Grey (4 page)

What? Where did that come from?

“I find you intimidating,” she says, and looks down, fidgeting once more with her fingers. On the one hand she's so submissive, but on the other she's…challenging.

“You should find me intimidating.”

Yeah. She should. There aren't many people brave enough to tell me that I intimidate them. She's honest, and I tell her so—but when she averts her eyes, I don't know what she's thinking. It's frustrating. Does she like me? Or is she tolerating this meeting to keep Kavanagh's interview on track? Which is it?

“You're a mystery, Miss Steele.”

“There's nothing mysterious about me.”

“I think you're very self-contained.” Like any good submissive. “Except when you blush, of course, which is often. I just wish I knew what you were blushing about.”
There.
That will goad her into a response. Popping a small piece of the blueberry muffin into my mouth, I await her reply.

“Do you always make such personal observations?”

That's not that personal, is it?
“I hadn't realized I was. Have I offended you?”

“No.”

“Good.”

“But you're very high-handed.”

“I'm used to getting my own way, Anastasia. In all things.”

“I don't doubt it,” she mutters, and then wants to know why I haven't asked her to call me by my first name.

What?

And I remember her leaving my office in the elevator—and how my name sounded coming out of her smart mouth. Has she seen through me? Is she deliberately antagonizing me? I tell her that no one calls me Christian, except my family…

I don't even know if it's my real name.

Don't go there, Grey.

I change the subject. I want to know about her.

“Are you an only child?”

Her eyelashes flutter several times before she answers that she is.

“Tell me about your parents.”

She rolls her eyes and I have to fight the compulsion to scold her.

“My mom lives in Georgia with her new husband, Bob. My stepdad lives in Montesano.”

Of course I know all this from Welch's background check, but it's important to hear it from her. Her lips soften with a fond smile when she mentions her stepdad.

“Your father?” I ask.

“My father died when I was a baby.”

For a moment I'm catapulted into my nightmares, looking at a prostrate body on a grimy floor. “I'm sorry,” I mutter.

“I don't remember him,” she says, dragging me back to the now. Her expression is clear and bright, and I know that Raymond Steele has been a good father to this girl. Her mother's relationship with her, on the other hand—that remains to be seen.

“And your mother remarried?”

Her laugh is bitter. “You could say that.” But she doesn't elaborate. She's one of the few women I've met who can sit in silence. Which is great, but not what I want at the moment.

“You're not giving much away, are you?”

“Neither are you,” she parries.

Oh, Miss Steele. Game on.

And it's with great pleasure and a smirk that I remind her that she's interviewed me already. “I can recollect some quite probing questions.”

Yes.
You asked me if I was gay.

My statement has the desired effect and she's embarrassed. She starts babbling about herself and a few details hit home. Her mother is an incurable romantic. I suppose someone on her fourth marriage is embracing hope over experience. Is she like her mother? I can't bring myself to ask her. If she says she is—then I have no hope. And I don't want this interview to end. I'm enjoying myself too much.

I ask about her stepfather and she confirms my hunch. It's obvious she loves him. Her face is luminous when she talks about him: his job (he's a carpenter), his hobbies (he likes European soccer and fishing). She preferred to live with him when her mom married the third time.

Interesting.

She straightens her shoulders. “Tell me about
your
parents,” she demands, in an attempt to divert the conversation from her family. I don't like talking about mine, so I give her the bare details.

“My dad's a lawyer, my mom is a pediatrician. They live in Seattle.”

“What do your siblings do?”

She wants to go there? I give her the short answer that Elliot works in construction and Mia is at cooking school in Paris.

She listens, rapt. “I hear Paris is lovely,” she says with a dreamy expression.

“It's beautiful. Have you been?”

“I've never left mainland USA.” The cadence in her voice falls, tinged with regret. I could take her there.

“Would you like to go?”

First Cabo, now Paris? Get a grip, Grey.

“To Paris? Of course. But it's England that I'd really like to visit.”

Her face brightens with excitement. Miss Steele wants to travel. But why England? I ask her.

“It's the home of Shakespeare, Austen, the Brontë sisters, Thomas Hardy. I'd like to see the places that inspired those people to write such wonderful books.” It's obvious this is her first love.

Books.

She said as much in Clayton's yesterday. That means I'm competing with Darcy, Rochester, and Angel Clare: impossible romantic heroes. Here's the proof I needed. She's an incurable romantic, like her mother—and this isn't going to work. To add insult to injury, she looks at her watch. She's done.

