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

  “You’ve been so jumpy these last couple of days,” he murmurs, his eyes wide and serious.

  “I’m okay, Christian.” I give him my brightest smile because I don’t want him to know how worried I am about the arson incident. The painful recollection of how I felt when Charlie Tango was sabotaged and Christian went missing—the hollow emptiness, the indescribable pain—keeps resurfacing; the memory nagging me and gnawing at my heart. Keeping the smile fixed on my face, I try to repress it.

  “Were you watching me sleep?”

  “Yes,” he says gazing at me steadily, studying me. “You were talking.”

  “Oh?” Shit! What was I saying?

  “You’re worried,” he adds, his eyes filled with concern. Is there nothing I can keep from this man? He leans forward and kisses me between my brows.

  “When you frown, a little V forms just here. It’s soft to kiss. Don’t worry baby, I’ll look after you.”

  “It’s not me I’m worried about, it’s you,” I grumble. “Who’s looking after you?”

  He smiles indulgently at my tone. “I’m big enough and ugly enough to look after myself. Come. Get up. There’s one thing I’d like to do before we head home.” He grins at me, a big boyish yes-I’m-really-only-twenty-eight grin, and swats my behind. I yelp, startled, and realize that today we’re going back to Seattle and my melancholy blossoms. I don’t want to leave. I’ve relished being with him 24-7, and I’m not ready to share him with his company and his family. We’ve had a blissful honeymoon. With a few ups and downs, I admit, but that’s normal for a newly married couple, surely?

  But Christian cannot contain his boyish excitement, and despite my dark thoughts, it’s infectious. When he rises gracefully off the bed, I follow, intrigued. What has he got in mind?

  Christian straps the key to my wrist.

  “You want me to drive?”

  “Yes.” Christian grins. “That’s not too tight?”

  “It’s fine. Is that why you’re wearing a life jacket?” I arch my eyebrow.

  “Yes.”

  I can’t help my giggle. “Such confidence in my driving capabilities, Mr. Grey.”

  “As ever, Mrs. Grey.”

  “Well, don’t lecture me.”

  Christian holds his hands up in a defensive gesture, but he’s smiling. “Would I dare?”

  “Yes you would, and yes you do, and we can’t pull over and argue on the sidewalk here.”

  “Fair point well made, Mrs. Grey. Are we going to stand on this platform all day debating your driving skills or are we going to have some fun?”

  “Fair point well made, Mr. Grey.” I grasp the handlebars of the Jet Ski and clamber on. Christian climbs on behind me and kicks us away from the yacht. Taylor and two of the deckhands look on in amusement. Sliding forward, Christian wraps his arms around me and snuggles his thighs against mine. Yes, this is what I like about this form of transport. I insert in the ignition key and push the start button, and the engine roars into life.

  “Ready?” I shout to Christian over the noise.

  “As I’ll ever be,” he says, his mouth close to my ear.

  Gently, I pull on the lever and the Jet Ski moves away from the Fair Lady, far too sedately for my liking. Christian tightens his embrace. I pull on the gas some more, and we shoot forward and I’m delighted when we don’t stall.

  “Whoa!” Christian calls from behind, but the exhilaration in his voice is palpable. I speed past the Fair Lady toward the open sea. We’re anchored outside the Port de Plaisance de Saint-Claude-du-Var, and Nice Côte d’Azur Airport is nestled in the distance, built into the Mediterranean, or so it seems. I’ve heard the odd plane landing since we arrived last night. I decide we need to take a closer look.

  We shoot toward it, skipping rapidly over the waves. I love this, and I’m thrilled Christian’s letting me drive. All the worry I’ve felt over the past two days melts away as we skim toward the airport.

  “Next time we do this we’ll have two Jet Skis,” Christian shouts. I grin because the thought of racing him is thrilling.

  As we zoom over the cool blue sea toward what looks like the end of the runway, the thundering roar of a jet overhead suddenly startles me as it comes in to land. It’s so loud I panic, swerving and hitting the throttle at the same time, mistaking it for a brake.

  “Ana!” Christian shouts, but it’s too late. I’m catapulted off the side of the Jet Ski, arms and legs flailing, taking Christian with me in a spectacular splash.

