E L James is a TV executive, wife and mother of two, based inWest London. Since early childhood, she dreamt of writing storiesthat readers would fall in love with, but put those dreams on holdto focus on her family and her career. She finally plucked up thecourage to put pen to paper with her first novel, Fifty Shades ofGrey.E L James is currently working on the sequel to Fifty ShadesDarker and a new romantic thriller with a supernatural twist. I owe a huge deb一t of gratitude to Sarah, Kay, and Jada.Thank you for all that you ha一ve done for me.Also HUGE thanks to Kathleen and Kristi who steppedinto the breach and sorted stuff out.Thank you too to Niall, my husband, my lover, and mybest friend (most of the time).And a big shout out to all the wonderful, wonderful womenfrom all over the world whom I ha一ve had the pleasure ofmeeting since I started all this, and whom I now considermeeting since I started all this, and whom I now considerfriends, including: Ale, Alex, Amy, Andrea, Angela,Azucena, Babs, Bee, Belinda, Betsy, Brandy, Britt,Caroline, Catherine, Dawn, Gwen, Hannah, Janet, Jen,Jenn, Jill, Kathy, Katie, Kellie, Kelly, Liz, Mandy,Margaret, Natalia, Nicole, Nora, Olga, Pam, Pauline,Raina, Raizie, Rajka, Rhian, Ruth, Steph, Susi, Tasha,Taylor and Una. And also to the many, many talented,funny, warm women (and men) I ha一ve met online. Youknow who you are.Thanks to Morgan and Jenn for all things Heathman.And finally, thank you to Janine, my editor. You rock.That is all.He’s come back. Mommy’s asleep or she’s sick again.I hide and curl up small under the table in the kitchen.Through my fingers I can see Mommy. She is asleep onthe couch. Her hand is on the sticky green rug, and he’swearing his big boots with the shiny buckle and standingover Mommy shouting.He hits Mommy with a belt. Get up! Get up! You areone fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch.You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-upbitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are onebitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are onefucked-up bitch.Mommy makes a sobbing noise. Stop. Please stop.Mommy doesn’t scream. Mommy curls up small.I ha一ve my fingers in my ears, and I close my eyes. Thesound stops.He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into thekitchen. He still has the belt. He is trying to find me.He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Ofcigarettes and drink. There you are, you little shit.A chilling wail wakes him. Christ! He’s drenched insweat and his heart is pounding. What the fuck? He sitsbolt upright in bed and puts his head in hands. Fuck.They’re back. The noise was me. He takes a deepsteadying breath, trying to rid his mind and nostrils of thesmell of cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.I ha一ve survived Day Three Post-Christian, and my first dayat work. It has been a welcome distraction. The time hasflown by in a haze of new faces, work to do, and Mr. JackHyde. Mr. Jack Hyde . . . he smiles down at me, his blueeyes twinkling, as he leans against my desk.“Excellent work, Ana. I think we’re going to make agreat team.”Somehow, I manage to curl my lips upward in asemblance of a smile.“I’ll be off, if that’s okay with you,” I murmur.“Of course, it’s five thirty. I’ll see you tomorrow.”“Goodnight, Jack.”“Goodnight, Ana.”Collecting my bag, I shrug on my jacket and head forthe door. Out in the early evening air of Seattle, I take adeep breath. It doesn’t begin to fill the void in my chest, avoid that’s been present since Saturday morning, a painfulhollow reminder of my loss. I walk toward the bus stopwith my head down, staring at my feet and contemplatingbeing without my beloved Wanda, my old Beetle . . . orthe Audi.I shut the door on that thought immediately. No. Don’tthink about him. Of course, I can afford a car—a nice,new car. I suspect he has been overgenerous in hispayment, and the thought lea一ves a bitter taste in my mouth,but I dismiss it and try to keep my mind as numb and asblank as possible. I can’t think about him. I don’t want tostart crying again—not out on the street.The apartment is empty. I miss Kate, and I imagine herlying on a beach in Barbados sipping a cool cocktail. I turnon the flat-screen television so there’s noise to fill thevacuum and provide some semblance of company, but Idon’t listen or watch. I sit and stare blankly at the brickwall. I am numb. I feel nothing but the pain. How longmust I endure this?The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and myheart skips a beat. Who could that be? I press theintercom.“Delivery for Ms. Steele.” A bored, disembodiedvoice answers, and disappointment crashes through me. Ilistlessly make my way downstairs and find a young mannoisily chewing gum, holding a large cardboard box, andleaning against the front door. I sign for the package andtake it upstairs. The box is huge and surprisingly light.Inside are two dozen long-stemmed, white roses and acard.Congratulations on your first day at work.I hope it went well.And thank you for the glider. That was verythoughtful.It has pride of place on my desk.ChristianI stare at the typed card, the hollow in my chestexpanding. No doub一t, his assistant sent this. Christianprobably had very little to do with it. It’s too painful tothink about. I examine the roses—they are beautiful, and Ican’t bring myself to throw them in the trash. Dutifully, Imake my way into the kitchen to hunt down a vase.And so a pattern develops: wake, work, cry, sleep.Well, try to