I've blown this deal.

“I'd better go. I have to study,” she says.

I offer to walk her back to her friend's car, which means I'll have the walk back to the hotel to make my case.

But should I?

“Thank you for the tea, Mr. Grey,” she says.

“You're welcome, Anastasia. It's my pleasure.” As I say the words I realize that the last twenty minutes have been…enjoyable. Giving her my most dazzling smile, guaranteed to disarm, I offer her my hand. “Come,” I say. She takes my hand, and as we walk back to The Heathman I can't shake how agreeable her hand feels in mine.

Maybe this could work.

“Do you always wear jeans?” I ask.

“Mostly,” she says, and it's two strikes against her: incurable romantic who only wears jeans…I like my women in skirts. I like them accessible.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” she asks out of the blue, and it's the third strike. I'm out of this fledgling deal. She wants romance, and I can't offer her that.

“No, Anastasia. I don't do the girlfriend thing.”

Stricken with a frown, she turns abruptly and stumbles into the road.

“Shit, Ana!” I shout, tugging her toward me to stop her from
falling in the path of an idiot cyclist who's flying the wrong way up the street. All of a sudden she's in my arms clutching my biceps, staring up at me. Her eyes are startled, and for the first time I notice a darker ring of blue circling her irises; they're beautiful, more beautiful this close. Her pupils dilate and I know I could fall into her gaze and never return. She takes a deep breath.

“Are you okay?” My voice sounds alien and distant, and I realize she's touching me and I don't care. My fingers caress her cheek. Her skin is soft and smooth, and as I brush my thumb against her lower lip, my breath catches in my throat. Her body is pressed against mine, and the feel of her breasts and her heat through my shirt is arousing. She has a fresh, wholesome fragrance that reminds me of my grandfather's apple orchard. Closing my eyes, I inhale, committing her scent to memory. When I open them she's still staring at me, entreating me, begging me, her eyes on my mouth.

Shit.
She wants me to kiss her.

And I want to. Just once. Her lips are parted, ready, waiting. Her mouth felt welcoming beneath my thumb.

No. No. No.
Don't do this, Grey.

She's not the girl for you.

She wants hearts and flowers, and you don't do that shit.

I close my eyes to blot her out and fight the temptation, and when I open them again, my decision is made. “Anastasia,” I whisper, “you should steer clear of me. I'm not the man for you.”

The little
v
forms between her brows, and I think she's stopped breathing.

“Breathe, Anastasia, breathe.” I have to let her go before I do something stupid, but I'm surprised at my reluctance. I want to hold her for a moment longer. “I'm going to stand you up and let you go.” I step back and she releases her hold on me, yet weirdly, I don't feel any relief. I slide my hands to her shoulders to ensure she can stand. Her expression clouds with humiliation. She's mortified by my rebuff.

Hell. I didn't mean to hurt you.

“I've got this,” she says, disappointment ringing in her clipped
tone. She's formal and distant, but she doesn't move out of my hold. “Thank you,” she adds.

“For what?”

“For saving me.”

And I want to tell her that I'm saving her from me…that it's a noble gesture, but that's not what she wants to hear. “That idiot was riding the wrong way. I'm glad I was here. I shudder to think what could have happened to you.” Now it's me that's babbling, and I still can't let her go. I offer to sit with her in the hotel, knowing it's a ploy to prolong my time with her, and only then do I release her.

She shakes her head, her back ramrod stiff, and wraps her arms around herself in a protective gesture. A moment later she bolts across the street and I have to hurry to keep up with her.

When we reach the hotel, she turns and faces me once more, composed. “Thanks for the tea and doing the photo shoot.” She regards me dispassionately and regret flares in my gut.

“Anastasia…I…” I can't think what to say, except that I'm sorry.

“What, Christian?” she snaps.

Whoa.
She's mad at me, pouring all the contempt she can into each syllable of my name. It's novel. And she's leaving. And I don't want her to go. “Good luck with your exams.”

Her eyes flash with hurt and indignation. “Thanks,” she mutters, disdain in her tone. “Good-bye, Mr. Grey.” She turns away and strides up the street toward the underground garage. I watch her go, hoping that she'll give me a second look, but she doesn't. She disappears into the building, leaving in her wake a trace of regret, the memory of her beautiful blue eyes, and the scent of an apple orchard in the fall.

