Fifty Shades Freed: Book Three of the Fifty Shades Trilogy Read online

  Hmm . . . payback time.

  “Sit,” I mutter.

  He stares, not understanding. I push him gently toward the lone white stool in the bathroom. Perplexed, he sits down, and I take the razor from him.

  “Ana,” he warns as he realizes my intention. I lean down and kiss him.

  “Head back,” I whisper.

  He hesitates.

  “Tit for tat, Mr. Grey.”

  He stares at me with wary, amused disbelief. “You know what you’re doing?” he asks, his voice low. I shake my head slowly, deliberately, trying to look as serious as possible. He closes his eyes and shakes his head then tilts his head back in surrender.

  Holy shit, he’s going to let me shave him. My inner goddess flexes and stretches her arms outward, her fingers interlocked, palms out, limbering up. Tentatively I slide my hand into the damp hair at his forehead, gripping tightly to hold him still. He clenches his eyes closed and parts his lips as he inhales. Very gently, I stroke his razor up from his neck to his chin, revealing a path of skin beneath the lather. Christian exhales.

  “Did you think I was going to hurt you?”

  “I never know what you’re going to do, Ana, but no—not intentionally.”

  I run the razor up his neck again, clearing a wider path in the lather.

  “I would never intentionally hurt you, Christian.”

  He opens his eyes and circles his arms around me as I gently drag the razor down his cheek from the bottom of his sideburn.

  “I know,” he says, angling his face so I can shave the rest of his cheek. Two more strokes and I’ve finished.

  “All done, and not a drop of blood spilled.” I grin proudly.

  He runs his hand up my leg so that my nightdress rides up my thigh and pulls me on to his lap so that I’m astride him. I steady myself with my hands on his upper arms. He’s really very muscular.

  “Can I take you somewhere today?”

  “No sunbathing?” I arch a caustic brow at him.

  He licks his lips nervously. “No. No sunbathing today. I thought you might prefer something else.”

  “Well, since you’ve covered me in hickeys and effectively put the kibosh on that, sure, why not?”

  Wisely he chooses to ignore my tone. “It’s a drive, but it’s worth a visit from what I’ve read. My dad recommended we visit. It’s a hilltop village called Saint Paul de Vence. There are some galleries there. I thought we could pick out some paintings or sculptures for the new house, if we find anything we like.”

  Holy crap. I lean back and gaze at him. Art . . . he wants to buy art. How can I buy art?

  “What?” he asks.

  “I know nothing about art, Christian.”

  He shrugs and smiles at me indulgently. “We’ll only buy what we like. This isn’t about investment.”

  Investment? Jeez.

  “What?” he says again.

  I shake my head.

  “Look, I know we only got the architect’s drawings the other day—but there’s no harm in looking, and the town is an ancient, medieval place.”

  Oh, the architect. He had to remind me of her . . . Gia Matteo, a friend of Elliot’s who worked on Christian’s place in Aspen. During our meetings, she’d been all over Christian like a rash.

  “What now?” Christian exclaims. I shake my head. “Tell me,” he urges.

  How can I tell him that I don’t like Gia? My dislike is irrational. I don’t want to come across as the jealous wife.

  “You’re not still mad about what I did yesterday?” He sighs and nuzzles his face between my breasts.

  “No. I’m hungry,” I mutter, knowing full well that this will distract him from this line of questioning.

  “Why didn’t you say?” He eases me off his lap and stands.

  Saint Paul de Vence is a medieval, fortified, hilltop village, one of the most picturesque places I have ever seen. I stroll arm in arm with Christian through the narrow cobblestone streets with my hand in the back pocket of his shorts. Taylor and either Gaston or Philippe—I can’t tell the difference between them—trail behind us. We pass a tree-covered square where three old men, one wearing a traditional beret in spite of the heat, are playing boules. It’s quite crowded with tourists, but I feel comfortable tucked under Christian’s arm. There is so much to see—little alleys and passageways leading to courtyards with intricate stone fountains, ancient and modern sculptures, and fascinating little boutiques and shops.

