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“Fair point well made, Mr. Grey.” I grasp the handlebars of the Jet Ski and clamber on. Christian climbs on behind me and kicks us away from the yacht.

Taylor and two of the deckhands look on in amusement. Sliding forward, Christian wraps his arms around me and snuggles his thighs against mine. Yes, this is what I like about this form of transport. I insert in the ignition key and push the start button, and the engine roars into life.

“Ready?” I shout to Christian over the noise.

“As I’ll ever be,” he says, his mouth close to my ear.

Gently, I pull on the lever and the Jet Ski moves away from the Fair Lady, far too sedately for my liking. Christian tightens his embrace. I pull on the gas some more, and we shoot forward and I’m delighted when we don’t stall.

“Whoa!” Christian calls from behind, but the exhilaration in his voice is palpable. I speed past the Fair Lady toward the open sea. We’re anchored outside the Port de Plaisance de Saint-Claude-du-Var, and Nice Côte d’Azur Airport is nestled in the distance, built into the Mediterranean, or so it seems. I’ve heard the odd plane landing since we arrived last night. I decide we need to take a closer look.

We shoot toward it, skipping rapidly over the waves. I love this, and I’m thrilled Christian’s letting me drive. All the worry I’ve felt over the past two days melts away as we skim toward the airport.

“Next time we do this we’ll have two Jet Skis,” Christian shouts. I grin because the thought of racing him is thrilling.

As we zoom over the cool blue sea toward what looks like the end of the runway, the thundering roar of a jet overhead suddenly startles me as it comes in to

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land. It’s so loud I panic, swerving and hitting the throttle at the same time, mistaking it for a brake.

“Ana!” Christian shouts, but it’s too late. I’m catapulted off the side of the Jet Ski, arms and legs flailing, taking Christian with me in a spectacular splash.

Screaming, I plunge into the crystal blue sea and swallow a nasty mouthful of the Mediterranean. The water is cold this far from the shore, but I surface within a split second, courtesy of my life jacket. Coughing and spluttering, I wipe the sea-water from my eyes and look around for Christian. He’s already swimming toward me. The Jet Ski floats inoffensively a few feet away from us, its engine silent.

“You okay?” His eyes are full of panic, as he reaches me.

“Yes,” I croak, but I cannot contain my elation. See, Christian? That’s the worst that can happen on a Jet Ski! He pulls me into his embrace, then grabs my head between his hands, examining my face closely.

“See, that wasn’t so bad!” I grin as we tread water.

Eventually he smirks at me, obviously relieved. “No, I guess it wasn’t. Except I’m wet,” he grumbles, but his tone is playful.

“I’m wet, too.”

“I like you wet.” He leers.

“Christian!” I scold, trying for faux righteous indignation. He grins, looking gorgeous, then leans in and kisses me hard. When he pulls away, I’m breathless.

His eyes are darker, hooded and heated, and I’m warm in spite of the cold water.

“Come. Let’s head back. Now we have to shower. I’ll drive.”

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We laze in the British Airways first class lounge at Heathrow in London, waiting for our connecting flight to Seattle. Christian is engrossed in the Financial Times.

I pull out his camera, wanting to take some photographs of him. He looks so sexy in his trademark white linen shirt and jeans, and his aviator specs tucked into the V of his open shirt. The flash disturbs him. He blinks up at me and smiles his shy smile.

“How are you, Mrs. Grey?” he asks.

“Sad to be going home,” I murmur. “I like having you to myself.” He clasps my hand and lifting it to his lips, grazes my knuckles with a sweet kiss. “Me too.”

“But?” I ask, hearing that small word unsaid at the end of his simple statement.

He frowns. “But?” he repeats disingenuously. I tilt my head to one side, gazing at him with the tell me expression I have been perfecting over the last couple of days. He sighs, putting his newspaper down. “I want this arsonist caught and out of our lives.”

“Oh.” That seems fair enough, but I’m surprised by his bluntness.

“I’ll have Welch’s balls on a platter if he lets anything like that happen again.” A shiver runs down my spine at his menacing tone. He gazes at me impassively, and I don’t know if he’s daring me to be flippant or what. I do the only thing I can think of to ease the sudden tension between us and raise the camera and snap another photograph.

“Hey, sleepyhead, we’re home,” Christian murmurs.

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