THURSDAY, MAY 19, 2011

N
o!
My scream bounces off the bedroom walls and wakes me from my nightmare. I'm smothered in sweat, with the stench of stale beer, cigarettes, and poverty in my nostrils and a lingering dread of drunken violence. Sitting up, I put my head in my hands as I try to calm my escalated heart rate and erratic breathing. It's been the same for the last four nights. Glancing at the clock, I see it's 3:00 a.m.

I have two major meetings tomorrow…today…and I need a clear head and some sleep.
Damn it, what I'd give for a good night's sleep.
And I have a round of fucking golf with Bastille. I should cancel the golf; the thought of playing and losing darkens my already bleak mood.

Clambering out of bed, I wander down the corridor and into the kitchen. There, I fill a glass with water and catch sight of myself, dressed only in pajama pants, reflected in the glass wall at the other side of the room. I turn away in disgust.

You turned her down.

She wanted you.

And you turned her down.

It was for her own good.

This has needled me for days now. Her beautiful face appears in my mind without warning, taunting me. If my shrink was back from his vacation in England I could call him. His psychobabble shit would stop me feeling this lousy.

Grey, she was just a pretty girl.

Perhaps I need a distraction; a new sub, maybe. It's been too long since Susannah. I contemplate calling Elena in the morning.
She always finds suitable candidates for me. But the truth is, I don't want anyone new.

I want Ana.

Her disappointment, her wounded indignation, and her contempt remain with me. She walked away without a backward glance. Perhaps I raised her hopes by asking her out for coffee, only to disappoint her.

Maybe I should find some way to apologize, then I can forget about this whole sorry episode and get the girl out of my head. Leaving the glass in the sink for my housekeeper to wash, I trudge back to bed.

THE RADIO ALARM JOLTS
to life at 5:45 as I'm staring at the ceiling. I haven't slept and I'm exhausted.

Fuck! This is ridiculous.

The program on the radio is a welcome distraction until the second news item. It's about the sale of a rare manuscript: an unfinished novel by Jane Austen called
The Watsons
that's being auctioned in London.

“Books,” she said.

Christ.
Even the news reminds me of little Miss Bookworm.

She's an incurable romantic who loves the English classics. But then so do I, but for different reasons. I don't have any Jane Austen first editions, or Brontës, for that matter…but I do have two Thomas Hardys.

Of course!
This is it! This is what I can do.

Moments later I'm in my library with
Jude the Obscure
and a boxed set of
Tess of the d'Urbervilles
in its three volumes laid out on the billiard table in front of me. Both are bleak books, with tragic themes. Hardy had a dark, twisted soul.

Like me.

I shake off the thought and examine the books. Even though
Jude
is in better condition, it's no contest. In
Jude
there is no redemption, so I'll send her
Tess,
with a suitable quote. I know it's not the most romantic book, considering the evils that befall the
heroine, but she has a brief taste of romantic love in the bucolic idyll that is the English countryside. And Tess does exact revenge on the man who wronged her.

But that's not the point. Ana mentioned Hardy as a favorite and I'm sure she's never seen, let alone owned, a first edition.

“You sound like the ultimate consumer.”
Her judgmental retort from the interview comes back to haunt me. Yes. I like to possess things, things that will rise in value, like first editions.

Feeling calmer and more composed, and a little pleased with myself, I head back into my closet and change into my running gear.

IN THE BACK OF
the car I leaf through book one of the
Tess
first edition, looking for a quote, and at the same time wonder when Ana's last exam will take place. I read the book years ago and have a hazy recollection of the plot. Fiction was my sanctuary when I was a teenager. My mother always marveled that I read; Elliot not so much. I craved the escape that fiction provided. He didn't need an escape.

“Mr. Grey,” Taylor interrupts. “We're here, sir.” He climbs out of the car and opens my door. “I'll be outside at two o'clock to take you to your golf game.”

I nod and head into Grey House, the books tucked under my arm. The young receptionist greets me with a flirtatious wave.

Every day…Like a cheesy tune on repeat.

Ignoring her, I make my way to the elevator that will take me straight to my floor.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey,” Barry on security greets me as he presses the button to summon the elevator.

“How's your son, Barry?”

“Better, sir.”

“I'm glad to hear it.”

I step into the elevator and it shoots up to the twentieth floor. Andrea is on hand to greet me.

