Текст книги "Fifty Shades Freed"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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Текущая страница: 31 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

Orn-a-ments. Orn-a-ments. My head says the word. Orn-a-ments.

“And these—” she stops and pulls out a string with little flowers on them. “These are the lights. Lights first, and then we can trim the tree.” She reaches down

and puts her fingers in my hair. I go very still. But I like her fingers in my hair. I like to be near New Mommy. She smells good. Clean. And she only touches my

hair.

“Mom!”

He’s calling. Lelliot. He’s big and loud. Very loud. He talks. All the time. I don’t talk at all. I have no words. I have words in my head.

“Elliot, darling, we’re in the sitting room.”

He runs in. He has been to school. He has a picture. A picture he has drawn for my new mommy. She is Lelliot’s mommy, too. She kneels down and hugs him

and looks at the picture. It is a house with a mommy and a daddy and a Lelliot and a Christian. Christian is very small in Lelliot’s picture. Lelliot is big. He has a big

smile and Christian has a sad face.

Daddy is here, too. He walks toward Mommy. I hold my blankie tight. He kisses New Mommy and New Mommy isn’t frightened. She smiles. She kisses him

back. I squeeze my blankie.

“Hello, Christian.” Daddy has a deep soft voice. I like his voice. He is never loud. He does not shout. He does not shout like . . . He reads books to me when I go

to bed. He reads about a cat and a hat and green eggs and ham. I have never seen green eggs. Daddy bends down so he is small.

“What did you do today?”

I show him the tree.

“You bought a tree? A Christmas tree?”

I say yes with my head.

“It’s a beautiful tree. You and Mommy chose very well. It’s an important job choosing the right tree.”

He pats my hair, too, and I go very still and hold my blankie tightly. Daddy doesn’t hurt me.

“Daddy, look at my picture.” Lelliot is mad when Daddy talks to me. Lelliot is mad at me. I smack Lelliot when he is mad at me. New Mommy is mad at me if I

do. Lelliot does not smack me. Lelliot is scared of me.

The lights on the tree are pretty.

“Here, let me show you. The hook goes through the little eye, and then you can hang it on the tree.” Mommy puts the red orn-a . . . orn-a-ment on the tree.

“You try with this little bell.”

The little bell rings. I shake it. The sound is a happy sound. I shake it again. Mommy smiles. A big smile. A special smile for me.

“You like the bell, Christian?”

I say yes with my head and shake the bell once more, and it tinkles happily.

“You have a lovely smile, darling boy.” Mommy blinks and wipes her hand on her eyes. She strokes my hair. “I love to see your smile.” Her hand moves to my

shoulder. No. I step back and squeeze my blankie. Mommy looks sad and then happy. She strokes my hair.

“Shall we put the bell on the tree?”

My head says yes.

“Christian, you must tell me when you’re hungry. You can do that. You can take Mommy’s hand and lead Mommy to the kitchen and point.” She points her long

finger at me. Her nail is shiny and pink. It is pretty. But I don’t know if my new mommy is mad or not. I have finished all my dinner. Macaroni and cheese. It tastes

good.

“I don’t want you to be hungry, darling. Okay? Now would you like some ice cream?”

My head says yes! Mommy smiles at me. I like her smiles. They are better than macaroni and cheese.

The tree is pretty. I stand and look at it and hug my blankie. The lights twinkle and are all different colors, and the orn-a-ments are all different colors. I like the blue

ones. And on the top of the tree is a big star. Daddy held Lelliot up, and Lelliot put the star on the tree. Lelliot likes putting the star on the tree. I want to put the star

on the tree . . . but I don’t want Daddy to hold me up high. I don’t want him to hold me. The star is sparkly and bright.

Beside the tree is the piano. My new mommy lets me touch the black and the white on the piano. Black and white. I like the white sounds. The black sound is

wrong. But I like the black sound, too. I go white to black. White to black. Black to white. White, white, white, white. Black, black, black, black. I like the sound. I

like the sound a lot.

“Do you want me to play for you, Christian?”

My new mommy sits down. She touches the white and the black, and the songs come. She presses the pedals underneath. Sometimes it’s loud and sometimes it’s

quiet. The song is happy. Lelliot likes Mommy to sing, too. Mommy sings about an ugly duckling. Mommy makes a funny quacking noise. Lelliot makes the funny

quacking noise, and he makes his arms like wings and flaps them up and down like a bird. Lelliot is funny.

