Christian brawling? Refined, sophisticated, likes-Tudor-choral-music Christian? I can't see it. The MC distracts me with his next introduction - a young woman in red, with long jet-black hair.
"Gentlemen, may I present the wonderful Mariah. What are we going to do about Mariah? She's an experienced matador, plays the cello to concert standard, and she's a champion pole-vaulter... how about that, gentlemen? What am I bid, please, for a dance with the delightful Mariah?"
Mariah glares at the MC and someone yells, very loudly, "Three thousand dollars!" It's a masked man with blond hair and beard.
There is one counter-bid, but Mariah sells for four thousand dollars.
Christian is watching me like a hawk. Brawler Trevelyan-Grey - who would have known?
"How long ago?" I ask Mia.
She glances at me, nonplussed.
"How long ago was Christian brawling?"
"Early teens. Drove my parents crazy, coming home with cut lips and black eyes. He was expelled from two schools. He inflicted some serious damage on his opponents."
I gape at her.
"Hasn't he told you?" She sighs. "He got quite a bad rep among my friends. He was really persona non grata for a few years. But it stopped when he was about fifteen or sixteen." She shrugs.
Holy f*ck. Another piece of the jigsaw falls into place.
"So, what am I bid for the gorgeous Jill?"
"Four thousand dollars," a deep voice calls from the left side. Jill squeals in delight.
I stop paying attention to the auction. So Christian was in that kind of trouble at school, fighting. I wonder why. I stare at him. Lily is watching us closely.
"And now, allow me to introduce the beautiful Ana."
Oh shit, that's me. I glance nervously at Mia, and she shoos me center stage. Fortunately, I don't fall over, but stand embarrassed as hell on display for everyone. When I look at Christian, he's smirking at me. The bastard.
"Beautiful Ana plays six musical instruments, speaks fluent Mandarin, and is keen on yoga... well, gentlemen - " Before he can even finish his sentence Christian interrupts him, glaring at the MC through his mask.
"Ten thousand dollars." I hear Lily's gasp of disbelief behind me.
Oh f*ck.
"Fifteen."
What? We all turn as one to a tall, impeccably dressed man standing to the left of the stage. I blink at Fifty. Shit, what will he make of this? But he's scratching his chin and giving the stranger an ironic smile. It's obvious Christian knows him. The stranger nods politely at Christian.
"Well, gentlemen! We have high rollers in the house this evening." The MC's excitement emanates through his harlequin mask as he turns to beam at Christian. This is a great show, but it's at my expense. I want to wail.
"Twenty," counters Christian quietly.
The babble of the crowd has died. Everyone is staring at me, Christian, and Mr. Mysterious by the stage.
"Twenty-five," the stranger says.
Could this be any more embarrassing?
Christian stares at him impassively, but he's amused. All eyes are on Christian. What's he going to do? My heart is in my mouth. I feel sick.
"One hundred thousand dollars," he says his voice ringing clear and loud through the marquee.
"What the f*ck?" Lily hisses audibly behind me, and a general gasp of dismay and amusement ripples through the crowd. The stranger holds his hands up in defeat, laughing, and Christian smirks at him. From the corner of my eye, I can see Mia bouncing up and down with glee. My subconscious is gazing at Christian, utterly gobsmacked.
"One-hundred thousand dollars for the lovely Ana! Going once... going twice..."
The MC stares at the stranger who shakes his head with mock regret and bows chivalrously.
"Sold!" the MC cries out triumphantly.
In a deafening round of applause and cheering, Christian steps forward to take my hand and help me from the stage. He gazes at me with an amused grin as I make my way down, kisses the back of my hand then tucks it into the crook of his arm, and leads me toward the marquee's exit.
"Who was that?" I ask.
He gazes down at me. "Someone you can meet later. Right now, I want to show you something. We have about thirty minutes until the First Dance Auction finishes. Then we have to be back on the dance floor so that I can enjoy that dance I've paid for."
"A very expensive dance," I mutter disapprovingly.
