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do something exceptionally stupid—and you . . .” I glance down at my knotted hands, pain lancing through me, and I’m unable to finish my sentence. Losing Christian . . . fuck.
    “Stop. Stop now. This subject is closed, Ana. We’re not discussing it any more. No prenup. Not now—not ever.” He gives me a pointed give-it-up-now look, which silences me. Then he turns to Grace. “Mom,” he says. “Can we have the wedding here?”

    And he’s not mentioned it again. In fact at every opportunity he’s tried to reassure me about his wealth . . . that’s it mine, too. I shudder as I recall the crazy shopping fest Christian demanded I go on with Caroline Acton—the personal shopper from Niemans—in preparation for this honeymoon. My bikini alone cost five hundred and forty dollars. I mean, it’s nice, but really—that’s a ridiculous amount of money for four triangular scraps of material.
    “You will get used to it,” Christian interrupts my reverie as he resumes his place at the table.
    “Used to it?”
    “The money,” he says, rolling his eyes.
    Oh, Fifty, maybe with time. I push the small dish of salted almonds and cashews toward him.
    “Your nuts, sir,” I say with as straight a face as I can manage, trying to bring some humor to our conversation after my dark thoughts and my bikini top faux pas .
    He smirks. “I’m nuts about you.” He takes an almond, his eyes sparkling with wicked humor as he enjoys my little joke. He licks his lips. “Drink up. We’re going to bed.”
    What?
    “Drink,” he mouths at me, his eyes darkening.
    Oh my, the look he gives me could be solely responsible for global warming. I pick up my gin and drain the glass, not taking my eyes off him. His mouth drops open, and I glimpse the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He smiles lewdly at me. In one fluid move, he stands and bends over me, resting his hands on the arms of my chair.
    “I’m going to make an example of you. Come. Don’t pee,” he whispers in my ear.
    I gasp. Don’t pee? How rude. My subconscious looks up from her book— The Complete works of Charles Dickens, Vol. 1 —with alarm.
    “It’s not what you think.” Christian smirks, holding his hand out to me. “Trust me.” He looks so sexy and genial. How can I resist?
    “Okay.” I place my hand in his, because quite simply, I’d trust him with my life. What has he got planned? My heart starts pounding in anticipation.
    He leads me across the deck and through the doors into the plush, beautifully appointed main salon, along a narrow corridor, through the dining room, and down the stairs to the main master cabin.
    The cabin has been cleaned since this morning and the bed made. It’s a lovely room. With two portholes on both the starboard and port sides, it’s elegantly decorated in dark walnut furniture with cream walls and soft furnishings in gold and red.
    Christian releases my hand, pulls his T-shirt over his head, and tosses it onto a chair. He steps out of his flip-flops and removes his shorts and trunks in one graceful move . Oh my. Will I ever tire of looking at him naked? He is utterly gorgeous and all mine. His skin glows—he’s caught the sun, too, and his hair is longer, flopping over his forehead. I am one lucky, lucky girl.
    He grasps my chin, pulling slightly so that I stop biting my lip and runs his thumb along my lower lip.
    “That’s better.” He turns and strides over to the impressive armoire that houses his clothes. He produces two pairs of metal handcuffs and an airline eye mask from the bottom drawer.
    Handcuffs! We’ve never used handcuffs. I glance quickly and nervously at the bed. Where the hell is he going to attach those? He turns and gazes steadily at me, his eyes dark and luminous.
    “These can be quite painful. They can bite into the skin if you pull too hard.” He holds up one pair. “But I really want to use them on you now.”
    Holy fuck . My mouth goes dry.
    “Here.” He stalks gracefully