Mommy laughs. Lelliot laughs. I laugh.

Mommy laughs. Lelliot laughs. I laugh.

“You like this song, Christian?” And Mommy has her sad-happy face.

I have a stock-ing. It is red and it has a picture of a man with a red hat and a big white beard. He is Santa. Santa brings presents. I have seen pictures of Santa. But

Santa never brought me presents before. I was bad. Santa doesn’t bring presents to boys who are bad. Now I am good. My new mommy says I am good, very

good. New Mommy doesn’t know. I must never tell New Mommy . . . but I am bad. I don’t want New Mommy to know that.

Daddy hangs the stock-ing over the fireplace. Lelliot has a stocking, too. Lelliot can read the word on his stock-ing. It says Lelliot. There is a word on my stock-ing.

Christian. New Mommy spells it out. C-H-R-I-S-T-I-A-N.

Daddy sits on my bed. He reads to me. I hold my blankie. I have a big room. Sometimes the room is dark and I have bad dreams. Bad dreams about before. My

new mommy comes to bed with me when I have the bad dreams. She lies down and she sings soft songs and I go to sleep. She smells of soft and new and lovely.

My new mommy is not cold. Not like . . . not like . . . And my bad dreams go when she is there asleep with me.

Santa has been here. Santa does not know I have been bad. I am glad Santa does not know. I have a train and a plane and a helicopter and a car and a helicopter.

My helicopter can fly. My helicopter is blue. It flies around the Christmas tree. It flies over the piano and lands in the middle of the white. It flies over Mommy and

flies over Daddy and flies over Lelliot as he plays with the Lego. The helicopter flies through the house, through the dining room, through the kitchen. He flies past

the door to Daddy’s study and upstairs in my bedroom, in Lelliot’s bedroom, Mommy and Daddy’s bedroom. He flies through the house, because it’s my house.

My house where I live.

Monday, May 9, 2011

“Tomorrow,” I mutter, dismissing Claude Bastille as he stands on the threshold of my office.

“Golf, this week, Grey.” Bastille grins with easy arrogance, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured.

I scowl after him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my wounds because despite my heroic attempts in the gym this morning, my personal

trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of flesh on the golf course. I detest golf, but so much business

is done on the fairways I have to endure his lessons there too . . . and though I hate to admit it, Bastille does go some way to improving my game.

As I stare out at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps into my consciousness. My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending together

with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. I’ve worked all weekend and now, in the continued confines of my office, I’m restless. I shouldn’t feel this

way, not after several bouts with Bastille. But I do.

I frown. The sobering truth is that the only thing to capture my interest recently has been my decision to send two freighters of cargo to Sudan. This reminds me

–Ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics. What the hell is keeping her? Intent on finding out what she’s playing at, I glance at my schedule and reach for the phone.

Oh, Christ! I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kavanagh for the WSU student magazine. Why the fuck did I agree to this? I loathe interviews

–inane questions from inane, ill-informed, vacuous idiots. The phone buzzes.

“Yes,” I snap at Andrea as if she’s to blame. At least I can keep this interview short.

“Miss Anastasia Steele is here to see you, Mr. Grey.”

“Steele? I was expecting Katherine Kavanagh.”

“It’s Miss Anastasia Steele who’s here, sir.”

I scowl. I hate the unexpected. “Show her in,” I mutter, aware that I sound like a sulky teen but not giving a fuck.

Well, well . . . Miss Kavanagh is unavailable. I know her father, the owner of Kavanagh Media. We’ve done business together, and he seems like a shrewd

operator and a rational human being. This interview is a favor to him—one that I mean to cash in later when it suits me. And I have to admit I was vaguely curious

about his daughter, interested to see if the apple had fallen far from the tree.

A commotion at the door brings me to my feet as a whirl of long chestnut hair, pale limbs, and brown boots dives head first into my office. I roll my eyes and

repress my natural annoyance at such clumsiness as I hurry over to the girl who has landed on her hands and knees on the floor. Clasping her slim shoulders, I help

her to her feet.

Clear, bright-blue, embarrassed eyes meet mine and halt me in my tracks. They are the most extraordinary color—guileless, powder-blue—and for one awful

moment, I think she can see right through me. I feel . . . exposed. The thought is unnerving. She has a small, sweet face that is blushing now, an innocent pale rose.