"I'm sure it'll be worth every single cent." He smiles down at me wickedly. Oh, he has a glorious smile, and the ache is back, blossoming in my body.
We're out on the lawn. I thought we would be heading to the boathouse, but disappoint-ingly we seem to be heading for the dance floor where the big band is now setting up. There are at least twenty musicians, and a few guests are milling about, furtively smoking - but since most of the action is back in the marquee, we don't attract too much attention.
Christian leads me to the rear of the house and opens a French window leading into a large comfortable sitting room that I've not seen before. He walks through the deserted hall toward the sweeping staircase with its elegant, polished wooden balustrade. Taking my hand from the crook of his arm, he leads me up to the second floor and up another flight of stairs to the third. Opening a white door, he ushers me into one of the bedrooms.
"This was my room," he says quietly, standing by the door and locking it behind him.
It's large, stark, and sparsely furnished. The walls are white as is the furniture; a spacious double bed, a desk and chair, shelves crammed with books and lined with various trophies for kickboxing by the look of them. The walls are hung with movie posters: The Matrix, Fight Club, The Truman Show, and two framed posters featuring kick boxers. One is named Guiseppe DeNatale - I've never heard of him.
But what catches my eye is the white pin board above the desk, studded with a myriad of photographs, Mariners pennants, and ticket stubs. It's a slice of young Christian. My eyes come back to the magnificent, beautiful man now standing in the center of the room.
He looks at me darkly, brooding and sexy.
"I've never brought a girl in here," he murmurs.
"Never?" I whisper.
He shakes his head.
I swallow convulsively, and the ache that has been bothering me for the last couple of hours is roaring now, raw and wanting. Seeing him standing there on the royal blue carpet in that mask... it's beyond erotic. I want him. Now. Any way I can get him. I have to resist launching myself at him and ripping his clothes off. He waltzes over to me slowly.
"We don't have long, Anastasia, and the way I'm feeling right this moment, we won't need long. Turn round. Let me get you out of that dress."
I turn and stare at the door, grateful that he's locked it. Bending down he whispers softly in my ear, "Keep the mask on."
I groan as my body clenches in response. He's not even touched me yet.
He grasps the top of my dress, his fingers sliding against my skin, and the touch reverberates through my body. In one swift move, he opens the zipper. Holding my dress, he helps me to step out of it, then turns and drapes it artfully over the back of a chair. Removing his jacket, he places it over my dress. He pauses, and stares at me for a moment, drinking me in. I'm in the basque and matching panties, and I revel in his sensuous gaze.
"You know, Anastasia," he says softly as he stalks toward me, undoing his bow tie so it hangs from either side of his neck, then undoing the top three buttons of his shirt. "I was so mad when you bought my auction lot. All manner of ideas ran through my head. I had to remind myself that punishment is off the menu. But then you volunteered." He gazes down at me through his mask. "Why did you do that?" he whispers.
"Volunteer? I don't know. Frustration... too much alcohol... worthy cause," I mutter meekly, shrugging. Maybe to get his attention?
I needed him then. I need him more now. The ache is worse, and I know he can soothe it, calm this roaring, salivating beast in me with the beast in him. His mouth presses into a line, and he slowly licks his upper lip. I want that tongue on me.
"I vowed to myself I would not spank you again, even if you begged me."
"Please," I beg.
"But then I realized, you're probably very uncomfortable at the moment, and it's not something you're used to." He smirks at me knowingly, arrogant bastard, but I don't care because he's absolutely right.
"Yes," I breathe.
"So, there might be a certain... latitude. If I do this, you must promise me one thing."
"Anything."
"You will safe word if you need to, and I will just make love to you, okay?"
"Yes." I'm panting. I want his hands on me.
He swallows, then takes my hand, and moves toward the bed. Throwing the duvet aside, he sits down, grabs a pillow, and places it beside him. He gazes up at me standing beside him and suddenly tugs hard on my hand so that I fall across his lap. He shifts slightly so my body is resting on the bed, my chest on the pillow, my face to one side. Leaning over, he sweeps my hair over my shoulder and runs his fingers through the plume of feathers on my mask.
