姐,我要。。。
轻松的小说阅读环境
五十度灰英文版 - Part II 1
繁体
恢复默认
返回目录【键盘操作】左右光标键:上下章节;回车键:目录;双击鼠标:停止/启动自动滚动;滚动时上下光标键调节滚动速度。
  E L James is a TV executive, wife and mother of two, based in
  West London. Since early childhood, she dreamt of writing stories
  that readers would fall in love with, but put those dreams on hold
  to focus on her family and her career. She finally plucked up the
  courage to put pen to paper with her first novel, Fifty Shades of
  Grey.
  E L James is currently working on the sequel to Fifty Shades
  Darker and a new romantic thriller with a supernatural twist.
  I owe a huge debt of gratitude to Sarah, Kay, and Jada.
  Thank you for all that you have done for me.
  Also HUGE thanks to Kathleen and Kristi who stepped
  into the breach and sorted stuff out.
  Thank you too to Niall, my husband, my lover, and my
  best friend (most of the time).
  And a big shout out to all the wonderful, wonderful women
  from all over the world whom I have had the pleasure of
  meeting since I started all this, and whom I now consider
  meeting since I started all this, and whom I now consider
  friends, 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 have met online. You
  know 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 on
  the couch. Her hand is on the sticky green rug, and he’s
  wearing his big boots with the shiny buckle and standing
  over Mommy shouting.
  He hits Mommy with a belt. Get up! Get up! You are
  one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch.
  You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up
  bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one
  bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one
  fucked-up bitch.
  Mommy makes a sobbing noise. Stop. Please stop.
  Mommy doesn’t scream. Mommy curls up small.
  I have my fingers in my ears, and I close my eyes. The
  sound stops.
  He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into the
  kitchen. He still has the belt. He is trying to find me.
  He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Of
  cigarettes and drink. There you are, you little shit.
  A chilling wail wakes him. Christ! He’s drenched in
  sweat and his heart is pounding. What the fuck? He sits
  bolt upright in bed and puts his head in hands. Fuck.
  They’re back. The noise was me. He takes a deep
  steadying breath, trying to rid his mind and nostrils of the
  smell of cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.
  I have survived Day Three Post-Christian, and my first day
  at work. It has been a welcome distraction. The time has
  flown by in a haze of new faces, work to do, and Mr. Jack
  Hyde. Mr. Jack Hyde . . . he smiles down at me, his blue
  eyes twinkling, as he leans against my desk.
  “Excellent work, Ana. I think we’re going to make a
  great team.”
  Somehow, I manage to curl my lips upward in a
  semblance 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 for
  the door. Out in the early evening air of Seattle, I take a
  deep breath. It doesn’t begin to fill the void in my chest, a
  void that’s been present since Saturday morning, a painful
  hollow reminder of my loss. I walk toward the bus stop
  with my head down, staring at my feet and contemplating
  being without my beloved Wanda, my old Beetle . . . or
  the Audi.
  I shut the door on that thought immediately. No. Don’t
  think about him. Of course, I can afford a car—a nice,
  new car. I suspect he has been overgenerous in his
  payment, and the thought leaves a bitter taste in my mouth,
  but I dismiss it and try to keep my mind as numb and as
  blank as possible. I can’t think about him. I don’t want to
  start crying again—not out on the street.
  The apartment is empty. I miss Kate, and I imagine her
  lying on a beach in Barbados sipping a cool cocktail. I turn
  on the flat-screen television so there’s noise to fill the
  vacuum and provide some semblance of company, but I
  don’t listen or watch. I sit and stare blankly at the brick
  wall. I am numb. I feel nothing but the pain. How long
  must I endure this?
  The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and my
  heart skips a beat. Who could that be? I press the
  intercom.
  “Delivery for Ms. Steele.” A bored, disembodied
  voice answers, and disappointment crashes through me. I
  listlessly make my way downstairs and find a young man
  noisily chewing gum, holding a large cardboard box, and
  leaning against the front door. I sign for the package and
  take it upstairs. The box is huge and surprisingly light.
  Inside are two dozen long-stemmed, white roses and a
  card.
  Congratulations on your first day at work.
  I hope it went well.
  And thank you for the glider. That was very
  thoughtful.
  It has pride of place on my desk.
  Christian
  I stare at the typed card, the hollow in my chest
  expanding. No doubt, his assistant sent this. Christian
  probably had very little to do with it. It’s too painful to
  think about. I examine the roses—they are beautiful, and I
  can’t bring myself to throw them in the trash. Dutifully, I
  make 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 and
  bright all haunt me. And the music . . . so much music—I
  cannot bear to hear any music. I am careful to avoid it at
  all costs. Even the jingles in commercials make me
  shudder.
  I have spoken to no one, not even my mother or Ray. I
  don’t have the capacity for idle talk now. No, I want none
  of it. I have become my own island state. A ravaged, wartorn
  land where nothing grows and the horizons are bleak.
  Yes, that’s me. I can interact impersonally at work, but
  that’s it. If I talk to Mom, I know I will break even further
  —and I have 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 eaten
  I manage a cup of yogurt, and it’s the first thing I’ve eaten
  since Friday. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance for
  lattes 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, asking
  me 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 of
  correspondence addressed to him, and I’m pleased with
  the distraction of menial work. My e-mail pings, and I
  quickly check to see who it’s from.
  Holy shit. An e-mail from Christian. Oh no, not
  here . . . not at work.
