“Gotta go, baby.” Christian kisses me just below my ear.

I open my eyes; it’s morning. I turn to face him, but he’s up and dressed and fresh and delicious, leaning over me.

“What time is it?” Oh no … I don’t want to be late.

“Don’t panic. I have a breakfast meeting.” He rubs his nose against mine.

“You smell good,” I murmur, stretching out beneath him, my limbs pleasurably tight and creaky from all our exploits yesterday. I wrap my arms around his neck.

“Don’t go.”

He cocks his head to one side and raises his eyebrow. “Miss Steele—are you trying to keep a man from an honest day’s work?”

I nod sleepily at him, and he smiles his new shy smile.

“As tempting as you are, I have to go.” He kisses me and stands. He’s wearing a really sharp dark navy suit, white shirt, and navy tie, and he looks every inch the CEO … the hot CEO.

“Laters, baby,” he murmurs and he’s off.

Glancing at the clock, I note it’s already seven—I must have slept through the alarm. Well, time to get up.

IN THE SHOWER, INSPIRATION hits me. I’ve thought of another birthday present for Christian. It’s so difficult to buy something for the man who has everything. I’ve already given him my main present, and I still have the other item I bought at the tourist shop, but this is one present that will really be for me. I hug myself in anticipation as I switch off the shower. I just have to prepare it.

In the walk-in closet, I put on a dark red fitted dress with a square neckline, cut quite low. Yes, this will do for work.

Now for Christian’s present. I start rummaging through his drawers, looking for his ties. In the bottom drawer I find those faded, ripped jeans, the ones he wears in the playroom—the ones he looks so hot in. I stroke them gently, using my whole hand. Oh my, the material is so soft.

Beneath them, I find a large, black, flat cardboard box. It piques my interest immediately. What’s in here? I stare at it, feeling like I’m trespassing again. Taking it out, I shake it. It’s heavy as if it holds papers or manuscripts. I cannot resist, I open the lid—and quickly shut it again. Holy fuck—photographs from the Red Room. The shock makes me sit back on my heels as I try to wipe the image from my brain. Why did I open the box? Why has he kept them?

I shudder. My subconscious scowls at me—this is before you. Forget them.

She’s right. When I stand up I notice his ties are hanging at the end of his clothes rail. I find my favorite and exit quickly.

Those photos are BA—Before Ana. My subconscious nods with approval, but it’s with a heavier heart that I head into the main room for breakfast. Mrs. Jones smiles at me warmly and then frowns.

“Everything all right, Ana?” she asks kindly.

“Yes,” I murmur, distracted. “Do you have a key to the … um, playroom?”

She pauses momentarily, surprised.

“Yes, of course.” She unclips a small bunch of keys from her belt. “What would you like for breakfast, dear?” she asks as she hands me the keys.

“Just granola. I won’t be long.”

I feel more ambivalent about this gift now, but only since the discovery of those photographs. Nothing’s changed! my subconscious barks at me again, glaring at me over her half-moon winged glasses. That one picture you saw was hot, my inner goddess chips in, and mentally I scowl at her. Yes it was—too hot for me.

What else does he have hidden away? Quickly I ferret through the museum chest, take what I need, and lock the playroom door behind me. Wouldn’t do for José to discover this!

I hand the keys back to Mrs. Jones and sit down to devour my breakfast, feeling odd that Christian is absent. The photographic image dances, unwelcome, around my mind. I wonder who it was. Leila, perhaps?

ON MY DRIVE IN to work, I debate whether or not to tell Christian I found his photographs. No, screams my subconscious, her Edvard Munch face on. I decide she’s probably right.

AS I SIT DOWN at my desk, my BlackBerry buzzes.

His e-mail makes me smile, and all my earlier reservations evaporate. It’s me he wants now, and memories of last night’s sex-capades flood my mind … the elevator, the foyer, the bed. Priapic is right. I wonder idly what the female equivalent might be?

How does he know?

I stare at the small screen of my BlackBerry. The vehemence implicit in his e-mail takes me by surprise. Why does he feel like this? It’s not like I’m hiding erotic photographs of my exes.

He doesn’t reply immediately, and I’m called into a meeting so I can’t dwell on it for too long.

WHEN I NEXT GLANCE at my BlackBerry, to my horror I realize it’s four in the afternoon. Where has the day gone? Still no message from Christian. I decide to e-mail him again.

He doesn’t reply, and I feel a frisson of unease. I hope he’s okay. Calling his cell phone, I get his voice mail. The announcement simply says “Grey, leave a message” in his most clipped tone.

“Hi … um … it’s me. Ana. Are you okay? Call me,” I stutter through my message. I’ve never had to leave one for him before. I flush as I hang up. Of course he’ll know it’s you, idiot! My subconscious rolls her eyes at me. I am tempted to ring his PA, Andrea, but decide that’s a step too far. Reluctantly I continue my work.

MY PHONE RINGS UNEXPECTEDLY and my heart jumps. Christian! But no—it’s Kate, my best friend, finally!

“Ana!” she shouts from wherever she is.

“Kate! Are you back? I’ve missed you.”

