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.
