Chapter One
Monday, May 9th, 2011
"Tomorrow," I mutter, dismissing Claude Bastille as he stands on the threshold of my office.
"Golf, this week, Grey." Bastille grins with easy arrogance, knowing that his victory on the golf course is assured.
I scowl after him as he turns and leaves. His parting words rub salt into my wounds because despite my heroic attempts in the gym this morning, my personal trainer has kicked my ass. Bastille is the only one who can beat me, and now he wants another pound of flesh on the golf course. I DETEST GOLF, but so much business is done on the fairways I have to endure his lessons there too… and although I hate to admit it, Bastille does go some way to improving my game.
As I stare out at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps into my consciousness. My mood is flat and grey as the weather outside. My days seem to blend together with no distinction, and I need some kind of diversion. I've worked all weekend and now, in the continued confines of my office, I am completely restless. I shouldn't feel this way, not after several bouts with Bastille.
I frown. The sobering truth is that the only thing to capture my interest recently has been my decision to send two freighters of cargo to Sudan. This reminds me – Ros is supposed to come back to me with numbers and logistics. What the hell is keeping her? I reach for the phone, intently staring at my schedule on the computer in front of me. What is she playing at?
Oh, Christ! I have to endure an interview with the persistent Miss Kavanagh for the WSU student magazine. Why the fuck did I agree to this? I loathe interviews inane questions, inane journalists, ill-informed, vacuous idiots. The phone buzzes.
"Yes," I snap at Andrea as if she's to blame. At least I can keep this interview short.
"Miss Anastasia Steele is here to see you, Mr.. Grey."
"Steele? I was expecting Katherine Kavanagh."
"It's Miss Anastasia Steele who's here, sir."
I scowl. I hate the unexpected. "Show her in," I mutter, aware that I sound like a sulky teen but who gives a fuck.
Well, well… Miss Kavanagh is unavailable. I know her father, the owner of Kavanagh Media, We've done business together, and he seems like a shrewd operator and a rational human being. This interview was a favor to him – one that I mean to cash in later when it suits me. And I have to admit I was vaguely curious about his daughter, all of the pressure to the PR department on setting up this interview and she can't make it, interesting enough that the apple does fall far from the tree. Mr. Kavanagh would have rescheduled before sending someone else unannounced.
A commotion at the door brings me to my feet as a whirl of long chestnut brown hair, pale limbs and brown boots dives head first into my office. I roll my eyes and repress a natural annoyance to the girl over her clumsiness. She has landed on her hands and knees; I clasp her slim shoulders and help Miss Steele to her feet.
Clear, bright-blue, embarrassed eyes meet mine and halt me in my tracks. They are the most extraordinary colour-guileless, powder blue-and for one awful moment, I think she can see straight through me. I feel … exposed. A rare; and unnerving thought.
She is still staring up at me with wide almond shaped eyes. She has a small, sweet face that is blushing now, and innocent pale rose. I wonder briefly if all her skin is like that – flawless- and what it would like striped pink and warm from the bite of a cane. Fuck. I stop my wayward thoughts, alarmed at their direction. What the fuck are you thinking, Grey. This girl is much too young. She gapes at me, and I almost roll my eyes again. Yeah, yeah, baby, it's just a face; and the beauty is only skin-deep. I want to dispel that unguarded, admiring look from those big blue eyes.