sleep. I can’t even escape him in my dreams.Gray burning eyes, his lost look, his hair burnished andbright all haunt me. And the music . . . so much music—Icannot bear to hear any music. I am careful to a一void it atall costs. Even the jingles in commercials make meshudder.I ha一ve spoken to no one, not even my mother or Ray. Idon’t ha一ve the capacity for idle talk now. No, I want noneof it. I ha一ve become my own island state. A ra一vaged, wartornland where nothing grows and the horizons are bleak.Yes, that’s me. I can interact impersonally at work, butthat’s it. If I talk to Mom, I know I will break even further—and I ha一ve nothing left to break.I am finding it difficult to eat. By Wednesday lunchtime,I manage a cup of yogurt, and it’s the first thing I’ve eatenI manage a cup of yogurt, and it’s the first thing I’ve eatensince Friday. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance forlattes and Diet Coke. It’s the caffeine that keeps me going,but it’s making me anxious.Jack has started to hover over me, irritating me, askingme personal questions. What does he want? I’m polite,but I need to keep him at arm’s length.I sit and begin trawling through a pile ofcorrespondence addressed to him, and I’m pleased withthe distraction of menial work. My e-mail pings, and Iquickly check to see who it’s from.Holy shit. An e-mail from Christian. Oh no, nothere . . . not at work.From: Christian GreySubject: TomorrowDate: June 8, 2011 14:05To: Anastasia SteeleDear AnastasiaForgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it’s going well. Did youget my flowers?I note that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend’s show,and I’m sure you’ve not had time to purchase a car, and it’s a longdrive. I would be more than happy to take you—should you wish.Let me know.Christian GreyCEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.Tears swim in my eyes. I hastily lea一ve my desk and bolt tothe restroom to escape into one of the stalls. José’s show.Crap. I’d forgotten all about it, and I promised him I’d go.Shit, Christian is right; how am I going to get there?I clutch my forehead. Why hasn’t José phoned? Cometo think of it—why hasn’t anyone phoned? I’ve been soabsentminded, I ha一ven’t noticed that my cell phone hasbeen silent.Shit! I am such an idiot! I still ha一ve it on divert to theBlackberry. Holy hell. Christian’s been getting my calls—unless he’s just thrown the Blackberry away. How did heget my e-mail address?He knows my shoe size, an e-mail address is hardlygoing to present him with many problems.Can I see him again? Could I bear it? Do I want to seehim? I close my eyes and tilt my head back as grief andlonging lance through me. Of course I do.Perhaps, perhaps I can tell him I’ve changed mymind . . . No, no, no. I cannot be with someone who takespleasure in inflicting pain on me, someone who can’t loveme.Torturous memories flash through my mind—thegliding, holding hands, kissing, the bathtub, his gentleness,his humor, and his dark, brooding, sexy stare. I miss him.It’s been five days, five days of agony that has felt like aneternity.I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myselftightly, holding myself together. I miss him. I really misshim . . . I love him. Simple.I cry myself to sleep at night, wishing I hadn’t walkedout, wishing that he could be different, wishing that wewere together. How long will this hideous overwhelmingfeeling last? I am in purgatory.Anastasia Steele, you are at work! I must be strong,but I want to go to José’s show, and deep down, themasochist in me wants to see Christian. Taking a deepbreath, I head back to my desk.From: Anastasia SteeleSubject: TomorrowDate: June 8, 2011 14:25To: Christian GreyHi ChristianThank you for the flowers; they are lovely.Yes, I would appreciate a lift.Thank you.Anastasia SteeleAssistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIPChecking my phone, I find that it is still switched to divert.Jack is in a meeting, so I quickly call José.“Hi, José. It’s Ana.”“Hello, stranger.” His tone is so warm and welcomingit’s almost enough to push me over the edge again.it’s almost enough to push me over the edge again.“I can’t talk long. What time should I be theretomorrow for your show?”“You’re still coming?” He sounds excited.“Yes, of course.” I smile my first genuine smile in fivedays as I picture his broad grin.“Seven thirty.”“See you then. Good-bye, José.”“Bye, Ana.”From: Christian GreySubject: TomorrowDate: June 8, 2011 14:27To: Anastasia SteeleDear AnastasiaWhat time shall I collect you?Christian GreyCEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.From: Anastasia SteeleSubject: TomorrowDate: June 8, 2011 14:32To: Christian GreyJosé’s show starts at 7:30. What time would you suggest?Anastasia SteeleAssistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIPFrom: Christian GreySubject: TomorrowDate: June 8, 2011 14:34To: Anastasia SteeleDear AnastasiaPortland is some distance away. I shall collect you at 5:45.I look forward to seeing you.Christian GreyCEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.From: Anastasia SteeleSubject: TomorrowDate: June 8, 2011 14:38To: Christian GreySee you then.Anastasia SteeleAssistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIPOh my. I’m going to see Christian, and for the first time infive days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself tofive days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself towonder how he’s been.Has he missed me? Probably not like I’ve missed him.Has he found