  In the first gallery, Christian gazes distractedly at the erotic photographs in front of us, sucking gently on the arm of his aviator specs. They are the work of Florence D’elle—naked women in various poses.

  “Not quite what I had in mind,” I mumble disapprovingly. They make me think of the box of photographs I found in his closet, our closet. I wonder if he ever did destroy them.

  “Me neither,” Christian says, grinning down at me. He takes my hand, and we stroll to the next artist. Idly, I wonder if I should let him take photos of me. My inner goddess nods frantically with approval.

  The next display is by a female painter who specializes in figurative art—fruit and vegetables super close up and in rich, glorious color.

  “I like those.” I point to three paintings of peppers. “They remind me of you chopping vegetables in my apartment.” I giggle. Christian’s mouth twists as he tries and fails to hide his amusement.

  “I thought I managed that quite competently,” he mutters. “I was just a bit slow, and anyway”—he pulls me into an embrace—“you were distracting me. Where would you put them?”

  “What?”

  Christian is nuzzling my ear. “The paintings—where would you put them?” He bites my earlobe and I feel it in my groin.

  “Kitchen,” I murmur.

  “Hmm. Nice idea, Mrs. Grey.”

  I squint at the price. Five thousand euros each. Holy shit!

  “They’re really expensive!” I gasp.

  “So?” He nuzzles me again. “Get used to it, Ana.” He releases me and saunters over to the desk where a young woman dressed entirely in white is gaping at him. I want to roll my eyes, but turn my attention back to the paintings. Five thousand euros . . . jeez.

  We have finished lunch and are relaxing over coffee at the Hotel Le Saint Paul. The view of the surrounding countryside is stunning. Vineyards and fields of sunflowers form a patchwork across the plain, interspersed here and there with neat little French farmhouses. It’s such a clear, beautiful day we can see all the way to the sea, glinting faintly on the horizon. Christian interrupts my reverie.

  “You asked me why I braid your hair,” he murmurs. His tone alarms me. He looks . . . guilty.

  “Yes.” Oh, shit.

  “The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream.”

  Whoa! His birth mom.

  He gazes at me, his expression unreadable. My heart leaps into my mouth. What do I say when he says things like this?

  “I like you playing with my hair.” My voice is hesitant.

  He regards me with uncertainty. “Do you?”

  “Yes.” It’s the truth. I grasp his hand. “I think you loved your birth mother, Christian.” His eyes widen and he stares at me impassively, saying nothing.

  Holy shit. Have I gone too far? Say something, Fifty—please. But he remains resolutely mute, gazing at me with fathomless gray eyes while the silence stretches between us. He looks lost.

  He glances down at my hand on his and he frowns.

  “Say something,” I whisper, because I cannot bear the silence any longer.

  He shakes his head, exhaling deeply.

  “Let’s go.” He releases my hand and stands. His expression guarded. Have I overstepped the mark? I have no idea. My heart sinks and I don’t know whether to say anything else or just let it go. I decide on the latter and follow him dutifully out of the restaurant.

  In the lovely narrow street, he takes my hand.

  “Where do you
want to go?”

  He speaks! And he’s not mad at me—thank heavens. I exhale, relieved, and shrug. “I am just glad you’re still speaking to me.”

  “You know I don’t like talking about all that shit. It’s done. Finished,” he says quietly.

  No, Christian, it isn’t. The thought saddens me, and for the first time I wonder if it will ever be finished. He’ll always be Fifty Shades . . . my Fifty Shades. Do I want him to change? No, not really—only insofar as I want him to feel loved. Peeking up at him, I take a moment to admire his captivating beauty . . . and he’s mine. And it’s not just the allure of his fine, fine face and his body that has me spellbound. It’s what’s behind the perfection that draws me, that calls to me . . . his fragile, damaged soul.

  He gives me that look, down his nose, half amused, half wary, wholly sexy then tucks me under his arm, and we make our way through the tourists toward the spot where Philippe/Gaston has parked the roomy Mercedes. I slip my hand back into the back pocket of Christian’s shorts, grateful that he isn’t mad. But, honestly, what four-year-old child doesn’t love his mom, no matter how bad a mom she is? I sigh heavily and hug him closer. I know behind us the security team lurks, and I wonder idly if they’ve eaten.