  From: Christian Grey
  Subject: Tomorrow
  Date: June 8, 2011 14:05
  To: Anastasia Steele
  Dear Anastasia
  Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it’s going well. Did you
  get 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 long
  drive. I would be more than happy to take you—should you wish.
  Let me know.
  Christian Grey
  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
  Tears swim in my eyes. I hastily leave my desk and bolt to
  the 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? Come
  to think of it—why hasn’t anyone phoned? I’ve been so
  absentminded, I haven’t noticed that my cell phone has
  been silent.
  Shit! I am such an idiot! I still have it on divert to the
  Blackberry. Holy hell. Christian’s been getting my calls—
  unless he’s just thrown the Blackberry away. How did he
  get my e-mail address?
  He knows my shoe size, an e-mail address is hardly
  going to present him with many problems.
  Can I see him again? Could I bear it? Do I want to see
  him? I close my eyes and tilt my head back as grief and
  longing lance through me. Of course I do.
  Perhaps, perhaps I can tell him I’ve changed my
  mind . . . No, no, no. I cannot be with someone who takes
  pleasure in inflicting pain on me, someone who can’t love
  me.
  Torturous memories flash through my mind—the
  gliding, 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 an
  eternity.
  I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself
  tightly, holding myself together. I miss him. I really miss
  him . . . I love him. Simple.
  I cry myself to sleep at night, wishing I hadn’t walked
  out, wishing that he could be different, wishing that we
  were together. How long will this hideous overwhelming
  feeling 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, the
  masochist in me wants to see Christian. Taking a deep
  breath, I head back to my desk.
  From: Anastasia Steele
  Subject: Tomorrow
  Date: June 8, 2011 14:25
  To: Christian Grey
  Hi Christian
  Thank you for the flowers; they are lovely.
  Yes, I would appreciate a lift.
  Thank you.
  Anastasia Steele
  Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
  Checking 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 welcoming
  it’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 there
  tomorrow for your show?”
  “You’re still coming?” He sounds excited.
  “Yes, of course.” I smile my first genuine smile in five
  days as I picture his broad grin.
  “Seven thirty.”
  “See you then. Good-bye, José.”
  “Bye, Ana.”
  From: Christian Grey
  Subject: Tomorrow
  Date: June 8, 2011 14:27
  To: Anastasia Steele
  Dear Anastasia
  What time shall I collect you?
  Christian Grey
  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
  From: Anastasia Steele
  Subject: Tomorrow
  Date: June 8, 2011 14:32
  To: Christian Grey
  José’s show starts at 7:30. What time would you suggest?
  Anastasia Steele
  Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
  From: Christian Grey
  Subject: Tomorrow
  Date: June 8, 2011 14:34
  To: Anastasia Steele
  Dear Anastasia
  Portland is some distance away. I shall collect you at 5:45.
  I look forward to seeing you.
  Christian Grey
  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
  From: Anastasia Steele
  Subject: Tomorrow
  Date: June 8, 2011 14:38
  To: Christian Grey
  See you then.
  Anastasia Steele
  Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP
  Oh my. I’m going to see Christian, and for the first time in
  five days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself to
  five days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself to
  wonder how he’s been.
  Has he missed me? Probably not like I’ve missed him.
  Has he found a new submissive from wherever they come
  from? The thought is so painful that I dismiss it
  immediately. I look at the pile of correspondence I need to
  sort for Jack and tackle it as I try to push Christian out of
  my mind once more.
  That night in bed, I toss and turn, trying to sleep. It is
  the first time in a while I haven’t cried myself to sleep.
  In my mind’s eye, I visualize Christian’s face the last
  time I saw him as I left his apartment. His tortured
  expression haunts me. I remember he didn’t want me to
  go, which was odd. Why would I stay when things had
  reached such an impasse? We were each skirting around
  our own issues—my fear of punishment, his fear of . . .

  what? Love?
  Turning on my side, I hug my pillow, filled with an
  overwhelming sadness. He thinks he doesn’t deserve to be
  loved. Why does he feel that way? Is it something to do
  with his upbringing? His birth mom, the crack whore? My
  thoughts plague me into the early hours until eventually I
  fall into a fitful, exhausted sleep.
  The day drags and drags and Jack is unusually attentive. I
  suspect it’s Kate’s plum dress and the black high-heeled
  boots I’ve stolen from her closet, but I don’t dwell on the
  thought. I resolve to go clothes shopping with my first
  paycheck. The dress is looser on me than it was, but I
  pretend not to notice.
  Finally, it’s five thirty, and I collect my jacket and
  purse, trying to quell my nerves. I’m going to see him!
  “Do you have a date tonight?” Jack asks as he strolls
  past my desk on his way out.
  “Yes. No. Not really.”
  He cocks an eyebrow at me, his interest clearly
  piqued. “Boyfriend?”
  I flush. “No, a friend. An ex-boyfriend.”
  “Maybe tomorrow you’d like to come for a drink after
  work. You’ve had a stellar first week, Ana. We should
  celebrate.” He smiles and some unknown emotion flits
  across his face, making me uneasy.
  Putting his hands in his pockets, he saunters through
  the double doors. I frown at his retreating back. Drinks
  with the boss, is that a good idea?
  I shake my head. I have an evening of Christian Grey
  to get through first. How am I going to do this? I hurry into
  the restroom to make last-minute adjustments.
  In the large mirror on the wall, I take a long, hard look
  at my face. I am my usual pale self, dark circles round my
  too-large eyes. I look gaunt, haunted.
