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you’ve eaten something.”
    “Aren’t we going back via Charlie Tango?”
    “No, I thought I might have a drink. Taylor will collect us. Besides, this way I have you in the car all to myself for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk?”
    Oh, that’s his plan.
    Christian summons the waiter to ask for the check, then picks up his Blackberry and makes a call.
    “We’re at Le Picotin, South West Third Avenue.” He hangs up.
    Jeez, he’s curt over the phone.
    “You’re very brusque with Taylor, in fact, with most people.”
    “I just get to the point quickly, Anastasia.”
    “You haven’t gotten to the point this evening. Nothing’s changed, Christian.”
    “I have a proposition for you.”
    “This started with a proposition.”
    “A different proposition.”

    The waiter returns, and Christian hands over his credit card without checking the bill.
    He gazes at me speculatively while the waiter swipes his card. Christian’s phone buzzes once, and he peers at it.
    He has a proposition? What now? A couple of scenarios run through my mind: kidnap, working for him. No, nothing makes sense. Christian finishes paying.
    “Come. Taylor’s outside.”
    We stand and he takes my hand.
    “I don’t want to lose you, Anastasia.” He kisses my knuckles tenderly, and the touch of his lips on my skin resonates throughout my body.
    Outside the Audi is waiting. Christian opens my door. Climbing in, I sink into the plush leather. He heads to the driver’s side, Taylor steps out of the car and they talk briefly.
    This isn’t their usual protocol. I’m curious. What are they talking about? Moments later, they both climb in, and I glance at Christian who’s wearing his impassive face as he stares ahead.
    I allow myself a brief moment to examine his godlike profile: straight nose, sculptured full lips, hair falling deliciously over his forehead. This divine man is surely not meant for me. Soft music suddenly fills the rear of the car, an orchestral piece that I don’t know, and Taylor pulls into the light traffic, heading for the I-5 and Seattle.
    Christian shifts to face me. “As I was saying, Anastasia, I have a proposition for you.”
    I glance nervously at Taylor.
    “Taylor can’t hear you,” Christian reassures me.
    “How?”
    “Taylor,” Christian calls. Taylor doesn’t respond. He calls again, still no response.
    Christian leans over and taps his shoulder. Taylor removes an ear bud I hadn’t noticed.
    “Yes, sir?”
    “Thank you, Taylor. It’s okay; resume your listening.”
    “Sir.”
    “Happy now? He’s listening to his iPod. Puccini. Forget he’s here. I do.”
    “Did you deliberately ask him to do that?”
    “Yes.”
    Oh. “Okay, your proposition?”
    Christian looks suddenly determined and businesslike. Holy shit. We’re negotiating a deal. I listen attentively.
    “Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all?”
    My mouth drops open. “Kinky fuckery?” I squeak.
    “Kinky fuckery.”
    “I can’t believe you said that.” I glance nervously at Taylor.
    “Well, I did. Answer me,” he says calmly.
    I flush. My inner goddess is down on bended knee with her hands clasped in supplication begging me.
    “I like your kinky fuckery,” I whisper.
    “That’s what I thought. So what don’t you like?”

    Not being able to touch you. You enjoying my pain, the bite of the belt . . .
    “The threat of cruel and unusual punishment.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “Well, you have all those canes and whips and stuff in your playroom, and they frighten the living daylights out of me. I don’t want you to use them on me.”
    “Okay, so no whips or canes—or belts, for that matter,” he says sardonically.
    I gaze at him puzzled. “Are you attempting to redefine the hard limits?”
    “Not as such, I’m just trying to understand you, get a clearer picture of what you do and don’t like.”
    “Fundamentally, Christian, it’s