“Good morning, Mr. Grey. Ros wants to see you to discuss the Darfur project. Barney would like a few minutes—”

I hold my hand up to silence her. “Forget those for now. Get me Welch on the line and find out when Flynn is back from vacation. Once I've spoken to Welch we can pick up the day's schedule.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And I need a double espresso. Get Olivia to make it for me.”

But looking around I notice that Olivia is absent. It's a relief. The girl is always mooning over me and it's fucking irritating.

“Would you like milk, sir?” Andrea asks.

Good girl.
I give her a smile.

“Not today.” I do like to keep them guessing how I take my coffee.

“Very good, Mr. Grey.” She looks pleased with herself, which she should be. She's the best PA I've had.

Three minutes later she has Welch on the line.

“Welch?”

“Mr. Grey.”

“The background check you did for me last week. Anastasia Steele. Studying at WSU.”

“Yes, sir. I remember.”

“I'd like you to find out when her last final exam takes place and let me know as a matter of priority.”

“Very good, sir. Anything else?”

“No, that will be all.” I hang up and stare at the books on my desk. I need to find a quote.

ROS, MY NUMBER TWO
and my chief operating officer, is in full flow. “We're getting clearance from the Sudanese authorities to put the shipments into Port Sudan. But our contacts on the ground are hesitant about the road journey to Darfur. They're doing a risk assessment to see how viable it is.” Logistics must be tough; her normal sunny disposition is absent.

“We could always air-drop.”

“Christian, the expense of an airdrop—”

“I know. Let's see what our NGO friends come back with.”

“Okay,” she says and sighs. “I'm also waiting for the all-clear from the State Department.”

I roll my eyes. Fucking red tape. “If we have to grease some palms—or get Senator Blandino to intervene—let me know.”

“So the next topic is where to site the new plant. You know the tax breaks in Detroit are huge. I sent you a summary.”

“I know. But God, does it have to be Detroit?”

“I don't know what you have against the place. It meets our criteria.”

“Okay, get Bill to check out potential brownfield sites. And let's do one more site search to see if any other municipality would offer more favorable terms.”

“Bill has already sent Ruth out there to meet with the Detroit Brownfield Redevelopment Authority, who couldn't be more accommodating, but I'll ask Bill to do a final check.”

My phone buzzes.

“Yes,” I growl at Andrea—she knows I hate being interrupted in a meeting.

“I have Welch for you.”

My watch says 11:30. That was quick. “Put him through.”

I signal for Ros to stay.

“Mr. Grey?”

“Welch. What news?”

“Miss Steele's last exam is tomorrow, May twentieth.”

Damn.
I don't have long.

“Great. That's all I need to know.” I hang up.

“Ros, bear with me one moment.”

I pick up the phone. Andrea answers immediately.

“Andrea, I need a blank notecard to write a message within the next hour,” I say, and hang up. “Right, Ros, where were we?”

AT 12:30 OLIVIA SHUFFLES
into my office with lunch. She's a tall, willowy girl with a pretty face. Sadly, it's always misdirected at me with longing. She's carrying a tray with what I hope is something edible. After a busy morning, I'm starving. She trembles as she puts it on my desk.

Tuna salad. Okay. She hasn't fucked this up for once.

She also places three different white cards, all different sizes, with corresponding envelopes on my desk.

“Great,” I mutter.
Now go.
She scuttles out.

I take one bite of tuna to assuage my hunger, then reach for my pen. I've chosen a quote. A warning. I made the correct choice, walking away from her. Not all men are romantic heroes. I'll take the word “men-folk” out. She'll understand.

Why didn't you tell me there was danger? Why didn't you warn me? Ladies know what to guard against, because they read novels that tell them of these tricks…

I slip the card into the envelope provided and on it write Ana's address, which is ingrained in my memory from Welch's background check. I buzz Andrea.

“Yes, Mr. Grey.”

“Can you come in, please?”

“Yes, sir.”

She appears at my door a moment later. “Mr. Grey?”

“Take these, package them, and courier them to Anastasia Steele, the girl who interviewed me last week. Here's her address.”

“Right away, Mr. Grey.”

“They have to arrive by tomorrow at the latest.”

“Yes, sir. Will that be all?”

“No. Find me a set of replacements.”

“For these books?”

“Yes. First editions. Get Olivia on it.”

“What books are these?”

“
Tess of the d'Urbervilles.
”

“Yes, sir.” She gives me a rare smile and leaves my office.

Why is she smiling?

She never smiles. Dismissing the thought, I wonder if that will be the last I see of the books, and I have to acknowledge that deep down I hope not.