  Jeez, I wish I knew how to use makeup. I apply some
  mascara and eyeliner and pinch my cheeks, hoping to
  bring some color their way. Tidying my hair so that it hangs
  artfully down my back, I take a deep breath. This will have
  to do.
  Nervously I walk through the foyer with a smile and a
  wave to Claire at reception. I think she and I could
  become friends. Jack is talking to Elizabeth as I head for
  the doors. Smiling broadly, he hurries over to open them
  for me.
  “After you, Ana,” he murmurs.
  “Thank you.” I smile, embarrassed.
  Outside on the curb, Taylor is waiting. He opens the
  rear door of the car. I glance hesitantly at Jack who has
  followed me out. He’s looking toward the Audi SUV in
  dismay.
  I turn and climb into the back, and there he sits—
  Christian Grey—wearing his gray suit, no tie, his white
  shirt open at the collar. His gray eyes are glowing.
  My mouth dries. He looks glorious except he’s
  scowling at me. Oh no!
  “When did you last eat?” he snaps as Taylor closes the
  door behind me.
  Crap. “Hello, Christian. Yes, it’s nice to see you, too.”
  “I don’t want your smart mouth now. Answer me.” His
  eyes blaze.
  Holy shit. “Um . . . I had a yogurt at lunchtime. Oh—
  and a banana.”
  “When did you last have a proper meal?” he asks
  acidly.
  Taylor slips into the driver’s seat, starts the car, and
  pulls out into the traffic.
  I glance up and Jack is waving at me, though how he
  can see me through the dark glass, I don’t know. I wave
  back.
  “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,” I
  murmur, feeling extraordinarily brave.
  “Whatever you do concerns me. Tell me.”
  No, it doesn’t. I groan in frustration, rolling my eyes
  heavenward, and Christian narrows his eyes. And for the
  first time in a long time, I want to laugh. I try hard to stifle
  the giggle that threatens to bubble up. Christian’s face
  softens as I struggle to keep a straight face, and I see a
  trace 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, sweeps
  across his face. “I see,” he says, his voice expressionless.
  “You look like you’ve lost at least five pounds, possibly
  more since then. Please eat, Anastasia,” he scolds.
  I stare down at the knotted fingers in my lap. Why
  does he always make me feel like an errant child?
  He shifts and turns toward me. “How are you?” he
  asks, his voice still soft.
  Well, I’m shit really . . . I swallow. “If I told you I
  was fine, I’d be lying.”
  He inhales sharply. “Me, too,” he murmurs and
  reaches 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’ve
  cried so much,” I whisper, trying to keep my emotions in
  check
  “Oh, baby, no.” He tugs my hand, and before I know
  it I’m on his lap. He has his arms around me, and his nose
  is in my hair. “I’ve missed you so much, Anastasia,” he
  breathes.
  I want to struggle out of his hold, to maintain some
  distance, but his arms are wrapped around me. He’s
  pressing me to his chest. I melt. Oh, this is where I want to
  be.
  I rest my head against him, and he kisses my hair
  repeatedly. This is home. He smells of linen, fabric
  softener, body wash, and my favorite smell—Christian.
  For a moment, I allow myself the illusion that all will be
  well, and it soothes my ravaged 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’re
  here.”
  What?
  “Helipad—on the top of this building.” Christian
  glances toward the building by way of explanation.
  Of course. Charlie Tango. Taylor opens the door and I
  slide out. He gives me a warm, avuncular smile that makes
  me 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 my
  hand. He looks quizzically at Taylor who stares
  impassively back at him, revealing nothing.
  “Nine?” Christian says to him.
  “Yes, sir.”
  Christian nods as he turns and leads me through the
  double doors into the grandiose foyer. I revel in the feel of
  his large hand and his long, skilled fingers curled around
  mine. I feel the familiar pull—I am drawn, Icarus to his
  sun. I have been burned already, and yet here I am again.
  Reaching the elevators, he presses the call button. I
  peek 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 glances
  down at me, gray eyes alive, and it’s there in the air
  between us, that electricity. It’s palpable. I can almost
  taste it, pulsing between us, drawing us together.
  “Oh my,” I gasp as I bask briefly in the intensity of this
  visceral, primal attraction.
  “I feel it, too,” he says, his eyes clouded and intense.
  Desire pools dark and deadly in my groin. He clasps
  my hand and grazes my knuckles with his thumb, and all
  my 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 her
  Oh, I still affect him. My inner goddess stirs from her
  five-day sulk.
  Abruptly the doors open, breaking the spell, and we’re
  on the roof. It’s windy, and despite my black jacket, I’m
  cold. Christian puts his arm around me, pulling me into his
  side, and we hurry across to where Charlie Tango stands
  in the center of the helipad with its rotor blades slowly
  spinning.
  A tall, blond, square-jawed man in a dark suit leaps
  out and, ducking low, runs toward us. Shaking hands with
  Christian, 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, Christian
  nods, 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 and
  his secret smile.
  “This should keep you in your place,” he murmurs. “I
  must say I do like this harness on you. Don’t touch
  anything.”
  I flush a deep crimson, and he runs his index finger
  down my cheek before handing me the headphones. I’d
  like to touch you, too, but you won’t let me. I scowl at
  him. Besides, he’s pulled the straps so tight I can barely
  him. Besides, he’s pulled the straps so tight I can barely
  move.
