“And you wrote full reports on all of them. You’re a very bright woman, Anastasia. I’m sure you’ll manage.”

“Are you crazy?”

“Crazy for you,” he whispers.

And I snort because it’s the only expression I can manage. He narrows his eyes.

“You’ll be a laughingstock. Buying a company for the little woman, who has only had a full-time job for a few months of her adult life.”

“Do you think I give a fuck what people think? Besides, you won’t be on your own.”

I gape at him. He really has lost his marbles this time. “Christian, I …” I put my head in my hands—my emotions have been through a wringer. Is he crazy? And from somewhere dark and deep inside I have the sudden, inappropriate need to laugh. When I look up at him again, his eyes widen.

“Something amusing you, Ms. Steele?”

“Yes. You.”

His eyes widen further, shocked but also amused. “Laughing at your husband? That will never do. And you’re biting your lip.” His eyes darken … in that way. Oh no—I know that look. Sultry, seductive, salacious … No, no, no! Not here.

“Don’t even think about it,” I warn, alarm clear in my voice.

“Think about what, Anastasia?”

“I know that look. We’re at work.”

He leans forward, his eyes glued to mine, molten gray and hungry. Holy shit! I swallow instinctively.

“We’re in a small, reasonably sound-proofed office with a lockable door,” he whispers.

“Gross moral turpitude.” I enunciate each word carefully.

“Not with your husband.”

“With my boss’s boss’s boss,” I hiss.

“You’re my wife.”

“Christian, no. I mean it. You can fuck me seven shades of Sunday this evening. But not now. Not here!”

He blinks and narrows his eyes once more. Then, unexpectedly, he laughs.

“Seven shades of Sunday?” He arches an eyebrow, intrigued. “I may hold you to that, Ms. Steele.”

“Oh, stop with the Ms. Steele!” I snap and thump the desk, startling us both. “For heaven’s sake, Christian. If it means so much to you, I’ll change my name!”

His mouth pops open as he inhales sharply. And then he grins, a radiant, all-teeth-showing, joyous grin. Wow …

“Good.” He claps his hands, and all of a sudden he stands.

What now?

“Mission accomplished. Now, I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Grey.”

Gah—this man is so maddening! “But—”

“But what, Mrs. Grey?”

I sag. “Just go.”

“I intend to. I’ll see you this evening. I’m looking forward to seven shades of Sunday.”

I scowl.

“Oh, and I have a stack of business-related social engagements coming up, and I’d like you to accompany me.”

I gape at him. Will you just go?

“I’ll have Andrea call Hannah to put the dates in your calendar. There are some people you need to meet. You should get Hannah to handle your schedule from now on.”

“Okay,” I mumble, completely bemused, bewildered, and shell-shocked.

He leans over my desk. What now? I am caught in his hypnotic gaze.

“Love doing business with you, Mrs. Grey.” He leans in closer as I sit paralyzed, and he plants a soft tender kiss on my lips. “Laters, baby,” he murmurs. He stands abruptly, winks at me, and leaves.

I lay my head on my desk, feeling like I’ve been run over by a freight train—the freight train that is my beloved husband. He has to be the most frustrating, annoying, contrary man on the planet. I sit up and frantically rub my eyes. What have I just agreed to? Okay, Ana Grey running SIP—I mean, Grey Publishing. The man is insane. There’s a knock on the door, and Hannah pokes her head around.

“You okay?” she asks.

I just stare at her. She frowns.

“I know you don’t like me doing this—but can I make you some tea?”

I nod.

“Twinings English Breakfast, weak and black?”

I nod.

“Coming right up, Ana.”

I stare blankly at my computer screen, still in shock. How can I make him understand? E-mail!

He’s trying to be funny, but I am in no mood to laugh. I take a deep breath and go back to my correspondence.

CHRISTIAN IS QUIET WHEN I climb into the car that evening. “Hi,” I murmur.

“Hi,” he responds, warily—as he should.

“Disrupt anyone else’s work today?” I ask too sweetly.

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Only Flynn’s.”

Oh.

“Next time you go to see him, I’ll give you a list of topics I want covered,” I hiss.

“You seem out of sorts, Mrs. Grey.”

I glare steadily at the backs of Ryan’s and Sawyer’s heads in front of me. Christian shifts beside me.

“Hey,” he says softly and reaches for my hand. All afternoon, when I should have been concentrating on work, I was trying to figure out what to say to him. But I became angrier and angrier with each passing hour. I’ve had enough of his cavalier, petulant, and, frankly, childish behavior. I snatch my hand out of his—in a cavalier, petulant, and childish manner.

“You’re mad at me?” he whispers.

“Yes,” I hiss. Folding my arms protectively across my body, I gaze out my window. He shifts beside me once more, but I will not let myself look at him. I don’t understand why I’m so mad at him—but I am. Really fucking mad.

