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五十度灰英文版 - Part II 16
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  He answers on the second ring. “Anastasia. You
  okay?” he asks concerned.
  “They’ve just given me Jack’s job to mind,
  temporarily,” I blurt out.
  “You’re kidding,” he whispers, shocked.
  “Did you have anything to do with this?” My voice is
  sharper than I mean it to be.
  “No—no, not at all. I mean, with all due respect,
  “No—no, not at all. I mean, with all due respect,
  Anastasia, you’ve only been there for a week or so—and
  I don’t mean that unkindly.”
  “I know.” I frown. “Apparently Jack really rated me.”
  “Did he now?” Christian’s tone is frosty and then he
  sighs.
  “Well, baby, if they think you can do it, I’m sure you
  can. Congratulations. Perhaps we should celebrate after
  we’ve seen Flynn.”
  “Hmm. Are you sure you had nothing to do with this?”
  He is silent for a moment, and then he says in a low
  menacing voice. “Do you doubt me? It angers me that you
  do.”
  I swallow. Boy, he gets mad so easily. “I’m sorry,” I
  breathe, chastened.
  “If you need anything, let me know. I’ll be here. And
  Anastasia?”
  “What?”
  “Use your Blackberry,” he adds tersely.
  “Yes, Christian.”
  He doesn’t hang up as I expect him to but takes a
  deep breath.
  “I mean it. If you need me, I’m here.” His words are
  much softer, conciliatory. Oh, he’s so mercurial . . . his
  mood swings are like a metronome set at presto.
  “Okay,” I murmur. “I’d better go. I have to move
  offices.”
  “If you need me. I mean it,” he murmurs.
  “I know, thank you, Christian. I love you.”
  I sense his grin at the other end of the phone. I’ve won
  I sense his grin at the other end of the phone. I’ve won
  him back.
  “I love you, too, baby.” Oh, will I ever tire of him
  saying those words to me?
  “I’ll talk to you later.”
  “Laters, baby.”
  I hang up and glance at Jack’s office. My office. Holy
  cow—Anastasia Steele, Acting Commissioning Editor.
  Who would have thought? I should ask for more money.
  What would Jack think if he knew? I shudder at the
  thought and wonder idly how he’s spent his morning, not in
  New York as he expected. I stroll into his—my office—sit
  down at the desk, and start reading the job description.
  At twelve thirty, Elizabeth buzzes me.
  “Ana, we need you in a meeting at one o’clock in the
  boardroom. Jerry Roach and Kay Bestie will be there—
  you know, the company president and vice president? All
  the commissioning editors will be attending.”
  Shit!
  “Do I need to prepare anything?”
  “No, this is just an informal gathering we do once a
  month. Lunch will be provided.”
  “I’ll be there.” I hang up.
  Holy shit! I check through the current roster of Jack’s
  authors. Yes, I’ve pretty much got those nailed. I have the
  five manuscripts he’s championing, plus two more, which
  should really be considered for publication. I take a deep
  breath—I cannot believe it’s lunchtime already. The day
  has flown by, and I’m loving it. There has been so much to
  absorb this morning. A ping from my calendar announces
  absorb this morning. A ping from my calendar announces
  an appointment.
  Oh no—Mia! In all the excitement I have forgotten
  about our lunch. I fish out my Blackberry and try frantically
  to find her phone number.
  My phone buzzes.
  “It’s him, in reception.” Claire’s voice is hushed.
  “Who?” For a moment, I think it might be Christian.
  “The blond god.”
  “Ethan?”
  Oh, what does he want? I immediately feel guilty for
  not having called him.
  Ethan, dressed in a checked blue shirt, white T-shirt,
  and jeans, beams at me when I appear.
  “Wow! You look hot, Steele,” he says, nodding
  appreciatively. He gives me a quick hug.
  “Is everything okay?” I ask.
  He frowns. “Everything’s fine, Ana. I just wanted to
  see you. I’ve not heard from you in a while, and I wanted
  to check how Mr. Mogul was treating you.”
  I flush and can’t help my smile.
  “Okay!” Ethan exclaims, holding up his hands. “I can
  tell by the secret smile. I don’t want to know any more. I
  came by on the off chance you could do lunch. I’m
  enrolling at Seattle for psych courses in September. For
  my master’s.”
  “Oh Ethan. So much has happened. I have a ton to tell
  you, but right now, I can’t. I have a meeting.” An idea hits
  me hard. “And I wonder if you can do me a really, really,
  really big favor?” I clasp my hands together in supplication.
  “Sure,” he says, bemused by my pleading.
  “I’m supposed to be having lunch with Christian and
  Elliot’s sister—but I can’t get hold of her, and this
  meeting’s just been sprung on me. Please will you take her
  for lunch? Please?”
  “Aw, Ana! I don’t want to babysit some brat.”
  “Please, Ethan.” I give him the biggest-bluest-longesteye-
  lashed look that I can manage. He rolls his eyes and I
  know I’ve got him.
  “You’ll cook me something?” he mutters.
  “Sure, whatever, whenever.”
  “So where is she?”
  “She’s due here now.” And as if on cue, I hear her
  voice.
  “Ana!” she calls from the front door.
  We both turn, and there she is—all curvaceous and tall
  with her sleek black bob—wearing a short mint-green
  minidress and matching high-heeled pumps with straps
  around her slim ankles. She looks stunning.
  “The brat?” he whispers, gaping at her.
  “Yes. The brat that needs babysitting,” I whisper back.
  “Hi, Mia.” I give her a quick hug as she stares rather
  blatantly at Ethan.
  “Mia—this is Ethan, Kate’s brother.”
  He nods, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Mia blinks
  several times as she gives him her hand.
  “Delighted to meet you,” Ethan murmurs smoothly and
  Mia blinks again—silent for once. She blushes.
  Holy cow. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her blush.
  “I can’t make lunch,” I say lamely. “Ethan has agreed
  to take you, if that’s okay? Can we have a rain check?”
  “Sure,” she says quietly. Mia quiet, this is novel.