I wonder briefly if all her skin is like that—flawless—and what it would look like pink and warmed from the bite of a cane. Fuck. I stop my wayward thoughts,

alarmed at their direction. What the fuck are you thinking, Grey. This girl is much too young. She gapes at me, and I almost roll my eyes again. Yeah, yeah, baby,

it’s just a face, and the beauty is only skin-deep. I want to dispel that unguarded, admiring look from those big blue eyes.

Showtime, Grey. Let’s have some fun. “Miss Kavanagh? I’m Christian Grey. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?”

There’s that blush again. In command once more, I study her. She’s quite attractive, in a gauche way—slight, pale, with a mane of mahogany hair barely

contained by a hair tie. A brunette. Yeah, she’s attractive. I extend my hand, and she stutters the beginning of a mortified apology and places her small hand in

contained by a hair tie. A brunette. Yeah, she’s attractive. I extend my hand, and she stutters the beginning of a mortified apology and places her small hand in

mine. Her skin is cool and soft, but her handshake surprisingly firm.

“Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr. Grey.” Her voice is quiet with a hesitant musicality, and she blinks erratically, long

lashes fluttering over those big blue eyes.

Unable to keep the amusement from my voice as I recall her less-than-elegant entrance into my office, I ask who she is.

“Anastasia Steele. I’m studying English Literature with Kate, um . . . Katherine . . . um . . . Miss Kavanagh at Washington State.”

A nervous, bashful, bookish type, eh? She looks it; hideously dressed, hiding her slight frame beneath a shapeless sweater and an A-line brown skirt. Christ, does

she have no dress sense at all? She looks nervously around my office—everywhere but at me, I note with amused irony.

How can this young woman be a journalist? She doesn’t have an assertive bone in her body. She’s all charmingly flustered, meek, mild . . . submissive. I shake

my head, bemused at where my inappropriate thoughts are going. Muttering some platitude, I ask her to sit, then notice her discerning gaze appraising my office

paintings. Before I can stop myself, I find I’m explaining them. “A local artist. Trouton.”

“They’re lovely. Raising the ordinary to extraordinary,” she says dreamily, lost in the exquisite, fine artistry of my paintings. Her profile is delicate—an upturned

nose, soft, full lips—and in her words she has mirrored my sentiments exactly. “The ordinary raised to extraordinary.” It’s a keen observation. Miss Steele is

bright.

I mutter my agreement and watch that flush creep slowly over her skin once more. As I sit down opposite her, I try to bridle my thoughts.

She fishes a crumpled sheet of paper and a mini-disc recorder out of her overly large bag. Mini-disc recorder? Didn’t those go out with VHS tapes? Christ—she’s

all thumbs, dropping the damned thing twice on my Bauhaus coffee table. She’s obviously never done this before, but for some reason I can’t fathom, I find it

amusing. Normally this kind of fumbling maladroitness irritates the fuck out of me, but now I hide my smile beneath my index finger and resist the urge to set it up

for her myself.

As she grows more and more flustered, it occurs to me that I could refine her motor skills with the aid of a riding crop. Adeptly used it can bring even the most

skittish to heel. The errant thought makes me shift in my chair. She peeks up at me and bites down on her full bottom lip. Fuck me! How did I not notice that mouth

before?

“Sorry, I’m not used to this.”

I can tell, baby—my thought is ironic—but right now I don’t give a fuck, because I can’t take my eyes off your mouth.

“Take all the time you need, Miss Steele.” I need yet another moment to marshal my wayward thoughts. Grey . . . stop this, now.

“Do you mind if I record your answers?” she asks, her face candid and expectant.

I want to laugh. Oh, thank Christ.

“After you’ve taken so much trouble to set up the recorder, you ask me now?” She blinks, her eyes large and lost for a moment, and I feel an unfamiliar twinge of

guilt. Stop being such a shit, Grey.

“No, I don’t mind,” I mutter, not wanting to be responsible for that look.

“Did Kate—I mean Miss Kavanagh—explain what the interview was for?”

“Yes, to appear in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this year’s graduation ceremony.” Why the fuck I’ve

agreed to do that, I don’t know. Sam in PR tells me it’s an honor, and the environmental science department in Vancouver needs the publicity in order to attract

additional funding to match the grant I’ve given them.

Miss Steele blinks, all big blue eyes once more, as if my words are a surprise and fuck—she looks disapproving! Hasn’t she done any background work for this

interview? She should know this. The thought cools my blood. It’s . . . displeasing, not what I expect from her or anyone I give my time to.

