Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 1
Thankingher,IwalkovertothebankofelevatorsandpastthetwosecuritymenwhoarebothfarmoresmartlydressedthanIamintheirwell-cutblacksuits.
Theelevatorwhisksmeatterminalvelocitytothetwentiethfloor.Thedoorsslideopen,andI’minanotherlargelobby—againallglass,steel,andwhitesandstone.I’mconfrontedbyanotherdeskofsandstoneandanotheryoungblondewoman,thistimedressedimpeccablyinblackandwhite,whorisestogreetme.
“MissSteele,couldyouwaithere,please?”Shepointstoaseatedareaofwhiteleatherchairs.
Behindtheleatherchairsisaspaciousglass-walledmeetingroomwithanequallyspaciousdarkwoodtableandatleasttwentymatchingchairsaroundit.Beyondthat,thereisafloor-to-ceilingwindowwithaviewoftheSeattleskylinethatlooksoutthroughthecitytowardtheSound.It’sastunningvista,andI’mmomentarilyparalyzedbytheview.Wow.
Isitdown,fishthequestionsfrommybackpack,andgothroughthem,inwardlycursingKatefornotprovidingmewithabriefbiography.IknownothingaboutthismanI’mabouttointerview.Hecouldbeninetyorhecouldbethirty.Theuncertaintyisgalling,andmynervesresurface,makingmefidget.I’veneverbeencomfortablewithone-on-oneinterviews,preferringtheanonymityofagroupdiscussionwhereIcansitinconspicuouslyatthebackoftheroom.Tobehonest,Iprefermyowncompany,readingaclassicBritishnovel,curledupinachairinthecampuslibrary.Notsittingtwitchingnervouslyinacolossalglass-and-stoneedifice.
Irollmyeyesatmyself.Getagrip,Steele.