  “Yeah, I’ll take it from here. Laters, Ana,” Ethan says,
  offering Mia his arm. She accepts it with a shy smile.
  “Bye, Ana.” Mia turns to me and mouths, “Oh. My.
  God!” giving me an exaggerated wink.
  Jeez . . . she likes him! I wave at them as they leave
  the building. I wonder what Christian’s attitude is about his
  sister dating? The thought makes me uneasy. She’s my
  age, so he can’t object, can he?
  This is Christian we’re dealing with. My snarky
  subconscious is back, hatchet-mouthed, cardigan and
  purse in the crook of her arm. I shake off the image. Mia is
  a grown woman and Christian can be reasonable, can’t
  he? I dismiss the thought and head back to Jack’s . . .
  er . . . my office to prep for the meeting.
  It’s three thirty when I return. The meeting went well. I
  have even secured approval to progress the two
  manuscripts I was championing. It’s a heady feeling.
  On my desk is an enormous wicker basket crammed
  with stunning white and pale pink roses. Wow—the
  fragrance alone is heavenly. I smile as I pick up the card. I
  know who sent them.
  Congratulations, Miss Steele
  And all on your own!
  No help from your overfriendly, neighborhood,
  megalomaniac CEO
  Love
  Christian
  I pick up my Blackberry to e-mail him.
  From: Anastasia Steele
  Subject: Megalomaniac . . .
  Date: June 16, 2011 15:43
  To: Christian Grey
  . . . is my favorite type of maniac. Thank you for the beautiful
  flowers. They’ve arrived in a huge wicker basket that makes me
  think of picnics and blankets.
  x
  From: Christian Grey
  Subject: Fresh Air
  Date: June 16, 2011 15:55
  To: Anastasia Steele
  Maniac, eh? Dr. Flynn may have something to say about that.
  You want to go on a picnic?
  We could have fun in the great outdoors, Anastasia . . .
  We could have fun in the great outdoors, Anastasia . . .
  How is your day going, baby?
  Christian Grey
  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
  Oh my. I flush reading his response.
  From: Anastasia Steele
  Subject: Hectic
  Date: June 16, 2011 16:00
  To: Christian Grey
  The day has flown by. I have hardly had a moment to myself to
  think about anything other than work. I think I can do this! I’ll tell
  you more when I’m home.
  Outdoors sounds . . . interesting.
  Love you.
  A x
  PS: Don’t worry about Dr. Flynn.
  My phone buzzes. It’s Claire from reception, desperate to
  know who sent the flowers and what happened to Jack.
  Holed up in the office all day, I have missed the gossip. I
  tell her quickly that the flowers are from my boyfriend and
  that I know very little about Jack’s departure. My
  that I know very little about Jack’s departure. My
  Blackberry buzzes and I have another e-mail from
  Christian.
  From: Christian Grey
  Subject: I’ll try . . .
  Date: June 16, 2011 16:09
  To: Anastasia Steele
  . . . not to worry.
  Laters, baby. x
  Christian Grey
  CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
  At five thirty, I pack up my desk. I can’t believe how
  quickly the day has gone. I have to get back to Escala and
  prepare to meet Dr. Flynn. I haven’t even had time to
  think of questions. Perhaps today we can have an initial
  meeting, and maybe Christian will let me see him again. I
  shrug off the thought as I dash out of the office, waving a
  quick good-bye to Claire.
  I’ve also got Christian’s birthday to think about. I
  know what I’m going to give him. I’d like him to have it
  tonight before we meet Flynn, but how? Beside the
  parking lot is a small store selling touristy trinkets.
  Inspiration hits me and I duck inside.
  Christian is on his Blackberry, standing and staring out the
  glass wall as I enter the great room half an hour later.
  Turning, he beams at me and wraps up his call.
  “Ros, that’s great. Tell Barney and we’ll go from
  there . . . Good-bye.”
  He strides over to me as I stand shyly in the entryway.
  He’s changed now into a white T-shirt and jeans, all bad
  boy and smoldering. Whoa.
  “Good evening, Miss Steele,” he murmurs and he
  bends to kiss me. “Congratulations on your promotion.”
  He wraps his arms around me. He smells delicious.
  “You’ve showered.”
  “I’ve just had a work-out with Claude.”
  “Oh.”
  “Managed to knock him on his ass twice.” Christian
  beams, boyish and pleased with himself. His grin is
  infectious.
  “That doesn’t happen often?”
  “No. Very satisfying when it does. Hungry?”
  I shake my head.
  “What?” He frowns at me.
  “I’m nervous. About Dr. Flynn.”
  “Me, too. How was your day?” He releases me, and I
  him give a brief summary. He listens attentively.
  “Oh—there’s one more thing I should tell you,” I add.
  “I was supposed to have lunch with Mia.”
  He raises his eyebrows, surprised. “You never
  mentioned that.”
  “I know, I forgot. I couldn’t make it because of the
  meeting, and Ethan took her out to lunch instead.”
  His face darkens. “I see. Stop biting your lip.”
  “I’m going to freshen up,” I say changing the subject
  and turning to leave before he can react any further.
  Dr. Flynn’s office is a short drive from Christian’s
  apartment. Very handy, I muse, for emergency sessions.
  “I usually run here from home,” Christian says as he
  parks my Saab. “This is a great car.” He smiles at me.
  “I think so, too.” I smile back at him. “Christian . . . I
  —” I gaze anxiously at him.
  “What is it, Ana?”

  “Here.” I pull the small black gift box from my purse.
  “This is for you for your birthday. I wanted to give it to
  you now—but only if you promise not to open it until
  Saturday, okay?”
  He blinks at me in surprise and swallows. “Okay,” he
  murmurs cautiously.
  Taking a deep breath, I hand it to him, ignoring his
  bemused expression. He shakes the box, and it produces
  a very satisfactory rattle. He frowns. I know he’s
  desperate to see what it contains. Then he grins, his eyes
  alight with youthful, carefree excitement. Oh boy . . . he
  looks his age—and so beautiful.
