Fifty Shades Freed: Book Three of the Fifty Shades Trilogy

by E. L. James

  “Ana,” Kate exclaims, snapping me out of my reverie. “You still in the South of France?”

  “Yes,” I reply with a smile.

  “You look so well,” she says, though she frowns as she says it.

  “You both do.” Grace beams while Elliot refills our glasses.

  “To the happy couple.” Carrick grins and raises his glass, and everyone around the table echoes the sentiment.

  “And congratulations to Ethan for getting into the psych program at Seattle,” chips in Mia proudly. She gives him an adoring smile, and Ethan smirks at her. I wonder idly if she’s made any headway with him. It’s difficult to tell.

  I listen to the banter around the table. Christian is running through our extensive itinerary over the last three weeks, embellishing here and there. He sounds relaxed and in control, the worry of the arsonist forgotten. I, on the other hand, don’t seem to be able to shake my mood. I pick at my food. Christian said I was fat yesterday. He was joking! My subconscious glares at me again. Elliot accidentally knocks his glass onto the terrace, startling everyone, and there’s a sudden flurry of activity to get it cleaned up.

  “I am going to take you to the boathouse and finally spank you in there if you don’t snap out of this mood,” Christian whispers to me.

  I gasp with shock, turn, and gape at him. What? Is he teasing me?

  “You wouldn’t dare!” I growl at him and from deep inside I feel a familiar, welcome excitement. He cocks an eyebrow at me. Of course he would. I glance quickly at Kate across the table. She’s watching us with interest. I turn back to Christian, narrowing my eyes at him.

  “You’d have to catch me first—and I’m wearing flats,” I hiss.

  “I’d have fun trying,” he whispers with a licentious grin, and I think he’s joking.I blush. Confusingly, I feel better.

  As we finish our dessert of strawberries and cream, the heavens open and unexpectedly soak us. We all leap up to clear the plates and glasses from the table, depositing them in the kitchen.

  “Good thing the weather held off till we finished,” Grace says pleased, as we drift into the back room den. Christian sits down at the shiny black upright piano, presses the quiet pedal, and starts to play a familiar tune that I can’t immediately place.

  Grace asks me for my impressions of Saint Paul de Vence. She and Carrick went years ago during their honeymoon, and it occurs to me that this is a good omen, seeing how happy they are together now. Kate and Elliot are cuddling on one of the large overstuffed couches, while Ethan, Mia, and Carrick are deep in a conversation about psychology, I think.

  Suddenly, as one, all the Greys stop talking and gape at Christian.

  What?

  Christian is singing softly to himself at the piano. Silence descends on us all as we strain to hear his soft, lyrical voice. I’ve heard him sing before, haven’t they? He stops, suddenly conscious of the deathly hush that’s fallen over the room. Kate glances questioningly at me and I shrug. Christian turns on the stool and frowns, embarrassed to realize he’s become the center of attention.

  “Go on,” Grace urges softly. “I’ve never heard you sing, Christian. Ever.” She stares at him in wonder. He sits on the piano stool, looking absently at her, and after a beat, he shrugs. His eyes flicker nervously to me, then over to the French windows. The rest of the room suddenly erupts in self-conscious chatter, and I’m left watching my dear husband.

  Grace distracts me, grasping my hands then suddenly folding me in her arms.

  “Oh, darling girl! Thank you, thank you,” she whispers, so only I can hear. It brings a lump to my throat.

  “Um . . .” I hug her back, not really sure why I am being thanked. Grace smiles, her eyes shining, and kisses my cheek. Oh my . . . What have I done?

  “I am going to make some tea,” she says, her voice hoarse with unshed tears.

  I amble over to Christian who is now standing, staring out through the French windows.

  “Hi,” I murmur.

  “Hi.” He puts his arm around my waist, pulling me to him, and I slip my hand into the back pocket of his jeans. We gaze out at the rain.

  “Feeling better?”

  I nod.

  “Good.”

  “You certainly know how to silence a room.”

  “I do it all the time,” he says and he grins at me.

  “At work, yes, but not here.”

  “True, not here.”

  “No one’s ever heard you sing? Ever?”

  “It appears not,” he says dryly. “Shall we go?”