As soon as we pull up outside Escala, I break protocol and leap out of the car with my briefcase. I stomp into the building, not checking to see who is following. Ryan scuttles into the foyer behind me and dashes to the elevator to press the “call” button.

“What?” I snap when I’m alongside him. His cheeks redden.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he mutters.

Christian comes and stands beside me to wait for the elevator, and Ryan retreats.

“So it’s not just me you’re mad at?” Christian murmurs dryly. I glare up at him and see a trace of a smile on his face.

“Are you laughing at me?” I narrow my eyes.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he says, holding his hands up like I’m threatening him at gunpoint. He’s in his navy suit, looking crisp and clean with floppy sex hair and a guileless expression.

“You need a haircut,” I mutter. Turning away from him, I step into the elevator.

“Do I?” he says while brushing his hair off his forehead. He follows me in.

“Yes.” I tap the code for our apartment into the keypad.

“So you’re talking to me now?”

“Just.”

“What exactly are you mad about? I need an indication,” he asks cautiously.

I turn and gape at him.

“Do you really have no idea? Surely, for someone so bright, you must have an inkling? I can’t believe you’re that obtuse.”

He takes an alarmed step back. “You really are mad. I thought we had sorted all this in your office,” he murmurs, perplexed.

“Christian, I just capitulated to your petulant demands. That’s all.”

The elevator doors open and I storm out. Taylor is standing in the hallway. He takes a step back and quickly shuts his mouth as I steam past him.

“Hi, Taylor,” I mutter.

“Mrs. Grey,” he murmurs.

Dropping my briefcase in the hallway, I head into the great room. Mrs. Jones is at the stove.

“Good evening, Mrs. Grey.”

“Hi, Mrs. Jones,” I mutter. I head straight to the fridge and pull out a bottle of white wine. Christian follows me into the kitchen and watches me like a hawk as I take a glass down from the cupboard. He removes his jacket and casually places it on the countertop.

“Do you want a drink?” I ask super sweetly.

“No thanks,” he says, not taking his eyes off me, and I know that he’s helpless. He does not know what to do with me. It’s comical on one level and tragic on another. Well, screw him! I am having trouble locating my compassionate self since our meeting this afternoon. Slowly, he removes his tie and then opens the top button of his shirt. I pour myself a large glass of sauvignon blanc, and Christian runs a hand through his hair. When I turn around, Mrs. Jones has disappeared. Shit! She’s my human shield. I take a slug of wine. Hmm. It tastes good.

“Stop this,” Christian whispers. He takes the two steps between us so he’s standing in front of me. Gently he tucks my hair behind my ear and caresses my earlobe with his fingertips, sending a shiver through me. Is this what I’ve missed all day? His touch? I shake my head, causing him to release my ear and gaze up at him.

“Talk to me,” he murmurs.

“What’s the point? You don’t listen to me.”

“Yes I do. You’re one of the few people I do listen to.”

I take another swig of wine.

“Is this about your name?”

“Yes and no. It’s about how you dealt with the fact that I disagreed with you.” I glare up at him, expecting him to be angered.

His brow furrows. “Ana, you know I have … issues. It’s hard for me to let go where you’re concerned. You know that.”

“But I’m not a child, and I’m not an asset.”

“I know.” He sighs.

“Then stop treating me as though I am,” I whisper, imploring him.

He brushes the backs of his fingers down my cheek and runs the tip of his thumb across my bottom lip.

“Don’t be mad. You’re so precious to me. Like a priceless asset, like a child,” he whispers, a somber reverent expression on his face. His words distract me. Like a child. Precious like a child … a child would be precious to him!

“I’m neither of those things, Christian. I’m your wife. If you were hurt that I wasn’t going to take your name, you should have said.”

“Hurt?” He frowns deeply, and I know that he’s exploring the possibility in his mind. He straightens suddenly, still frowning, and glances quickly at his wristwatch. “The architect will be here in just under an hour. We should eat.”

Oh no. I groan inwardly. He hasn’t answered me, and now I have to deal with Gia Matteo. My shitty day just got shittier. I scowl at Christian.

“This discussion isn’t finished,” I mutter.

“What else is there to discuss?”

“You could sell the company.”

Christian snorts. “Sell it?”

“Yes.”

“You think I’d find a buyer in today’s market?”

“How much did it cost you?”

“It was relatively cheap.” His tone is guarded.

“So if it folds?”

He smirks. “We’ll survive. But I won’t let it fold, Anastasia. Not while you’re there.”

“And if I leave?”

“And do what?”

“I don’t know. Something else.”

“You’ve already said this is your dream job. And forgive me if I’m wrong, but I promised before God, Reverend Walsh, and a congregation of our nearest and dearest to ‘cherish you, uphold your hopes and dreams, and keep you safe at my side.’ ”

“Quoting your wedding vows to me is not playing fair.”