  He sits in his seat and buckles himself in, then starts
  running through all his preflight checks. He’s just so
  competent. It’s very alluring. He puts on his headphones
  and flips a switch and the rotors speed up, deafening me.
  Turning, he gazes at me. “Ready, baby?” His voice
  echoes through the headphones.
  “Yes.”
  He grins his boyish grin. Wow—I’ve not seen it for so
  long.
  “Sea-Tac tower, this is Charlie Tango—Tango Echo
  Hotel, cleared for takeoff to Portland via PDX. Please
  confirm, over.”
  The disembodied voice of the air traffic controller
  answers, issuing instructions.
  “Roger, tower, Charlie Tango set, over and out.”
  Christian flips two switches, grasps the stick, and the
  helicopter rises slowly and smoothly into the evening sky.
  Seattle and my stomach drop away from us, and
  there’s so much to see.
  “We’ve chased the dawn, Anastasia, now the dusk,”
  his voice comes through on the headphones. I turn to gape
  at him in surprise.
  What does this mean? How is it that he can say the
  most romantic things? He smiles, and I can’t help but smile
  shyly back at him.
  “As well as the evening sun, there’s more to see this
  time,” he says.
  The last time we flew to Seattle it was dark, but this
  The last time we flew to Seattle it was dark, but this
  evening the view is spectacular, literally out of this world.
  We’re up among the tallest buildings, going higher and
  higher.
  “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.” He
  glares at me.
  I shake my head and flush before taking a less
  confrontational 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 of
  many talents.”
  “I’m fully aware of that, Mr. Grey.”
  He turns and smirks at me, and for the first time in five
  days, 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 Jack
  makes 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 obtuse sometimes.”
  “Oh, Christian, you really are very obtuse sometimes.”
  “Obtuse? Me? I’m not sure I appreciate your tone,
  Miss Steele.”
  “Well, don’t then.”

  His lips twitch into a smile. “I have missed your smart
  mouth.”
  I gasp and I want to shout, I’ve missed you—all of
  you—not just your mouth! But I keep quiet and gaze out
  the glass fishbowl that is Charlie Tango’s windshield as we
  continue south. The dusk is to our right, the sun low on the
  horizon—large, blazing fiery orange—and I am Icarus
  again, flying far too close.
  The dusk has followed us from Seattle, and the sky is
  awash with opal, pinks, and aquamarines woven
  seamlessly together as only Mother Nature knows how.
  It’s a clear, crisp evening, and the lights of Portland
  twinkle and wink, welcoming us as Christian sets the
  helicopter down on the helipad. We are on top of the
  strange brown brick building in Portland we left less than
  three weeks ago.
  Jeez, it’s been hardly any time at all. Yet I feel like I’ve
  known Christian for a lifetime. He powers down Charlie
  Tango, flipping various switches so the rotors stop, and
  eventually all I hear is my own breathing through the
  headphones. Hmm. Briefly it reminds me of the Thomas
  Tallis experience. I blanch. I so don’t want to go there
  right now.
  Christian unbuckles his harness and leans across to
  undo mine.
  “Good trip, Miss Steele?” he asks, his voice mild, his
  gray eyes glowing.
  “Yes, thank you, Mr. Grey,” I reply politely.
  “Well, let’s go see the boy’s photos.” He holds his
  hand out to me and taking it, I climb out of Charlie Tango.
  A gray-haired man with a beard walks over to meet
  us, smiling broadly, and I recognize him as the old-timer
  from the last time we were here.
  “Joe.” Christian smiles and releases my hand to shake
  Joe’s warmly.
  “Keep her safe for Stephan. He’ll be along around
  eight or nine.”
  “Will do, Mr. Grey. Ma’am,” he says, nodding at me.
  “Your car’s waiting downstairs, sir. Oh, and the elevator’s
  out of order; you’ll need to use the stairs.”
  “Thank you, Joe.”
  Christian takes my hand, and we head to the
  emergency stairs.
  “Good thing for you this is only three floors, in those
  heels,” he mutters to me in disapproval.
  No kidding.
  “Don’t you like the boots?”
  “I like them very much, Anastasia.” His gaze darkens
  and I think he might say something else, but he stops.
  “Come. We’ll take it slow. I don’t want you falling and
  breaking your neck.”
  We sit in silence as our driver takes us to the gallery. My
  anxiety has returned full force, and I realize that our time in
  Charlie Tango has been the eye of the storm. Christian is
  quiet and brooding . . . apprehensive even; our lighter
  mood from earlier has dissipated. There’s so much I want
  to say, but this journey is too short. Christian stares
  pensively out the window.
  “José is just a friend,” I murmur.
  Christian turns and gazes at me, his eyes dark and
  guarded, giving nothing away. His mouth—oh, his mouth is
  distracting, and unbidden. I remember it on me—
  everywhere. My skin heats. He shifts in his seat and
  frowns.
  “Those beautiful eyes look too large in your face,
  Anastasia. Please tell me you’ll eat.”
  “Yes, Christian, I’ll eat,” I answer automatically, a
  platitude.
  “I mean it.”
  “Do you now?” I cannot keep the disdain out of my
  voice. Honestly, the audacity of this man—this man who
  has put me through hell over the last few days. No, that’s
  wrong. I’ve put myself through hell. No. It’s him. I shake
  my head, confused.
  “I don’t want to fight with you, Anastasia. I want you
  back, and I want you healthy,” he says softly.
