Polite applause follows; then the babble in the tent starts again. I am seated between Christian and his grandfather. I admire the small white place card with fine silver calligraphy that bears my name as a waiter lights the candelabra with a long taper. Carrick joins us, kissing me on both cheeks, surprising me.

“Good to see you again, Ana,” he murmurs. He really looks very striking in his extraordinary gold mask.

“Ladies and gentlemen: please nominate a table head,” the MC calls out.

“Oooh—me, me!” says Mia immediately, bouncing enthusiastically in her seat.

“In the center of the table you will find an envelope,” the MC continues. “Would everyone find, beg, borrow, or steal a bill of the highest denomination you can manage, write your name on it, and place it inside the envelope? Table heads, please guard these envelopes carefully. We will need them later.”

Crap. I haven’t brought any money with me. How stupid—it’s a charity event!

Fishing out his wallet, Christian produces two $100 bills.

“Here,” he says.

What?

“I’ll pay you back,” I whisper.

His mouth twists, and I know he’s not happy, but he doesn’t comment. I sign my name using his fountain pen—it’s black, with a white flower motif on the cap—and Mia passes the envelope around.

In front of me I find another card inscribed with silver calligraphy—our menu.

Well, that accounts for the number of crystal glasses in every size that crowd my place setting. Our waiter is back, offering wine and water. Behind me, the sides of the tent through which we entered are being closed, while at the front, two servers pull back the canvas, revealing the sunset over Seattle and Meydenbauer Bay.

It’s an absolutely breathtaking view, the twinkling lights of Seattle in the distance and the orange, dusky calm of the bay reflecting the opal sky. Wow. It’s so calm and peaceful.

Ten servers, each holding a plate, come to stand between us. On a silent cue, they serve us our starters in complete synchronization, then vanish again. The salmon looks delicious, and I realize I am famished.

“Hungry?” Christian murmurs so only I can hear. I know he’s not referring to the food, and the muscles deep in my belly respond.

“Very,” I whisper, boldly meeting his gaze, and Christian’s lips part as he inhales.

Ha! See … two can play at this game.

Christian’s grandfather engages me in conversation immediately. He’s a wonderful old man, so proud of his daughter and three grandchildren.

It is weird to think of Christian as a child. The memory of his burn scars come unbidden to my mind, but quickly I quash it. I don’t want to think about that now, though ironically it’s the reason behind this party.

I wish Kate were here, with Elliot. She would fit in so well—the sheer number of forks and knives laid out before her wouldn’t daunt Kate—and she would command the table. I imagine her duking it out with Mia over who should be table head. The thought makes me smile.

The conversation at the table ebbs and flows. Mia is entertaining, as usual, and quite eclipses poor Sean, who mostly stays quiet, like me. Christian’s grandmother is the most vocal. She, too, has a biting sense of humor, usually at the expense of her husband. I begin to feel a little sorry for Mr. Trevelyan.

Christian and Lance talk animatedly about a device Christian’s company is developing inspired by E. F. Schumacher’s Small Is Beautiful principle. It’s hard to keep up. Christian seems intent on empowering impoverished communities all over the world with windup technology—devices that need no electricity or batteries, and minimal maintenance.

Watching him in full flow is astonishing. He’s passionate and committed to improving the lives of the less fortunate. Through his telecommunications company he’s intent on being first to market with a windup mobile phone.

Whoa. I had no idea. I mean, I knew about his passion about feeding the world, but this …

Lance seems unable to comprehend Christian’s plan to give the technology away and not patent it. I wonder vaguely how Christian made all his money if he’s so willing to give it all away.

Throughout dinner a steady stream of men in smartly tailored dinner jackets and dark masks stop by the table, keen to meet Christian, shake his hand, and exchange pleasantries. He introduces me to some but not others. I’m intrigued to know how and why he makes the distinction.

During one such conversation, Mia leans across and smiles.

“Ana, will you help in the auction?”

“Of course,” I respond, only too willing.

By the time dessert is served, night has fallen, and I’m really uncomfortable. I need to get rid of the balls. Before I can excuse myself, the master of ceremonies appears at our table, and with him—if I’m not mistaken—is Miss European Pigtails.

What’s her name? Hansel, Gretel … Gretchen.

She’s masked, of course, but I know it’s her when her gaze doesn’t move beyond Christian. She blushes, and selfishly I’m beyond pleased that Christian doesn’t acknowledge her at all.

The MC asks for our envelope and with a very practiced and eloquent flourish, asks Grace to pull out the winning bill. It’s Sean’s, and the silk-wrapped basket is awarded to him.

I applaud politely, but I’m finding it impossible to concentrate on any more of the proceedings.

“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.

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!”