at the man I love, all windswept, exhilarated, and bracing himself against the pitch and yaw of the boat.
I press the button, the roar of the engines ceases, and The Grace soars toward the Olympic Peninsula, skimming across the water as if she's flying. I want to yell and scream and cheer - this has to be one of the most exhilarating experiences of my life - except perhaps the glider, and maybe the Red Room of Pain.
Holy cow, this boat can move! I stand firm, grasping the wheel, fighting the rudder, and Christian is behind me once more, his hands on mine.
"What do you think?" he shouts above the sound of the wind and the sea.
"Christian! This is fantastic."
He beams, grinning from ear to ear. "You wait until the spinney's up." He points with his chin toward Mac, who is unfurling the spinnaker - a sail that's a dark, rich red. It reminds me of the walls in the playroom.
"Interesting color," I shout.
He gives me a wolfish grin and winks. Oh, it's deliberate.
The spinney balloons out - a large, odd elliptical shape - putting The Grace in overdrive. Finding her head, she speeds over the Sound.
"Asymmetrical sail. For speed." Christian answers my unasked question.
"It's amazing." I can think of nothing better to say. I have the most ridiculous grin on my face as we whip through the water, heading for the majesty of the Olympic Mountains and Bainbridge Island. Glancing back, I see Seattle shrinking behind us, Mount Rainier in the far distance.
I had not really appreciated how beautiful and rugged Seattle's surrounding landscape is - verdant, lush, and temperate, tall evergreens and cliff faces jutting out here and there.
It has a wild but serene beauty on this glorious sunny afternoon that takes my breath away.
The stillness is stunning compared to our speed as we whip across the water.
"How fast are we going?"
"She's doing 15 knots."
"I have no idea what that means."
"It's about 17 miles an hour."
"Is that all? It feels much faster."
He squeezes my hands, smiling. "You look lovely, Anastasia. It's good to see some color in your cheeks... and not from blushing. You look like you do in Jose's photos."
I turn and kiss him.
"You know how to show a girl a good time, Mr. Grey."
"We aim to please, Miss Steele." He scoops my hair out of the way and kisses the back of my neck, sending delicious tingles down my spine. "I like seeing you happy," he murmurs and tightens his arms around me.
I gaze out over the wide blue water, wondering what I could possibly have done in the past to have fortune smile and deliver this beautiful man to me.
Yes, you're a lucky bitch, my subconscious snaps. But you have your work cut out with him. He's not going to want this vanilla crap forever... you're going to have to compro-mise. I glare mentally at her snarky, insolent face and rest my head against Christian's chest. But deep down I know my subconscious is right, but I banish the thoughts. I don't want to spoil my day.
An hour later, we are anchored in a small, secluded cove off Bainbridge Island. Mac has gone ashore in the inflatable - for what, I don't know - but I have my suspicions because as soon as Mac starts the outboard engine, Christian grabs my hand and practically drags me into his cabin, a man with a mission.
Now he stands before me, exuding his intoxicating sensuality as his deft fingers make quick work of the straps on my lifejacket. He tosses it to one side and gazes intently down at me, eyes dark, dilated.
I'm already lost and he's barely touched me. He raises his hand to my face, and his fingers move down my chin, the column of my throat, my sternum, searing me with his touch, to the first button of my blue blouse.
"I want to see you," he breathes and dexterously undoes the button. Bending, he plants a soft kiss on my parted lips. I am panting and eager, aroused by the potent combination of his captivating beauty, his raw sexuality in the confines of this cabin, and the gentle sway of the boat. He stands back.
"Strip for me," he whispers, eyes burning.
Oh my. I'm only too happy to comply. Not taking my eyes off his, I slowly undo each button, savoring his scorching gaze. Oh, this is heady stuff. I can see his desire - it's evident on his face... and elsewhere.
I let my shirt fall to the floor and reach for the button on my jeans.
"Stop," he orders. "Sit."
I sit down on the edge of the bed, and in one fluid movement he's on his knees in front of me, undoing the laces of first one and then the other sneaker, pulling each off, followed by my socks. He picks up my left foot and raising it, plants a soft kiss on the pad of my big toe, then grazes his teeth against it.
"Ah!" I moan as I feel the effect in my groin. He stands in one smooth move, holds his hand out to me, and pulls me up off the bed.
"Continue," he says and stands back to watch me.
I ease the zipper of my jeans down and hook my thumbs in the waistband as I sashay then slide the denim down my legs. A soft smile plays on his lips, but his eyes remain dark.
And I don't know if it's because he made love to me this morning, and I mean really made love to me, gently, sweetly, or if it was his impassioned declaration - yes... I do -
but I don't feel embarrassed at all. I want to be sexy for this man. He deserves sexy - he makes me feel sexy.
Okay, it's new to me, but I'm learning under his expert tutelage. And then again, so much is new to him, too. It balances the seesaw between us, a little, I think.
I am wearing some of my new underwear - a white lacy thong and matching bra - a designer brand with a price tag to match. I step out of my jeans and stand there for him in the lingerie he's paid for, but I no longer feel cheap. I feel his.
Reaching behind I unhook my bra, sliding the straps down my arms, and drop it on top of my blouse. Slowly, I slip my panties off, letting them fall to my ankles, and step out of them, surprised by my grace.
Standing before him, I am naked and unashamed, and I know it's because he loves me. I no longer have to hide. He says nothing, just gazes at me. All I see is his desire, his adoration even, and something else, the depth of his need - the depth of his love for me.
He reaches down, lifts the hem of his cream-colored sweater, and pulls it over his head, followed by his T-shirt, revealing his chest, never taking his bold gray eyes off mine. His shoes and socks follow before he grasps the button of his jeans.