  What? What does that mean? “But nothing’s
  changed.” 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 Christian
  climbs out, leaving me speechless. He opens the car door
  climbs out, leaving me speechless. He opens the car door
  for me, and I clamber out.
  “Why do you do that?” My voice is louder than I
  expected.
  “Do what?” Christian is taken aback.
  “Say something like that and then just stop.”
  “Anastasia, we’re here. Where you want to be. Let’s
  do this and then talk. I don’t particularly want a scene in
  the street.”
  I flush and glance around. He’s right. It’s too public. I
  press my lips together as he glares down at me.
  “Okay,” I mutter sulkily. Taking my hand, he leads me
  into the building.
  We are in a converted warehouse—brick walls, dark
  wood floors, white ceilings, and white pipe work. It’s airy
  and modern, and there are several people wandering
  across the gallery floor, sipping wine and admiring José’s
  work. For a moment, my troubles melt away as I grasp
  that José has realized his dream. Way to go, José!
  “Good evening and welcome to José Rodriguez’s
  show.” A young woman dressed in black with very short
  brown hair, bright red lipstick, and large hooped earrings
  greets us. She glances briefly at me, then much longer than
  is strictly necessary at Christian, then turns back to me,
  blinking as she blushes.
  My brow creases. He’s mine—or was. I try hard not
  to scowl at her. As her eyes regain their focus, she blinks
  again.
  “Oh, it’s you, Ana. We’ll want your take on all this,
  too.” Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me to
  too.” Grinning, she hands me a brochure and directs me to
  a 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 to
  drink?”
  “I’ll have a glass of white wine, thank you.”
  His brow furrows, but he holds his tongue and heads
  for the open bar.
  “Ana!”
  José comes barreling through a throng of people.
  Holy cow! He’s wearing a suit. He looks good and
  he’s beaming at me. He enfolds me in his arms, hugging me
  hard. And it’s all I can do not to burst into tears. My
  friend, my only friend while Kate is away. Tears pool in
  my eyes.
  “Ana, I’m so glad you made it,” he whispers in my ear,
  then pauses and abruptly holds me at arm’s length, staring
  at me.
  “What?”
  “Hey are you okay? You look, well, odd. Dios mio,
  have you lost weight?”
  I blink back my tears. “José, I’m fine. I’m just so
  happy for you.” Crap—not him, too. “Congratulations on
  the show.” My voice wavers as I see his concern etched
  on his oh-so-familiar face, but I have to hold myself
  together.
  “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 is
  he?” His expression darkens.
  “Over there, fetching drinks.” I nod in Christian’s
  direction and see he’s exchanging pleasantries with
  someone waiting in line. Christian glances up when I look
  his way and our eyes lock. And in that brief moment, I’m
  paralyzed, staring at the impossibly handsome man who
  gazes at me with some unfathomable emotion. His gaze
  hot, burning into me, and we’re lost for a moment staring
  at each other.
  Holy cow . . . This beautiful man wants me back, and
  deep down inside me sweet joy slowly unfurls like a
  morning glory in the early dawn.
  “Ana!” José distracts me, and I’m dragged back to the
  here and now. “I am so glad you came—listen, I should
  warn you—”
  Suddenly, Miss Very Short Hair and Red Lipstick cuts
  him off. “José, the journalist from the Portland Printz is
  here to see you. Come on.” She gives me a polite smile.
  “How cool is this? The fame.” He grins, and I can’t
  help but grin back—he’s so happy. “Catch you later,
  Ana.” He kisses my cheek, and I watch him stroll over to
  a young woman standing by a tall lanky photographer.
  José’s photographs are everywhere, and in some
  cases, blown up onto huge canvases. There are both
  monochromes and colors. There’s an ethereal beauty to
  many of the landscapes. In one taken out near the lake at
  Vancouver, it’s early evening and pink clouds are reflected
  in the stillness of the water. Briefly, I’m transported by the
  in the stillness of the water. Briefly, I’m transported by the
  tranquility and the peace. It’s stunning.
  Christian joins me, and I take a deep breath and
  swallow, 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 more
  normal.
  He looks quizzically at me.
  “The wine.”
  “No. Rarely does at these kinds of events. The boy’s
  quite talented, isn’t he?” Christian is admiring the lake
  photo.
  “Why else do you think I asked him to take your
  portrait?” I can’t help the pride in my voice. His eyes glide
  impassively from the photograph to me.
  “Christian Grey?” The photographer from the Portland
  Printz approaches Christian. “Can I have a picture, sir?”
  “Sure.” Christian hides his scowl. I step back, but he
  grabs my hand and pulls me to his side. The photographer
  looks 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 explains
  your inappropriate question. No, I don’t do dates,
  Anastasia—only with you. But you know that.” His eyes
  burn with sincerity.
  burn with sincerity.
  “So you never took your”—I glance around nervously
  to check no one can overhear us—“subs out?”
  “Sometimes. Not on dates. Shopping, you know.” He
  shrugs, his eyes not leaving mine.
  Oh, so just in the playroom—his Red Room of Pain
  and 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, not
  portraits. 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 a
  couple nodding at me, smiling broadly as if they know me.
  It must be because I’m with Christian, but one young man
  is blatantly staring. Odd.
  We turn the corner, and I can see why I’ve been
  getting strange looks. Hanging on the far wall are seven
  huge portraits—of me.
