Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 2
StoptalkingNOW.
“I’lltakesomecoveralls.HeavenforbidIshouldruinanyclothing,”hesaysdryly.
Itrytodismisstheunwelcomeimageofhimwithoutjeans.
“Doyouneedanythingelse?”IsqueakasIhandhimthebluecoveralls.
Heignoresmyinquiry.
“How’sthearticlecomingalong?”
He’sfinallyaskedmeaneasyquestion,awayfromalltheinnuendoandtheconfusingdouble-talk…aquestionIcananswer.Igraspittightlywithtwohandsasifitwerealiferaft,andIgoforhonesty.
“I’mnotwritingit,Katherineis.MissKavanagh.Myroommate,she’sthewriter.She’sveryhappywithit.She’stheeditorofthenewspaper,andshewasdevastatedthatshecouldn’tdotheinterviewinperson.”IfeellikeI’vecomeupforair—atlast,anormaltopicofconversation.“Heronlyconcernisthatshedoesn’thaveanyoriginalphotographsofyou.”
“Whatsortofphotographsdoesshewant?”
Okay.Ihadn’tfactoredinthisresponse.Ishakemyhead,becauseIjustdon’tknow.
“Well,I’maround.Tomorrow,perhaps…”
“You’dbewillingtodoaphotoshoot?”Myvoiceissqueakyagain.KatewillbeinseventhheavenifIcanpullthisoff.Andyoumightseehimagaintomorrow,thatdarkplaceatthebaseofmybrainwhispersseductivelyatme.Idismissthethought—ofallthesilly,ridiculous…
“Katewillbedelighted—ifwecanfindaphotographer.”I’msopleased,Ismileathimbroadly.Hislipspart,likehe’stakingasharpintakeofbreath,andheblinks.