"Put your hands behind your back," he murmurs.
Oh! He removes his bow tie and uses it to quickly bind my wrists so that my hands are tied behind me, resting in the small of my back.
"You really want this, Anastasia?"
I close my eyes. This is the first time since I met him that I really want this. I need it.
"Yes," I whisper.
"Why?" he asks softly as he caresses my behind with his palm.
I groan as soon as his hand makes contact with my skin. I don't know why... You tell me not to overthink. After a day like today - arguing about the money, Leila, Mrs. Robinson, the dossier on me, the roadmap, this lavish party, the masks, the alcohol, the silver balls, the auction... I want this.
"Do I need a reason?"
"No, baby, you don't," he says. "I'm just trying to understand you." His left hand curls round my waist, holding me in place as his palm leaves my behind and lands hard, just above the junction of my thighs. The pain connects directly with the ache in my belly Oh man... I moan loudly. He hits me again, in exactly the same place. I groan again.
"Two," he murmurs. "We'll go with twelve."
Oh my! This feels different than the last time - so carnal, so... necessary. He caresses my behind with his long-fingered hands, and I'm helpless, trussed up and pressed into the mattress, at his mercy, and of my own free will. He hits me again, slightly to the side, and again, to the other side, then pauses as he slowly peels my panties down and pulls them off.
He gently trails his palm across my behind again before continuing my spanking - each stinging smack taking the edge off my need - or fueling it - I don't know. I surrender myself to the rhythm of blows, absorbing each one, savoring each one.
"Twelve," he murmurs his voice low and harsh. He caresses my behind again and trails his fingers down toward my sex and slowly sinks two fingers inside me, moving them in a circle, round and round and round, torturing me.
I moan loudly as my body takes over, and I come and come, convulsing around his fingers. It's so intense, unexpected, and quick.
"That's right, baby," he murmurs appreciatively. He unties my wrists, keeping his fingers inside me as I lie panting and spent over him.
"I've not finished with you yet, Anastasia," he says and shifts without removing his fingers. He eases my knees on to the floor so that now I'm leaning over the bed. He kneels on the floor behind me and undoes his zipper. He slides his fingers out of me, and I hear the familiar tear of a foil packet. "Open your legs," he growls and I comply. He strokes my behind and eases into me.
"This is going to be quick, baby," he murmurs and grabbing my hips, he eases out then slams into me.
"Ah!" I cry out but the fullness is heavenly. He's hitting the bellyache square on, again and again, eradicating it with each sharp, sweet thrust. The feeling is mind-blowing, just what I need. I push back to meet him, thrust for thrust.
"Ana, no," he grunts, trying to still me. But I want him too much, and I grind against him, matching him thrust for thrust.
"Ana, shit," he hisses as he comes, and the tortured sound sets me off again, spiraling into a healing orgasm that goes on and on and wrings me out and leaves me spent and breathless.
Christian bends and kisses my shoulder then pulls out of me. Placing his arms around me, he rests his head in the middle of my back, and we lie like this, both kneeling at the bedside, for what? Seconds? Minutes even as our breathing calms. My bellyache has disappeared, and all I feel is a soothing, satisfying serenity.
Christian stirs and kisses my back. "I believe you owe me a dance, Miss Steele," he murmurs.
"Hmm," I respond, savoring the absence of achiness and basking in the afterglow.
He sits back on his heels and pulls me off the bed onto his lap. "We don't have long.
Come on." He kisses my hair and forces me to stand.
I grumble but sit back down on the bed and collect my panties from the floor and scoop them on. Lazily I walk to the chair to retrieve my dress. I note with dispassionate interest that I did not remove my shoes during our illicit tryst. Christian is tying his bow tie, having finished straightening himself and the bed.
As I slip my dress back on, I check out the photographs on the pin board. Christian as a sullen teen was gorgeous even then: with Elliot and Mia on the ski slopes; on his own in Paris, the Arc de Triomphe serving as a giveaway background; in London; New York; the Grand Canyon; Sydney Opera House; even the Great Wall of China. Master Grey was well traveled at a young age.