  I stare blankly at them, stupefied, the blood draining
  from 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 camera
  on a couple of occasions when he was visiting and when
  I’d been out with him as driver and photographer’s
  assistant. He took snapshots, or so I thought. Not these
  invasive candids.
  I glance up at Christian, who is staring, transfixed, at
  each 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 gray
  gaze for a moment. He turns and heads to the reception
  desk.
  What’s his problem now? I watch mesmerized as he
  talks animatedly with Miss Very Short Hair and Red
  Lipstick. He fishes out his wallet and produces his credit
  card.
  Shit. He must have bought one of them.
  “Hey. You’re the muse. These photographs are
  terrific.” A young man with a shock of bright blond hair
  startles me. I feel a hand at my elbow and Christian is

  back.
  “You’re a lucky guy.” Blond Shock smirks at
  Christian, who gives him a cold stare.
  “That I am,” he mutters darkly, as he pulls me over to
  one 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’t
  want some stranger ogling you in the privacy of their
  home.”
  My first inclination is to laugh. “You’d rather it was
  you?” I scoff.
  He glares down at me, caught off guard by my
  audacity, I think, but he’s trying to hide his amusement.
  “Frankly, yes.”
  “Pervert,” I mouth at him and bite my lower lip to
  prevent my smile.
  His mouth drops open, and now his amusement is
  obvious. He strokes his chin thoughtfully.
  “Can’t argue with that assessment, Anastasia.” He
  shakes his head, and his eyes soften with humor.
  “I’d discuss it further with you, but I’ve signed an
  NDA.”
  He sighs, gazing at me, and his eyes darken. “What I’d
  like to do to your smart mouth,” he murmurs.
  I gasp, knowing full well what he means. “You’re very
  rude.” I try to sound shocked and succeed. Does he have
  no 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 non
  sequitur—from playful to serious.
  I flush and glance down at my fingers. He tilts my head
  back, and I inhale sharply at the contact with his long
  fingers.
  “I want you that relaxed with me,” he whispers. All
  trace of humor has gone.
  Deep inside me that joy stirs again. But how can this
  be? We have issues.
  “You have to stop intimidating me if you want that,” I
  snap.
  “You have to learn to communicate and tell me how
  you feel,” he snaps back, eyes blazing.
  I take a deep breath. “Christian, you wanted me as a
  submissive. That’s where the problem lies. It’s in the
  definition of a submissive—you e-mailed it to me once.” I
  pause, trying to recall the wording. “I think the synonyms
  were, and I quote, ‘compliant, pliant, amenable, passive,
  tractable, resigned, patient, docile, tame, subdued.’ I
  wasn’t supposed to look at you. Not talk to you unless
  you gave me permission to do so. What do you expect?” I
  hiss at him.
  He blinks, and his frown deepens as I continue.
  “It’s very confusing being with you. You don’t want
  me to defy you, but then you like my ‘smart mouth.’ You
  want obedience, except when you don’t, so you can
  punish me. I just don’t know which way is up when I’m
  with 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 I
  met him, was trying to push his tongue into your reluctant
  mouth while you were drunk and ill,” he snarls.
  “He’s never hit me,” I spit at him.
  Christian scowls at me, fury emanating from every
  pore. “That’s a low blow, Anastasia,” he whispers
  menacingly.
  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 fading
  away 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 Control
  Freak. Angry is good. Angry is better than tearful.
  I drag my gaze away from him and scan the room for
  José. He’s talking to a group of young women. I stalk off
  toward him and away from Fifty. Just because he brought
  me here, I have to do as he says? Who the hell does he
  think he is?
  The girls are hanging on José’s every word. One of
  them gasps as I approach, no doubt recognizing me from
  the portraits.
  “José.”
  “Ana. Excuse me, girls.” José grins at them and puts
  his arm around me, and on some level I’m amused—José
  all smooth, impressing the ladies.
  “You look mad,” he says.
  “I have to go,” I mutter mulishly.
  “You just got here.”
  “I know but Christian needs to get back. The pictures
  are 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 I
  can see Christian across the gallery. He’s scowling, and I
  realize it’s because I’m in José’s arms. So in a very
  realize it’s because I’m in José’s arms. So in a very
  calculating move, I wrap my arms around José’s neck. I
  think Christian is going to expire. His glare darkens to
  something quite sinister, and slowly he makes his way
  toward us.
  “Thanks for the warning about the portraits of me,” I
  mumble.
  “Shit. Sorry, Ana. I should have told you. D’you like
  them?”
  “Um . . . I don’t know,” I answer truthfully,
  momentarily knocked off balance by his question.
  “Well, they’re all sold, so somebody likes them. How
  cool is that? You’re a poster girl.” He hugs me tighter still
  as Christian reaches us, glowering at me now, though
  fortunately José doesn’t see.
  José releases me. “Don’t be a stranger, Ana. Oh, Mr.
  Grey, good evening.”
  “Mr. Rodriguez, very impressive.” Christian sounds
  icily polite. “I’m sorry we can’t stay longer, but we need to
  head back to Seattle. Anastasia?” He subtly stresses we
  and takes my hand as he does so.
  “Bye, José. Congratulations again.” I give him a quick
  kiss on the cheek, and before I know it Christian is
  dragging me out of the building. I know he’s boiling with
  silent wrath, but so am I.
  He looks quickly up and down the street then heads
  left and suddenly sweeps me into a side alley, abruptly
  pushing me up against a wall. He grabs my face between
  his hands, forcing me to look up into his ardent determined
  eyes.
  eyes.