  Screaming, I plunge into the crystal blue sea and swallow a nasty mouthful of the Mediterranean. The water is cold this far from the shore, but I surface within a split second, courtesy of my life jacket. Coughing and spluttering, I wipe the seawater from my eyes and look around for Christian. He’s already swimming toward me. The Jet Ski floats inoffensively a few feet away from us, its engine silent.

  “You okay?” His eyes are full of panic, as he reaches me.

  “Yes,” I croak, but I cannot contain my elation. See, Christian? That’s the worst that can happen on a Jet Ski! He pulls me into his embrace, then grabs my head between his hands, examining my face closely.

  “See, that wasn’t so bad!” I grin as we tread water.

  Eventually he smirks at me, obviously relieved. “No, I guess it wasn’t. Except I’m wet,” he grumbles, but his tone is playful.

  “I’m wet, too.”

  “I like you wet.” He leers.

  “Christian!” I scold, trying for faux righteous indignation. He grins, looking gorgeous, then leans in and kisses me hard. When he pulls away, I’m breathless. His eyes are darker, hooded and heated, and I’m warm in spite of the cold water.

  “Come. Let’s head back. Now we have to shower. I’ll drive.”

  We laze in the British Airways first class lounge at Heathrow in London, waiting for our connecting flight to Seattle. Christian is engrossed in the Financial Times. I pull out his camera, wanting to take some photographs of him. He looks so sexy in his trademark white linen shirt and jeans, and his aviator specs tucked into the V of his open shirt. The flash disturbs him. He blinks up at me and smiles his shy smile.

  “How are you, Mrs. Grey?” he asks.

  “Sad to be going home,” I murmur. “I like having you to myself.”

  He clasps my hand and lifting it to his lips, grazes my knuckles with a sweet kiss. “Me too.”

  “But?” I ask, hearing that small word unsaid at the end of his simple statement.

  He frowns. “But?” he repeats disingenuously. I tilt my head to one side, gazing at him with the tell me expression I have been perfecting over the last couple of days. He sighs, putting his newspaper down. “I want this arsonist caught and out of our lives.”

  “Oh.” That seems fair enough, but I’m surprised by his bluntness.

  “I’ll have Welch’s balls on a platter if he lets anything like that happen again.” A shiver runs down my spine at his menacing tone. He gazes at me impassively, and I don’t know if he’s daring me to be flippant or what. I do the only thing I can think of to ease the sudden tension between us and raise the camera and snap another photograph.

  “Hey, sleepyhead, we’re home,” Christian murmurs.

  “Hmm,” I mumble, reluctant to leave my tantalizing dream of Christian and me on a picnic blanket at Kew Gardens. I am so tired. Travelling is exhausting, even in first class. We’ve been up for more than eighteen hours straight, I think—in my fatigue I’ve lost track. I hear my door open, and Christian is leaning over me. He unbuckles my seat belt and lifts me into his arms, waking me.

  “Hey, I can walk,” I protest sleepily.

  He snorts. “I need to carry you over the threshold.”

  I put my arms around his neck. “Up all thirty floors?” I give him a challenging smile.

  “Mrs. Grey, I am very pleased to announce that you’ve put on some weight.”

  “What?”

  He grins. “So if you don’t mind, we’ll use the elevator.” He narrows his eyes at me, though I know he’s teasing.

  Taylor opens the doors to the Escala lobby and smiles. “Welcome home Mr. Grey, Mrs. Grey.”

  “Thanks, Taylor,” says Christian.

  I give Taylor the briefest of smiles and watch him head back to the Audi where Sawyer waits at the wheel.

  “What do you mean I’ve put on weight?” I glare at Christian. His grin broadens, and he clasps me closer to his chest as he carries me across the lobby.

  “Not much,” he assures me but his face darkens suddenly.

  “What is it?” I try to keep the alarm in my voice under control.

  “You’ve put on some of the weight you lost when you left me,” he says quietly as he summons the elevator. A bleak expression crosses his face.

  His sudden, surprising anguish tugs at my heart. “Hey.” I curl my fingers around his face and into his hair, pulling him toward me. “If I hadn’t gone, would you be standing here, like this, now?”

