Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed Read online

  I nod shyly as Christian stands.

  We say our quick good-byes to Dr. Flynn, and Christian ushers me out with unseemly haste.

  IN THE STREET, HE turns to me. “How was that?” His voice is anxious.

  “It was good.”

  He regards me suspiciously. I cock my head to one side.

  “Mr. Grey, please don’t look at me that way. Under doctor’s orders I am going to give you the benefit of the doubt.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You’ll see.”

  His mouth twists and his eyes narrow. “Get in the car,” he orders while opening the passenger door of the Saab.

  Oh, change of direction. My BlackBerry buzzes. I haul it out of my purse.

  Shit, José!

  “Hi!”

  “Ana, hi …”

  I stare at Fifty, who is eyeing me suspiciously. “José,” I mouth at him. He stares impassively at me, but his eyes harden. Does he think I don’t notice? I turn my attention back to José.

  “Sorry I haven’t called you. Is it about tomorrow?” I ask José, but stare up at Christian.

  “Yeah, listen—I spoke with some guy at Grey’s place, so I know where I’m delivering the photos, and I should get there between five and six … after that, I’m free.”

  Oh.

  “Well, I’m actually staying with Christian right now, and if you want to, he says you can stay at his place.”

  Christian presses his mouth in a hard line. Hmm—some host he is.

  José is silent for a minute, absorbing this news. I cringe. I haven’t had a chance to talk to him about Christian.

  “Okay,” he says eventually. “This thing with Grey, it’s serious?”

  I turn away from the car and pace to the other side of the sidewalk.

  “Yes.”

  “How serious?”

  I roll my eyes and pause. Why does Christian have to be listening?

  “Serious.”

  “Is he with you now? That why you’re speaking in monosyllables?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. So are you allowed out tomorrow?”

  “Of course I am.” I hope. I automatically cross my fingers.

  “So where should I meet you?”

  “You could pick me up from work,” I offer.

  “Okay.”

  “I’ll text you the address.”

  “What time?”

  “Six?”

  “Sure. I’ll see you then, Ana. Looking forward to it. I miss you.”

  I grin. “Cool. I’ll see you then.” I switch the phone off and turn.

  Christian is leaning against the car watching me carefully, his expression impossible to read.

  “How’s your friend?” he asks coolly.

  “He’s well. He’ll pick me up from work, and I think we’ll go for a drink. Would you like to join us?”

  Christian hesitates, his gray eyes cool. “You don’t think he’ll try anything?”

  “No!” My tone is exasperated—but I refrain from rolling my eyes.

  “Okay.” Christian holds his hands up in defeat. “You hang out with your friend, and I’ll see you later in the evening.”

  I was expecting a fight, and his easy acquiescence throws me off balance.

  “See? I can be reasonable.” He smirks.

  My mouth twists. We’ll see about that.

  “Can I drive?”

  Christian blinks at me, surprised by my request.

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “Why, exactly?”

  “Because I don’t like to be driven.”

  “You managed this morning, and you seem to tolerate Taylor driving you.”

  “I trust Taylor’s driving implicitly.”

  “And not mine?” I put my hands on my hips. “Honestly—your control-freakishness knows no bounds. I’ve been driving since I was fifteen.”

  He shrugs in response, as if this is of no consequence whatsoever. Oh—he’s so exasperating! Benefit of the doubt? Well, screw that.

  “Is this my car?” I demand.

  He frowns at me. “Of course it’s your car.”

  “Then give me the keys, please. I’ve driven it twice, and only to and from work. Now you’re having all the fun.” I am in full-on pout mode. Christian’s lips twitch with a repressed smile.

  “But you don’t know where we’re going.”

  “I’m sure you can enlighten me, Mr. Grey. You’ve done a great job of it so far.”

  He gazes at me, stunned, and then smiles, his new shy smile that totally disarms me and takes my breath away.

  “Great job, eh?” he murmurs.

  I blush. “Mostly yes.”

  “Well, in that case.” He hands me the keys, walks around to the driver’s door, and opens it for me.

  “LEFT HERE,” CHRISTIAN ORDERS, and we head north toward I-5. “Hell—gently, Ana.” He grabs hold of the dashboard.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. I roll my eyes but don’t turn to look at him. Van Morrison croons in the background over the car sound system.

  “Slow down!”

  “I am slowing down!”

  Christian sighs. “What did Flynn say?” I hear his anxiety leaching into his voice.

  “I told you. He says I should give you the benefit of the doubt.” Damn—maybe I should have let Christian drive. Then I could watch him. In fact … I signal to pull over.

  “What are you doing?” he snaps, alarmed.

  “Letting you drive.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can look at you.”

  He laughs. “No, no—you wanted to drive. So, you drive, and I’ll look at you.”

  I scowl at him. “Keep your eyes on the road!” he shouts.

  My blood boils. Right! I pull over to the curb just before a traffic light and storm out of the car, slamming the door, and stand on the sidewalk, arms crossed. I glare at him. He climbs out of the car.

  “What are you doing?” he asks angrily, staring down at me.

  “No. What are you doing?”

  “You can’t park here.”

  “I know that.”

  “So why have you?”

  “Because I’ve had it with you barking orders. Either you drive or you shut up about my driving!”

  “Anastasia, get back in the car before we get a ticket.”

  “No.”

  He blinks at me, at a total loss, then runs his hands through his hair, and his anger becomes bewilderment. He looks so comical all of a sudden, and I can’t help but smile at him. He frowns.

  “What?” he snaps once more.

  “You.”

  “Oh, Anastasia! You are the most frustrating female on the planet.” He throws his hands in the air. “Fine—I’ll drive.” I grab the edges of his jacket and pull him to me.