  “You can’t open it until Saturday,” I warn him.
  “You can’t open it until Saturday,” I warn him.
  “I get it,” he says. “Why are you giving this to me
  now?” He pops the box into the inside pocket of his blue
  pinstriped jacket, close to his heart.
  How apt, I muse. I smirk at him.
  “Because I can, Mr. Grey.”
  His mouth twists with wry amusement.
  “Why, Miss Steele, you stole my line.”
  We are ushered into Dr. Flynn’s palatial office by a
  brisk and friendly receptionist. She greets Christian
  warmly, a little too warmly for my taste—jeez, she’s old
  enough to be his mother—and he knows her name.
  The room is understated: pale green with two dark
  green couches facing two leather winged chairs, and it has
  the atmosphere of a gentlemen’s club. Dr. Flynn is seated
  at a desk at the far end of the room.
  As we enter, he stands and walks over to join us in the
  seating area. He wears black pants and a pale-blue opennecked
  shirt—no tie. His bright blue eyes seem to miss
  nothing.
  “Christian.” He smiles amicably.
  “John.” Christian shakes John’s hand. “You remember
  Anastasia?”
  “How could I forget? Anastasia, welcome.”
  “Ana, please,” I mumble as he shakes my hand firmly.
  I do love his English accent.
  “Ana,” he says kindly, ushering us toward the
  couches.
  Christian gestures to one of them for me. I sit, trying to
  look relaxed, resting my hand on the couch rest, and he
  look relaxed, resting my hand on the couch rest, and he
  sprawls on the other couch beside me so that we’re at
  right angles to each other. A small table with a simple lamp
  is between us. I note with interest a box of tissues beside
  the lamp.
  This isn’t what I expected. I had in my mind’s eye a
  stark white room with a black leather chaise longue; my
  inner goddess might have felt more at home then.
  Looking relaxed and in control, Dr. Flynn takes a seat
  in one of the winged chairs and picks up a leather notepad.
  Christian crosses his legs, his ankle resting on his knee,
  and stretches one arm along the back of the couch.
  Reaching across with his other hand, he finds my hand on
  the couch rest and gives it a reassuring squeeze.
  “Christian has requested that you accompany him to
  one of our sessions,” Dr. Flynn begins gently. “Just so you
  know, we treat these sessions with absolute confidentiality
  —”
  I raise my eyebrow at Flynn, halting him mid-speech.
  “Oh—um . . . I’ve signed an NDA,” I murmur,
  embarrassed that he’s stopped. Both Flynn and Christian
  stare at me, and Christian releases my hand.
  “A non-disclosure agreement?” Dr. Flynn’s brow
  furrows, and he glances quizzically at Christian.
  Christian shrugs.
  “You start all your relationships with women with an
  NDA?” Dr. Flynn asks him.
  “The contractual ones, I do.”
  Dr. Flynn’s lip twitches. “You’ve had other types of
  relationships with women?” he asks, and he looks amused.
  relationships with women?” he asks, and he looks amused.
  “No,” Christian answers after a beat, and he looks
  amused, too.
  “As I thought.” Dr. Flynn turns his attention back to
  me. “Well, I guess we don’t have to worry about
  confidentiality, but may I suggest that the two of you
  discuss this at some point? As I understand, you’re no
  longer entering into that kind of contractual relationship.”
  “Different kind of contract, hopefully,” says Christian
  softly, glancing at me. I flush and Dr. Flynn narrows his
  eyes.
  “Ana. You’ll have to forgive me, but I probably know
  a lot more about you than you think. Christian has been
  very forthcoming.”
  I glance nervously at Christian. What has he said?
  “An NDA?” he continues. “That must have shocked
  you.”
  I blink at him. “Oh, I think the shock of that has paled
  into insignificance, given Christian’s most recent
  revelations,” I answer, my voice soft and hesitant. I sound
  so nervous.
  “I’m sure.” Dr. Flynn smiles kindly at me. “So,
  Christian, what would you like to discuss?”
  Christian shrugs like a surly teen. “Anastasia wanted to
  see you. Perhaps you should ask her.”
  Dr. Flynn’s face registers his surprise once more, and
  he gazes shrewdly at me.
  Holy shit. This is mortifying. I gaze down at my
  fingers.
  “Would you be more comfortable if Christian left us for
  “Would you be more comfortable if Christian left us for
  a while?”
  My eyes dart to Christian and he’s gazing at me
  expectantly.
  “Yes,” I whisper.
  Christian frowns and opens his mouth but closes it
  again quickly and stands in one swift graceful movement.
  “I’ll be in the waiting room,” he says, his mouth a flat,
  grumpy line.
  Oh no.
  “Thank you, Christian,” Dr. Flynn says impassively.
  Christian gives me one long, searching look then stalks
  out of the room—but he doesn’t slam the door. Phew. I
  immediately relax.
  “He intimidates you?”
  “Yes. But not as much as he used to.” I feel disloyal
  but it’s the truth.
  “That doesn’t surprise me, Ana. What can I help you
  with?”
  I stare down at my knotted fingers. What can I ask?
  “Dr. Flynn, I’ve never been in a relationship before,
  and Christian is . . . well, he’s Christian. And over the last
  week or so, a great deal has happened. I haven’t had a
  chance to think things through.”
  “What do you need to think through?”
  I glance up at him, and his head is cocked to one side
  as he gazes at me with compassion, I think.
  “Well . . . Christian tells me that he’s happy to give
  up . . . er—” I stumble and pause. This is so much more
  difficult to discuss than I’d imagined.
  difficult to discuss than I’d imagined.
  Dr. Flynn sighs. “Ana, in the very limited time that
  you’ve known him, you’ve made more progress with my
  patient than I have in the last two years. You have had a
  profound effect on him. You must see that.”
  “He’s had a profound effect on me, too. I just don’t
  know if I’m enough. To fulfill his needs,” I whisper.
  “Is that what you need from me? Reassurance?”
  I nod.
  “Needs change,” he says simply. “Christian has found
  himself in a situation where his methods of coping are no
  longer effective. Very simply, you’ve forced him to
  confront some of his demons and rethink.”