  I gaze up at him, trying to gauge his mood. His eyes are soft and warm and slightly bemused. I decide to change the subject.

  “You going to spank me?” I whisper, and suddenly there are butterflies in my stomach. Perhaps this is what I need . . . this is what I have been missing.

  He gazes down at me, his eyes darkening.

  “I don’t want to hurt you, but I’m more than happy to play.”

  I glance nervously around the large room, but we are out of earshot.

  “Only if you misbehave, Mrs. Grey.” He bends and murmurs in my ear.

  How can he put so much sensual promise into six words?

  “I’ll see what I can do.” I grin.

  Once we’ve said our good-byes, we walk over to the car.

  “Here.” Christian throws me the keys to the R8. “Don’t bend it”—he adds in all seriousness—“or I will be fucking pissed.”

  My mouth goes dry. He’s letting me drive his car? My inner goddess whips on her leather driving gloves and flat shoes. Oh yes! she cries.

  “Are you sure?” I mouth, stunned.

  “Yes, before I change my mind.”

  I don’t think I have ever grinned so hard. He rolls his eyes and opens the driver’s door so that I can climb in. I start the engine before he’s even reached the passenger side, and he jumps in quickly.

  “Eager, Mrs. Grey?” he asks with a wry smile.

  “Very.”

  Slowly, I ease the car backward and turn it in the driveway. I manage not to stall it, surprising myself. Boy, is the clutch sensitive. Carefully navigating the driveway, I glance in my rearview mirror and see Sawyer and Ryan climb into the Audi SUV. I had no idea our security had followed us here. I pause before I set out onto the main road.

  “You’re sure about this?”

  “Yes,” Christian says tightly, telling me he’s not sure about this at all. Oh, my poor, poor Fifty. I want to laugh at both him and myself because I’m nervous and excited. A small part of me wants to lose Sawyer and Ryan just for the kicks. I check for traffic then inch the R8 out onto the road. Christian curls up with tension and I can’t resist. The road is clear. I put my foot down on the gas and we shoot forward.

  “Whoa! Ana!” Christian shouts. “Slow down—you’ll kill us both.”

  I immediately ease off the gas. Wow, can this car move!

  “Sorry,” I mutter, trying to sound contrite and failing miserably. Christian smirks at me, to hide his relief, I think.

  “Well, that counts as misbehaving,” he says casually and I slow right down.

  I glance in the rearview mirror. No sign of the Audi, just a solitary dark car with tinted windows behind us. I imagine Sawyer and Ryan flustered, frantic to catch up, and for some reason this gives me a thrill. But not wanting to give my dear husband a coronary, I decide to behave and drive steadily with growing confidence toward the 520 bridge.

  Suddenly, Christian swears and struggles to pull his BlackBerry from the pocket of his jeans.

  “What?” he snaps angrily at whoever it is on the other end of the line. “No.” he says and glances behind us. “Yes. She is.”

  I briefly check the rearview mirror, but I don’t see anything odd, just a few cars behind us. The SUV is about four cars back, and we’re all cruising at an even pace.

  “I see.” Christian sighs long and hard and rubs his forehead with his fingers, tension radiates off him. Something’s wrong.

 
“Yes . . . I don’t know.” He glances at me and lowers the phone from his ear. “We’re fine. Keep going,” he says calmly, smiling at me, but the smile doesn’t touch his eyes. Shit! Adrenaline spikes through my system. He picks the phone up again.

  “Okay on the 520. As soon as we hit it . . . Yes . . . I will.”

  He slots the phone into the speaker cradle, putting it on hands-free.

  “What’s wrong, Christian?”

  “Just look where you’re going, baby,” he says softly.

  I’m heading for the on-ramp of the 520 in the direction of Seattle. When I glance at Christian, he’s staring straight ahead.

  “I don’t want you to panic,” he says calmly. “But as soon as we’re on the 520 proper, I want you to step on the gas. We’re being followed.”

  Followed! Holy shit. My heart lurches into my mouth, pounding, my scalp prickles and my throat constricts with panic. Followed by whom? My eyes dart to the rearview mirror and, sure enough, the dark car I saw earlier is still behind us. Fuck! Is that it? I squint through the tinted windshield to see who’s driving, but I see nothing.