  His eyes melt, the color of a storm cloud, and he smiles his shy smile, my favorite smile. “No,” he says and steps into the elevator still holding me. He leans down and kisses me gently. “No, Mrs. Grey, I wouldn’t. But I would know I could keep you safe, because you wouldn’t defy me.”

  He sounds vaguely regretful . . . Shit.

  “I like defying you.” I test the waters.

  “I know. And it’s made me so . . . happy.” He smiles down at me through his bemusement.

  Oh, thank heavens. “Even though I’m fat?” I whisper.

  He laughs. “Even though you’re fat.” He kisses me again, more heated this time, and I fist my fingers in his hair, holding him against me, our tongues twisting in a slow sensual dance with each other. When the elevator pings to a halt at the penthouse, we are both breathless.

  “Very happy,” he murmurs. His smile is darker now, his eyes hooded and full of salacious promise. He shakes his head as if to recover himself and carries me into the foyer.

  “Welcome home, Mrs. Grey.” He kisses me again, more chastely this time, and gives me the patented-Christian-Grey-full-gigawatt smile, his eyes dancing with joy.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Grey.” I beam, my heart answering his call, brimming with my own joy.

  I think Christian’s going to put me down, but he doesn’t. He carries me through the foyer, across the corridor, into the great room, and deposits me on the kitchen island where I sit with my legs dangling. He retrieves two champagne flutes from the kitchen cupboard and a bottle of chilled champagne from the fridge—our favorite Bollinger. He deftly opens the bottle, not spilling a drop, pours the pale pink champagne into each glass, and hands one to me. Taking up the other, he gently parts my legs and moves forward to stand between them.

  “Here’s to us, Mrs. Grey.”

  “To us, Mr. Grey,” I whisper conscious of my shy smile. We clink glasses and take a sip.

  “I know you’re tired,” he whispers, rubbing his nose against mine. “But I’d really like to go to bed . . . and not to sleep.” He kisses the corner of my mouth. “It’s our first night back here, and you’re really mine.” His voice drifts off as he plants soft kisses down my throat. It’s early evening in Seattle, and I am dog-tired, but desire blooms deep in my belly and my inner goddess purrs.

  Christian is slumbering peacefully beside me as I stare at the pink and golden streaks of the new dawn through the vast windows. His arm is draped loosely over my breasts, and I try to match his breathing in an effort to get back to sleep, but it’s hopeless. I’m wide-awake, my body clock on Greenwich mean time, my mind racing.

  So much has happened in the last three weeks—who am I kidding, the last three months—that I feel that my feet haven’t touched the ground. And now here I am, Mrs. Anastasia Grey, married to the most delicious, sexy, philanthropic, absurdly wealthy mogul a woman could meet. How did this all happen so fast?

  I shift onto my side to gaze at him, appraising his beauty. I know he watches me sleep, but I rarely get the opportunity to repay the compliment. He looks so young and carefree in his sleep, his long lashes fanned against his cheek, a light smattering of stubble covering his jaw, and his sculptured lips slightly parted, relaxed as he breathes deeply. I want to kiss him, to push my tongue between his lips, run my fingers over his soft yet prickly stubble. I really have to fight the urge not to touch him, not to disturb him. Hmm . . . I could just tease his earlobe with my teeth and suck. My subconscious glares up at me over her half-moon spectacles, distracted from volume two of the Complete Works of Charles Dickens, and mentally chastises me. Leave the poor man alone, Ana.

  I am back to work on Monday. We have today to reacclimatize, then we’re back into our routine. It will be odd not seeing Christian for a whole day after spending almost every minute together for the last three weeks. I lie back and stare at the ceiling. One would think that spending so much time together would be suffocating, but that’s just not the case. I’ve loved each and every minute, even our fighting. Every minute . . . except the news of the fire at Grey House.

  My blood chills. Who could want to harm Christian? My mind gnaws at this mystery again. Someone in his business? An ex? A disgruntled employee? I have no idea, and Christian remains tight-lipped about it all, drip feeding me the minimum information he can get away with in a bid to protect me. I sigh. My shining white-and-dark knight always trying to protect me. How am I going to make him open up more?

  He stirs and I still, not wanting to wake him, but it has the opposite effect. Damn! Two bright eyes gaze at me.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. Go back to sleep.” I try my reassuring smile. He stretches, rubs his face, and then grins at me.