  I blink at him. This echoes what Christian has told me.
  “Yes, his demons,” I murmur.
  “We don’t dwell on them—they’re in the past.
  Christian knows what his demons are, as do I—and now
  I’m sure you do, too. I’m much more concerned with the
  future and getting Christian to a place where he wants to
  be.”
  I frown and he raises an eyebrow.
  “The technical term is SFBT—sorry.” He smiles. “That
  stands for Solution-Focused Brief Therapy. Essentially, it’s
  goal oriented. We concentrate on where Christian wants
  to be and how to get him there. It’s a dialectical approach.
  There’s no point in breast-beating about the past—all
  that’s been picked over by every physician, psychologist,
  and psychiatrist Christian’s ever seen. We know why he’s
  the way he is, but it’s the future that’s important. Where
  Christian envisages himself, where he wants to be. It took
  you walking out on him to make him take this form of
  therapy seriously. He realizes that his goal is a loving
  relationship with you. It’s that simple, and that’s what
  we’re working on now. Of course there are obstacles—
  his haphephobia for one.”
  Oh jeez . . . his what? I gasp.
  “I’m sorry. I mean his fear of being touched,” Dr.
  Flynn says, shaking his head as if scolding himself. “Which
  I’m sure you’re aware of.”
  I flush and nod. Oh that!
  “He has a morbid self-abhorrence. I’m sure that comes
  as no surprise to you. And of course there’s the
  parasomnia . . . um—night terrors, sorry, to the
  layperson.”
  I blink at him, trying to absorb all these long words. I
  know about all of this. But Flynn hasn’t mentioned my
  central concern.
  “But he’s a sadist. Surely, as such, he has needs which
  I can’t fulfill.”
  Dr. Flynn actually rolls his eyes, and his mouth presses
  into a hard line. “That’s no longer recognized as a
  psychiatric term. I don’t know how many times I have told
  him that. It’s not even classified as a paraphilia any more,
  not since the nineties.”
  Dr. Flynn has lost me again. I blink at him. He smiles
  kindly at me.
  “This is a pet peeve of mine.” He shakes his head.
  “Christian just thinks the worst of any given situation. It’s
  part of his self-abhorrence. Of course, there’s such a thing
  as sexual sadism, but it’s not a disease; it’s a lifestyle
  choice. And if it’s practiced in a safe, sane relationship
  between consenting adults, then it’s a nonissue. My
  understanding is that Christian has conducted all of his
  BDSM relationships in this manner. You’re the first lover
  who hasn’t consented, so he’s not willing to do it.”
  Lover!
  “But surely it’s not that simple.”
  “Why not?” Dr. Flynn shrugs good-naturedly.
  “Well . . . the reasons he does it.”
  “Ana, that’s the point. In terms of solution-focused
  therapy, it is that simple. Christian wants to be with you. In
  order to do that, he needs to forego the more extreme
  aspects of that kind of relationship. After all, what you’re
  asking for is not unreasonable . . . is it?”
  I flush. No, it’s not unreasonable, is it?
  “I don’t think so. But I worry that he does.”
  “Christian recognizes that and has acted accordingly.
  He’s not insane.” Dr. Flynn sighs. “In a nutshell, he’s not a
  sadist, Ana. He’s an angry, frightened, brilliant young man,
  who was dealt a shit hand of cards when he was born. We
  can all beat our breasts about it, and analyze the who, the
  how and the why to death—or Christian can move on and
  decide how he wants to live. He’d found something that
  worked for him for a few years, more or less, but since he
  met you, it no longer works. And as a consequence, he’s
  changing his modus operandi. You and I have to respect
  his choice and support him in it.”
  I gape at him. “That’s my reassurance?”
  “As good as it gets, Ana. There are no guarantees in
  this life.” He smiles. “And that is my professional opinion.”
  I smile, too, weakly. Doctor jokes . . . jeez.
  “But he thinks of himself as a recovering alcoholic.”
  “Christian will always think the worst of himself. As I
  said, it’s part of his self-abhorrence. It’s in his makeup, no
  matter what. Naturally he’s anxious about making this
  change in his life. He’s potentially exposing himself to a
  whole world of emotional pain, which, incidentally, he had
  a taste of when you left him. Naturally he’s apprehensive.”
  Dr. Flynn pauses. “I don’t mean to stress how important a
  role you have in his Damascene conversion—his road to
  Damascus. But you have. Christian would not be in this

  place if he had not met you. Personally I don’t think that
  an alcoholic is a very good analogy, but if it works for him
  for now, then I think we should give him the benefit of the
  doubt.”
  Give Christian the benefit of the doubt. I frown at the
  thought.
  “Emotionally, Christian is an adolescent, Ana. He
  bypassed that phase in his life totally. He’s channeled all
  his energies into succeeding in the business world, and he
  has beyond all expectations. His emotional world has to
  play catch-up.”
  “So how do I help?”
  Dr. Flynn laughs. “Just keep doing what you’re doing,”
  he grins at me. “Christian is head over heels. It’s a delight
  to see.”
  to see.”
  I flush, and my inner goddess is hugging herself with
  glee, but something bothers me.
  “Can I ask you one more thing?”
  “Of course.”
  I take a deep breath. “Part of me thinks that if he
  wasn’t this broken he wouldn’t . . . want me.”
  Dr. Flynn’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “That’s a
  very negative thing to say about yourself, Ana. And frankly
  it says more about you than it does about Christian. It’s
  not quite up there with his self-loathing, but I’m surprised
  by it.”
  “Well, look at him . . . and then look at me.”
  Dr. Flynn frowns. “I have. I see an attractive young
  man, and I see an attractive young woman. Ana, why
  don’t you think of yourself as attractive?”
  Oh no . . . I don’t want this to be about me. I stare
  down at my fingers. There’s a sharp knock on the door
  that makes me jump. Christian comes back into the room,
  glaring at both of us. I flush and glance quickly at Flynn,
  who is smiling benignly at Christian.