  “Keep your eyes on the road, baby,” Christian says gently, not in the truculent tone he normally uses where my driving is concerned.

  Get a grip! I mentally slap myself to subdue the dread that’s threatening to swamp me. Suppose whoever’s following us is armed? Armed and after Christian! Shit! I’m hit by a wave of nausea.

  “How do we know we’re being followed?” My voice is a breathy, squeaky, whisper.

  “The Dodge behind us has false license plates.”

  How does he know that?

  I signal as we approach the 520 from the on-ramp. It’s late afternoon, and although the rain has stopped, the roadway is wet. Fortunately, the traffic is reasonably light.

  Ray’s voice echoes in my head from one of his many self-defense lectures. “It’s the panic that’s gonna kill you or get you seriously hurt, Annie.” I take a deep breath, trying to bring my breathing under control. Whoever is following us is after Christian. As I take another deep steadying breath, my mind begins to clear and my stomach settles. I have to keep Christian safe. I wanted to drive this car, and I wanted to drive it fast. Well, here’s my chance. I grip the steering wheel and take a final glance in my rearview mirror. The Dodge is closing on us.

  I slow right down, ignoring Christian’s sudden panicked glance at me, and time my entrance on to the 520 so that the Dodge has to slow and stop to wait for a gap in the traffic. I drop a gear and floor it. The R8 shoots forward, slamming us both into the backs of our seats. The speedometer whips up to seventy-five miles per hour.

  “Steady, baby,” Christian says calmly, though I’m sure he’s anything but calm.

  I weave between the two lines of traffic like a black counter in a game of checkers, effectively jumping the cars and trucks. We’re so close to the lake on this bridge, it’s as if we’re driving on the water. I studiously ignore the angry, disapproving looks from other drivers. Christian clutches his hands together in his lap, keeping as still as possible, and in spite of my fevered thoughts, I wonder vaguely if he’s doing it so he doesn’t distract me.

  “Good girl,” he breathes in encouragement. He glances behind him. “I can’t see the Dodge.”

  “We’re right behind the unsub, Mr. Grey.” Sawyer’s voice comes through the hands-free. “He’s trying to catch up with you, sir. We’re going to try and come alongside, put ourselves between your car and the Dodge.”

  Unsub? What does that mean?

  “Good. Mrs. Grey is doing well. At this rate, provided the traffic remains light—and from what I can see it is—we’ll be off the bridge in a few minutes.”

  “Sir.”

  We flash past the bridge control tower, and I know we’re half way across Lake Washington. When I check my speed, I’m still doing seventy-five.

  “You’re doing really well, Ana,” Christian murmurs again as he gazes out the back of the R8. For a fleeting moment, his tone reminds me of our first encounter in his playroom when he patiently encouraged me through our first scene. The thought is distracting, and I dismiss it immediately.

  “Where am I headed?” I ask, moderately calmer. I have the feel of the car now. It’s a joy to drive, so quiet and easy to handle it’s hard to believe how fast we are going. Driving at this speed in this car is easy.

  “Mrs. Grey, head for I-5 and then south. We want to see if the Dodge follows you all the way,” Sawyer says over the hands-free. The traffic lights on the bridge are green—thank heavens—and I race onward.

  I glance nervously at Christian, and he smiles reassuringly. Then his face falls.

  “Shit!” he swears softly.

  There is a line of traffic ahead as we come off the bridge, and I have to slow. Glancing anxiously in the mirror once more, I think I spot the Dodge.

  “Ten or so cars back?”

  “Yeah, I see it,” Christian says, peering through the narrow rear window. “I wonder who the fuck it is?”

  “Me too. Do we know if it’s a man driving?” I blurt out toward the cradled BlackBerry.

  “No, Mrs. Grey. Could be a man or woman. The tint is too dark.”

  “A woman?” Christian says.

  I shrug. “Your Mrs. Robinson?” I suggest, not taking my eyes off the road.

  Christian stiffens and lifts the BlackBerry out of its cradle. “She’s not my Mrs. Robinson,” he growls. “I haven’t spoken to her since my birthday. And Elena wouldn’t do this. It’s not her style.”

