Fifty Shades Of Grey Ebook Free Download
Offset published by The Writer'south Coffee Shop, 2011
Copyright © E L James, 2011
The right of E L James to be identified every bit the author of this piece of work has been asserted by her under the Copyright Subpoena (Moral Rights) Human action 2000
This work is copyright. Apart from any use equally permitted under the Copyright Deed 1968, no part maybe reproduced, copied, scanned, stored in a retrieval system, recorded or transmitted, in any form or by whatsoever ways, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
This volume is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a production of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Whatsoever resemblance to bodily people living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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E 50 James is a TV executive, wife, and female parent of two, based in W London. Since early childhood, she dreamt of writing stories that readers would autumn in honey with, but put those dreams on hold to focus on her family and her career. She finally plucked upwards the courage to put pen to paper with her kickoff novel, Fifty Shades of Grey.
East L James is currently working on the sequel to Fifty Shades of Grey and a new romantic thriller with a supernatural twist.
I am indebted to the following people for their assist and support: To my husband Niall – thank you for tolerating my obsession, being a domestic god and doing the kickoff edit.
To my boss Lisa – thank you for putting up with me over the concluding yr or and then while I indulged in this madness.
To CCL – I'll never tell simply thank yous.
To the original bunker babes – thank you for your friendship and constant support.
To SR – thank you for all the helpful advice from the start and for going kickoff.
To Sue – thanks for sorting me out.
To Amanda and all at TWCS – thank you for taking a punt.
I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror. Damn my pilus – it simply won't acquit, and damn Katherine Kavanagh for being ill and subjecting me to this ordeal. I should exist studying for my concluding exams, which are next week, nonetheless hither I am trying to brush my hair into submission. I must non sleep with information technology wet. I must not sleep with information technology wet. Reciting this mantra several times, I attempt, one time more, to bring information technology under control with the castor. I curlicue my optics in exasperation and gaze at the pale, brown-haired girl with blueish optics too big for her confront staring back at me, and give up. My only pick is to restrain my wayward hair in a ponytail and promise that I look semi presentable.
Kate is my roommate, and she has chosen today of all days to succumb to the flu.
Therefore, she cannot attend the interview she'd arranged to exercise, with some mega-industri-alist tycoon I've never heard of, for the student newspaper. So I accept been volunteered. I have last exams to cram for, one essay to finish, and I'grand supposed to be working this afternoon, merely no – today I have to bulldoze a hundred and sixty-five miles to downtown Seattle in order to meet the enigmatic CEO of Grayness Enterprises Holdings Inc. As an exceptional entrepreneur and major benefactor of our Academy, his time is extraordinarily precious
– much more precious than mine – but he has granted Kate an interview. A real coup, she tells me. Damn her actress-curricular activities.
Kate is huddled on the burrow in the living room.
"Ana, I'm sorry. It took me 9 months to go this interview. It will take another six to reschedule, and we'll both have graduated by then. As the editor, I can't blow this off. Delight," Kate begs me in her rasping, sore pharynx voice. How does she do it? Even ill she looks gamine and gorgeous, strawberry blonde pilus in identify and dark-green eyes brilliant, although now ruby-rimmed and runny. I ignore my pang of unwelcome sympathy.
"Of course I'll become Kate. You should get back to bed. Would yous like some Nyquil or Tylenol?"
"Nyquil, please. Here are the questions and my mini-disc recorder. But press record here. Make notes, I'll transcribe it all."
"I know nix about him," I murmur, trying and failing to suppress my rise panic.
"The questions will encounter you through. Go. It's a long drive. I don't want you lot to be belatedly."
"Okay, I'm going. Get back to bed. I fabricated you some soup to estrus up later." I stare at her fondly. Merely for you, Kate, would I do this.
"I will. Good luck. And thanks Ana – as usual, you're my lifesaver."
Gathering my satchel, I smiling wryly at her, then head out the door to the car. I cannot believe I have let Kate talk me into this. But then Kate can talk anyone into annihilation.