  “Welcome back, Christian,” he says.
  “I think time is up, John.”
  “Nearly, Christian. Join us.”
  Christian sits down, beside me this time, and places his
  hand possessively on my knee. His action does not go
  unnoticed by Dr. Flynn.
  “Did you have any other questions, Ana?” Dr. Flynn
  asks and his concern is obvious. Shit . . . I should not have
  asked that question. I shake my head.
  asked that question. I shake my head.
  “Christian?”
  “Not today, John.”
  Flynn nods.
  “It may be beneficial if you both come again. I’m sure
  Ana will have more questions.”
  Christian nods, reluctantly.
  I flush. Shit . . . he wants to delve. Christian clasps my
  hand and regards me intently.
  “Okay?” he asks softly.
  I smile at him, nodding. Yes, we’re going for the
  benefit of the doubt, courtesy of the good doctor from
  England.
  Christian squeezes my hand and turns to Flynn.
  “How is she?” he asks softly.
  Me?
  “She’ll get there,” he says reassuringly.
  “Good. Keep me updated of her progress.”
  “I will.”
  Holy fuck. They’re talking about Leila.
  “Shall we go and celebrate your promotion?” Christian
  asks me pointedly.
  I nod shyly as Christian stands.
  We say our quick good-byes to Dr. Flynn, and
  Christian ushers me out with unseemly haste.
  In the street, he turns to me. “How was that?” his voice is
  anxious.
  “It was good.”
  “It was good.”
  He regards me suspiciously. I cock my head to one
  side.
  “Mr. Grey, please don’t look at me that way. Under
  doctor’s orders I am going to give you the benefit of the
  doubt.”
  “What does that mean?”
  “You’ll see.”
  His mouth twists and his eyes narrow. “Get in the car,”
  he orders while opening the passenger door of the Saab.
  Oh, change of direction. My Blackberry buzzes. I haul
  it out of my purse.
  Shit, José!
  “Hi!”
  “Ana, hi . . .”
  I stare at Fifty, who is eyeing me suspiciously. “José,” I
  mouth at him. He stares impassively at me, but his eyes
  harden. Does he think I don’t notice? I turn my attention
  back to José.
  “Sorry I haven’t called you. Is it about tomorrow?” I
  ask José, but stare up at Christian.
  “Yeah, listen—I spoke with some guy at Grey’s place,
  so I know where I’m delivering the photos, and I should
  get there between five and six . . . after that, I’m free.”
  Oh.
  “Well, I’m actually staying with Christian at the
  moment, and if you want to, he says you can stay at his
  place.”
  Christian presses his mouth in a hard line. Hmm—
  some host he is.
  some host he is.
  José is silent for a moment, absorbing this news. I
  cringe. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about
  Christian.
  “Okay,” he says eventually. “This thing with Grey, it’s
  serious?”
  I turn away from the car and pace to the other side of
  the sidewalk.
  “Yes.”
  “How serious?”
  I roll my eyes and pause. Why does Christian have to
  be listening?
  “Serious.”
  “Is he with you now? That why you’re speaking in
  monosyllables?”
  “Yes.”
  “Okay. So are you allowed out tomorrow?”
  “Of course I am.” I hope. I automatically cross my
  fingers.
  “So where shall I meet you?”
  “You could collect me from work,” I offer.
  “Okay.”
  “I’ll text you the address.”
  “What time?”
  “Say six?”
  “Sure. I’ll see you then, Ana. Looking forward to it. I
  miss you.”
  I grin. “Cool. I’ll see you then.” I switch the phone off
  and turn.
  Christian is leaning against the car watching me
  Christian is leaning against the car watching me
  carefully, his expression impossible to read.
  “How’s your friend?” he asks coolly.
  “He’s well. He’ll pick me up from work, and I think
  we’ll go for a drink. Would you like to join us?”
  Christian hesitates, his gray eyes cool. “You don’t
  think he’ll try anything?”
  “No!” My tone is exasperated—but I refrain from
  rolling my eyes.
  “Okay,” Christian holds his hands up in defeat. “You
  hang out with your friend, and I’ll see you later in the
  evening.”
  I was expecting a fight, and his easy acquiescence
  throws me off balance.
  “See? I can be reasonable.” He smirks.
  My mouth twists. We’ll see about that.
  “Can I drive?”
  Christian blinks at me, surprised by my request.
  “I’d rather you didn’t.”
  “Why, exactly?”
  “Because I don’t like to be driven.”
  “You managed this morning, and you seem to tolerate
  Taylor driving you.”
  “I trust Taylor’s driving implicitly.”
  “And not mine?” I put my hands on my hips. “Honestly
  —your control freakery knows no bounds. I’ve been
  driving since I was fifteen.”
  He shrugs in response, as if this is of no consequence
  whatsoever. Oh—he’s so exasperating! Benefit of the
  doubt? Well, screw that.
  “Is this my car?” I demand.
  He frowns at me. “Of course it’s your car.”
  “Then give me the keys, please. I’ve driven it twice,
  and only to and from work. Now you’re having all the
  fun.” I am in full-on pout mode. Christian’s lips twitch with
  a repressed smile.
  “But you don’t know where we’re going.”
  “I’m sure you can enlighten me, Mr. Grey. You’ve
  done a great job of it so far.”
  He gazes at me stunned then smiles, his new shy smile
  that totally disarms me and takes my breath away.
  “Great job, eh?” he murmurs.
  I blush. “Mostly, yes.”
  “Well, in that case.” He hands me the keys, walks
  round to the driver’s door, and opens it for me.
  “Left here,” Christian orders, and we head north toward
  the I-5. “Hell—gently, Ana.” He grabs hold of the
  dashboard.
  Oh, for heaven’s sake. I roll my eyes, but don’t turn to
  look at him. Van Morrison croons in the background over
  the car sound system.
  “Slow down!”
  “I am slowing down!”
  Christian sighs. “What did Flynn say?” I hear his
  anxiety leaching into his voice.
  “I told you. He says I should give you the benefit of the
  doubt.” Damn—maybe I should have let Christian drive.