a new submissive from wherever they comefrom? The thought is so painful that I dismiss itimmediately. I look at the pile of correspondence I need tosort for Jack and tackle it as I try to push Christian out ofmy mind once more.That night in bed, I toss and turn, trying to sleep. It isthe first time in a while I ha一ven’t cried myself to sleep.In my mind’s eye, I visualize Christian’s face the lasttime I saw him as I left his apartment. His torturedexpression haunts me. I remember he didn’t want me togo, which was odd. Why would I stay when things hadreached such an impasse? We were each skirting aroundour own issues—my fear of punishment, his fear of . . .what? Love?Turning on my side, I hug my pillow, filled with anoverwhelming sadness. He thinks he doesn’t deserve to beloved. Why does he feel that way? Is it something to dowith his upbringing? His birth mom, the crack whore? Mythoughts plague me into the early hours until eventually Ifall into a fitful, exhausted sleep.The day drags and drags and Jack is unusually attentive. Isuspect it’s Kate’s plum dress and the black high-heeledboots I’ve stolen from her closet, but I don’t dwell on thethought. I resolve to go clothes shopping with my firstpaycheck. The dress is looser on me than it was, but Ipretend not to notice.Finally, it’s five thirty, and I collect my jacket andpurse, trying to quell my nerves. I’m going to see him!“Do you ha一ve a date tonight?” Jack asks as he strollspast my desk on his way out.“Yes. No. Not really.”He cocks an eyebrow at me, his interest clearlypiqued. “Boyfriend?”I flush. “No, a friend. An ex-boyfriend.”“Maybe tomorrow you’d like to come for a drink afterwork. You’ve had a stellar first week, Ana. We shouldcelebrate.” He smiles and some unknown emotion flitsacross his face, making me uneasy.Putting his hands in his pockets, he saunters throughthe double doors. I frown at his retreating back. Drinkswith the boss, is that a good idea?I shake my head. I ha一ve an evening of Christian Greyto get through first. How am I going to do this? I hurry intothe restroom to make last-minute adjustments.In the large mirror on the wall, I take a long, hard lookat my face. I am my usual pale self, dark circles round mytoo-large eyes. I look gaunt, haunted.Jeez, I wish I knew how to use makeup. I apply somemascara and eyeliner and pinch my cheeks, hoping tobring some color their way. Tidying my hair so that it hangsartfully down my back, I take a deep breath. This will ha一veto do.Nervously I walk through the foyer with a smile and awa一ve to Claire at reception. I think she and I couldbecome friends. Jack is talking to Elizabeth as I head forthe doors. Smiling broadly, he hurries over to open themfor me.“After you, Ana,” he murmurs.“Thank you.” I smile, embarrassed.Outside on the curb, Taylor is waiting. He opens therear door of the car. I glance hesitantly at Jack who hasfollowed me out. He’s looking toward the Audi SUV indismay.I turn and climb into the back, and there he sits—Christian Grey—wearing his gray suit, no tie, his whiteshirt open at the collar. His gray eyes are glowing.My mouth dries. He looks glorious except he’sscowling at me. Oh no!“When did you last eat?” he snaps as Taylor closes thedoor behind me.Crap. “Hello, Christian. Yes, it’s nice to see you, too.”“I don’t want your smart mouth now. Answer me.” Hiseyes blaze.Holy shit. “Um . . . I had a yogurt at lunchtime. Oh—and a banana.”“When did you last ha一ve a proper meal?” he asksacidly.Taylor slips into the driver’s seat, starts the car, andpulls out into the traffic.I glance up and Jack is wa一ving at me, though how hecan see me through the dark glass, I don’t know. I wa一veback.“Who’s that?” Christian snaps.“My boss.” I peek up at the beautiful man beside me,and his mouth is pressed into a hard line.“Well? Your last meal?”“Christian, that really is none of your concern,” Imurmur, feeling extraordinarily bra一ve.“Whatever you do concerns me. Tell me.”No, it doesn’t. I groan in frustration, rolling my eyeshea一venward, and Christian narrows his eyes. And for thefirst time in a long time, I want to laugh. I try hard to stiflethe giggle that threatens to bubble up. Christian’s facesoftens as I struggle to keep a straight face, and I see atrace of a smile kiss his beautifully sculptured lips.“Well?” he asks, his voice softer.“Pasta alla vongole, last Friday,” I whisper.He closes his eyes as fury and possibly regret, sweepsacross his face. “I see,” he says, his voice expressionless.“You look like you’ve lost at least five pounds, possiblymore since then. Please eat, Anastasia,” he scolds.I stare down at the knotted fingers in my lap. Whydoes he always make me feel like an errant child?He shifts and turns toward me. “How are you?” heasks, his voice still soft.Well, I’m shit really . . . I swallow. “If I told you Iwas fine, I’d be lying.”He inhales sharply. “Me, too,” he murmurs andreaches over and clasps my hand. “I miss you,” he adds.Oh no. Skin against skin.“Christian, I—”“Christian, I—”“Ana, please. We need to talk.”I’m going to cry. No. “Christian, I . . . please . . . I’vecried so much,” I whisper, trying to keep my emotions incheck“Oh, baby, no.” He tugs my hand, and before I knowit I’m on his lap. He has his arms around me, and his noseis in my hair. “I’ve missed you so much, Anastasia,” hebreathes.I want to struggle out of his hold, to maintain somedistance, but his arms are wrapped around me. He’spressing me to his chest. I melt. Oh, this is where I want tobe.I rest my head against him, and he kisses my hairrepeatedly. This is home. He smells of linen, fabricsoftener, body wash, and my fa一vorite smell—Christian.For a moment, I allow myself the illusion that all will bewell, and it soothes my ra一vaged soul.A few minutes later Taylor pulls to a stop at the curb,even though we’re still in the city.