Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           He’sdressedinhiscustomarywhitelinenshirt,blackjeans,blacktie,andblackjacket.Hishairisastousledasever.Isigh.Istandforafewsecondsintheentranceofthebar,gazingathim,admiringtheview.Heglances,nervouslyIthink,towardtheentranceandstillswhenheseesme.Blinkingacoupleoftimes,hethensmilesaslow,lazy,sexysmilethatrendersmespeechlessandallmolteninside.Makingasupremeeffortnottobitemylip,Imoveforward,awarethatI,AnastasiaSteeleofClumsyville,aminhighstilettos.Hewalksgracefullyovertomeetme.

           “Youlookstunning,”hemurmursasheleansdowntobrieflykissmycheek.“Adress,MissSteele.Iapprove.”Takingmyarm,heleadsmetoasecludedboothandsignalsforthewaiter.

           “Whatwouldyouliketodrink?”

           Mylipsquirkupinaquick,slysmileasIsitandslideintothebooth—well,atleasthe’saskingme.

           “I’llhavewhatyou’rehaving,please.”See!Icanplayniceandbehavemyself.Amused,heordersanotherglassofSancerreandslidesinoppositeme.

           “Theyhaveanexcellentwinecellarhere,”hesays.Puttinghiselbowsonthetable,hesteepleshisfingersinfrontofhismouth,hiseyesalivewithsomeunreadableemotion.Andthereitis…thatfamiliarpullandchargefromhim,itconnectssomewheredeepinsideme.Ishiftuncomfortablyunderhisscrutiny,myheartpalpitating.Imustkeepmycool.

           “Areyounervous?”heaskssoftly.

           “Yes.”

           Heleansforward.

           “Me,too,”hewhispersconspiratorially.Myeyesshootuptomeethis.Him?Nervous?Never.