  Then I could watch him. In fact . . . I signal to pull over.
  “What are you doing?” he snaps, alarmed.
  “Letting you drive.”
  “Why?”
  “So I can look at you.”
  He laughs. “No, no—you wanted to drive. So, you
  drive, and I’ll look at you.”
  I scowl at him. “Keep your eyes on the road!” he
  shouts.
  My blood boils. Right! I pull over to the curb just
  before a stoplight and storm out of the car, slamming the
  door, and stand on the sidewalk, arms folded, I glare at
  him. He climbs out of the car.
  “What are you doing?” he asks angrily, staring down at
  me.
  “No. What are you doing?”
  “You can’t park here.”
  “I know that.”
  “So why have you?”
  “Because I’ve had it with you barking orders. Either
  you drive or you shut up about my driving!”
  “Anastasia, get back in the car before we get a ticket.”
  “No.”
  He blinks at me, at a total loss, then runs his hands
  through his hair, and his anger becomes bewilderment. He
  looks so comical all of a sudden, and I can’t help but smile
  at him. He frowns.
  “What?” he snaps once more.
  “What?” he snaps once more.
  “You.”
  “Oh, Anastasia! You are the most frustrating female on
  the planet.” He throws his hands in the air. “Fine—I’ll
  drive.” I grab the edges of his jacket and pull him to me.
  “No—you are the most frustrating man on the planet,
  Mr. Grey.”
  He gazes down at me, his eyes dark and intense, he
  snakes his arms around my waist and embraces me,
  holding me close.
  “Maybe we’re meant for each other, then,” he says
  softly and inhales deeply, his nose in my hair. I wrap my
  arms around him and close my eyes. For the first time
  since this morning, I feel myself relax.
  “Oh . . . Ana, Ana, Ana,” he breathes, his lips pressed
  against my hair. I tighten my arms around him, and we
  stand, immobile, enjoying a moment of unexpected
  tranquility, on the street. Releasing me, he opens the
  passenger door. I climb in and sit quietly, watching him
  walk around the car.
  Restarting the car, Christian pulls out into the traffic,
  absentmindedly humming along to Van Morrison.
  Whoa. I’ve never heard him sing, not even in the
  shower, ever. I frown. He has a lovely voice—of course.
  Hmm . . . has he heard me sing?
  He wouldn’t be asking you to marry him if he had!
  My subconscious has her arms crossed and is wearing
  Burberry check . . . jeez. The song finishes and Christian
  smirks.
  “You know, if we had gotten a ticket, the title of this
  “You know, if we had gotten a ticket, the title of this
  car is in your name.”
  “Well, good thing I’ve been promoted—I can afford
  the fine,” I say smugly, staring at his lovely profile. His lips
  twitch. Another Van Morrison song starts playing as he
  takes the on-ramp to I-5, heading north.
  “Where are we going?”
  “It’s a surprise. What else did Flynn say?”
  I sigh. “He talked about FFFSTB or something.”
  “SFBT. The latest therapy option,” he mutters.
  “You’ve tried others?”
  Christian snorts. “Baby, I’ve been subjected to them
  all. Cognitivism, Freud, functionalism, Gestalt,
  behaviorism . . . You name it, over the years I’ve done it,”
  he says and his tone betrays his bitterness. The rancor in
  his voice is distressing.
  “Do you think this latest approach will help?”
  “What did Flynn say?”

  “He said not to dwell on your past. Focus on the future
  —on where you want to be.”
  Christian nods but shrugs at the same time, his
  expression cautious.
  “What else?” he persists.
  “He talked about your fear of being touched, although
  he called it something else. And about your nightmares and
  your self-abhorrence.” I glance at him, and in the evening
  light, he’s pensive, chewing on his thumbnail as he drives.
  He glances quickly at me.
  “Eyes on the road, Mr. Grey,” I admonish, my
  eyebrow cocked at him.
  eyebrow cocked at him.
  He looks amused, and slightly exasperated. “You were
  talking forever, Anastasia. What else did he say?”
  I swallow. “He doesn’t think you’re a sadist,” I
  whisper.
  “Really?” Christian says quietly and frowns. The
  atmosphere in the car takes a nosedive.
  “He says that term’s not recognized in psychiatry. Not
  since the nineties,” I mutter, quickly trying to rescue the
  mood between us.
  Christian’s face darkens, and he exhales slowly.
  “Flynn and I have differing opinions on this,” he says
  quietly.
  “He said you always think the worst of yourself. I
  know that’s true,” I murmur. “He also mentioned sexual
  sadism—but he said that was a lifestyle choice, not a
  psychiatric condition. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking
  about.”
  His gray eyes flash toward me again, and his mouth
  sets in a grim line.
  “So—one talk with the good doctor and you’re an
  expert,” he says acidly and turns his eyes front.
  Oh dear . . . I sigh.
  “Look—if you don’t want to hear what he said, don’t
  ask me,” I mutter softly.
  I don’t want to argue. Anyway he’s right—what the
  hell do I know about all his shit? Do I even want to know?
  I can list the salient points—his control freakery, his
  possessiveness, his jealousy, his overprotectiveness—and
  I completely understand where he’s coming from. I can
  I completely understand where he’s coming from. I can
  even understand why he doesn’t like to be touched—I’ve
  seen the physical scars. I can only imagine the mental ones,
  and I’ve only glimpsed his nightmares once. And Dr. Flynn
  said—
  “I want to know what you discussed.” Christian
  interrupts my thoughts as he heads off I-5 on exit 172,
  heading west toward the slowly sinking sun.
  “He called me your lover.”
  “Did he now?” His tone is conciliatory. “Well, he’s
  nothing if not fastidious about his terms. I think that’s an
  accurate description. Don’t you?”
  “Did you think of your subs as lovers?”
  Christian’s brow creases once more, but this time he’s
  thinking. He turns the Saab smoothly north once again.
  Where are we going?
  “No. They were sexual partners,” he murmurs, his
  voice cautious again. “You’re my only lover. And I want
  you to be more.”