“Come”—Christian shifts me off his lap—“we’rehere.”What?“Helipad—on the top of this building.” Christianglances toward the building by way of explanation.Of course. Charlie Tango. Taylor opens the door and Islide out. He gives me a warm, a一vuncular smile that makesme feel safe. I smile back.“I should give you back your handkerchief.”“Keep it, Miss Steele, with my best wishes.”“Keep it, Miss Steele, with my best wishes.”I flush as Christian comes around the car and takes myhand. He looks quizzically at Taylor who staresimpassively back at him, revealing nothing.“Nine?” Christian says to him.“Yes, sir.”Christian nods as he turns and leads me through thedouble doors into the grandiose foyer. I revel in the feel ofhis large hand and his long, skilled fingers curled aroundmine. I feel the familiar pull—I am drawn, Icarus to hissun. I ha一ve been burned already, and yet here I am again.Reaching the elevators, he presses the call button. Ipeek up at him, and he’s wearing his enigmatic half smile.As the doors open, he releases my hand and ushers me in.The doors close and I risk a second peek. He glancesdown at me, gray eyes alive, and it’s there in the airbetween us, that electricity. It’s palpable. I can almosttaste it, pulsing between us, drawing us together.“Oh my,” I gasp as I bask briefly in the intensity of thisvisceral, primal attraction.“I feel it, too,” he says, his eyes clouded and intense.Desire pools dark and deadly in my groin. He claspsmy hand and grazes my knuckles with his thumb, and allmy muscles clench tightly, deliciously, deep inside me.Holy cow. How can he still do this to me?“Please don’t bite your lip, Anastasia,” he whispers.I gaze up at him, releasing my lip. I want him. Here,now, in the elevator. How could I not?“You know what it does to me,” he murmurs.Oh, I still affect him. My inner goddess stirs from herOh, I still affect him. My inner goddess stirs from herfive-day sulk.Abruptly the doors open, breaking the spell, and we’reon the roof. It’s windy, and despite my black jacket, I’mcold. Christian puts his arm around me, pulling me into hisside, and we hurry across to where Charlie Tango standsin the center of the helipad with its rotor blades slowlyspinning.A tall, blond, square-jawed man in a dark suit leapsout and, ducking low, runs toward us. Shaking hands withChristian, he shouts above the noise of the rotors.“Ready to go, sir. She’s all yours!”“All checks done?”“Yes, sir.”“You’ll collect her around eight thirty?”“Yes, sir.”“Taylor’s waiting for you out front.”“Thank you, Mr. Grey. Safe flight to Portland.Ma’am.” He salutes me. Without releasing me, Christiannods, ducks down, and leads me to the helicopter door.Once inside he buckles me firmly into my harness,cinching the straps tight. He gives me a knowing look andhis secret smile.“This should keep you in your place,” he murmurs. “Imust say I do like this harness on you. Don’t touchanything.”I flush a deep crimson, and he runs his index fingerdown my cheek before handing me the headphones. I’dlike to touch you, too, but you won’t let me. I scowl athim. Besides, he’s pulled the straps so tight I can barelyhim. Besides, he’s pulled the straps so tight I can barelymove.He sits in his seat and buckles himself in, then startsrunning through all his preflight checks. He’s just socompetent. It’s very alluring. He puts on his headphonesand flips a switch and the rotors speed up, deafening me.Turning, he gazes at me. “Ready, baby?” His voiceechoes through the headphones.“Yes.”He grins his boyish grin. Wow—I’ve not seen it for solong.“Sea-Tac tower, this is Charlie Tango—Tango EchoHotel, cleared for takeoff to Portland via PDX. Pleaseconfirm, over.”The disembodied voice of the air traffic controlleranswers, issuing instructions.“Roger, tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out.”Christian flips two switches, grasps the stick, and thehelicopter rises slowly and smoothly into the evening sky.Seattle and my stomach drop away from us, andthere’s so much to see.“We’ve chased the dawn, Anastasia, now the dusk,”his voice comes through on the headphones. I turn to gapeat him in surprise.What does this mean? How is it that he can say themost romantic things? He smiles, and I can’t help but smileshyly back at him.“As well as the evening sun, there’s more to see thistime,” he says.The last time we flew to Seattle it was dark, but thisThe last time we flew to Seattle it was dark, but thisevening the view is spectacular, literally out of this world.We’re up among the tallest buildings, going higher andhigher.“Escala’s over there.” He points toward the building.“Boeing there, and you can just see the Space Needle.”I crane my head. “I’ve never been.”“I’ll take you—we can eat there.”What? “Christian, we broke up.”“I know. I can still take you there and feed you.” Heglares at me.I shake my head and flush before taking a lessconfrontational approach. “It’s very beautiful up here,thank you.”“Impressive, isn’t it?”“Impressive that you can do this.”“Flattery from you, Miss Steele? But I’m a man ofmany talents.”“I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Grey.”He turns and smirks at me, and for the first time in fivedays, I relax a little. Perhaps this won’t be so bad.“How’s the new job?”