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“We run an excellent internship program here.” Fuck. What possessed me to say that? I’m breaking a golden rule—never, ever fuck the staff. But Grey, you’re not fucking this girl. She looks surprised, and her teeth sink into that lip again.

Why is that so arousing?

“Oh. I’ll bear that in mind,” she mumbles. Then as an afterthought she says,

“Though I’m not sure I’d fit in here.”

Why the hell not? What’s wrong with my company?

“Why do you say that?” I ask.

“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“Not to me.” I’m confounded by her response.

She’s flustered again as she reaches for the mini-disc recorder. Shit, she’s going. Mentally I run through my schedule for that afternoon—there is nothing that won’t keep.

“Would you like me to show you around?”

“I’m sure you’re far too busy, Mr. Grey, and I do have a long drive.”“You’re driving back to WSU in Vancouver?” I glance out the window. It’s one hell of a drive, and it’s raining. Shit. She shouldn’t be driving in this weather, but I can’t forbid her. The thought irritates me. “Well, you’d better drive carefully.” My voice is sterner than I intend.

She fumbles with the mini-disc. She wants out of my office, and for some reason I can’t explain, I don’t want her to go.

539/551

“Did you get everything you need?” I add in a transparent effort to prolong her stay.

“Yes, sir,” she says quietly.

Her response floors me—the way those words sound, coming out of that smart mouth—and briefly I imagine that mouth at my beck and call.

“Thank you for the interview, Mr. Grey.”

“The pleasure’s been all mine,” I respond–truthfully, because I haven’t been this fascinated by anyone in a long while. The thought is unsettling.

She stands and I extend my hand, eager to touch her.

“Until we meet again, Miss Steele.” My voice is low as she places her small hand in mine. Yes, I want to flog and fuck this girl in my playroom. Have her bound and wanting . . . needing me, trusting me. I swallow. It ain’t going to happen, Grey.

“Mr. Grey.” She nods and withdraws her hand quickly . . . too quickly.

Shit, I can’t let her go like this. It’s obvious she is desperate to leave. Irritation and inspiration hit me simultaneously as I see her out.

“Just ensuring you make it through the door, Miss Steele.” She blushes on cue, her delicious shade of pink.

“That’s very considerate, Mr. Grey,” she snaps.

Miss Steele has teeth! I grin behind her as she exits, and I follow in her wake.

Both Andrea and Olivia look up in shock. Yeah, yeah. I’m just seeing the girl out.

“Did you have a coat?” I ask.

“Yes.”

I scowl at simpering Olivia, who immediately leaps up to retrieve a navy coat. Taking it, I glare at her to sit down. Christ, Olivia is annoying—mooning over me all the time.

Hmm. The coat is from Walmart. Miss Anastasia Steele should be better dressed. I hold it up for her, and as I pull it over her slim shoulders, I touch the skin at the base of her neck. She stills at the contact and pales. Yes! She is affected by me. The knowledge is immensely pleasing. Strolling over to the elevator, I press the call button while she stands fidgeting beside me.

Oh, I could so stop your fidgeting, baby.

The doors open and she scurries in then turns to face me.

“Anastasia,” I murmur, saying good-bye.

540/551

“Christian,” she whispers. And the elevator doors close, leaving my name hanging in the air, sounding odd, unfamiliar, but sexy as hell.

Well, fuck me. What was that?

I need to know more about this girl. “Andrea,” I snap as I stalk back into my office. “Get me Welch on the line, now.”

As I sit at my desk and wait for the call, I look at the paintings on the wall of my office, and Miss Steele’s words drift back to me. “Raising the ordinary to extraordinary.” She could so easily have been describing herself.

My phone buzzes.

“I have Mr. Welch on the line for you.”

“Put him through.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Welch, I need a background check.”

Saturday, May 14, 2011

542/551

I pore over the executive summary for the hundredth time since I received it two days ago, looking for some insight into the enigmatic Miss Anastasia Rose Steele. I cannot get the damned woman out of my mind, and it’s seriously beginning to piss me off. This past week, during particularly dull meetings, I’ve found myself replaying the interview in my head. Her fumbling fingers on the recorder, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, the lip biting. Yes. The fucking lip biting gets me every time.

And now, here I am, parked outside Clayton’s, the modest hardware store on the outskirts of Portland where she works.

You’re a fool, Grey. Why are you here?