Fifty Shades Trilogy 01 - Fifty Shades of Grey

weeks, darling.”
    “Did he now?” Christian murmurs, gazing at me, his expression unreadable.
    “I thought we might have lunch together, but I can see you have other plans, and I don’t want to interrupt your day.” She gathers up her long cream coat and turns to him, offering him her cheek. He kisses her briefly, sweetly. She doesn’t touch him.
    “I have to drive Anastasia back to Portland.”
    “Of course, darling. Anastasia, it’s been such a pleasure. I do hope we meet again.” She holds her hand out to me, her eyes glowing, and we shake.
    Taylor appears from… where?
    “Mrs. Grey?” he asks.
    “Thank you, Taylor.” He escorts her from the room and through the double doors to the foyer. Taylor was here the whole time? How long has he been here? Where has he been?
    Christian glares at me.
    “So the photographer called?”
    Crap.
    “Yes.”
    “What did he want?”
    “Just to apologize, you know – for Friday.”
    Christian narrows his eyes.
    “I see,” he says simply.
    Taylor reappears.
    “Mr. Grey, there’s an issue with the Darfur shipment.”
    Christian nods curtly at him.
    “Charlie Tango back at Boeing Field?”
    “Yes sir.”
    Taylor nods at me.
    “Miss Steele.”
    I smile tentatively back at him, and he turns and leaves.
    “Does he live here? Taylor?”
    “Yes.” His tone is clipped. What is his problem?
    Christian heads over to the kitchen and picks up his BlackBerry, scrolling through some e-mails, I assume. His mouth presses in a hard line, and he makes a call.
    “Ros, what’s the issue?” he snaps. He listens, watching me, gray eyes speculative, as I stand in the middle of the huge room wondering what to do with myself, feeling extraordinarily self-conscious and out of place.
    “I’m not having either crew put at risk. No, cancel… We’ll air drop instead… Good.” He hangs up. The warmth in his eyes has disappeared. He looks forbidding, and with one quick glance at me, he heads into his study and returns a moment later.
    “This is the contract. Read it, and we’ll discuss it next weekend. May I suggest you do some research, so you know what’s involved.” He pauses. “That’s if you agree, and I really hope you do.” He adds, his tone softer, anxious.
    “Research?”
    “You’ll be amazed what you can find on the Internet,” he murmurs.
    Internet! I don’t have access to a computer, only Kate’s laptop, and I couldn’t use Claytons’, not for this sort of ‘research’ surely?
    “What is it?” he asks, cocking his head to one side.
    “I don’t have a computer. I’ll see if I can use Kate’s laptop.”
    He hands me a manila envelope.
    “I’m sure I can… err, lend you one. Grab your things, we’ll drive back to Portland and grab some lunch on the way. I need to dress.”
    “I’ll just make a call,” I murmur. I just want to hear Kate’s voice. He frowns.
    “The photographer?” His jaw clenches, and his eyes burn. I blink at him. “I don’t like to share, Miss Steele. Remember that.” His quiet, chilling tone is a warning, and with one long, cold look at me, he heads back to the bedroom.
    Holy crap. I just wanted to call Kate, I want to call after him, but his sudden aloofness has left me paralyzed. What happened to the generous, relaxed, smiling man who was making love to me not half an hour ago?
    “Ready?” Christian asks as we stand by the double doors to the foyer.
    I nod uncertainly. He’s resumed his distant, polite, uptight persona, his mask back up and on show. He’s carrying a leather messenger bag. Why does he need that? Perhaps he’s staying in Portland, and then I remember graduation. Oh yes… he’ll be there on Thursday. He’s wearing a black leather jacket. He certainly doesn’t look like the multi-multi-millionaire, billionaire, whatever-aire, in these clothes. He looks like a boy from the wrong side of the tracks, maybe a badly behaved rock star or a catwalk model. I sigh inwardly, wishing I had a tenth of his poise. He’s so calm and controlled. I frown, recalling his outburst about José… Well, he seems to be.
    Taylor is hovering in the background.
    “Tomorrow, then,” he says to Taylor who nods.
    “Yes sir. Which car are you taking, sir?”
    He looks down at me briefly.
    “The R8.”
    “Safe trip, Mr. Grey. Miss Steele.” Taylor looks kindly at me, though perhaps there’s a hint of pity hidden in the depths of his eyes.
    No doubt he thinks I’ve succumbed to Mr. Grey’s dubious sexual