There are ticket stubs to various concerts: U2, Metallica, The Verve, Sheryl Crow, the New York Philharmonic performing Prokofiev's Romeo and Juliet - what an eclectic mix!
And in the corner, there's a passport-size photograph of a young woman. It's in black and white. She looks familiar, but for the life of me, I can't place her. Not Mrs. Robinson, thank heavens.
"Who's this?" I ask.
"No one of consequence," he mutters as he slips on his jacket and straightens his bow tie. "Shall I zip you up?"
"Please. Then why is she on your pin board?"
"An oversight on my part. How's my tie?" He raises his chin like a small boy, and I grin and straighten it for him.
"Now it's perfect."
"Like you," he murmurs and grabs me, kissing me passionately. "Feeling better?"
"Much, thank you, Mr. Grey."
"The pleasure was all mine, Miss Steele."
The guests are assembling on the dance floor. Christian grins at me - we've made it just in time - and he leads me onto the checkered floor.
"And now, ladies and gentlemen, it's time for the first dance. Mr. and Dr. Grey, are you ready?" Carrick nods in agreement, his arms around Grace.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the First Dance Auction, are you ready?" We all nod in agreement. Mia is with someone I don't recognize. I wonder what happened to Sean?
"Then we shall begin. Take it away, Sam!"
A young man strolls onto the stage amid warm applause, turns to the band behind him and snaps his fingers. The familiar strains of "I've Got You Under My Skin" fill the air.
Christian smiles down at me, takes me in his arms, and starts to move. Oh, he dances so well, making it easy to follow. We grin at each other like idiots as he whirls me around the dance floor.
"I love this song," Christian murmurs, gazing down at me. "Seems very fitting." He's no longer grinning, but serious.
"You're under my skin, too," I respond. "Or you were in your bedroom."
He purses his lips but he's unable to hide his amusement.
"Miss Steele," he admonishes me teasingly, "I had no idea you could be so crude."
"Mr. Grey, neither did I. I think it's all my recent experiences. They've been an education."
"For both of us." Christian is serious again, and it could just be the two of us and the band. We are in our own private bubble.
As the song finishes we both applaud. Sam the singer bows graciously and introduces his band.
"May I cut in?"
I recognize the man who bid on me at the auction. Christian grudgingly lets me go, but he's amused, too.
"Be my guest. Anastasia, this is John Flynn. John, Anastasia."
Shit!
Christian smirks at me and wanders off to one side of the dance floor.
"How do you do, Anastasia?" Dr. Flynn says smoothly, and I realize he's British.
"Hello," I stutter.
The band strikes up another song, and Dr. Flynn pulls me into his arms. He's much younger than I imagined, though I can't see his face. He's wearing a mask similar to Christian's. He's tall, but not as tall as Christian, and he doesn't move with Christian's easy grace.
What do I say to him? Why is Christian so f*cked-up? Why did he bid on me? It's the only thing I want to ask him, but somehow that seems rude.
"I'm glad to finally meet you, Anastasia. Are you enjoying yourself?" he asks.
"I was," I whisper.
"Oh. I hope I'm not responsible for your change of heart." He gives me a brief, warm smile that puts me a little more at ease.
"Doctor Flynn, you're the shrink. You tell me."
He grins. "That's the problem, isn't it? The shrink bit?"
I giggle. "I'm worried what I might reveal, so I'm a little self-conscious and intimidated. And really I only want to ask you about Christian."
He smiles. "First, this is a party so I'm not on duty," he whispers conspiratorially. "And second, I really can't talk to you about Christian. Besides," he teases, "we'd need until Christmas."
I gasp in shock.
"That's a doctor's joke, Anastasia."
I flush, embarrassed, and then feel slightly resentful. He's making a joke at Christian's expense. "You've just confirmed what I've been saying to Christian... that you're an expensive charlatan," I admonish him.
Dr. Flynn snorts with laughter. "You could be onto something there."
"You're British?"
"Yes. Originally from London."
"How did you find yourself here?"
"Happy circumstance."