“Good, thank you. Interesting.”“What’s your boss like?”“Oh, he’s okay.” How can I tell Christian that Jackmakes me uncomfortable? Christian turns and gazes at me.“What’s wrong?” he asks.“Aside from the obvious, nothing.”“The obvious?”“Oh, Christian, you really are very ob一tuse sometimes.”“Oh, Christian, you really are very ob一tuse sometimes.”“Ob一tuse? Me? I’m not sure I appreciate your tone,Miss Steele.”“Well, don’t then.”His lips twitch into a smile. “I ha一ve missed your smartmouth.”I gasp and I want to shout, I’ve missed you—all ofyou—not just your mouth! But I keep quiet and gaze outthe glass fishbowl that is Charlie Tango’s windshield as wecontinue south. The dusk is to our right, the sun low on thehorizon—large, blazing fiery orange—and I am Icarusagain, flying far too close.The dusk has followed us from Seattle, and the sky isawash with opal, pinks, and aquamarines wovenseamlessly together as only Mother Nature knows how.It’s a clear, crisp evening, and the lights of Portlandtwinkle and wink, welcoming us as Christian sets thehelicopter down on the helipad. We are on top of thestrange brown brick building in Portland we left less thanthree weeks ago.Jeez, it’s been hardly any time at all. Yet I feel like I’veknown Christian for a lifetime. He powers down CharlieTango, flipping various switches so the rotors stop, andeventually all I hear is my own breathing through theheadphones. Hmm. Briefly it reminds me of the ThomasTallis experience. I blanch. I so don’t want to go thereright now.Christian unbuckles his harness and leans across toundo mine.“Good trip, Miss Steele?” he asks, his voice mild, hisgray eyes glowing.“Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey,” I reply politely.“Well, let’s go see the boy’s photos.” He holds hishand out to me and taking it, I climb out of Charlie Tango.A gray-haired man with a beard walks over to meetus, smiling broadly, and I recognize him as the old-timerfrom the last time we were here.“Joe.” Christian smiles and releases my hand to shakeJoe’s warmly.“Keep her safe for Stephan. He’ll be along aroundeight or nine.”“Will do, Mr. Grey. Ma’am,” he says, nodding at me.“Your car’s waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator’sout of order; you’ll need to use the stairs.”“Thank you, Joe.”Christian takes my hand, and we head to theemergency stairs.“Good thing for you this is only three floors, in thoseheels,” he mutters to me in disapproval.No kidding.“Don’t you like the boots?”“I like them very much, Anastasia.” His gaze darkensand I think he might say something else, but he stops.“Come. We’ll take it slow. I don’t want you falling andbreaking your neck.”We sit in silence as our driver takes us to the gallery. Myanxiety has returned full force, and I realize that our time inCharlie Tango has been the eye of the storm. Christian isquiet and brooding . . . apprehensive even; our lightermood from earlier has dissipated. There’s so much I wantto say, but this journey is too short. Christian starespensively out the window.“José is just a friend,” I murmur.Christian turns and gazes at me, his eyes dark andguarded, giving nothing away. His mouth—oh, his mouth isdistracting, and unbidden. I remember it on me—everywhere. My skin heats. He shifts in his seat andfrowns.“Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face,Anastasia. Please tell me you’ll eat.”“Yes, Christian, I’ll eat,” I answer automatically, aplatitude.“I mean it.”“Do you now?” I cannot keep the disdain out of myvoice. Honestly, the audacity of this man—this man whohas put me through hell over the last few days. No, that’swrong. I’ve put myself through hell. No. It’s him. I shakemy head, confused.“I don’t want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want youback, and I want you healthy,” he says softly.What? What does that mean? “But nothing’schanged.” You’re still fifty shades.“Let’s talk on the way back. We’re here.”The car pulls up in front of the gallery, and Christianclimbs out, lea一ving me speechless. He opens the car doorclimbs out, lea一ving me speechless. He opens the car doorfor me, and I clamber out.“Why do you do that?” My voice is louder than Iexpected.“Do what?” Christian is taken aback.“Say something like that and then just stop.”“Anastasia, we’re here. Where you want to be. Let’sdo this and then talk. I don’t particularly want a scene inthe street.”I flush and glance around. He’s right. It’s too public. Ipress my lips together as he glares down at me.“Okay,” I mutter sulkily. Taking my hand, he leads meinto the building.We are in a converted warehouse—brick walls, darkwood floors, white ceilings, and white pipe work. It’s airyand modern, and there are several people wanderingacross the gallery floor, sipping wine and admiring José’swork. For a moment, my troubles melt away as I graspthat José has realized his dream. Way to go, José!“Good evening and welcome to José Rodriguez’sshow.” A young woman dressed in black with very shortbrown hair, bright red lipstick, and large hooped earringsgreets us. She glances briefly at me, then much longer thanis strictly necessary at Christian, then turns back to me,blinking as she blushes.My brow creases. He’s mine—or was. I try hard notto scowl at her. As her eyes regain their focus, she blinksagain.“Oh, it’s you, Ana. We’ll want your take on all this,too.” Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me totoo.” Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me toa table laden with drinks and snacks.How does she know my name?