Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           Hesmilesknowinglyather,hisgrayeyestwinkling.Inarrowmyeyesatthemboth.

           “Whatareyoudoinghere?”MyquestionsoundsmorebrittlethanImean,andhissmiledisappears,hisexpressionnowguarded.Iamthrilledtoseehimbutcompletelythrownoffbalance,myangeraboutMrs.Robinsonsimmeringthroughmyveins.Idon’tknowifIwanttoshoutathimorthrowmyselfintohisarms—butIdon’tthinkhe’dlikeeither—andIwanttoknowhowlonghehasbeenwatchingus.I’malsoalittleanxiousaboutthee-mailIjustsenthim.

           “Icametoseeyou,ofcourse.”Hegazesdownatmeimpassively.Oh,whatishethinking?“I’mstayinginthishotel.”

           “You’restayinghere?”Isoundlikeasophomoreonamphetamines,toohighpitchedevenformyownears.

           “Well,yesterdayyousaidyouwishedIwashere.”Hepauses,tryingtogaugemyreaction.“Weaimtoplease,MissSteele.”Hisvoiceisquietwithnotraceofhumor.

           Crap—ishemad?MaybetheMrs.Robinsoncomments?OrthefactthatIamonmythird,soontobefourth,Cosmo?Mymotherisglancinganxiouslyatthetwoofus.

           “Won’tyoujoinusforadrink,Christian?”Shewavestothewaiter,whoisathersideinananosecond.

           “I’llhaveaginandtonic,”Christiansays.“Hendricksifyouhaveit,orBombaySapphire.CucumberwiththeHendricks,limewiththeBombay.”

           Holyhell…onlyChristiancouldmakeamealoutoforderingadrink.

           “AndtwomoreCosmos,please,”Iadd,lookinganxiouslyatChristian.Iamdrinkingwithmymother—nowaycanhebeangryaboutthat.