He steers in a huge semicircle and I study the shoreline - the boats in the marina, the mosaic of yellow, white and sand-colored offices and apartments, and the craggy mountains behind. It looks so disorganized - not the regimented blocks that I am used to - but so picturesque. Christian glances over his shoulder at me, and there's the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.
"Again?" he shouts over the noise of the engine.
I nod enthusiastically. His answering grin is dazzling, and he opens the throttle and speeds around the Fair Lady and on out to sea once more . . . and I think I'm forgiven.
"You've caught the sun," Christian says mildly as he undoes my life vest. I anxiously try to assess his mood. We are on deck aboard the yacht, and one of the stewards is standing quietly nearby, waiting for my life vest. Christian passes it to him.
"Will that be all, sir?" the young man asks. I love his French accent. Christian glances at me, takes off his shades, and slips them into the collar of his T-shirt, letting them hang.
"Would you like a drink?" he asks me.
"Do I need one?"
He cocks his head to one side.
"Why would you say that?" His voice is soft.
"You know why."
He frowns as if weighing something up in his mind. Oh, what is he thinking?
"Two gin and tonics, please. And some nuts and olives," he says to the steward, who nods and quickly vanishes.
"You think I'm going to punish you?" Christian's voice is silky.
"Do you want to?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"I'll think of something. Maybe when you've had your drink." And it's a sensual threat. I swallow, and my inner goddess blinks up from her sun lounger where she's trying to catch rays with a silver reflector fanned out at her neck.
Christian's frowns once more.
"You want to be?"
How does he know?
"Depends," I mutter, flushing.
"On what?" He hides his smile.
"If you want to hurt me or not."
His mouth presses into a hard line, humor forgotten. He leans forward and kisses my forehead.
"Anastasia, you're my wife, not my sub. I don't ever want to hurt you. You should know that by now. Just . . . just don't take your clothes off in public. I don't want you naked all over the tabloids. You don't want that, and I'm sure your mom and Ray don't want that either."
Oh! Ray. Holy shit, he'd have a coronary. What was I thinking? I mentally castigate myself.
The steward appears with our drinks and snacks and places them on the teak table.
"Sit," Christian commands. I do as he says and settle into a director's chair. Christian takes a seat beside me and passes me a gin and tonic.
"Cheers, Mrs. Grey."
"Cheers, Mr. Grey."
I take a welcome sip. It's thirst-quenching, cold, and delicious. When I gaze at him, he's watching me carefully, his mood unreadable. It's very frustrating . . . I don't know if he's still mad at me. I deploy my patented distraction technique.
"Who owns this boat?" I ask.
"A British knight. Sir Somebody-or-Other. His great-grandfather started a grocery store. His daughter's married to one of the Crown Princes of Europe."
Oh. "Super-rich?"
Christian looks suddenly wary. "Yes."
"Like you," I murmur.
"Yes."
Oh.
"And like you," Christian whispers and pops an olive into his mouth. I blink rapidly . . . a vision of him in his tux and silver waistcoat comes to mind . . . his eyes burning with sincerity as he gazes down at me during our wedding ceremony.
"All that is mine is now yours," he says, his voice ringing out clearly reciting his vows from memory.
All mine? Holy cow.
"It's odd. Going from nothing to" - I wave my hand to indicate our opulent surroundings - "to everything."
"You'll get used to it."
"I don't think I'll ever get used to it."
Taylor appears on deck. "Sir, you have a call." Christian frowns but takes the proffered Blackberry.
"Grey," he snaps and rises from his seat to stand at the bow of the yacht.
I gaze out at the sea, tuning out his conversation with Ros - I think - his number two. I am rich . . . stinking rich. I have done nothing to earn this money . . . just married a rich man. I shudder as my mind drifts back to our conversation about prenups. It was Sunday after his birthday and we were seated at the kitchen table enjoying a leisurely breakfast . . . all of us, Elliot, Kate, Grace, and I were debating the merits of bacon versus sausage, while Carrick and Christian read the Sunday paper . . .
"Look at this," squeals Mia as she sets her netbook on the table before us on the kitchen table. "There's a gossipy item on the Seattle Nooz website about you being engaged, Christian."
"Already?" Grace says in surprise. Then her mouth purses as some obviously unpleasant thought crosses her mind. Christian frowns. Mia reads the column out loud. "Word has reached us here at The Nooz that Seattle's most eligible bachelor, the Christian Grey, has finally been snapped up and wedding bells are in the air. But who is the lucky, lucky lady? The Nooz is on the hunt. Bet she's reading one helluva prenup."
Mia giggles then stops abruptly as Christian glares at her. Silence descends, and the atmosphere in the Grey kitchen plunges to below zero.
Oh no! A prenup? The thought has never crossed my mind. I swallow, feeling all the blood drain from my face. Please ground, swallow me up now! Christian shifts uncomfortably in his chair as I glance apprehensively at him.
"No," he mouths at me.
"Christian," Carrick says gently.
"I'm not discussing this again," Christian snaps at Carrick who glances at me nervously and opens his mouth to say something.
"No prenup!" Christian almost shouts at him and broodingly goes back to reading his paper, ignoring everyone else at the table. They look alternately at me then him . . . then anywhere but at the two of us.
"Christian," I murmur. "I'll sign anything you and Mr. Grey want."
Jeez, it wouldn't be the first time he's made me sign something. Christian looks up and glares at me.
"No!" he snaps. I blanch once more.
"It's to protect you."
"Christian, Ana - I think you should discuss this in private," Grace admonishes us. She glares at Carrick and Mia. Oh dear, looks like they're in trouble, too.
"Ana, this is not about you," Carrick murmurs reassuringly. "And please call me Carrick."
Christian narrows cold eyes at his father and my heart sinks. Hell . . . He's really mad.
Everyone erupts into animated conversation, and Mia and Kate leap up to clear the table.
"I definitely prefer sausage," exclaims Elliot.
I stare down at my knotted fingers. Crap. I hope Mr. and Mrs. Grey don't think I'm some kind of gold digger. Christian reaches over and grasps both my hands gently in one of his.
"Stop it."
How does he know what I'm thinking?
"Ignore my dad," Christian says so only I can hear him. "He's really pissed about Elena. That stuff was all aimed at me. I wish my mom had kept her mouth shut."