“You know her?” Christian frowns.I shake my head, equally puzzled.He shrugs, distracted. “What would you like todrink?”“I’ll ha一ve a glass of white wine, thank you.”His brow furrows, but he holds his tongue and headsfor the open bar.“Ana!”José comes barreling through a throng of people.Holy cow! He’s wearing a suit. He looks good andhe’s beaming at me. He enfolds me in his arms, hugging mehard. And it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. Myfriend, my only friend while Kate is away. Tears pool inmy eyes.“Ana, I’m so glad you made it,” he whispers in my ear,then pauses and abruptly holds me at arm’s length, staringat me.“What?”“Hey are you okay? You look, well, odd. Dios mio,ha一ve you lost weight?”I blink back my tears. “José, I’m fine. I’m just sohappy for you.” Crap—not him, too. “Congratulations onthe show.” My voice wa一vers as I see his concern etchedon his oh-so-familiar face, but I ha一ve to hold myselftogether.“How did you get here?” he asks.“Christian brought me,” I say, suddenly apprehensive.“Christian brought me,” I say, suddenly apprehensive.“Oh.” José’s face falls and he releases me. “Where ishe?” His expression darkens.“Over there, fetching drinks.” I nod in Christian’sdirection and see he’s exchanging pleasantries withsomeone waiting in line. Christian glances up when I lookhis way and our eyes lock. And in that brief moment, I’mparalyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man whogazes at me with some unfathomable emotion. His gazehot, burning into me, and we’re lost for a moment staringat each other.Holy cow . . . This beautiful man wants me back, anddeep down inside me sweet joy slowly unfurls like amorning glory in the early dawn.“Ana!” José distracts me, and I’m dragged back to thehere and now. “I am so glad you came—listen, I shouldwarn you—”Suddenly, Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick cutshim off. “José, the journalist from the Portland Printz ishere to see you. Come on.” She gives me a polite smile.“How cool is this? The fame.” He grins, and I can’thelp but grin back—he’s so happy. “Catch you later,Ana.” He kisses my cheek, and I watch him stroll over toa young woman standing by a tall lanky photographer.José’s photographs are everywhere, and in somecases, blown up onto huge canvases. There are bothmonochromes and colors. There’s an ethereal beauty tomany of the landscapes. In one taken out near the lake atVancouver, it’s early evening and pink clouds are reflectedin the stillness of the water. Briefly, I’m transported by thein the stillness of the water. Briefly, I’m transported by thetranquility and the peace. It’s stunning.Christian joins me, and I take a deep breath andswallow, trying to recover some of my earlier equilibrium.He hands me my glass of white wine.“Does it come up to scratch?” My voice sounds morenormal.He looks quizzically at me.“The wine.”“No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy’squite talented, isn’t he?” Christian is admiring the lakephoto.“Why else do you think I asked him to take yourportrait?” I can’t help the pride in my voice. His eyes glideimpassively from the photograph to me.“Christian Grey?” The photographer from the PortlandPrintz approaches Christian. “Can I ha一ve a picture, sir?”“Sure.” Christian hides his scowl. I step back, but hegrabs my hand and pulls me to his side. The photographerlooks at both of us and can’t hide his surprise.“Mr. Grey, thank you.” He snaps a couple of photos.“Miss . . . ?” he asks.“Steele,” I reply.“Thank you, Miss Steele.” He scurries off.“I looked for pictures of you with dates on the Internet.There aren’t any. That’s why Kate thought you were gay.”Christian’s mouth twitches with a smile. “That explainsyour inappropriate question. No, I don’t do dates,Anastasia—only with you. But you know that.” His eyesburn with sincerity.burn with sincerity.“So you never took your”—I glance around nervouslyto check no one can overhear us—“subs out?”“Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know.” Heshrugs, his eyes not lea一ving mine.Oh, so just in the playroom—his Red Room of Painand his apartment. I don’t know what to feel about that.“Just you, Anastasia,” he whispers.I blush and stare down at my fingers. In his own way,he does care about me.“Your friend here seems more of a landscape man, notportraits. Let’s look round.” He holds his hand out to me,and I take it.We wander past a few more prints, and I notice acouple nodding at me, smiling broadly as if they know me.It must be because I’m with Christian, but one young manis blatantly staring. Odd.We turn the corner, and I can see why I’ve beengetting strange looks. Hanging on the far wall are sevenhuge portraits—of me.I stare blankly at them, stupefied, the blood drainingfrom my face. Me: pouting, laughing, scowling, serious,amused. All in super close up, all in black and white.Holy crap! I remember José messing with the cameraon a couple of occasions when he was visiting and whenI’d been out with him as driver and photographer’sassistant. He took snapshots, or so I thought. Not theseinvasive candids.I glance up at Christian, who is staring, transfixed, ateach of the pictures in turn.each of the pictures in turn.“Seems I’m not the only one,” he mutters cryptically,his mouth settling into a hard line.I think he’s angry. Oh no.“Excuse me,” he says, pinning me with his bright graygaze for a moment. He turns and heads to the receptiondesk.What’s his problem now? I watch mesmerized as hetalks animatedly with Miss Very Short Hair and RedLipstick. He fishes out his wallet and produces his creditcard.Shit. He must ha一ve bought one of them.