She'll make an infrequent announcer. She'southward clear, stiff, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful – and she's my dearest, dearest friend.
The roads are articulate as I set off from Vancouver, WA toward Portland and the I-5. It'due south early, and I don't take to exist in Seattle until 2 this afternoon. Fortunately, Kate'due south lent me her sporty Mercedes CLK. I'm not sure Wanda, my old VW Protrude, would brand the journey in time. Oh, the Merc is a fun drive, and the miles slip away as I floor the pedal to the metal.
My destination is the headquarters of Mr. Grayness's global enterprise. Information technology's a huge twenty-story function building, all curved drinking glass and steel, an architect's utilitarian fantasy, with Grey Firm written discreetly in steel over the glass front doors. It's a quarter to two when I arrive, greatly relieved that I'g non belatedly equally I walk into the enormous – and frankly intimidating – glass, steel, and white sandstone vestibule.
Behind the solid sandstone desk, a very attractive, groomed, blonde immature adult female smiles pleasantly at me. She'south wearing the sharpest charcoal suit jacket and white shirt I have ever seen. She looks immaculate.
"I'm hither to come across Mr. Gray. Anastasia Steele for Katherine Kavanagh."
"Alibi me one moment, Miss Steele." She arches her eyebrow slightly as I stand self-consciously before her. I am starting time to wish I'd borrowed i of Kate'south formal blazers rather than wear my navy blueish jacket. I have fabricated an endeavour and worn my one and only skirt, my sensible chocolate-brown articulatio genus-length boots and a blue sweater. For me, this is smart. I tuck one of the escaped tendrils of my hair behind my ear equally I pretend she doesn't intimidate me.
"Miss Kavanagh is expected. Please sign in here, Miss Steele. You'll want the last elevator on the right, printing for the twentieth flooring." She smiles kindly at me, amused no doubt, equally I sign in.
She hands me a security pass that has Visitor very firmly stamped on the front. I can't help my smirk. Surely it'southward obvious that I'grand just visiting. I don't fit in hither at all.
Nothing changes, I inwardly sigh. Thanking her, I walk over to the bank of elevators past the two security men who are both far more smartly dressed than I am in their well-cut black suits.
The elevator whisks me with concluding velocity to the twentieth floor. The doors slide open, and I'thou in another large foyer – again all glass, steel, and white sandstone. I'm confronted by another desk of sandstone and another young blonde woman dressed impeccably in blackness and white who rises to greet me.
"Miss Steele, could you lot wait here, please?" She points to a seated area of white leather chairs.
Behind the leather chairs is a spacious glass-walled meeting room with an every bit spacious night forest table and at least twenty matching chairs around it. Beyond that, at that place is a floor-to-ceiling window with a view of the S
eattle skyline that looks out through the city toward the Sound. It's a stunning vista, and I'm momentarily paralyzed past the view. Wow.
I sit down, fish the questions from my satchel, and go through them, inwardly curs-ing Kate for non providing me with a brief biography. I know nothing about this man I'yard near to interview. He could be xc or he could be xxx. The uncertainty is galling, and my nerves resurface, making me fidget. I've never been comfortable with i-on-1 interviews, preferring the anonymity of a group discussion where I can sit inconspicuously at the back of the room. To exist honest, I prefer my own company, reading a classic British novel, curled upwards in a chair in the campus library. Not sitting twitching nervously in a colos-sal glass and stone building.
I curlicue my eyes at myself. Get a grip, Steele. Judging from the building, which is too clinical and modern, I gauge Grey is in his forties: fit, tanned, and fair-haired to match the residual of the personnel.
Some other elegant, flawlessly dressed blonde comes out of a large door to the right. What is information technology with all the immaculate blondes? Information technology'southward like Stepford here. Taking a deep jiff, I stand upward. "Miss Steele?" the latest blonde asks.
"Yes," I croak, and clear my throat. "Yes." There, that sounded more confident.
"Mr. Grey will run across yous in a moment. May I take your jacket?"
