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cold.
    “Grey.”
    “Er … Mr. Grey? It’s Anastasia Steele.” I don’t recognize my own voice, I’m so nervous. There’s a brief pause. Inside I’m quaking.
    “Miss Steele. How nice to hear from you.” His voice has changed. He’s surprised, I think, and he sounds so … warm—
seductive
even. My breath hitches, and I flush. I’m suddenly conscious that Katherine Kavanagh is staring at me, her mouth open, and I dart into the kitchen to avoid her unwanted scrutiny.
    “Um—we’d like to go ahead with the photo shoot for the article.”
Breathe, Ana, breathe
. My lungs drag in a hasty breath. “Tomorrow, if that’s okay. Where would be convenient for you, sir?”
    I can almost hear his sphinxlike smile through the phone.
    “I’m staying at the Heathman in Portland. Shall we say nine thirty tomorrow morning?”
    “Okay, we’ll see you there.” I am all gushing and breathy—like a child, not a grown woman who can vote and drink legally in the state of Washington.
    “I look forward to it, Miss Steele.” I visualize the wicked gleam in his eyes.
How can he make seven little words hold so much tantalizing promise?
I hang up. Kate is in the kitchen, and she’s staring at me with a look of complete and utter consternation on her face.
    “Anastasia Rose Steele. You like him! I’ve never seen or heard you so … so … affected by anyone before. You’re actually blushing.”
    “Oh, Kate, you know I blush all the time. It’s an occupational hazard with me. Don’t be ridiculous,” I snap. She blinks at me with surprise—I very rarely have hissy fits—and I briefly relent. “I just find him … intimidating, that’s all.”
    “Heathman, that figures,” mutters Kate. “I’ll give the manager a call and negotiate a space for the shoot.”
    “I’ll make supper. Then I need to study.” I cannot hide my irritation with her as I open one of the cupboards to make supper.
    I AM RESTLESS THAT night, tossing and turning, dreaming of smoky gray eyes, coveralls, long legs, long fingers, and dark, darkunexplored places. I wake twice in the night, my heart pounding.
Oh, I’m going to look just great tomorrow with so little sleep
, I scold myself. I punch my pillow and try to settle.
    THE HEATHMAN IS NESTLED in the heart of downtown Portland. Its impressive brown stone edifice was completed just in time for the crash of the late 1920s. José, Travis, and I are traveling in my Beetle, and Kate is in her CLK, since we can’t all fit in my car. Travis is José’s friend and gopher, here to help out with the lighting. Kate has managed to acquire the use of a room at the Heathman free of charge for the morning in exchange for a credit in the article. When she explains at reception that we’re here to photograph Christian Grey, CEO, we are instantly upgraded to a suite. Just a regular-sized suite, however, as apparently Mr. Grey is already occupying the largest one in the building. An over-keen marketing executive shows us up to the suite—he’s terribly young and very nervous for some reason. I suspect Kate’s beauty and commanding manner disarm him, because he’s putty in her hands. The rooms are elegant, understated, and opulently furnished.
    It’s nine. We have half an hour to set up. Kate is in full flow.
    “José, I think we’ll shoot against that wall, do you agree?” She doesn’t wait for his reply. “Travis, clear the chairs. Ana, could you ask housekeeping to bring up some refreshments? And let Grey know where we are.”
    Yes, mistress
. She is so domineering. I roll my eyes but do as I’m told.
    Half an hour later, Christian Grey walks into our suite.
    Holy crap!
He’s wearing a white shirt, open at the collar, and gray flannel pants that hang from his hips. His unruly hair is still damp from a shower. My mouth goes dry looking at him … he’s so freaking
hot
. Grey is followed into the suite by a man in his mid-thirties, all buzz cut and stubble in a sharp dark suit and tie