Two sleek white hulls, a deck, a roomy cabin, and
towering over them a very tall mast. I know nothing about
boats, but I can tell this one is special.
“Wow . . . ,” I murmur in wonder.
“Built by my company,” he says proudly and my heart
swells. “She’s been designed from the ground up by the
very best na一val architects in the world and constructed
here in Seattle at my yard. She has hybrid electric drives,
asymmetric dagger boards, a square-topped mainsail—”
“Okay . . . you’ve lost me, Christian.”
He grins. “She’s a great boat.”
“She looks mighty fine, Mr. Grey.”
“That she does, Miss Steele.”
“What’s her name?”
He pulls me to the side so I can see her name: The
Grace. I’m surprised. “You named her after your mom?”
“Yes.” He cocks his head to one side, quizzical. “Why
do you find that strange?”
I shrug. I am surprised—he always seems ambivalent
in her presence.
“I adore my mom, Anastasia. Why wouldn’t I name a
boat after her?”
I flush. “No, it’s not that . . . it’s just . . .” Shit, how
can I put this into words?
“Anastasia, Grace Trevelyan sa一ved my life. I owe her
everything.”
I gaze at him, and let the reverence in his softly spoken
admission wash over me. It’s obvious to me, for the first
time, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strained
time, that he loves his mom. Why then his strange strained
ambivalence toward her?
“Do you want to come aboard?” he asks, his eyes
bright, excited.
“Yes, please.” I smile.
He looks delighted and delightful in one yummy
scrumptious package. Grasping my hand, he strides up the
small gangplank and leads me aboard so that we are
standing on deck beneath a rigid canopy.
To one side there’s a table and a U-shaped banquette
covered in pale blue leather, which must seat at least eight
people. I glance through the sliding doors to the interior of
the cabin and jump, startled when I spy someone there.
The tall blond man opens the sliding doors and emerges—
all tanned, curly-haired and brown-eyed—wearing a faded
pink short-sleeved p
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