Cover.html

He blinks and narrows his eyes once more. Then unexpectedly he laughs.

“Seven shades of Sunday?” He arches an eyebrow, intrigued. “I may hold you to that, Ms. Steele.”

“Oh, stop with the Ms. Steele!” I snap and thump the desk, startling us both.

“For heaven’s sake, Christian. If it means so much to you, I’ll change my name!” His mouth pops open as he inhales sharply. And then he grins, a radiant, all-teeth-showing, joyous grin. Wow . . .

“Good.” He claps his hands, and all of a sudden he stands.

What now?

“Mission accomplished. Now, I have work to do. If you’ll excuse me, Mrs.

Grey.”

Gah—this man is so maddening! “But—”

“But what, Mrs. Grey?”

I sag. “Just go.”

“I intend to. I’ll see you this evening. I’m looking forward to seven shades of Sunday.”

I scowl.

“Oh, and I have a stack of business-related social engagements coming up, and I’d like you to accompany me.”

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I gape at him. Will you just go?

“I’ll have Andrea call Hannah to put the dates in your calendar. There are some people you need to meet. You should get Hannah to handle your schedule from now on.”

“Okay,” I mumble, completely bemused, bewildered and shell-shocked.

He leans over my desk. What now? I am caught in his hypnotic gaze.

“Love doing business with you, Mrs. Grey.” He leans in closer as I sit paralyzed, and he plants a soft tender kiss on my lips. “Laters, baby,” he murmurs. He stands abruptly, winks at me, and leaves.

I lay my head on my desk, feeling like I’ve been run over by a freight train—the freight train that is my beloved husband. He has to be the most frustrating, annoying, contrary man on the planet. I sit up and frantically rub my eyes.

What have I just agreed to? Okay, Ana Grey running SIP—I mean, Grey Publishing. The man is insane. There’s a knock on the door, and Hannah pokes her head around.

“You okay?” she asks.

I just stare at her. She frowns.

“I know you don’t like me doing this—but can I make you some tea?” I nod.

“Twinings English Breakfast, weak and black?” I nod.

“Coming right up, Ana.”

I stare blankly at my computer screen, still in shock. How can I make him understand? E-mail!

From: Anastasia Steele

Subject: NOT AN ASSET!

Date: August 22, 2011 14:23

To: Christian Grey

Mr. Grey

Next time you come and see me, make an appointment, so I can at least have some

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prior warning of your adolescent overbearing megalomania.

Yours

Anastasia Grey <-----please note name.

Commissioning Editor, SIP

From: Christian Grey

Subject: Seven Shades of Sunday

Date: August 22, 2011 14:34

To: Anastasia Steele

My Dear Mrs. Grey (emphasis on My)

What can I say in my defense? I was in the neighborhood.

And no, you are not an asset, you are my beloved wife.

As ever, you make my day.

Christian Grey

CEO & Overbearing Megalomaniac, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

He’s trying to be funny, but I am in no mood to laugh. I take a deep breath and go back to my correspondence.

Christian is quiet when I climb into the car that evening.

“Hi,” I murmur.

“Hi,” he responds, warily—as he should.

“Disrupt anyone else’s work today?” I ask too sweetly.

A ghost of a smile crosses his face. “Only Flynn’s.” Oh.

“Next time you go to see him, I’ll give you a list of topics I want covered,” I hiss at him.

“You seem out of sorts, Mrs. Grey.”

I glare steadily at the backs of Ryan and Sawyer’s heads in front of me.

Christian shifts beside me.

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“Hey,” he says softly and reaches for my hand. All afternoon, when I should have been concentrating on work, I was trying to figure out what to say to him.

But I became angrier and angrier with each passing hour. I’ve had enough of his cavalier, petulant, and frankly childish behavior. I snatch my hand out of his—in a cavalier, petulant, and childish manner.

“You’re mad at me?” he whispers.

“Yes,” I hiss. Folding my arms protectively across my body, I gaze out my window. He shifts beside me once more, but I will myself not to look at him. I don’t understand why I’m so mad at him—but I am. Really fucking mad.

As soon as we pull up outside Escala, I break protocol and leap out of the car with my briefcase. I stomp into the building, not checking to see who is following.

Ryan scuttles into the foyer behind me and dashes to the elevator to press the call button.

“What?” I snap when I’m alongside him. His cheeks redden.

“Apologies, ma’am,” he mutters.

Christian comes and stands beside me to wait for the elevator, and Ryan retreats.

“So it’s not just me you’re mad at?” Christian murmurs dryly. I glare up at him and see a trace of a smile on his face.

“Are you laughing at me?” I narrow my eyes.

“I wouldn’t dare,” he says, holding his hands up like I’m threatening him at gunpoint. He’s in his navy suit, looking crisp and clean with floppy sex-hair and a guileless expression.

“You need a haircut,” I mutter. Turning away from him, I step into the elevator.

“Do I?” he says while brushing his hair off his forehead. He follows me in.

“Yes.” I tap the code for our apartment into the keypad.