Fifty Shades Trilogy 02 - Fifty Shades Darker

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 children.  
    It is weird to think of Christian as a child. The memory of his burn scars come unbidden to my mind, but I quickly quash it. I don’t want to think about that now, though ironically, it’s the reason behind this party.  
    I wish Kate was here with Elliot. She would fit in so well—the sheer number of forks and knives laid out before her wouldn’t daunt Kate—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 Schumacher’s principle Small is Beautiful. It’s hard to keep up. Christian seems intent on empowering impoverished communities all over the world with wind-up 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 wind-up 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 round 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