  I gasp, and his mouth swoops down. He’s kissing me,
  violently. Briefly our teeth clash, then his tongue is in my
  mouth.
  Desire explodes like the Fourth of July throughout my
  body, and I’m kissing him back, matching his fervor, my
  hands knotting in his hair, pulling it, hard. He groans, a low
  sexy sound in the back of his throat that reverberates
  through me, and his hand moves down my body to the top
  of my thigh, his fingers digging into my flesh through the
  plum dress.
  I pour all the angst and heartbreak of the last few days
  into our kiss, binding him to me, and it hits me—in this
  moment of blinding passion—he’s doing the same, he feels
  the same.
  He breaks off the kiss, panting. His eyes are luminous
  with desire, firing the already heated blood that is pounding
  through my body. My mouth is slack as I try to drag
  precious air into my lungs.
  “You. Are. Mine,” he snarls, emphasizing each word.
  He pushes away from me and bends, hands on his knees
  as if he’s run a marathon. “For the love of God, Ana.”
  I lean against the wall, panting, trying to control the
  riotous reaction in my body, trying to find my equilibrium
  again.
  “I’m sorry,” I whisper once my breath has returned.
  “You should be. I know what you were doing. Do you
  want the photographer, Anastasia? He obviously has
  feelings for you.”
  I flush and shake my head.
  I flush and shake my head.
  “No. He’s just a friend.”
  “I have spent all my adult life trying to avoid any
  extreme emotion. Yet you . . . you bring out feelings in me
  that are completely alien. It’s very . . .” He frowns,
  grasping for the word. “Unsettling.
  “I like control, Ana, and around you that just”—he
  stands, his gaze intense—“evaporates.” He waves his hand
  vaguely, then runs it through his hair and takes a deep
  breath. 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 have to do,” Christian grumbles. “We
  don’t have much time.”
  The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linen
  tablecloths, and walls the same color as Christian’s
  playroom—deep blood red—with small gilt mirrors
  randomly placed, white candles, and small vases of white
  roses. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the background
  about 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 to
  say.
  “We don’t have long,” Christian says to the waiter as
  we sit. “So we’ll each have sirloin steak cooked medium,
  béarnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables,
  whatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list.”
  “Certainly, sir.” The waiter, taken aback by Christian’s
  cool, calm efficiency, scuttles off. Christian places his
  Blackberry 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 how
  it will be, an agitated, fraught conversation, albeit in a very
  romantic setting but certainly no hearts and flowers.
  “I’m a child because I don’t like steak?” I mutter trying
  to conceal my hurt.
  “For deliberately making me jealous. It’s a childish
  thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend’s feelings,
  leading him on like that?” Christian presses his lips together
  in a thin line and scowls as the waiter returns with the wine
  list.
  I blush—I hadn’t thought of that. Poor José—I
  certainly don’t want to encourage him. Suddenly, I’m
  mortified. Christian has a point; it was a thoughtless thing
  to do. He glances at the wine list.
  “Would you like to choose the wine?” he asks, raising
  his eyebrows at me expectantly, arrogance personified. He
  knows 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. I
  frown at Fifty. What’s eating him? Oh, me probably, and
  somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddess
  rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She’s been asleep for
  rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She’s been asleep for
  a 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 and
  honest discussion about the future, wouldn’t you say?” I
  smile at him sweetly.
  His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost
  reluctantly, his lips lift, and I know he’s trying to stifle his
  smile.
  “I’m sorry,” he says.
  “Apology accepted, and I’m pleased to inform you I
  haven’t decided to become a vegetarian since we last ate.”
  “Since that was the last time you ate, I think that’s a
  moot point.”
  “There’s that word again, moot.”
  “Moot,” he mouths and his eyes soften with humor. He
  runs his hand through his hair, and he’s serious again.
  “Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I’m a little
  nervous. I’ve told you I want you back, and you’ve
  said . . . nothing.” His gaze is intense and expectant while
  his candor is totally disarming. What the hell do I say to this?
