Пятьдесят оттенков серого
Chapter 1
Asourfingerstouch,Ifeelanoddexhilaratingshiverrunthroughme.Iwithdrawmyhandhastily,embarrassed.Mustbestatic.Iblinkrapidly,myeyelidsmatchingmyheartrate.
“MissKavanaghisindisposed,soshesentme.Ihopeyoudon’tmind,Mr.Grey.”
“Andyouare?”Hisvoiceiswarm,possiblyamused,butit’sdifficulttotellfromhisimpassiveexpression.Helooksmildlyinterestedbut,aboveall,polite.
“AnastasiaSteele.I’mstudyingEnglishliteraturewithKate,um…Katherine…um…MissKavanagh,atWSUVancouver.”
“Isee,”hesayssimply.IthinkIseetheghostofasmileinhisexpression,butI’mnotsure.
“Wouldyouliketosit?”HewavesmetowardanL-shapedwhiteleathercouch.
Hisofficeiswaytoobigforjustoneman.Infrontofthefloor-to-ceilingwindows,there’samoderndarkwooddeskthatsixpeoplecouldcomfortablyeataround.Itmatchesthecoffeetablebythecouch.Everythingelseiswhite—ceiling,floors,andwalls,exceptforthewallbythedoor,whereamosaicofsmallpaintingshang,thirty-sixofthemarrangedinasquare.Theyareexquisite—aseriesofmundane,forgottenobjectspaintedinsuchprecisedetailtheylooklikephotographs.Displayedtogether,theyarebreathtaking.
“Alocalartist.Trouton,”saysGreywhenhecatchesmygaze.
“They’relovely.Raisingtheordinarytoextraordinary,”Imurmur,distractedbothbyhimandthepaintings.Hecockshisheadtoonesideandregardsmeintently.