"Oh please." I struggle out of the jacket.
"Have you been offered whatever refreshment?"
"Um – no." Oh dear, is Blonde Number I in problem?
Blonde Number Ii frowns and eyes the young woman at the desk.
"Would yous like tea, coffee, water?" she asks, turning her attention dorsum to me.
"A drinking glass of h2o. Give thanks you," I murmur.
"Olivia, please fetch Miss Steele a glass of water." Her vocalization is stern. Olivia scoots up immediately and scurries to a door on the other side of the vestibule.
"My apologies, Miss Steele, Olivia is our new intern. Please be seated. Mr. Grey will be another five minutes."
Olivia returns with a glass of iced water.
"Here you go, Miss Steele."
"Thank you."
Blonde Number 2 marches over to the large desk, her heels clicking and echoing on the sandstone floor. She sits downwardly, and they both proceed their work.
Perhaps Mr. Grey insists on all his employees being blonde. I'chiliad wondering idly if that'southward legal, when the office door opens and a tall, elegantly dressed, bonny African-American human with short dreads exits. I take definitely worn the incorrect dress.
He turns and says through the door. "Golf, this week, Grey."
I don't hear the reply. He turns, sees me, and smiles, his dark eyes crinkling at the corners. Olivia has jumped up and called the lift. She seems to excel at jumping from her seat. She's more than nervous than me!
"Skilful afternoon ladies," he says every bit he departs through the sliding door.
"Mr. Grey will come across you now, Miss Steele. Do go through," Blonde Number Two says.
I stand up rather shakily trying to suppress my fretfulness. Gathering up my satchel, I carelessness my drinking glass of water and make my way to the partially open door.
"You don't need to knock – simply go in." She smiles kindly.
I push open the door and stumble through, tripping over my own feet, and falling head first into the office.
Double crap – me and my two left feet! I am on my hands and knees in the doorway to Mr. Grayness's office, and gentle hands are around me helping me to stand. I am and so embarrassed, damn my clumsiness. I have to steel myself to glance upwards. Holy moo-cow – he'south then young.
"Miss Kavanagh." He extends a long-fingered hand to me once I'1000 upright. "I'm Christian Grayness. Are you all right? Would you like to sit?"
So young – and attractive, very attractive. He's alpine, dressed in a fine gray adjust, white shirt, and blackness tie with unruly dark copper colored hair and intense, brilliant greyness eyes that regard me shrewdly. Information technology takes a moment for me to discover my vocalism.
"Um. Actually–" I mutter. If this guy is over thirty then I'm a monkey's uncle. In a shock, I identify my hand in his and we milk shake. As our fingers touch, I experience an odd exhilarating shiver run through me. I withdraw my hand hastily, embarrassed. Must be static. I blink rapidly, my eyelids matching my center rate.
"Miss Kavanagh is indisposed, so she sent me. I hope you don't mind, Mr. Greyness."
"And you are?" His vocalism is warm, possibly amused, simply it'south difficult to tell from his impassive expression. He looks mildly interested, but above all, polite.
"Anastasia Steele. I'm studying English Literature with Kate, um… Katherine…
um… Miss Kavanagh at Washington State."
"I come across," he says just. I think I see the ghost of a smiling in his expression, merely I'one thousand not sure. "Would you lot like to sit?" He waves me toward a white leather buttoned L-shaped couch.
His function is way too big for but ane man. In front end of the floor-to-ceiling windows, at that place's a huge modernistic dark-forest desk that six people could comfortably eat around. It matches the coffee table by the couch. Everything else is white – ceiling, floors, and walls except, on the wall by the door, where a mosaic of small paintings hang, 30-six of them bundled in a square. They are exquisite – a series of mundane, forgotten objects painted in such precise detail they expect like photographs. Displayed together, they are breathtaking.
"A local creative person. Trouton," says Grayness when he catches my gaze.
"They're lovely. Raising the ordinary to boggling," I murmur, distracted both by him and the paintings. He cocks his head to one side and regards me intently.