或许您还会喜欢:
马克吐温作品集
作者:佚名
章节:17 人气:2
摘要:本文是作者根据自己1868年在纽约采访州长竞选的素材写成的一篇政治讽刺小说。作者以夸张的漫画式的笔触,艺术地再现了美国社会中竞选的种种秽事丑闻,揭露了竞选的虚伪性和欺骗性。这篇小说以独立党候选人“我”的自白与大量的新闻、匿名信等引文的对照构成完整的故事,用犀利、夸张、含蓄的语言表达了作者对腐败政治的愤怒谴责。 [点击阅读]
高尔夫球场的疑云
作者:佚名
章节:28 人气:2
摘要:我知道有这么一则已为人所共知的铁事,它的大意是:一位年轻作家决心要把他的故事的开头写得独具一格、有声有色,想借此引起那些读腻了声色犬马之类文章的编辑们的注意,便写下了如下的句子:“‘该死!’公爵夫人说道。”真怪,我这故事的开头倒也是同一个形式.只不过说这句话的女士不是一位公爵夫人罢了。那是六月初的一天,我在巴黎刚办完了一些事务,正乘着早车回伦敦去。 [点击阅读]
ABC谋杀案
作者:佚名
章节:36 人气:0
摘要:在我的这本记叙性的书中,我摒弃了常规,仅仅以第一人称叙述了我亲自处理过的一些案件和勘查过的现场,而其它章节是以第三人称的方式写的。我希冀读者相信书中的情节是真实的。虽然在描述各种不同人物的思想及感情上过于细腻,可是我保证,这都是我当时精细的笔录。此外,我的朋友赫尔克里.波洛还亲自对它们进行过校对。 [点击阅读]
一个人的好天气
作者:佚名
章节:40 人气:0
摘要:正文第1节:春天(1)春天一个雨天,我来到了这个家。有间屋子的门楣上摆着一排漂亮的镜框,里面全是猫的照片。再往屋里一看,从左面墙开始,隔过中间窗户,一直转到右面墙的一半,又挂了快一圈儿猫的照片,我懒得去数多少张了。照片有黑白的,也有彩色的;有的猫不理睬我,有的猫死盯着我。整个房间就像个佛龛,令人窒息。我呆呆地站在门口。"这围脖真好看哪。 [点击阅读]
一朵桔梗花
作者:佚名
章节:37 人气:0
摘要:1.一串白藤花序幕花街上,点着常夜灯。如今,连一点痕迹都没有了,可是大正(注:日本年号,1911-1926)末年,在那个伸入濑户内海的小小港埠里,有一所即今是当时也使人觉得凄寂的风化区,名字就叫“常夜坡”。活了这么一把年纪,到如今还常常会想起那整晚点着的白花花、冷清清的灯光;奇异的是每次想起,它总是那么凄冷,了无生气。 [点击阅读]
万圣节前夜的谋杀案
作者:佚名
章节:27 人气:0
摘要:阿里阿德理-奥列弗夫人在朋友朱迪思-巴特勒家作客。一天德雷克夫人家准备给村里的孩子们开个晚会,奥列弗夫人便跟朋友一道前去帮忙。德雷克夫人家热闹非凡.女人们一个个精神抖擞,进进出出地搬着椅子、小桌子、花瓶什么的.还搬来许多老南瓜,有条不紊地放在选定的位置上。今天要举行的是万圣节前夜晚会,邀请了一群十至十七岁的孩子作客。 [点击阅读]
万延元年的足球队
作者:佚名
章节:13 人气:0
摘要:死者引导我们我在黎明前的黑暗中醒来,寻求着一种热切的“期待”的感觉,摸索着噩梦残破的意识。一如咽下一口要以烧着你五脏六腑的威士忌,这种“期待”的感觉热辣辣的。我心中忐忑,摸索着,企望它能切实重返体内。然而这种摸索却永远都是徒劳枉然。手指已没了气力,我只好将它们并拢起来。分明觉出自己全身的骨肉都已分离。迎着光亮,我的意识畏葸不前,这种感觉也正转化成一种钝痛。 [点击阅读]
万灵节之死
作者:佚名
章节:26 人气:0
摘要:一艾瑞丝-玛尔正在想着她的姐姐罗斯玛丽。在过去将近一年里,她极尽可能地试着把罗斯玛丽自脑海中抹去。她不想去记起。那太痛苦——太恐怖了!那氰化钾中毒发蓝的脸孔,那痉挛紧缩的手指……那与前一天欢乐可爱的罗斯玛丽形成的强烈对比……呵,也许并不真的是欢乐。 [点击阅读]
三个火枪手
作者:佚名
章节:77 人气:0
摘要:内容简介小说主要描述了法国红衣大主教黎塞留,从1624年出任首相到1628年攻打并占领胡格诺言教派的主要根据地拉罗谢尔城期间所发生的事。黎塞留为了要帮助国王路易十三,千方百计要抓住王后与英国首相白金汉公爵暧昧关系的把柄。而作品主人公达达尼昂出于正义,与他的好友三个火枪手为解救王后冲破大主教所设下的重重罗网,最终保全了王后的名誉。 [点击阅读]
三幕悲剧
作者:佚名
章节:27 人气:0
摘要:萨特思韦特先生坐在鸦巢屋的露台上,看着屋主查尔斯-卡特赖特爵士从海边爬上小路。鸦巢屋是一座漂亮的现代平房,木质结构不到一半,没有三角墙,没有三流建筑师爱不释手的多佘累赘的设计。这是一幢简洁而坚固的白色建筑物。它看起来比实际的体积小得多.真是不可貌相。这房子的名声要归功于它的位置-居高临下,俯瞰整个鲁茅斯海港。 [点击阅读]
不分手的理由
作者:佚名
章节:11 人气:0
摘要:在喧闹的大街拐弯之后,刹那间四周变得寂静无声,黑暗中一排路灯伫立在街头。放眼望去,只有一盏红绿灯在寒空中绽放着鲜红色的光芒。速见修平往前欠身,嘱咐计程车司机行驶至红绿灯时左转。这一带是世田谷的新兴社区,近年来开始兴建,大量的超级市场和公寓,修平目前住的房子也是三年前才盖好的。住宅用地有高度的限制,修平住的公寓只有三层楼,他本身住在二楼。 [点击阅读]
且听风吟
作者:佚名
章节:31 人气:0
摘要:1“不存在十全十美的文章,如同不存在彻头彻尾的绝望。”这是大学时代偶然结识的一位作家对我说的活。但对其含义的真正理解——至少能用以自慰——则是在很久很久以后。的确,所谓十全十美的文章是不存在的。尽管如此,每当我提笔写东西的时候,还是经常陷入绝望的情绪之中。因为我所能够写的范围实在过于狭小。譬如,我或许可以就大象本身写一点什么,但对象的驯化却不知何从写起。 [点击阅读]