“Good. I have some questions, Mr. Grey.” She tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, distracting me from my annoyance.

“I thought you might,” I mutter dryly. Let’s make her squirm. Obligingly she squirms, then pulls herself together, sitting up straight and squaring her small shoulders. Leaning forward she presses the start button on the mini-disc, and frowns as she glances down at her crumpled notes.

“You’re very young to have amassed such an empire. To what do you owe your success?”

Oh Christ! Surely she can do better than this? What a fucking dull question. Not one iota of originality. It’s disappointing. I trot out my usual response about

having exceptional people in the U.S. working for me. People I trust, insofar as I trust anyone, and pay well—blah, blah, blah . . . But Miss Steele, the simple fact

is, I’m a fucking genius at what I do. For me it’s like falling off a log. Buying ailing, mismanaged companies and fixing them, or if they’re really broken, stripping

their assets and selling them off to the highest bidder. It’s simply a question of knowing the difference between the two, and invariably it comes down to the people

in charge. To succeed in business you need good people, and I can judge a person, better than most.

“Maybe you’re just lucky,” she says quietly.

Lucky? A frisson of annoyance runs through me. Lucky? No fucking luck involved here, Miss Steele. She looks unassuming and quiet, but this question? No one

has ever asked me if I was lucky. Hard work, bringing people with me, keeping a close watch on them, second-guessing them if I need to; and if they aren’t up to

the task, ruthlessly ditching them. That’s what I do, and I do it well. It’s nothing to do with luck! Well, fuck that. Flaunting my erudition, I quote the words of my

favorite American industrialist to her.

“You sound like a control freak,” she says, and she’s perfectly serious.

What the fuck?

Maybe those guileless eyes can see though me. Control is my middle name.

I glare at her. “Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele.” And I’d like to exercise it over you, right here, right now.

Her eyes widen. That attractive blush steals across her face once more, and she bites that lip again. I ramble on, trying to distract myself from her mouth.

“Besides, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself, in your secret reveries, that you were born to control things.”

“Do you feel that you have immense power?” she asks in a soft soothing voice, but she arches her delicate brow, revealing the censure in her eyes. My

annoyance grows. Is she deliberately trying to goad me? Is it her questions, her attitude, or the fact that I find her attractive that’s pissing me off?

“I employ over forty thousand people, Miss Steele. That gives me a certain sense of responsibility—power, if you will. If I were to decide I was no longer

interested in the telecommunications business and sell up, twenty thousand people would struggle to make their mortgage payments after a month or so.”

Her mouth pops open at my response. That’s more like it. Suck it up, Miss Steele. I feel my equilibrium returning.

“Don’t you have a board to answer to?”

“I own my company. I don’t answer to a board,” I respond sharply. She should know this. I raise a questioning brow.

“And do you have any interests outside of your work?” she continues hastily, correctly gauging my reaction. She knows I’m pissed, and for some inexplicable

reason this pleases me enormously.

“I have varied interests, Miss Steele. Very varied.” I smile. Images of her in assorted positions in my playroom flash through my mind: shackled on the cross,

spread-eagle on the four-poster, splayed over the whipping bench. Fucking hell! Where is this coming from? And behold—there’s that blush again. It’s like a

defense mechanism. Calm down, Grey.

“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”

“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”

“Chill out?” I grin, those words out of her smart mouth sound odd. Besides when do I get time to chill out? Has she no idea of the number of companies I

control? But she looks at me with those ingenuous blue eyes, and to my surprise I find myself considering her question. What do I do to chill out? Sailing, flying,

fucking . . . testing the limits of little brown-haired girls like her, and bringing them to heel . . . The thought makes me shift in my seat, but I answer her smoothly,

omitting my two favorite hobbies.

“You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?”

Her question drags me rudely back to the present.

“I like to build things. I like to know how things work, what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?”

They distribute food around the planet—taking goods from the haves to the have-nots and back again. What’s not to like?

“That sounds like your heart talking, rather than logic and facts.”

Heart? Me? Oh no, baby. My heart was savaged beyond recognition a long time ago. “Possibly, though there are people who’d say I don’t have a heart.”

“Why would they say that?”

“Because they know me well.” I give her a wry smile. In fact no one knows me that well, except maybe Elena. I wonder what she would make of little Miss

Steele here. The girl is a mass of contradictions: shy, uneasy, obviously bright, and arousing as hell. Yes, okay, I admit it. She’s an alluring little piece.

She recites the next question by rote.

