by E. L. James
“If you’ll excuse me,” I murmur to Christian.
He looks at me intently.
“Do you need the powder room?”
I nod.
“I’ll show you,” he says darkly.
When I stand, all the other men around the table stand with me. Oh, such manners.
“No, Christian! You’re not taking Ana—I will.”
Mia is on her feet before Christian can protest. His jaw tenses; I know he’s not pleased. Quite frankly, neither am I. I have … needs. I shrug apologetically at him, and he sits down quickly, resigned.
On our return, I feel a little better, though the relief of removing the balls has not been as instantaneous as I’d hoped. They’re now stashed safely in my clutch purse.
Why did I think I could last the whole evening? I am still yearning—perhaps I can persuade Christian to take me to the boathouse later. I flush at the thought and glance at him as I take my seat. He stares at me, the ghost of a smile crossing his lips.
Phew … he’s no longer mad at a missed opportunity, though maybe I am. I feel frustrated—irritable even. Christian squeezes my hand, and we both listen attentively to Carrick, who is back on stage talking about Coping Together. Christian passes me another card—a list of the auction prizes. I scan them quickly.
AUCTION GIFTS AND GRACIOUS DONORS FOR COPING TOGETHER
SIGNED BASEBALL BAT FROM THE MARINERS—DR. EMILY MAINWARING
GUCCI PURSE, WALLET & KEY RING—ANDREA WASHINGTON
ONE-DAY VOUCHER FOR TWO AT ESCLAVA, BRAVERN CENTER—ELENA LINCOLN
LANDSCAPE AND GARDEN DESIGN—GIA MATTEO
COCO DE MER COFFRET & PERFUME BEAUTY SELECTION—ELIZABETH AUSTIN
VENETIAN MIRROR—MR. AND MRS. J. BAILEY
TWO CASES OF WINE OF YOUR CHOICE FROM ALBAN ESTATES—ALBAN ESTATES
TWO VIP TICKETS FOR XTY IN CONCERT—MRS. L. YESYOV
RACE DAY AT DAYTONA—EMC BRITT INC.
PRIDE AND PREJUDICE BY JANE AUSTEN, FIRST EDITION—DR. A. F. M. LACE-FIELD
DRIVE AN ASTON MARTIN DB7 FOR A DAY—MR. & MRS. L. W. NORA
OIL PAINTING, INTO THE BLUE BY J. TROUTON—KELLY TROUTON
GLIDING LESSON—SEATTLE AREA SOARING SOCIETY
WEEKEND BREAK FOR TWO AT THE HEATHMAN HOTEL, PORTLAND—THE HEATHMAN HOTEL
ONE-WEEKEND STAY IN ASPEN, COLORADO (SLEEPS SIX)—MR. C. GREY
ONE-WEEK STAY ABOARD THE SUSIECUE YACHT (SIX BERTHS), MOORED IN ST. LUCIA—DR. & MRS. LARIN
ONE WEEK AT LAKE ADRIANA, MONTANA (SLEEPS EIGHT)—MR. & DR. GREY
Holy shit. I blink up at Christian.
“You own property in Aspen?” I hiss. The auction is under way, and I have to keep my voice down.
He nods, surprised at my outburst and irritated, I think. He puts his finger to his lips to silence me.
“Do you have property elsewhere?” I whisper.
He nods again and inclines his head to one side in a warning.
The whole room erupts with cheering and applause; one of the prizes has gone for $12,000.
“I’ll tell you later,” Christian says quietly. “I wanted to come with you,” he adds rather sulkily.
Well, you didn’t. I pout and I realize that I’m still querulous, and no doubt, it’s the frustrating effect of the balls. My mood darkens after seeing Mrs. Robinson on the list of generous donors.
I glance around the tent to see if I can spot her, but I can’t see her telltale hair. Surely Christian would have warned me if she was invited tonight. I sit and stew, applauding when necessary, as each lot is sold for astonishing amounts of money.
The bidding moves to Christian’s place in Aspen and reaches $20,000.
“Going once, going twice,” the MC calls.
And I don’t know what possesses me, but I suddenly hear my own voice ringing out clearly over the throng.
“Twenty-four thousand dollars!”
Every mask at the table turns to me in shocked amazement, the biggest reaction of all coming from beside me. I hear his sharp intake of breath and feel his wrath washing over me like a tidal wave.
“Twenty-four thousand dollars, to the lovely lady in silver, going once, going twice … Sold!”
CHAPTER SEVEN
* * *
Holy shit, did I really just do that? It must be the alcohol. I’ve had champagne plus four glasses of four different wines. I glance up at Christian, who’s busy applauding.
Crap, he’s going to be so angry, and we’ve been getting along so well. My subconscious has finally decided to make an appearance, and she’s wearing her Edvard Munch The Scream face.
Christian leans over to me, a large, fake smile plastered across his face. He kisses my cheek and then moves closer to whisper in my ear in a very cold, controlled voice.
“I don’t know whether to worship at your feet or spank the living shit out of you.”
Oh, I know what I want right now. I gaze up at him, blinking through my mask. I just wish I could read what’s in his eyes.
“I’ll take option two, please,” I whisper frantically as the applause dies down. His lips part as he inhales sharply. Oh, that chiseled mouth—I want it on me, now. I ache for him. He gives me a radiant sincere smile that leaves me breathless.
“Suffering, are you? We’ll have to see what we can do about that,” he murmurs as he runs his fingers along my jaw.