  “Jet lag?” he asks.

  “Is that what this is? I can’t sleep.”

  “I have the universal panacea right here, just for you, baby.” He grins like a schoolboy, making me roll my eyes and giggle at the same time. And just like that my dark thoughts are swept aside and my teeth find his earlobe.

  Christian and I cruise north on the I-5 toward the 520 bridge in the Audi R8. We are going to have lunch at his parents’, a welcome-home Sunday lunch. All the family will be there, plus Kate and Ethan. It will be strange to be in so much company when we’ve been on our own all this time. I haven’t had an opportunity to talk to Christian most of the morning. He was holed up in his study while I unpacked. He said I didn’t have to, that Mrs. Jones would do it. But that’s something else I need to get used to—having domestic help. I run my fingers absentmindedly over the leather upholstery of the door to distract my wandering thoughts. I feel out of sorts. Is it the jet lag? The arson?

  “Would you let me drive this?” I ask, surprised that I say the words out loud.

  “Of course,” Christian replies, smiling. “What’s mine is yours. If you dent it, though, I will take you into the Red Room of Pain.” He glances swiftly at me with a malicious grin.

  Shit! I gape at him. Is this a joke?

  “You’re kidding. You’d punish me for denting your car? You love your car more than you love me?” I tease.

  “It’s close,” he says and reaches across to squeeze my knee. “But she doesn’t keep me warm at night.”

  “I’m sure it could be arranged. You could sleep in her,” I snap.

  Christian laughs. “We haven’t been home one day and you’re kicking me out already?” He seems delighted. I gaze at him and he gives me a face-splitting grin, and although I want to be mad at him, it’s impossible when he’s in this kind of mood. Now that I think about it, he’s been in a better frame of mind ever since he left his study this morning. And it dawns on me that I’m being petulant because we have to go back to reality, and I don’t know if he’s going to revert to the more closed pre-honeymoon Christian, or if I’ll get to keep the new improved version.

  “Why are you so pleased?” I ask.

  He flashes yet another grin at me. “Because this conversation is so . . . normal.”

  “Normal!” I snort. “Not after three weeks of marriage! Surely.”

  His smile slips.

  “I’m kidding, Christian,” I mutter quickly, not wanting to kill his mood. It strikes me how unsure he is of himself sometimes. I suspect that he’s always been like this, but has just hidden his uncertainty beneath an intimidating exterior. He’s very easy to tease, probably because he’s not used to it. It’s a revelation, and I marvel again that we still have so much to learn about each other.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll stick to the Saab,” I mutter and turn to stare out of the window, trying to shake off my bad mood.

  “Hey. What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  “You’re so frustrating sometimes, Ana. Tell me.”

  I turn and smirk at him. “Back at you, Grey.”

  He frowns. “I’m trying,” he says softly.

  “I know. Me too.” I smile and my mood brightens a little.

  Carrick looks ridiculous in his chef’s hat and Licensed to Grill apron as he stands at the barbecue. Every time I look at him, it makes me smile. In fact, my spirits have lifted considerably. We are all sitting around the table on the terrace of the Grey family home, enjoying the late summer sun. Grace and Mia are setting various salads out on the table, while Elliot and Christian trade friendly insults and discuss plans for the new house, and Ethan and Kate grill me about our honeymoon. Christian keeps hold of my hand, his fingers toying with my wedding and engagement rings.

  “So if you can get the plans finalized with Gia, I have a window September through to mid-November and can get the whole crew on it,” Elliot says as he stretches and drops an arm around Kate’s shoulder, making her smile.

  “Gia is due to come over to discuss the plans tomorrow evening,” replies Christian. “I hope we can finalize everything then.” He turns and looks expectantly at me.

  Oh . . . this is news.

  “Sure.” I smile at him, mostly for the benefit of his family, but my spirits take a nosedive again. Why does he make these decisions without telling me? Or is it the thought of Gia—all lush hips, full breasts, expensive designer clothes, and perfume—smiling too provocatively at my husband? My subconscious glares at me. He’s given you no reason to be jealous. Shit, I am up and down today. What’s wrong with me?

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