“Would your friends say you’re easy to get to know?”

“I’m a very private person, Miss Steele. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don’t often give interviews.” Doing what I do, living the life I’ve chosen, I need

my privacy.

“Why did you agree to do this one?”

“Because I’m a benefactor of the university, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn’t get Miss Kavanagh off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR

people, and I admire that kind of tenacity.” But I’m glad it’s you who turned up and not her.

“You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?”

“We can’t eat money, Miss Steele, and there are too many people on this planet who don’t have enough to eat.” I stare at her, poker-faced.

“That sounds very philanthropic. Is that something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?” She regards me with a quizzical expression as if I’m

some kind of conundrum for her to solve, but there is no way I want those big blue eyes seeing into my dark soul. This is not an area open to discussion. Ever.

“It’s shrewd business.” I shrug, feigning boredom, and I imagine fucking her smart mouth to distract myself from all thoughts of hunger. Yes, that mouth needs

training. Now that thought is appealing, and I let myself imagine her on her knees before me.

“Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?” she recites by rote again.

“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle, Carnegie’s ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take

possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I’m very singular, driven. I like control . . . of myself and those around me.”

“So you want to possess things?” Her eyes widen.

Yes, baby. You, for one.

“I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do.”

“You sound like the ultimate consumer.” Her voice is tinged with disapproval, pissing me off again. She sounds like a rich kid who’s had all she ever wanted, but

as I take a closer look at her clothes—she’s dressed in Walmart, or Old Navy possibly—I know that isn’t it. She hasn’t grown up in an affluent household.

I could really take care of you.

Shit, where the fuck did that come from? Although, now that I consider it, I do need a new sub. It’s been, what—two months since Susannah? And here I am,

salivating over this brown-haired girl. I try a smile and agree with her. Nothing wrong with consumption—after all, it drives what’s left of the American economy.

“You were adopted. How far do you think that’s shaped the way you are?”

What the fuck does this have to do with the price of oil? I scowl at her. What a ridiculous question. If I’d stayed with the crack whore, I’d probably be dead. I

blow her off with a non-answer, trying to keep my voice level, but she pushes me, demanding to know my how old I was when I was adopted. Shut her down,

Grey!

“That’s a matter of public record, Miss Steele.” My voice is arctic. She should know this shit. Now she looks contrite. Good.

“You’ve had to sacrifice a family life for your work.”

“That’s not a question,” I snap.

She blushes again and bites down on that damned lip. But she has the grace to apologize.

“Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?”

What do I want with a fucking family?

“I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”

“Are you gay, Mr. Grey?”

What the fuck! I cannot believe she’s said that out loud! The unspoken question that my own family dares not ask, much to my amusement. How dare she! I have

to fight down the urge to drag her out of her seat, bend her across my knee, and spank the living shit out of her, then fuck her over my desk with her hands tied

tightly behind her back. That would answer her question. How frustrating is this female? I take a deep calming breath. To my vindictive delight, she appears to be

acutely embarrassed by her own question.

“No, Anastasia, I’m not.” I raise my eyebrows, but keep my expression impassive. Anastasia. It is a lovely name. I like the way my tongue rolls around it.

“I apologize. It’s um . . . written here.” Nervously, she tucks her hair behind her ear.

She doesn’t know her own questions? Perhaps they’re not hers. I ask her, and she pales. Fuck, she really is very attractive, in an understated sort of way. I would

even go so far as to say she is beautiful.

“Er . . . no. Kate—Miss Kavanagh—she compiled the questions.”

“Are you colleagues on the student paper?”

“No, she’s my roommate.”

No wonder she is all over the place. I scratch my chin, debating whether to give her a really, really hard time.

“Did you volunteer to do this interview?” I ask, and I’m rewarded with her submissive look: eyes large, nervous about my reaction. I like the effect I have on her.

“I was drafted. She’s not well,” she says softly.

“That explains a great deal.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Andrea appears. “Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.”

“We’re not finished here, Andrea. Please cancel my next meeting.”

Andrea hesitates, gaping at me. I stare at her. Out! Now! I’m busy with Little Miss Steele here. Andrea blushes scarlet, but recovers quickly.

Andrea hesitates, gaping at me. I stare at her. Out! Now! I’m busy with Little Miss Steele here. Andrea blushes scarlet, but recovers quickly.

“Very well, Mr. Grey,” she says, and turning on her heel, she leaves us.

I turn my attention back to the intriguing, frustrating creature on my couch. “Where were we, Miss Steele?”