His touch resonates deep, deep inside where that ache has spawned and grown. I want to jump him right here, right now, but we sit back to watch the auction of the next lot.
I can barely sit still. Christian drapes an arm around my shoulders, his thumb rhythmically stroking my back, sending delicious tingles down my spine. His free hand clasps mine, bringing it to his lips, then letting it rest on his lap.
Slowly and surreptitiously, so I don’t realize his game until it’s too late, he eases my hand up his leg and against his erection. I gasp, and my eyes dart in panic around the table, but all eyes are fixed on the stage. Thank heavens for my mask.
Taking full advantage, I slowly caress him, letting my fingers explore. Christian keeps his hand over mine, hiding my bold fingers, while his thumb skates softly over the nape of my neck. His mouth opens as he gasps softly, and it’s the only reaction I can see to my inexperienced touch. But it means so much. He wants me. Everything south of my navel contracts. This is becoming unbearable.
A week by Lake Adriana in Montana is the final lot for auction. Of course Mr. and Dr. Grey have a house in Montana, and the bidding escalates rapidly, but I am barely aware of it. I feel him growing beneath my fingers, and it makes me feel so powerful.
“Sold, for one hundred ten thousand dollars!” the MC declares victoriously. The whole room bursts into applause, and reluctantly I follow as does Christian, ruining our fun.
He turns to me and his lips twitch. “Ready?” he mouths over the rapturous cheering.
“Yes,” I mouth back.
“Ana!” Mia calls. “It’s time!”
What? No. Not again! “Time for what?”
“The First Dance Auction. Come on!” She stands and holds out her hand.
I glance at Christian, who is, I think, scowling at Mia, and I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, but it’s laughter that wins. I succumb to a cathartic bubble of schoolgirl giggles, as we are thwarted once more by the tall, pink powerhouse that is Mia Grey. Christian peers at me, and after a beat, there’s a ghost of a smile on his lips.
“The first dance will be with me, okay? And it won’t be on the dance floor,” he murmurs lasciviously into my ear. My giggles subside as anticipation fans the flames of my need. Oh yes! My inner goddess performs a perfect triple Salchow in her ice skates.
“I look forward to it.” I lean over and plant a soft, chaste kiss on his mouth. Glancing around, I realize that our fellow guests at the table are astonished. Of course, they’ve never seen Christian with a date before.
He smiles broadly. And he looks … happy.
“Come on, Ana,” Mia nags
. Taking her outstretched hand, I follow her onto the stage, where ten more young women have assembled, and I note with vague unease that Lily is one of them.
“Gentlemen, the highlight of the evening!” the MC booms over the babble of voices. “The moment you’ve all been waiting for! These twelve lovely ladies have all agreed to auction their first dance to the highest bidder!”
Oh no. I blush from head to toe. I hadn’t realized what this meant. How humiliating!
“It’s for a good cause,” Mia hisses at me, sensing my discomfort. “Besides, Christian will win.” She rolls her eyes. “I can’t imagine him letting anyone outbid him. He hasn’t taken his eyes off you all evening.”
Yes, focus on the good cause, and Christian is bound to win. Let’s face it, he’s not short of a dime or two.
But it means spending more money on you! my subconscious snarls at me. But I don’t want to dance with anyone else—I can’t dance with anyone else—and it’s not spending money on me, he’s donating it to the charity. Like the $24,000 he’s already spent? My subconscious narrows her eyes.
Shit. I seem to have gotten away with my impulsive bid. Why am I arguing with myself?
“Now, gentlemen, pray gather around, and take a good look at what could be yours for the first dance. Twelve comely and compliant wenches.”
Jeez! I feel like I’m in a meat market. I watch, horrified, as at least twenty men make their way to the stage area, Christian included, moving with easy grace between the tables and pausing to say a few hellos on the way. Once the bidders are assembled, the MC begins.
“Ladies and gentlemen, in the tradition of the masquerade we shall maintain the mystery behind the masks and stick to first names only. First up we have the lovely Jada.”
Jada is giggling like a schoolgirl, too. Maybe I won’t be so out of place. She’s dressed head to foot in navy taffeta with a matching mask. Two young men step forward expectantly. Lucky Jada.
“Jada speaks fluent Japanese, is a qualified fighter pilot, and an Olympic gymnast … hmm.” The MC winks. “Gentlemen, what am I bid?”
Jada gapes, astounded at the MC; obviously, he’s talking complete garbage. She grins shyly back at the two contenders.
“A thousand bucks!” one calls.
Very quickly the bidding escalates to $5,000.
“Going once … going twice … sold!” the MC declares loudly, “to the gentleman in the mask!” And of course, all the men are wearing masks so there are hoots of laughter, applause, and cheering. Jada beams at her purchaser and quickly exits the stage.
“See? This is fun!” whispers Mia. “I hope Christian wins you, though … We don’t want a brawl,” she adds.
“Brawl?” I answer horrified.
“Oh yes. He was very hotheaded when he was younger.” She shudders.
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 counterbid, but Mariah sells for $4,000.
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 fuck. 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, fuck.
“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 tent.
“What the fuck?” 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.
“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 tent’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 disappointingly 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 tent, 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 th
e 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 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 kickboxers. One is named Guiseppe DeNatale—I’ve never heard of him.
But what catches my eye is the white bulletin board above the desk, studded with myriad photographs, Mariners pennants, and ticket stubs. It’s a slice of young Christian. My eyes come back to the magnificent 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 around. 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.”