“I’ve never promised to play fair where you’re concerned. Besides,” he adds, “you’ve wielded your vows at me like a weapon before.”

I scowl. This is true.

“Anastasia, if you’re still angry with me, take it out on me in bed later.” His voice is suddenly low and full of sensual longing, his eyes heated.

What? Bed? How?

He smiles indulgently down at my expression. Is he expecting me to tie him up? Holy crap!

“Seven shades of Sunday,” he whispers. “Looking forward to it.”

Whoa!

“Gail!” he shouts abruptly, and four seconds later, Mrs. Jones appears. Where was she? Taylor’s office? Listening? Oh no.

“Mr. Grey?”

“We’d like to eat now, please.”

“Very good, sir.”

Christian doesn’t take his eyes off me. He watches me vigilantly as if I’m some exotic creature about to bolt. I take a sip of my wine.

“I think I’ll join you in a glass,” he says, sighing, and runs a hand through his hair again.

“YOU’RE NOT GOING TO finish?”

“No.” I gaze down at my barely touched plate of fettuccini to avoid Christian’s darkening expression. Before he can say anything, I stand and clear our plates from the dining table.

“Gia will be with us shortly,” I mutter. Christian’s mouth twists in an unhappy scowl, but he says nothing.

“I’ll take those, Mrs. Grey,” says Mrs. Jones as I walk into the kitchen.

“Thank you.”

“You didn’t like it?” she asks, concerned.

“It was fine. I’m just not hungry.”

Giving me a small sympathetic smile, she turns to clear my plate and put everything in the dishwasher.

“I’m going to make a couple of calls,” Christian announces, giving me an assessing look before he disappears into his study.

I let out a sigh of relief and head to our bedroom. Dinner was awkward. I’m still mad at Christian, and he doesn’t seem to think he’s done anything wrong. Has he? My subconscious cocks an eyebrow at me and gazes benignly over her half-moon glasses. Yes, he has. He’s made it even more awkward for me at work. He didn’t wait to discuss this issue with me when we were in the relative privacy of our own home. How would he feel if I came barging into his office, laying down the law? And to cap it all, he wants to give me SIP! How the hell could I run a company? I know next to nothing about business.

I gaze out at the Seattle skyline bathed in the pearly pink light of dusk. And as usual, he wants to solve our differences in the bedroom … um … foyer … playroom … TV room … kitchen countertop … Stop! It always comes back to sex with him. Sex is his coping mechanism.

I wander into the bathroom and scowl at my reflection in the mirror. Coming back to the real world is hard. We managed to skate over all our differences while we were in our bubble because we were so wrapped up in each other. But now? Briefly I am dragged back to my wedding, remembering my concerns that day—marry in haste … No, I mustn’t think like this. I knew he was Fifty Shades when I married him. I just have to hang in there and try to talk this through with him.

I squint at myself in the mirror. I look pale, and now I have that woman to deal with.

I’m wearing my gray pencil skirt and a sleeveless blouse. Right! My inner goddess gets out her harlot-red nail polish. I undo two buttons, exposing a little cleavage. I wash my face, then carefully redo my makeup, applying more mascara than usual and putting extra gloss on my lips. Bending down, I brush my hair vigorously from root to tip. When I stand, my hair is a chestnut haze around me that tumbles to my breasts. I tuck it artfully behind my ears and go in search of my pumps, rather than my flats.

When I reemerge into the great room, Christian has the house plans spread out on the dining table. He has music playing through the sound system. It stops me in my tracks.

“Mrs. Grey,” he says warmly, then looks quizzically at me.

“What’s this?” I ask. The music is stunning.

“Fauré’s Requiem. You look different,” he says, distracted.

“Oh. I’ve not heard it before.”

“It’s very calming, relaxing,” he says and raises an eyebrow. “Have you done something to your hair?”

“Brushed it,” I mutter. I’m transported by the haunting voices. Abandoning the plans on the table, he walks toward me, a slow saunter in time to the music.

“Dance with me?” he murmurs.

“To this? It’s a requiem.” I squeak, shocked.

“Yes.” He pulls me into his arms and holds me, burying his nose in my hair and swaying gently from side to side. He smells his heavenly self.

Oh … I’ve missed him. I wrap my arms around him and fight the urge to cry. Why are you so infuriating?

“I hate fighting with you,” he whispers.

“Well, stop being such an arse.”

He chuckles and the captivating sound reverberates through his chest. He tightens his hold on me. “Arse?”

“Ass.”

“I prefer arse.”

“You should. It suits you.”

He laughs once more and kisses the top of my head.

“A requiem?” I murmur, a little shocked that we are dancing to it.

He shrugs. “It’s just a lovely piece of music, Ana.”

Taylor coughs discreetly at the entranceway, and Christian releases me.

“Miss Matteo is here,” he says.

Oh joy!

“Show her in,” Christian says. He reaches over and clasps my hand as Miss Gia Matteo enters the room.