"You don't give much away, do you?"
"There's not much to give away. I'm really a very dull person."
"That's very self-deprecating."
"It's a British trait. Part of our national character."
"Oh."
"And I could accuse you of the same, Anastasia."
"That I'm a dull person, too, Dr. Flynn?"
He snorts. "No, Anastasia, that you don't give much away."
"There's not much to give away." I smile.
"I sincerely doubt that." He unexpectedly frowns.
I flush, but the music finishes and Christian is once more by my side. Dr. Flynn releases me. "It's been a pleasure to meet you, Anastasia." He gives me his warm smile again, and I feel that I've passed some kind of hidden test.
"John." Christian nods at him.
"Christian." Dr. Flynn returns his nod, turns on his heel, and disappears through the crowd.
Christian pulls me into his arms for the next dance.
"He's much younger than I expected," I murmur to him. "And terribly indiscreet."
Christian cocks his head to one side. "Indiscreet?"
"Oh yes, he told me everything," I tease.
Christian tenses. "Well, in that case, I'll get your bag. I'm sure you want nothing more to do with me," he says softly.
I stop. "He didn't tell me anything!" My voice fills with panic.
Christian blinks before relief floods his face. He pulls me into his arms again. "Then let's enjoy this dance." He beams down, reassuring me, then spins me round.
Why would he think that I'd want to leave? It makes no sense.
We dance for two more numbers, and I realize I need the restroom.
"I won't be long."
As I make my way to the powder room, I remember I have left my purse on the dinner table, so I head down to the marquee. When I enter, it's still lit but quite deserted, except for a couple at the other end, who really ought to get a room! I reach for my bag.
"Anastasia?"
A soft voice startles me, and I turn to see a woman dressed in a long, tight, black velvet gown. Her mask is unique. It covers her face to her nose but also covers her hair. It's stunning with elaborate gold filigree.
"I'm so glad you're on your own," she says softly. "I've been wanting to talk to you all evening."
"I'm sorry, I don't know who you are."
She pulls the mask from her face and releases her hair.
Shit! It's Mrs. Robinson.
"I'm sorry, I startled you."
I gape at her. Holy cow - what the f*ck does this woman want?
I don't know what the social conventions are for meeting known molesters of children.
She's smiling sweetly and gesturing for me to sit at the table. And because I am lacking any sphere of reference, I do as she asks out of stunned politeness, grateful that I am still wearing my mask.
"I'll be brief, Anastasia. I know what you think of me... Christian's told me."
I gaze at her impassively, giving nothing away, but I'm pleased that she knows. It saves me telling her, and she's cutting to the chase. Part of me is beyond intrigued as to what she could have to say.
She pauses, glancing over my shoulder. "Taylor's watching us."
I peek around to see him scanning the tent by the doorway. Sawyer is with him. They are looking anywhere but at us.
"Look, we don't have long," she says hurriedly. "It must be obvious to you that Christian is in love with you. I have never seen him like this, ever." She emphasizes the last word.
What? Loves me? No. Why is she telling me? To reassure me? I don't understand.
"He won't tell you because he probably doesn't realize it himself, notwithstanding what I've said to him, but that's Christian. He's not very attuned to any positive feelings and emotions he may have. He dwells far too much on the negative. But then you've probably worked that out for yourself. He doesn't think he's worthy."
I am reeling. Christian loves me? He hasn't said it, and this woman has told him that's how he feels? How bizarre.
A hundred images dance through my head: the iPad, the gliding, flying to see me, all his actions, his possessiveness, one hundred thousand dollars for a dance. Is this love?
And hearing it from this woman, having her confirm it for me is, frankly, unwelcome.
I'd rather hear it from him.
My heart constricts. He feels unworthy? Why?
"I've never seen him so happy, and it's obvious that you have feelings for him, too." A brief smile flits across her lips. "That's great, and I wish you both the best of everything.
But what I wanted to say is if you hurt him again, I will find you, lady, and it won't be pleasant when I do."
She stares at me, ice-cold blue eyes boring into my skull, trying to get under my mask.