Fifty Shades Freed

“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 Co

“Are you sure?”

He pauses. “No. But if she’d absconded, I’m sure her folks would have let Fly

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 thi

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.”

“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 ma

“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.

“He’s taking Stewart,” Sawyer says.

“Stay with him, Luke.”

“Luke?”

“That’s his name.”

A quick glance and I can see Christian glaring at me as if I’m crazy. “Eyes on the road!” he snaps.

I ignore his tone. “Luke Sawyer.”

“Yes!” He sounds exasperated.

“Ah.” How did I not know this? The man has been following me to work for the last six weeks, and I didn’t even know his first name.

“That’s me, ma’am,” Sawyer says, startling me, though he’s speaking in the calm, monotone voice he always uses. “The unsub is heading down Stewart, sir.

He’s really picking up speed.”

“Go, Ana. Less of the fucking chitchat,” Christian growls.

“We’re stopped at the first light on Stewart.” Sawyer informs us.

“Ana—quick—in here,” Christian shouts, pointing to a parking lot on the south side of Boren Avenue. I turn, the tires screeching in protest as I swerve into the

crowded lot.

“Drive around. Quick,” Christian orders. I drive as fast as I can to the back, out of sight of the street. “In there.” Christian points to a space. Shit! He wants me to

park it. Crap!

“Just fucking do it,” he says. So I do . . . perfectly. Probably the only time I have ever parked perfectly.

“We’re hidden in the parking lot between Stewart and Boren,” Christian says into the BlackBerry.

“Okay, sir.” Sawyer sounds irritated. “Stay where you are; we’ll follow the unsub.”

Christian turns to me, his eyes searching my face. “You okay?”

“Sure,” I whisper.

Christian smirks. “Whoever’s driving that Dodge can’t hear us, you know.”

And I laugh.

“We’re passing Stewart and Boren now, sir. I see the lot. He’s gone straight past you, sir.”

Both of us sag simultaneously with relief.

“Well done, Mrs. Grey. Good driving.” Christian gently strokes my face with his fingertips, and I jump at the contact, inhaling deeply. I had no idea I was

holding my breath.

“Does this mean you’ll stop complaining about my driving?” I ask. He laughs—a loud cathartic laugh.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

“Thank you for letting me drive your car. Under such exciting circumstances, too.” I try desperately to keep my voice light.

“Maybe I should drive now.”

“To be honest, I don’t think I can climb out right now to let you sit here. My legs feel like Jell-O.” Suddenly I’m shuddering and shaking.

“It’s the adrenaline, baby,” he says. “You did amazingly well, as usual. You blow me away, Ana. You never let me down.” He touches my cheek tenderly with

the back of his hand, his face full of love, fear, regret—so many emotions at once—and his words are my undoing. Overwhelmed, a strangled sob escapes from my

constricted throat, and I start to cry.

“No, baby, no. Please don’t cry.” He reaches over and, despite the limited space we have, pulls me over the handbrake console to cradle me in his lap.