“Please don’t let me keep you from anything.”

Oh no, baby. It’s my turn now. I want to know if there are any secrets to uncover behind those beautiful eyes.

“I want to know about you. I think that’s only fair.” As I lean back and press my fingers to my lips, her eyes flick to my mouth and she swallows. Oh, yes—the

usual effect. And it is gratifying to know she isn’t completely oblivious to my charms.

“There’s not much to know,” she says, her blush returning. I’m intimidating her. Good.

“What are your plans after you graduate?”

She shrugs. “I haven’t made any plans, Mr. Grey. I just need to get through my final exams.”

“We run an excellent internship program here.” Fuck. What possessed me to say that? I’m breaking a golden rule—never, ever fuck the staff. But Grey, you’re

not fucking this girl. She looks surprised, and her teeth sink into that lip again. Why is that so arousing?

“Oh. I’ll bear that in mind,” she mumbles. Then as an afterthought she says, “Though I’m not sure I’d fit in here.”

Why the hell not? What’s wrong with my company?

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Not to me.” I’m confounded by her response.

She’s flustered again as she reaches for the mini-disc recorder. Shit, she’s going. Mentally I run through my schedule for that afternoon—there is nothing that

won’t keep.

“Would you like me to show you around?”

“I’m sure you’re far too busy, Mr. Grey, and I do have a long drive.”“You’re driving back to WSU in Vancouver?” I glance out the window. It’s one hell of a

drive, and it’s raining. Shit. She shouldn’t be driving in this weather, but I can’t forbid her. The thought irritates me. “Well, you’d better drive carefully.” My voice

is sterner than I intend.

She fumbles with the mini-disc. She wants out of my office, and for some reason I can’t explain, I don’t want her to go.

“Did you get everything you need?” I add in a transparent effort to prolong her stay.

“Yes, sir,” she says quietly.

Her response floors me—the way those words sound, coming out of that smart mouth—and briefly I imagine that mouth at my beck and call.

“Thank you for the interview, Mr. Grey.”

“The pleasure’s been all mine,” I respond–truthfully, because I haven’t been this fascinated by anyone in a long while. The thought is unsettling.

She stands and I extend my hand, eager to touch her.

“Until we meet again, Miss Steele.” My voice is low as she places her small hand in mine. Yes, I want to flog and fuck this girl in my playroom. Have her bound

and wanting . . . needing me, trusting me. I swallow. It ain’t going to happen, Grey.

“Mr. Grey.” She nods and withdraws her hand quickly . . . too quickly.

Shit, I can’t let her go like this. It’s obvious she is desperate to leave. Irritation and inspiration hit me simultaneously as I see her out.

“Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Steele.”

She blushes on cue, her delicious shade of pink.

“That’s very considerate, Mr. Grey,” she snaps.

Miss Steele has teeth! I grin behind her as she exits, and I follow in her wake. Both Andrea and Olivia look up in shock. Yeah, yeah. I’m just seeing the girl out.

“Did you have a coat?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I scowl at simpering Olivia, who immediately leaps up to retrieve a navy coat. Taking it, I glare at her to sit down. Christ, Olivia is annoying—mooning over me

all the time.

Hmm. The coat is from Walmart. Miss Anastasia Steele should be better dressed. I hold it up for her, and as I pull it over her slim shoulders, I touch the skin at

the base of her neck. She stills at the contact and pales. Yes! She is affected by me. The knowledge is immensely pleasing. Strolling over to the elevator, I press the

call button while she stands fidgeting beside me.

Oh, I could so stop your fidgeting, baby.

The doors open and she scurries in then turns to face me.

“Anastasia,” I murmur, saying good-bye.

“Christian,” she whispers. And the elevator doors close, leaving my name hanging in the air, sounding odd, unfamiliar, but sexy as hell.

Well, fuck me. What was that?

I need to know more about this girl. “Andrea,” I snap as I stalk back into my office. “Get me Welch on the line, now.”

As I sit at my desk and wait for the call, I look at the paintings on the wall of my office, and Miss Steele’s words drift back to me. “Raising the ordinary to

extraordinary.” She could so easily have been describing herself.

My phone buzzes.

“I have Mr. Welch on the line for you.”

“Put him through.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Welch, I need a background check.”

Saturday, May 14, 2011

I pore over the executive summary for the hundredth time since I received it two days ago, looking for some insight into the enigmatic Miss Anastasia Rose