  “Leila?”

  “She’s in Connecticut with her parents. I told you.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He pauses. “No. But if she’d absconded, I’m sure her folks would have let Flynn know. Let’s discuss this when we’re home. Concentrate on what you’re doing.”

  “But it might just be some random car.”

  “I’m not taking any risks. Not where you’re concerned,” he snaps. He replaces the BlackBerry in its cradle so we’re back in contact with our security team.

  Oh shit. I don’t want to rattle Christian right now . . . later maybe. I hold my tongue. Fortunately, the traffic is thinning a little. I am able to speed over the Mountlake intersection toward the I-5, weaving through the cars again.

  “What if we get stopped by the cops?” I ask.

  “That would be a good thing.”

  “Not for my license.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” he says. Unexpectedly, I hear humor in his voice.

  I put my foot down again, and hit seventy-five. Boy, this car can move. I love it—she’s so easy. I touch eighty-five. I don’t think I have ever driven this fast. I was lucky if my Beetle ever hit fifty miles an hour.

  “He’s cleared the traffic and picked up speed.” Sawyer’s disembodied voice is calm and informative. “He’s doing ninety.”

  Shit! Faster! I press down on the gas and the car purrs to ninety-five miles per hour as we approach the I-5 intersection.

  “Keep it up, Ana,” Christian murmurs.

  I slow momentarily as we glide onto the I-5. The interstate is fairly quiet, and I’m able to cross straight over to the fast lane in a split second. As I put my foot down, the glorious R8 zooms forward, and we tear down the left lane, lesser mortals pulling over to let us pass. If I wasn’t so frightened, I might really enjoy this.

  “He’s hit one hundred miles per hour, sir.”

  “Stay with him, Luke,” Christian barks at Sawyer.

  Luke?

  A truck lurches into the fast lane—Shit!—and I have to slam on the brakes.

  “Fucking idiot!” Christian curses the driver as we lurch forward in our seats. I am grateful for our seatbelts.

  “Go around him, baby,” Christian says through clenched teeth. I check my mirrors and cut right across three lanes. We speed past the slower vehicles and then cut back to the fast lane.

  “Nice move, Mrs. Grey,” Christian murmurs appreciatively. “Where are the cops when
you need them?”

  “I don’t want a ticket, Christian,” I mutter, concentrating on the highway ahead. “Have you had a speeding ticket driving this?”

  “No,” he says, but glancing quickly at him, I can see his smirk.

  “Have you been stopped?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.”

  “Charm, Mrs. Grey. It all comes down to charm. Now concentrate. Where’s the Dodge, Sawyer?”

  “He’s just hit one hundred and ten, sir.” Sawyer says.

  Holy fuck! My heart leaps once more into my mouth. Can I drive any faster? I push my foot down once more and streak past the traffic.

  “Flash the headlights,” Christian orders when a Ford Mustang won’t move.

  “But that would make me an asshole.”

  “So be an asshole!” he snaps.

  Jeez. Okay! “Um, where are the headlights?”

  “The indicator. Pull it toward you.”

  I do it, and the Mustang moves aside though not before the driver waves his finger at me in a none-too-complimentary manner. I zoom past him.

  “He’s the asshole,” Christian says under his breath, then barks at me, “get off on Stewart.”

  Yes sir!

  “We’re taking the Stewart Street exit,” Christian says to Sawyer.

  “Head straight to Escala, sir.”

  I slow, check my mirrors, signal, then move with surprising ease across four lanes of the highway and down the off-ramp. Merging onto Stewart Street, we head south. The street is quiet, with few vehicles. Where is everyone?

  “We’ve been damned lucky with the traffic. But that means the Dodge has, too. Don’t slow down, Ana. Get us home.”

  “I can’t remember the way,” I mutter, panicked by the fact the Dodge is still on our tail.

  “Head south on Stewart. Keep going until I tell you when.” Christian sounds anxious again. I zoom past three blocks but the lights change to yellow on Yale Avenue.

  “Run them, Ana,” Christian shouts. I jump so hard I floor the gas pedal, throwing us both back in our seats, speeding through the now red light.