  Christian stops outside a small boutique selling fine jewelry and gazes in the window, then down at me. He grasps my free hand and runs his thumb across the faded red line of the handcuff mark, inspecting it.

  “It’s not sore.” I reassure him. He twists so that my other hand is freed from his pocket. He clasps that hand, too, turning it gently over to examine my wrist. The platinum Omega watch he gave me at breakfast on our first morning in London obscures the red line. The inscription still makes me swoon.

  Anastasia

  You are my More

  My Love, My Life

  Christian

  In spite of everything, all his Fiftyness, my husband can be so romantic. I gaze down at the faint marks on my wrist. Then again, he can be savage sometimes. Releasing my left hand, he tilts my chin up with his fingers and scrutinizes my expression, his eyes troubled.

  “They don’t hurt,” I repeat. He pulls my hand to his lips and plants a soft apologetic kiss on the inside of my wrist.

  “Come,” he says and leads me into the shop.

  “Here,” Christian holds open the platinum bracelet he’s just purchased. It’s exquisite, so delicately crafted, the filigree in the shape of small abstract flowers with small diamonds at their heart. He fastens it around my wrist. It’s wide and cuff-like and hides the red marks. It also cost around thirty thousand euros, I think, though I couldn’t really follow the conversation in French with the sales assistant. I have never worn anything so expensive.

  “There, that’s better,” he murmurs.

  “Better?” I whisper, gazing into luminous gray eyes, conscious that the stick-thin sales assistant is staring at us with a jealous and disapproving look.

  “You know why,” Christian says uncertainly.

  “I don’t need this.” I shake my wrist and the cuff moves. It catches the afternoon light streaming through the boutique window and small sparkling rainbows dance off the diamonds all over the walls of the store.

  “I do,” he says with utter sincerity.

  Why? Why does he need this? Does he feel guilty? About what? The marks? His birth mother? Not confiding in me? Oh, Fifty.

  “No, Christian, you don’t. You’ve given me so much already. A magical honeymoon, London, Paris, the Cote D’Azur . . . and you. I’m a very lucky girl,” I whisper and his eyes soften.

  “No, Anastasia, I’m a very lucky man.”

  “Thank you.” Stretching up on tiptoes, I put my arms around his neck and kiss him . . . not for giving me the bracelet but for being mine.

  Back in the car he’s introspective, gazing out at the fields of bright sunflowers, their heads following and basking in the afternoon sun. One of the twins—I think it’s Gaston—is driving and Taylor is beside him up front. Christian is brooding about something. I clasp his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze. He glances at me before releasing my hand and caressing my knee. I’m wearing a short, full, blue and white skirt, and a blue, fitted, sleeveless shirt. Christian hesitates, and I don’t know if his hand is going to travel up my thigh or down my leg. I tense with anticipation at the gentle touch of his fingers and my breath catches. What’s he going to do? He chooses down, suddenly grasps my ankle and pulls my foot on to his lap. I swivel my backside so I am facing him in the back of the car.

  “I want the other one, too.”

  I glance nervously toward Taylor and Gaston, whose eyes are resolutely on the road ahead, and place my other foot on his lap. His eyes cool, he reaches over and presses a button located in his door. In front of us, a lightly tinted privacy screen slides out of a panel, and ten seconds later we are effectively on our own. Wow . . . no wonder the back of this car has so much legroom.

  “I want to look at your ankles,” Christian offers his quiet explanation. His gaze is anxious. The cuff marks? Jeez . . . I thought we’d dealt with this. If there are marks, they are hidden by the sandal straps. I don’t recall seeing any this morning. Gently, he strokes his thumb up my right instep, making me wriggle. A smile plays on his lips and deftly he undoes one strap, and his smile fades as he’s confronted with the darker red marks.

  “Doesn’t hurt,” I murmur. He glances at me and his expression is sad, his mouth a thin line. He nods once as if he’s taking me at my word while I shake my sandal loose so it falls to the floor, but I know I’ve lost him. He’s distracted and brooding again, mechanically caressing my foot while he turns away to gaze out the car window once more.

