"He sleeps." Christian quirks an eyebrow at me, puzzled. "He's just doing his job, Anastasia, which he's very good at. Jason is a real find."
"Jason?"
"Jason Taylor."
I remember when I thought Taylor was his first name. Jason. It suits him - solid, reliable. For some reason it makes me smile.
"You're fond of Taylor," Christian says, eyeing me with speculation.
"I suppose I am." His question derails me. He frowns. "I'm not attracted to him, if that's why you're frowning. Stop."
Christian is almost pouting - sulky.
Jeez, he's such a child sometimes. "I think Taylor looks after you very well. That's why I like him. He seems kind, reliable and loyal. He has an avuncular appeal to me."
"Avuncular?"
"Yes."
"Okay, avuncular." Christian is testing the word and meaning. I laugh.
"Oh, Christian, grow up, for heaven's sake."
His mouth drops open, surprised by my outburst, but then he frowns as if considering my statement. "I'm trying," he says eventually.
"That you are. Very." I answer softly but then roll my eyes at him.
"What memories you evoke when you roll your eyes at me, Anastasia." He grins.
I smirk at him. "Well, if you behave yourself, maybe we can relive some of those memories."
His mouth twists with humor. "Behave myself?" He raises his eyebrows. "Really, Miss Steele - what makes you think I want to relive them?"
"Probably the way your eyes lit up like Christmas when I said that."
"You know me so well already," he says dryly.
"I'd like to know you better."
He smiles softly. "And I you, Anastasia."
"Thanks, Mac." Christian shakes McConnell's hand and steps on the dock.
"Always a pleasure, Mr. Grey, and good-bye. Ana, great to meet you."
I shake his hand shyly. He must know what Christian and I were up to on the boat while he went ashore.
"Good day, Mac, and thank you."
He grins at me and winks, making me flush. Christian takes my hand, and we walk up the dock to the marina's promenade.
"Where's Mac from?" I ask, curious about his accent.
"Ireland... Northern Ireland," Christian corrects himself.
"Is he your friend?"
"Mac? He works for me. Helped build The Grace."
"Do you have many friends?"
He frowns. "Not really. Doing what I do... I don't cultivate friendships. There's only - " He stops, his frown deepening, and I know he was going to mention Mrs. Robinson."Hungry?" he asks, trying to change the subject.
I nod. Actually, I'm famished.
"We'll eat where I left the car. Come."
Next to SP's is a small Italian bistro called Bee's. It reminds me of the place in Portland - a few tables and booths, the decor very crisp and modern with a large black and white photograph of a turn-of-the-century fiesta serving as a mural.
Christian and I are seated in a booth, poring over the menu and sipping a delicious light Frascati. When I glance up from the menu, having made my choice, Christian is gazing at me speculatively.
"What?" I ask.
"You look lovely, Anastasia. The outdoors agrees with you."
I flush. "I feel rather wind-burned to tell the truth. But I had a lovely afternoon. A perfect afternoon. Thank you."
He smiles, his eyes warm. "My pleasure," he murmurs.
"Can I ask you something?" I decide on a fact-finding mission.
"Anything, Anastasia. You know that." He cocks his head to one side, looking delicious.
"You don't seem to have many friends. Why is that?"
He shrugs and frowns. "I told you, I don't really have time. I have business associ-ates - though that's very different from friendships, I suppose. I have my family and that's it. Apart from Elena."
I ignore the mention of the bitch-troll. "No male friends your own age that you can go out with and let off steam?"
"You know how I like to let off steam, Anastasia." Christian's mouth twists. "And I've been working, building up the business." He looks puzzled. "That's all I do - except sail and fly occasionally."
"Not even in college?"
"Not really."
"Just Elena, then?"
He nods, his expression wary.
"Must be lonely."
His lips curl in a small wistful smile. "What would you like to eat?" he asks, changing the subject again.
"I'm going for the risotto."
"Good choice." Christian summons the waiter, putting an end to that conversation.
After we've placed our order, I shift uncomfortably in my seat, staring at my knotted fingers. If he's in a talking mood, I need to take advantage.
I have to talk to him about his expectations, about his, um... needs.
"Anastasia, what's wrong? Tell me."
I glance up into his concerned face.
"Tell me," he says more forcefully, and his concern evolves into what? Fear? Anger?
I take a deep breath. "I'm just worried that this isn't enough for you. You know, to let off steam."
His jaw tenses and his eyes harden. "Have I given you any indication that this isn't enough?"
"No."
"Then why do you think that?"
"I know what you're like. What you... um... need," I stutter.
He closes his eyes and rubs his forehead with long fingers.
"What do I have to do?" His voice is ominously soft as if he's angry, and my heart sinks.
"No, you misunderstand - you have been amazing, and I know it's just been a few days, but I hope I'm not forcing you to be someone you're not."