"I couldn't agree more, Miss Steele," he replies, his voice soft and for some inexplicable reason I find myself blushing.
Apart from the paintings, the rest of the part is cold, clean, and clinical. I wonder if it reflects the personality of the Adonis who sinks gracefully into one of the white leather chairs opposite me. I shake my head, disturbed at the direction of my thoughts, and retrieve Kate's questions from my satchel. Adjacent, I set upwards the mini-disc recorder and am all fingers and thumbs, dropping it twice on the coffee table in front of me. Mr. Grey says nothing, waiting patiently – I hope – as I go increasingly embarrassed and flustered. When I pluck up the courage to look at him, he's watching me, one hand relaxed in his lap and the other cupping his chin and trailing his long index finger across his lips. I call back he's trying to suppress a smile.
"Lamentable," I stutter. "I'chiliad not used to this."
"Take all the time you demand, Miss Steele," he says.
"Do you heed if I tape your answers?"
"Subsequently you've taken and so much problem to ready the recorder – y'all ask me at present?"
I flush. He's teasing me? I hope. I glimmer at him, unsure what to say, and I remember he takes compassion on me because he relents. "No, I don't mind."
"Did Kate, I mean, Miss Kavanagh, explain what the interview was for?"
"Yes. To announced in the graduation issue of the student newspaper as I shall be conferring the degrees at this twelvemonth's graduation ceremony."
Oh! This is news to me, and I'1000 temporarily pre-occupied by the thought that someone non much older than me – okay, possibly six years or so, and okay, mega successful, but even so – is going to present me with my degree. I frown, dragging my wayward attending back to the task at mitt.
"Good," I swallow nervously. "I accept some questions, Mr. Grey." I smooth a stray lock of hair backside my ear.
"I idea y'all might," he says, deadpan. He'south laughing at me. My cheeks rut at the realization, and I sit upwardly and square my shoulders in an attempt to wait taller and more intimidating. Pressing the beginning button on the recorder, I try to look professional.
"You're very young to have clustered such an empire. To what do y'all owe your success?" I glance up at him. His grin is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.
"Business is all about people, Miss Steele, and I'm very good at judgin
yard people. I know how they tick, what makes them flourish, what doesn't, what inspires them, and how to incentivize them. I apply an infrequent team, and I reward them well." He pauses and fixes me with his gray stare. "My conventionalities is to achieve success in any scheme 1 has to brand oneself master of that scheme, know information technology inside and out, know every detail. I work hard, very difficult to do that. I make decisions based on logic and facts. I have a natural gut instinct that tin can spot and nurture a good solid idea and good people. The lesser line is, it'southward e'er down to good people."
"Maybe y'all're just lucky." This isn't on Kate's list – merely he's so big-headed. His eyes flare momentarily in surprise.
"I don't subscribe to luck or take a chance, Miss Steele. The harder I work the more luck I seem to accept. It really is all about having the right people on your team and directing their energies accordingly. I think information technology was Harvey Firestone who said 'the growth and develop-ment of people is the highest calling of leadership.'"
"Yous sound similar a control freak." The words are out of my oral cavity before I can stop them."Oh, I exercise control in all things, Miss Steele," he says without a trace of humor in his smile. I look at him, and he holds my gaze steadily, impassive. My heartbeat quickens, and my face flushes over again.
Why does he have such an unnerving effect on me? His overwhelming proficient-looks mayhap? The way his eyes blaze at me? The way he strokes his index finger confronting his lower lip? I wish he'd finish doing that.
"As well, immense power is acquired by assuring yourself in your cloak-and-dagger reveries that you were built-in to control things," he continues, his voice soft.
"Do you feel that yous have immense power?" Control Freak.
"I utilise over forty thousand people, Miss Steele. That gives me a certain sense of responsibleness – power, if y'all will. If I were to make up one's mind I was no longer interested in the telecommunication business and sell up, 20 thousand people would struggle to brand their mortgage payments later a month or and then."
My mouth drops open up. I am staggered by his lack of humility.
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