“Hey. You’re the muse. These photographs areterrific.” A young man with a shock of bright blond hairstartles me. I feel a hand at my elbow and Christian isback.“You’re a lucky guy.” Blond Shock smirks atChristian, who gives him a cold stare.“That I am,” he mutters darkly, as he pulls me over toone side.“Did you just buy one of these?”“One of these?” he snorts, not taking his eyes off them.“You bought more than one?”He rolls his eyes. “I bought them all, Anastasia. I don’twant some stranger ogling you in the privacy of theirhome.”My first inclination is to laugh. “You’d rather it wasyou?” I scoff.He glares down at me, caught off guard by myaudacity, I think, but he’s trying to hide his amusement.“Frankly, yes.”“Pervert,” I mouth at him and bite my lower lip toprevent my smile.His mouth drops open, and now his amusement isobvious. He strokes his chin thoughtfully.“Can’t argue with that assessment, Anastasia.” Heshakes his head, and his eyes soften with humor.“I’d discuss it further with you, but I’ve signed anNDA.”He sighs, gazing at me, and his eyes darken. “What I’dlike to do to your smart mouth,” he murmurs.I gasp, knowing full well what he means. “You’re veryrude.” I try to sound shocked and succeed. Does he ha一veno boundaries?He smirks at me, amused, and then he frowns.“You look very relaxed in these photographs,Anastasia. I don’t see you like that very often.”What? Whoa! Change of subject—talk about nonsequitur—from playful to serious.I flush and glance down at my fingers. He tilts my headback, and I inhale sharply at the contact with his longfingers.“I want you that relaxed with me,” he whispers. Alltrace of humor has gone.Deep inside me that joy stirs again. But how can thisbe? We ha一ve issues.“You ha一ve to stop intimidating me if you want that,” Isnap.“You ha一ve to learn to communicate and tell me howyou feel,” he snaps back, eyes blazing.I take a deep breath. “Christian, you wanted me as asubmissive. That’s where the problem lies. It’s in thedefinition of a submissive—you e-mailed it to me once.” Ipause, trying to recall the wording. “I think the synonymswere, and I quote, ‘compliant, pliant, amenable, passive,tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.’ Iwasn’t supposed to look at you. Not talk to you unlessyou ga一ve me permission to do so. What do you expect?” Ihiss at him.He blinks, and his frown deepens as I continue.“It’s very confusing being with you. You don’t wantme to defy you, but then you like my ‘smart mouth.’ Youwant obedience, except when you don’t, so you canpunish me. I just don’t know which way is up when I’mwith you.”He narrows his eyes. “Good point well made, as usual,Miss Steele.” His voice is frigid. “Come, let’s go eat.”“We’ve only been here for half an hour.”“You’ve seen the photos; you’ve spoken to the boy.”“His name is José.”“You’ve spoken to José—the man who, the last time Imet him, was trying to push his tongue into your reluctantmouth while you were drunk and ill,” he snarls.“He’s never hit me,” I spit at him.Christian scowls at me, fury emanating from everypore. “That’s a low blow, Anastasia,” he whispersmenacingly.I flush, and Christian runs his hands through his hair,bristling with barely contained anger. I glare back at him.“I’m taking you for something to eat. You’re fadingaway in front of me. Find the boy, say good-bye.”“Please, can we stay longer?”“No. Go. Now. Say good-bye.”I glare at him, my blood boiling. Mr. Damned ControlFreak. Angry is good. Angry is better than tearful.I drag my gaze away from him and scan the room forJosé. He’s talking to a group of young women. I stalk offtoward him and away from Fifty. Just because he broughtme here, I ha一ve to do as he says? Who the hell does hethink he is?The girls are hanging on José’s every word. One ofthem gasps as I approach, no doub一t recognizing me fromthe portraits.“José.”“Ana. Excuse me, girls.” José grins at them and putshis arm around me, and on some level I’m amused—Joséall smooth, impressing the ladies.“You look mad,” he says.“I ha一ve to go,” I mutter mulishly.“You just got here.”“I know but Christian needs to get back. The picturesare fantastic, José—you’re very talented.”He beams. “It was so cool seeing you.”Jose sweeps me into a big bear hug, spinning me so Ican see Christian across the gallery. He’s scowling, and Irealize it’s because I’m in José’s arms. So in a veryrealize it’s because I’m in José’s arms. So in a verycalculating move, I wrap my arms around José’s neck. Ithink Christian is going to expire. His glare darkens tosomething quite sinister, and slowly he makes his waytoward us.“Thanks for the warning about the portraits of me,” Imumble.“Shit. Sorry, Ana. I should ha一ve told you. D’you likethem?”“Um . . . I don’t know,” I answer truthfully,momentarily knocked off balance by his question.“Well, they’re all sold, so somebody likes them. Howcool is that? You’re a poster girl.” He hugs me tighter stillas Christian reaches us, glowering at me now, thoughfortunately José doesn’t see.José releases me. “Don’t be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr.Grey, good evening.”“Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive.” Christian soundsicily polite. “I’m sorry we can’t stay longer, but we need tohead back to Seattle. Anastasia?” He sub一tly stresses weand takes my hand as he does so.