  “Hey. What did you expect?” I ask softly. He glances at me and shrugs.

  “I didn’t expect to feel like I do looking at these marks,” he says.

  Oh! Reticent one minute and forthcoming the next? How . . . Fifty! How can I keep up with him?

  “How do you feel?”

  Bleak eyes gaze at me. “Uncomfortable,” he murmurs.

  Oh, no. I unbuckle my seatbelt and scoot closer to him, leaving my feet in his lap. I want to crawl into his lap and hold him, and I would, if it were just Taylor in the front. But knowing Gaston is there cramps my style despite the glass. If only it were darker. I clutch his hands.

  “It’s the hickeys I don’t like,” I whisper. “Everything else . . . what you did”—I lower my voice even further—“with the handcuffs, I enjoyed that. Well, more than enjoyed. It was mind-blowing. You can do that to me again anytime.”

  He shifts in his seat. “Mind-blowing?” My inner goddess looks up startled from her Jackie Collins.

  “Yes.” I grin. I flex my toes into his hardening crotch and see rather than hear his sharp intake of breath, his lips parting.

  “You should really be wearing your seat belt, Mrs. Grey.” His voice is low, and I curl my toes around him once more. He inhales and his eyes darken, and he clasps my ankle in warning. Does he want me stop? Continue? He pauses, scowls then fishes his ever-present BlackBerry out of his pocket to take an incoming call while glancing at his watch. His frown deepens.

  “Barney,” he snaps.

  Crap. Work interrupting us again. I try to remove my feet, but he tightens his fingers around my ankle.

  “In the server room?” he says in disbelief. “Did it activate the fire suppression system?”

  Fire! I take my feet off his lap and this time he lets me. I sit back in my seat, buckle my seat belt, and fiddle nervously with the fifteen-thousand-euro bracelet. Christian presses the button in his door armrest again and the privacy glass slides down.

  “Anyone injured? Damage? I see . . . When?” Christian glances at his watch again then runs his hand through his hair. “No. Not the fire department or the police. Not yet anyway.”

  Holy crap! A fire? At Christian’s office? I gape at him, my mind racing. Taylor shifts so he can hear Christian’s conversation.

  “Has he? Good . . . Okay. I want
a detailed damage report. And a complete rundown of everyone who had access over the last five days, including the cleaning staff . . . Get hold of Andrea and get her to call me . . . Yeah, sounds like the argon is just as effective, worth its weight in gold.”

  Damage report? Argon? It rings a distant bell from chemistry class—an element, I think.

  “I realize it’s early . . . E-mail me in two hours . . . No, I need to know. Thank you for calling me.” Christian hangs up, then immediately punches a number into the BlackBerry.

  “Welch . . . Good . . . When?” Christian glances at his watch yet again. “An hour then . . . yes . . . Twenty-four-seven at the off-site data store . . . good.” He hangs up.

  “Philippe, I need to be onboard within the hour.”

  “Monsieur.”

  Shit, it’s Philippe, not Gaston. The car surges forward.

  Christian glances at me, his expression unreadable.

  “Anyone hurt?” I ask quietly.

  Christian shakes his head. “Very little damage.” He reaches over and clasps my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Don’t worry about this. My team is on it.” And there he is, the CEO, in command, in control and not flustered at all.

  “Where was the fire?”

  “Server room.”

  “Grey House?”

  “Yes.”

  His responses are clipped, so I know he doesn’t want to talk about it.

  “Why so little damage?”

  “The server room is fitted with a state-of-the-art fire suppression system.”

  Of course it is.

  “Ana, please . . . don’t worry.”

  “I’m not worried,” I lie.

  “We don’t know for sure that it was arson,” he says, cutting to the heart of my anxiety. My hand clutches my throat in fear. Charlie Tango and now this?

  What next?

  I’m restless. Christian has been holed up in the onboard study for over an hour. I have tried reading, watching TV, sunbathing—fully dressed sunbathing—but I can’t relax, and I can’t rid myself of this edgy feeling. After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I remove the ludicrously expensive bangle and go to find Taylor.