  Oh . . . there’s that magical word again, brimming with
  possibility. It makes me smile, and inside I hug myself, my
  inner goddess radiating joy.
  “I know,” I whisper, trying hard to hide my excitement.
  “I just need some time, Christian. To get my head around
  these last few days.” He glances at me oddly, perplexed,
  his head inclined to one side.
  After a beat, the stoplight we’re stationed at turns
  green. He nods and turns the music up, and our discussion
  is over.
  Van Morrison is still singing—more optimistically now
  Van Morrison is still singing—more optimistically now
  —about it being a marvelous night for moondancing. I
  gaze out the windows at the pines and spruce dusted gold
  by the fading light of the sun, their long shadows stretching
  across the road. Christian has turned into a more
  residential street, and we’re heading west toward the
  Sound.
  “Where are we going?” I ask again as we turn into a
  road. I catch a road sign—9TH AVE NW. I am baffled.
  “Surprise,” he says and smiles mysteriously.
  Christian continues to drive past single-story, well-kept,
  clapboard houses where kids play either clustered around
  their basketball hoops in their yards or cycling and running
  around in the street. It all looks affluent and wholesome
  with the houses nestling among the trees. Perhaps we’re
  going to visit someone? Who?
  A few minutes later, Christian turns sharply left, and we’re
  confronted by two ornate white metal gates set in a sixfoot-
  high, sandstone wall. Christian presses a button on his
  door handle and the electric window hums quietly down
  into the doorframe. He punches a number into the keypad
  and the gates swing open in welcome.
  He glances at me, and his expression has changed. He
  looks uncertain, nervous even.
  “What is it?” I ask, and I can’t mask the concern in my
  voice.
  “An idea,” he says quietly and eases the Saab through
  the gates.
  We head up a tree-lined lane just wide enough for two
  We head up a tree-lined lane just wide enough for two
  cars. On one side, the trees ring a densely wooded area,
  and on the other there’s a vast area of grassland where a
  once-cultivated field has been left fallow. Grasses and
  wildflowers have reclaimed it, creating a rural idyll—a
  meadow, where the late evening breeze softly ripples
  through the grass and the evening sun gilds the wildflowers.
  It’s lovely—utterly tranquil, and suddenly I imagine myself
  lying in the grass and gazing up at a clear blue summer sky.
  The thought is tantalizing yet makes me feel homesick for
  some strange reason. How odd.
  The lane curves around and opens into a sweeping
  driveway in front of an impressive Mediterranean-style
  house of soft pink sandstone. It’s palatial. All the lights are
  on, each window brightly illuminated in the dusk. There’s a
  smart, black BMW parked in front of the four-car garage,
  but Christian pulls up outside the grand portico.
  Hmm . . . I wonder who lives here? Why are we
  visiting?
  Christian glances anxiously at me as he switches off the
  car engine.
  “Will you keep an open mind?” he asks.
  I frown.
  “Christian, I’ve needed an open mind since the day I
  met you.”
  He smiles ironically and nods. “Fair point well made,
  Miss Steele. Let’s go.”
  The dark wood doors open, and a woman with dark
  brown hair, a sincere smile, and a sharp lilac suit stands
  waiting. I’m grateful I changed into my new navy shift
  waiting. I’m grateful I changed into my new navy shift
  dress to impress Dr. Flynn. Okay, I’m not wearing killer
  heels like her—but still, I’m not in jeans.
  “Mr. Grey.” She smiles warmly and they shake hands.
  “Miss Kelly,” he says politely.
  She smiles at me and holds out her hand, which I
  shake. Her isn’t-he-dreamily-gorgeous-wish-he-was-mine
  flush does not go unnoticed.
  “Olga Kelly,” she announces breezily.
  “Ana Steele,” I mutter back at her. Who is this
  woman? She stands aside, welcoming us into the house.
  It’s a shock when I step in. The place is empty—
  completely empty. We find ourselves in a large entrance
  hall. The walls are a faded primrose yellow with
  scuffmarks where pictures must once have hung. All that
  remains are the old-fashioned crystal light fixtures. The
  floors are dull hardwood. There are closed doors to either
  side of us, but Christian gives me no time to assimilate
  what’s happening.
  “Come,” he says, and taking my hand, he leads me
  through the archway in front of us into a larger inner
  vestibule. It’s dominated by a curved, sweeping staircase
  with an intricate iron balustrade but still he doesn’t stop.
  He takes me through to the main living area, which is
  empty, save for a large faded gold rug—the biggest rug I
  have ever seen. Oh—and there are four crystal
  chandeliers.
  But Christian’s intention is now clear as we head
  across the room and outside through open French doors
  to a large stone terrace. Below us there’s half a football
  to a large stone terrace. Below us there’s half a football
  field of manicured lawn, but beyond that is the view. Wow.
  The panoramic, uninterrupted vista is breathtaking—
  staggering even: twilight over the Sound. Oh my.
  In the distance lies Bainbridge Island, and further still
  on this crystal clear evening, the setting sun sinks slowly,
  glowing blood and flame orange, beyond Olympic
  National Park. Vermillion hues bleed into the sky—opals,
  aquamarines, ceruleans—melding with the darker purples
  of the scant wispy clouds and the land beyond the Sound.
  It is nature’s best, a visual symphony orchestrated in the
  sky and reflected in the deep, still waters of the Sound. I
  am lost to the view—staring, trying to absorb such
  beauty.
  I realize I’m holding my breath in awe, and Christian is
  still holding my hand. As I reluctantly turn my eyes away
  from the view, he’s gazing anxiously at me.
  “You brought me here to admire the view?” I whisper.
  He nods, his expression serious.
  “It’s staggering, Christian. Thank you,” I murmur,
  letting my eyes feast on it once more. He releases my
  hand.
  “How would you like to look at it for the rest of your
  life?” he breathes.
  What? I whip my face back to his, startled blue eyes
  to pensive gray. I think my mouth drops open, and I gape
  at him blankly.
