We eat our supper in silence. The music’s changed. A soft-voiced woman sings in the background, her words echoing my thoughts.

I glance at Fifty. He’s eating and watching me. Hunger, longing, anxiety combined in one hot look.

“Do you know who’s singing?” I try for some normal conversation.

Christian pauses and listens. “No . . . but she’s good, whoever she is.”

“I like her, too.”

Finally he smiles his private enigmatic smile. What’s he planning?

“What?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “Eat up,” he says mildly.

I have eaten half the food on my plate. I cannot eat any more. How can I negotiate this?

“I can’t manage any more. Have I eaten enough for Sir?” He stares at me impassively, not answering, then glances at his watch.

“I am really full,” I add, taking a sip of the delicious wine.

“We have to go shortly. Taylor’s here, and you have to be up for work in the morning.”

“So do you.”

“I function on a lot less sleep than you do, Anastasia. At least you’ve eaten something.”

“Aren’t we going back via Charlie Tango?”

“No, I thought I might have a drink. Taylor will collect us. Besides, this way I have you in the car all to myself for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk?” Oh, that’s his plan.

Christian summons the waiter to ask for the check, then picks up his Blackberry and makes a call.

“We’re at Le Picotin, South West Third Avenue.” He hangs up.

Jeez, he’s curt over the phone.

“You’re very brusque with Taylor, in fact, with most people.”

“I just get to the point quickly, Anastasia.”

“You haven’t gotten to the point this evening. Nothing’s changed, Christian.”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“This started with a proposition.”

“A different proposition.”

The waiter returns, and Christian hands over his credit card without checking the bill.