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As I stare out at the Seattle skyline, the familiar ennui seeps into my consciousness. My mood is as flat and gray as the weather. My days are blending 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’m restless. I shouldn’t feel this way, not after several bouts with Bastille. But I do.

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? Intent on finding out what she’s playing at, I glance at my schedule and reach for the phone.

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 from inane, 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 not giving 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 op-erator and a rational human being. This interview is 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, interested to see if the apple had fallen far from the tree.

A commotion at the door brings me to my feet as a whirl of long chestnut hair, pale limbs, and brown boots dives head first into my office. I roll my eyes and repress my natural annoyance at such clumsiness as I hurry over to the girl 531/551

who has landed on her hands and knees on the floor. Clasping her slim shoulders, I help her to her feet.

Clear, bright-blue, embarrassed eyes meet mine and halt me in my tracks.

They are the most extraordinary color—guileless, powder-blue—and for one awful moment, I think she can see right through me. I feel . . . exposed. The thought is unnerving. She has a small, sweet face that is blushing now, an innocent pale rose. I wonder briefly if all her skin is like that—flawless—and what it would look like pink and warmed 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.

Showtime, Grey. Let’s have some fun. “Miss Kavanagh? I’m Christian Grey.

Are you all right? Would you like to sit?”

There’s that blush again. In command once more, I study her. She’s quite attractive, in a gauche way—slight, pale, with a mane of mahogany hair barely contained by a hair tie. A brunette. Yeah, she’s attractive. I extend my hand, and she stutters the beginning of a mortified apology and places her small hand in mine.

Her skin is cool and soft, but her handshake surprisingly firm.

“Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don’t mind, Mr.

Grey.” Her voice is quiet with a hesitant musicality, and she blinks erratically, long lashes fluttering over those big blue eyes.

Unable to keep the amusement from my voice as I recall her less-than-elegant entrance into my office, I ask who she is.

“Anastasia Steele. I’m studying English Literature with Kate, um . . . Katherine . . . um . . . Miss Kavanagh at Washington State.” A nervous, bashful, bookish type, eh? She looks it; hideously dressed, hiding her slight frame beneath a shapeless sweater and an A-line brown skirt. Christ, does she have no dress sense at all? She looks nervously around my office—everywhere but at me, I note with amused irony.

How can this young woman be a journalist? She doesn’t have an assertive bone in her body. She’s all charmingly flustered, meek, mild . . . submissive. I shake my head, bemused at where my inappropriate thoughts are going. Muttering some platitude, I ask her to sit, then notice her discerning gaze appraising my 532/551

office paintings. Before I can stop myself, I find I’m explaining them. “A local artist. Trouton.”