“Me, too. I have so much to tell you. We’re at Sea-Tac—me and my man.” She giggles in a most un-Kate-like way.

“Cool. I have so much to tell you, too.”

“See you back at the apartment?”

“I’m having drinks with José. Join us.”

“José’s in town? Sure! Text me where.”

“Okay.” I beam.

“You good, Ana?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Still with Christian?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Laters!”

Oh, not her, too. Elliot’s influence knows no bounds.

“Yeah—laters, baby.” I grin and she hangs up.

Wow. Kate is home. How am I going to tell her all that has happened? I should write it down so I don’t forget anything.

AN HOUR LATER MY office phone rings—Christian? No, it’s Claire.

“You should see the guy asking for you in Reception. How come you know all these hot guys, Ana?”

José must be here. I glance at the clock—it’s five fifty-five, and a small thrill of excitement pulses through me. I haven’t seen him in ages.

“Ana, wow! You look great. So grown-up.” He grins at me.

Just because I’m wearing a smart dress … jeez!

He hugs me hard. “And tall,” he mutters in amazement.

“It’s just the shoes, José. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He’s wearing jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black-and-white-checked flannel shirt.

“I’ll grab my things and we can go.”

“Cool. I’ll wait here.”

I PICK UP TWO Rolling Rocks from the crowded bar and head over to the table where José is seated.

“You found Christian’s place okay?”

“Yeah. I haven’t been inside. I just delivered the photos to the service elevator. Some guy named Taylor took them up. Looks like quite a place.”

“It is. You should see inside.”

“Can’t wait. Salud, Ana. Seattle agrees with you.”

I flush as we clink bottles. It’s Christian that agrees with me. “Salud. Tell me about your show and how it went.”

He beams and launches into the story. He sold all but three of his photos, which has taken care of his student loans and left him with some money to spare.

“And I’ve been commissioned to do some landscapes for the Portland Tourist Board. Pretty cool, huh?” he finishes proudly.

“Oh, José—that’s wonderful. Not interfering with your studies though?” I frown at him.

“Nah. Now that you guys have gone, plus three of the guys I used to hang out with, I have more time.”

“No hot babe to keep you busy? Last time I saw you, you had half a dozen women hanging on your every word.” I arch an eyebrow at him.

“Nah, Ana. None of them are woman enough for me.” He’s all bravado.

“Oh sure. José Rodriguez, lady-killer.” I giggle.

“Hey—I have my moments, Steele.” He looks vaguely hurt, and I am chastened.

“Sure you do.” I mollify him.

“So, how’s Grey?” he asks, his tone changing, becoming cooler.

“He’s good. We’re good,” I murmur.

“Serious, you say?”

“Yes. Serious.”

“He’s not too old for you?”

“Oh, José. You know what my mom says—I was born old.”

José’s mouth twists wryly.

“How is your mom?” And like that, we are out of the danger zone.

“Ana!”

I turn and there’s Kate with Ethan. She looks gorgeous: bleached strawberry-blonde hair, golden tan, and beaming white smile, and so shapely in her white camisole and tight white jeans. All eyes are on Kate. I leap up from my seat to give her a hug. Oh, how I’ve missed this woman!

She pushes me away from her and holds me at arm’s length, examining me closely. I flush under her intense gaze.

“You’ve lost weight. A lot of weight. And you look different. Grown-up. What’s been going on?” she says, all mother hen. “I like your dress. Suits you.”

“A lot’s happened since you went away. I’ll tell you later, when we’re on our own.” I am not ready for the Katherine Kavanagh Inquisition just yet. She regards me suspiciously.

“You’re okay?” she asks gently.

“Yes.” I smile, though I’d be happier knowing where Christian is.

“Cool.”

“Hi, Ethan.” I grin at him, and he gives me a quick hug.

“Hi, Ana,” he whispers in my ear.

José frowns at him.

“How was lunch with Mia?” I ask Ethan.

“Interesting,” he says cryptically.

Oh?

“Ethan—you know José?”

“We’ve met once,” José mutters, assessing Ethan as they shake hands.

“Yeah, at Kate’s place in Vancouver,” Ethan says, smiling pleasantly at José. “Right—who’s for a drink?”

I MAKE MY WAY to the restrooms. While there I text Christian our location; perhaps he’ll join us. There are no missed calls from him and no e-mails. This is not like him.

“Whassup, Ana?” José asks as I come back to the table.

“I can’t reach Christian. I hope he’s okay.”

“He’ll be fine. Like another beer?”

“Sure.”

Kate leans across. “Ethan says some mad stalker ex-girlfriend was in the apartment with a gun?”

“Well … yeah.” I shrug apologetically. Oh jeez—do we have to do this now?

“Ana—what the hell’s been going on?” Kate stops abruptly and checks her phone.

“Hi, baby,” she says when she answers it. Baby! She frowns and looks at me. “Sure,” she says and turns to me. “It’s Elliot … he wants to talk to you.”

“Ana.” Elliot’s voice is clipped and quiet, and my scalp prickles ominously.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Christian. He’s not back from Portland.”

“What? What do you mean?”

“His helicopter has gone missing.”

“Charlie Tango?” I whisper as all the breath leaves my body. “No!”