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“Don’t you have a board to answer to?”

“I own my company. I don’t answer to a board,” I respond sharply. She should know this. I raise a questioning brow.

“And do you have any interests outside of your work?” she continues hastily, correctly gauging my reaction. She knows I’m pissed, and for some inexplicable reason this pleases me enormously.

“I have varied interests, Miss Steele. Very varied.” I smile . Images of her in assorted positions in my playroom flash through my mind: shackled on the cross, spread-eagle on the four-poster, splayed over the whipping bench . Fucking hell!

Where is this coming from? And behold—there’s that blush again. It’s like a defense mechanism. Calm down, Grey.

“But if you work so hard, what do you do to chill out?”

“Chill out?” I grin, those words out of her smart mouth sound odd. Besides when do I get time to chill out? Has she no idea of the number of companies I control? But she looks at me with those ingenuous blue eyes, and to my surprise I find myself considering her question. What do I do to chill out? Sailing, flying, 535/551

fucking . . . testing the limits of little brown-haired girls like her, and bringing them to heel . . . The thought makes me shift in my seat, but I answer her smoothly, omitting my two favorite hobbies.

“You invest in manufacturing. Why, specifically?” Her question drags me rudely back to the present.

“I like to build things. I like to know how things work, what makes things tick, how to construct and deconstruct. And I have a love of ships. What can I say?” They distribute food around the planet—taking goods from the haves to the have-nots and back again. What’s not to like?

“That sounds like your heart talking, rather than logic and facts.” Heart? Me? Oh no, baby. My heart was savaged beyond recognition a long time ago. “Possibly, though there are people who’d say I don’t have a heart.”

“Why would they say that?”

“Because they know me well.” I give her a wry smile. In fact no one knows me that well, except maybe Elena. I wonder what she would make of little Miss Steele here. The girl is a mass of contradictions: shy, uneasy, obviously bright, and arousing as hell. Yes, okay, I admit it. She’s an alluring little piece.

She recites the next question by rote.

“Would your friends say you’re easy to get to know?”

“I’m a very private person, Miss Steele. I go a long way to protect my privacy. I don’t often give interviews.” Doing what I do, living the life I’ve chosen, I need my privacy.

“Why did you agree to do this one?”

“Because I’m a benefactor of the university, and for all intents and purposes, I couldn’t get Miss Kavanagh off my back. She badgered and badgered my PR

people, and I admire that kind of tenacity.” But I’m glad it’s you who turned up and not her.

“You also invest in farming technologies. Why are you interested in this area?”

“We can’t eat money, Miss Steele, and there are too many people on this planet who don’t have enough to eat.” I stare at her, poker-faced.

“That sounds very philanthropic. Is that something you feel passionately about? Feeding the world’s poor?” She regards me with a quizzical expression as if I’m some kind of conundrum for her to solve, but there is no way I want those 536/551

big blue eyes seeing into my dark soul. This is not an area open to discussion.

Ever.

“It’s shrewd business.” I shrug, feigning boredom, and I imagine fucking her smart mouth to distract myself from all thoughts of hunger. Yes, that mouth needs training. Now that thought is appealing, and I let myself imagine her on her knees before me.

“Do you have a philosophy? If so, what is it?” she recites by rote again.

“I don’t have a philosophy as such. Maybe a guiding principle, Carnegie’s ‘A man who acquires the ability to take full possession of his own mind may take possession of anything else to which he is justly entitled.’ I’m very singular, driven. I like control . . . of myself and those around me.”

“So you want to possess things?” Her eyes widen.

Yes, baby. You, for one.

“I want to deserve to possess them, but yes, bottom line, I do.”

“You sound like the ultimate consumer.” Her voice is tinged with disapproval, pissing me off again. She sounds like a rich kid who’s had all she ever wanted, but as I take a closer look at her clothes—she’s dressed in Walmart, or Old Navy possibly—I know that isn’t it. She hasn’t grown up in an affluent household.

I could really take care of you.

Shit, where the fuck did that come from? Although, now that I consider it, I do need a new sub. It’s been, what—two months since Susannah? And here I am, salivating over this brown-haired girl. I try a smile and agree with her. Nothing wrong with consumption—after all, it drives what’s left of the American economy.

“You were adopted. How far do you think that’s shaped the way you are?” What the fuck does this have to do with the price of oil? I scowl at her. What a ridiculous question. If I’d stayed with the crack whore, I’d probably be dead. I blow her off with a non-answer, trying to keep my voice level, but she pushes me, demanding to know my how old I was when I was adopted. Shut her down, Grey!

“That’s a matter of public record, Miss Steele.” My voice is arctic. She should know this shit. Now she looks contrite. Good.

“You’ve had to sacrifice a family life for your work.”

“That’s not a question,” I snap.

She blushes again and bites down on that damned lip. But she has the grace to apologize.

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“Have you had to sacrifice a family life for your work?” What do I want with a fucking family?

“I have a family. I have a brother and a sister and two loving parents. I’m not interested in extending my family beyond that.”

“Are you gay, Mr. Grey?”

What the fuck! I cannot believe she’s said that out loud! The unspoken question that my own family dares not ask, much to my amusement. How dare she! I have to fight down the urge to drag her out of her seat, bend her across my knee, and spank the living shit out of her, then fuck her over my desk with her hands tied tightly behind her back. That would answer her question. How frustrating is this female? I take a deep calming breath. To my vindictive delight, she appears to be acutely embarrassed by her own question.

“No, Anastasia, I’m not.” I raise my eyebrows, but keep my expression impassive. Anastasia. It is a lovely name. I like the way my tongue rolls around it.

“I apologize. It’s um . . . written here.” Nervously, she tucks her hair behind her ear.

She doesn’t know her own questions? Perhaps they’re not hers. I ask her, and she pales. Fuck, she really is very attractive, in an understated sort of way. I would even go so far as to say she is beautiful.

“Er . . . no. Kate—Miss Kavanagh—she compiled the questions.”

“Are you colleagues on the student paper?”

“No, she’s my roommate.”

No wonder she is all over the place. I scratch my chin, debating whether to give her a really, really hard time.

“Did you volunteer to do this interview?” I ask, and I’m rewarded with her submissive look: eyes large, nervous about my reaction. I like the effect I have on her.

“I was drafted. She’s not well,” she says softly.

“That explains a great deal.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Andrea appears. “Mr. Grey, forgive me for interrupting, but your next meeting is in two minutes.”