  “I’ve always wanted to live on the coast. I sail up and
  down the Sound coveting these houses. This place hasn’t
  been on the market long. I want to buy it, demolish it, and
  been on the market long. I want to buy it, demolish it, and
  build a new house—for us,” he whispers, and his eyes
  glow, translucent with his hopes and dreams.
  Holy cow. Somehow I remain upright. I’m reeling.
  Live, here! In this beautiful haven! For the rest of my
  life . . .
  “It’s just an idea,” he adds, cautiously.
  I glance back to assess the interior of the house. How
  much is it worth? It must be, what—five, ten million
  dollars? I have no idea. Holy shit.
  “Why do you want to demolish it?” I ask, looking back
  at him. His face falls slightly. Oh no.
  “I’d like to make a more sustainable home, using the
  latest ecological techniques. Elliot could build it.”
  I gaze back at the room again. Miss Olga Kelly is on
  the far side, hovering by the entrance. She’s the realtor, of
  course. I notice the room is huge and double height, a little
  like the great room at Escala. There’s a balcony above—
  that must be the landing on the second floor. There’s a
  huge fireplace and a whole line of French doors opening
  onto the terrace. It has an old-world charm.
  “Can we look around the house?”
  He blinks at me. “Sure,” he shrugs, puzzled.
  Miss Kelly’s face lights up like Christmas when we
  head back in. She’s delighted to take us on a tour and
  gives us the spiel.
  The house is enormous: twelve thousand square feet on
  six acres of land. As well as this main living room, there’s
  the eat-in—no, banquet-in—kitchen with family room
  attached—Family!—a music room, a library, a study and,
  attached—Family!—a music room, a library, a study and,
  much to my amazement, an indoor pool and exercise suite
  with sauna and steam room attached. Downstairs in the
  basement there’s a cinema—Jeez—and game room.
  Hmm . . . what sort of games could we play in here?
  Miss Kelly points out all sorts of features, but basically
  the house is beautiful and was obviously at one time a
  happy family home. It’s a little shabby now, but nothing
  that some TLC couldn’t cure.
  As we follow Miss Kelly up the magnificent main stairs
  to the second floor, I can hardly contain my excitement . . .
  this house has everything I could ever wish for in a home.
  “Couldn’t you make the existing house more ecological
  and self-sustaining?”
  Christian blinks at me, nonplussed. “I’d have to ask
  Elliot. He’s the expert in all this.”
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作者:佚名
章节:50 人气:0
摘要:听完首席秘书官田上的报告,大月蹙起眉头。此刻他在官邸内的办公室,正忙着写完讲稿,内容和非洲政策有关。下周,他将在阿迪斯阿贝巴①公开发表演说。坐在黑檀木桌前的大月,猛然将椅子反转过来。魁梧的田上站在他面前,有点驼背。“堀越到底有甚么事?是核能发电又出了甚么问题吗?”堀越忠夫是科学技术政策大臣。大月想起前几天,他出席了国际核能机构的总会。“不,好像不是那种问题。与他一同前来的,是JAXA的人。 [点击阅读]
悬崖上的谋杀
作者:佚名
章节:35 人气:0
摘要:博比·琼斯把球放在球座上,击球前球杆简单地轻摆一下,然后慢慢收回球杆,接着以闪电般的速度向下一击。在五号铁头球棒的随便一击下,球会呼啸腾起,越过障碍,又直又准地落到球场的第十四穴处吗?不,远非如此,结果太糟了,球掠过地面,稳稳地陷入了障碍坑洼。没有热心的观众发出沮丧的哼哼声,惟一的目击者也显得一点不吃惊。 [点击阅读]
悬崖山庄奇案
作者:佚名
章节:22 人气:0
摘要:我觉得,英国南部没有哪个滨海小镇有圣卢那么令人流连忘返,因此,人们称它为“水城皇后”真是再恰当也没有了。到了这里,游客便会自然而然地想起维埃拉(译注:法国东南部及意大利西北部的海滨地区,濒临地中海,以风光旖旎著称)。在我的印象里,康沃尔郡的海岸正像法国南方的海滨一样迷人。我把这个想法告诉了我的朋友赫尔克里-波洛。他听了以后说:“昨天餐车里的那份菜单上就是这么说的,我的朋友,所以这并非你的创见。 [点击阅读]
悲惨世界
作者:佚名
章节:65 人气:0
摘要:米里哀先生是法国南部的地区狄涅的主教。他是个七十五岁的老人,原出身于贵族,法国大革命后破落了。他学问渊博,生活俭朴,好善乐施。他把每年从zheng府那里领得的一万五千法郎薪俸,都捐献给当地的慈善事业。被人们称为卞福汝(意为“欢迎”)主教。米里哀先生认为自己活在世上“不是为了自己的生命,而是来保护世人心灵的”。 [点击阅读]
惊险的浪漫
作者:佚名
章节:12 人气:0
摘要:帕金顿先生与太太吵了几句,气呼呼地戴上帽子,把门一摔,离家去赶八点四十五分的火车,到市里去上班。帕金顿太太依旧坐在早餐桌前。她的脸涨得通红,紧咬着嘴唇,要不是最后愤怒代替了委屈,她早就哭出来了。“我不会再忍下去了,”帕金顿太太说,“我不会再忍下去了!”她继续想了一会儿,又喃喃道:“那个放荡女人,狡猾卑鄙的狐狸精!乔治怎么会这么傻呢!”愤怒逐渐平息了,悲伤和委屈的感觉又涌上心头。 [点击阅读]
惊魂过山车
作者:佚名
章节:5 人气:0
摘要:───惊魂过山车───1我从来没有把这个故事告诉任何人,也从未想过要告诉别人,倒不是因为我怕别人不相信,而是感到惭愧。因为它是我的秘密,说出来就贬低了自己及故事本身,显得更渺小,更平淡,还不如野营辅导员在熄灯前给孩子们讲的鬼故事。我也害怕如果讲出来,亲耳听见,可能会连自己都开始不相信。但自从我母亲过世后,我一直无法安睡。 [点击阅读]
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