Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           “Thephotographer?”Hisjawclenchesandhiseyesburn.Iblinkathim.“Idon’tliketoshare,MissSteele.Rememberthat.”Hisquiet,chillingtoneisawarning,andwithonelong,coldlookatme,heheadsbacktothebedroom.

           Holycrap.IjustwantedtocallKate,Iwanttocallafterhim,buthissuddenaloofnesshasleftmeparalyzed.Whathappenedtothegenerous,relaxed,smilingmanwhowasmakinglovetomenothalfanhourago?

           “READY?”CHRISTIANASKSASwestandbythedoubledoorstothefoyer.

           Inoduncertainly.He’sresumedhisdistant,polite,uptightpersona,hismaskbackupandonshow.He’scarryingaleathermessengerbag.Whydoesheneedthat?Perhapshe’sstayinginPortland,andthenIremembergraduation.Ohyes…he’llbethereonThursday.He’swearingablackleatherjacket.Hecertainlydoesn’tlooklikethemulti-multimillionaire,billionaire,whatever-aire,intheseclothes.Helookslikeaboyfromthewrongsideofthetracks,maybeabadlybehavedrockstaroracatwalkmodel.Isighinwardly,wishingIhadatenthofhispoise.He’ssocalmandcontrolled.Ifrown,recallinghisoutburstaboutJosé…Well,heseemstobe.

           Taylorishoveringinthebackground.

           “Tomorrow,then,”hesaystoTaylor,whonods.

           “Yes,sir.Whichcarareyoutaking,sir?”

           Helooksdownatmebriefly.

           “TheR8.”

           “Safetrip,Mr.Grey.MissSteele.”Taylorlookskindlyatme,thoughperhapsthere’sahintofpityhiddeninthedepthsofhiseyes.

           NodoubthethinksI’vesuccumbedtoMr.Grey’sdubioussexualhabits.