“Bye, José. Congratulations again.” I give him a quickkiss on the cheek, and before I know it Christian isdragging me out of the building. I know he’s boiling withsilent wrath, but so am I.He looks quickly up and down the street then headsleft and suddenly sweeps me into a side alley, abruptlypushing me up against a wall. He grabs my face betweenhis hands, forcing me to look up into his ardent determinedeyes.eyes.I gasp, and his mouth swoops down. He’s kissing me,violently. Briefly our teeth clash, then his tongue is in mymouth.Desire explodes like the Fourth of July throughout mybody, and I’m kissing him back, matching his fervor, myhands knotting in his hair, pulling it, hard. He groans, a lowsexy sound in the back of his throat that reverberatesthrough me, and his hand moves down my body to the topof my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh through theplum dress.I pour all the angst and heartbreak of the last few daysinto our kiss, binding him to me, and it hits me—in thismoment of blinding passion—he’s doing the same, he feelsthe same.He breaks off the kiss, panting. His eyes are luminouswith desire, firing the already heated blood that is poundingthrough my body. My mouth is slack as I try to dragprecious air into my lungs.“You. Are. Mine,” he snarls, emphasizing each word.He pushes away from me and bends, hands on his kneesas if he’s run a marathon. “For the love of God, Ana.”I lean against the wall, panting, trying to control theriotous reaction in my body, trying to find my equilibriumagain.“I’m sorry,” I whisper once my breath has returned.“You should be. I know what you were doing. Do youwant the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously hasfeelings for you.”I flush and shake my head.I flush and shake my head.“No. He’s just a friend.”“I ha一ve spent all my adult life trying to a一void anyextreme emotion. Yet you . . . you bring out feelings in methat are completely alien. It’s very . . .” He frowns,grasping for the word. “Unsettling.“I like control, Ana, and around you that just”—hestands, his gaze intense—“evaporates.” He wa一ves his handvaguely, then runs it through his hair and takes a deepbreath. He clasps my hand.“Come, we need to talk, and you need to eat.”He leads me into a small, intimate restaurant.“This place will ha一ve to do,” Christian grumbles. “Wedon’t ha一ve much time.”The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linentablecloths, and walls the same color as Christian’splayroom—deep blood red—with small gilt mirrorsrandomly placed, white candles, and small vases of whiteroses. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the backgroundabout this thing called love. It’s very romantic.The waiter leads us to a table for two in a small alcove,and I sit, apprehensive and wondering what he’s going tosay.“We don’t ha一ve long,” Christian says to the waiter aswe sit. “So we’ll each ha一ve sirloin steak cooked medium,béarnaise sauce if you ha一ve it, fries, and green vegetables,whatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list.”“Certainly, sir.” The waiter, taken aback by Christian’scool, calm efficiency, scuttles off. Christian places hisBlackberry on the table. Jeez, don’t I get a choice?“And if I don’t like steak?”He sighs. “Don’t start, Anastasia.”“I am not a child, Christian.”“Well, stop acting like one.”It’s as if he’s slapped me. I blink at him. So this is howit will be, an agitated, fraught conversation, albeit in a veryromantic setting but certainly no hearts and flowers.“I’m a child because I don’t like steak?” I mutter tryingto conceal my hurt.“For deliberately making me jealous. It’s a childishthing to do. Ha一ve you no regard for your friend’s feelings,leading him on like that?” Christian presses his lips togetherin a thin line and scowls as the waiter returns with the winelist.I blush—I hadn’t thought of that. Poor José—Icertainly don’t want to encourage him. Suddenly, I’mmortified. Christian has a point; it was a thoughtless thingto do. He glances at the wine list.“Would you like to choose the wine?” he asks, raisinghis eyebrows at me expectantly, arrogance personified. Heknows I know nothing about wine.“You choose,” I answer, sullen but chastened.“Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please.”“Er . . . we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir.”“A bottle then,” Christian snaps.“Sir.” He retreats, subdued, and I don’t blame him. Ifrown at Fifty. What’s eating him? Oh, me probably, andsomewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddessrises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She’s been asleep forrises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She’s been asleep fora while.“You’re very grumpy.”He gazes at me impassively. “I wonder why that is?”“Well, it’s good to set the right tone for an intimate andhonest discussion about the future, wouldn’t you say?” Ismile at him sweetly.His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almostreluctantly, his lips lift, and I know he’s trying to stifle hissmile.“I’m sorry,” he says.“Apology accepted, and I’m pleased to inform you Iha一ven’t decided to become a vegetarian since we last ate.”“Since that was the last time you ate, I think that’s amoot point.”“There’s that word again, moot.”“Moot,” he mouths and his eyes soften with humor. Heruns his hand through his hair, and he’s serious again.“Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I’m a littlenervous. I’ve told you I want you back, and you’vesaid . . . nothing.” His gaze is intense and expectant whilehis candor is totally disarming. What the hell do I say to this?
鬼大爷书城 > 五十度灰(Fifty Shades of Grey)英文版 > Part II 1 >