  “No—you are the most frustrating man on the planet, Mr. Grey.”

  He gazes down at me, his eyes dark and intense, then he snakes his arms around my waist and embraces me, holding me close.

  “Maybe we’re meant for each other, then,” he says softly and inhales deeply, his nose in my hair. I wrap my arms around him and close my eyes. For the first time since this morning, I feel myself relax.

  “Oh … Ana, Ana, Ana,” he breathes, his lips pressed against my hair. I tighten my arms around him, and we stand, immobile, enjoying a moment of unexpected tranquility, on the street. Releasing me, he opens the passenger door. I climb in and sit quietly, watching him walk around the car.

  Restarting the car, Christian pulls out into the traffic, absentmindedly humming along to Van Morrison.

  Whoa. I’ve never heard him sing, not even in the shower, ever. I frown. He has a lovely voice—of course. Hmm … has he heard me sing?

  He wouldn’t be asking you to marry him if he had! My subconscious has her arms crossed and is wearing Burberry check. The song finishes and Christian grins.

  “You know, if we had gotten a ticket, the title of this car is in your name.”

&nb
sp; “Well, good thing I’ve been promoted—I can afford the fine,” I say smugly, staring at his lovely profile. His lips twitch. Another Van Morrison song starts playing as he takes the on-ramp to I-5, heading north.

  “Where are we going?”

  “It’s a surprise. What else did Flynn say?”

  I sigh. “He talked about FFFSTB or something.”

  “SFBT. The latest therapy option,” he mutters.

  “You’ve tried others?”

  Christian snorts. “Baby, I’ve been subjected to them all. Cognitivism, Freud, functionalism, Gestalt, behaviorism … You name it, over the years I’ve done it,” he says and his tone betrays his bitterness. The rancor in his voice is distressing.

  “Do you think this latest approach will help?”

  “What did Flynn say?”

  “He said not to dwell on your past. Focus on the future—on where you want to be.”

  Christian nods but shrugs at the same time, his expression cautious.

  “What else?” he persists.

  “He talked about your fear of being touched, although he called it something else. And about your nightmares and your self-abhorrence.” I glance at him, and in the evening light, he’s pensive, chewing on his thumbnail as he drives. He glances quickly at me.

  “Eyes on the road, Mr. Grey,” I admonish, my eyebrow cocked at him.

  He looks amused and slightly exasperated. “You were talking forever, Anastasia. What else did he say?”

  I swallow. “He doesn’t think you’re a sadist,” I whisper.

  “Really?” Christian says quietly and frowns. The atmosphere in the car takes a nosedive.

  “He says that term’s not recognized in psychiatry. Not since the nineties,” I mutter, quickly trying to rescue the mood between us.

  Christian’s face darkens, and he exhales slowly.

  “Flynn and I have differing opinions on this,” he says quietly.

  “He said you always think the worst of yourself. I know that’s true,” I murmur. “He also mentioned sexual sadism—but he said that was a lifestyle choice, not a psychiatric condition. Maybe that’s what you’re thinking about.”

  His eyes flash toward me again, and his mouth sets in a grim line.

  “So—one talk with the good doctor and you’re an expert,” he says acidly and turns his eyes forward.

  Oh dear … I sigh.

  “Look—if you don’t want to hear what he said, don’t ask me,” I mutter softly.

  I don’t want to argue. Anyway he’s right—what the hell do I know about all his shit? Do I even want to know? I can list the salient points—his control-freakishness, his possessiveness, his jealousy, his overprotectiveness—and I completely understand where he’s coming from. I can even understand why he doesn’t like to be touched—I’ve seen the physical scars. I can only imagine the mental ones, and I’ve only glimpsed his nightmares once. And Dr. Flynn said—

  “I want to know what you discussed.” Christian interrupts my thoughts as he heads off I-5 on exit 172, heading west toward the slowly sinking sun.

  “He called me your lover.”

  “Did he, now?” His tone is conciliatory. “Well, he’s nothing if not fastidious about his terms. I think that’s an accurate description. Don’t you?”

  “Did you think of your subs as lovers?”

  Christian’s brow creases once more, but this time he’s thinking. He turns the Saab smoothly north once again. Where are we going?

  “No. They were sexual partners,” he murmurs, his voice cautious again. “You’re my only lover. And I want you to be more.”

  Oh … there’s that magical word again, brimming with possibility. It makes me smile, and inside I hug myself, trying to contain my joy.

  “I know,” I whisper, trying hard to hide my excitement. “I just need some time, Christian. To get my head around these last few days.” He glances at me oddly, perplexed, his head inclined to one side.

  After a beat, the traffic light we’re stopped at turns green. He nods and turns the music up, and our discussion is over.

  Van Morrison is still singing—more optimistically now—about it being a marvelous night for moondancing. I gaze out the windows at the pines and spruce dusted gold by the fading light of the sun, their long shadows stretching across the road. Christian has turned onto a more residential street, and we’re heading west toward the Sound.

  “Where are we going?” I ask again as we turn onto a road. I catch a road sign—9TH AVE NW. I am baffled.

  “Surprise,” he says and smiles mysteriously.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  * * *

  Christian continues to drive past single-story, well-kept clapboard houses where kids play basketball in their yards or cycle and run around in the street. It all looks affluent and wholesome with the houses nestling among the trees. Perhaps we’re going to visit someone? Who?

  A few minutes later, Christian turns sharply left, and we’re confronted by two ornate white metal gates set in a six-foot-high sandstone wall. Christian presses a button on his door handle and the electric window hums quietly down into the doorframe. He punches a number into the keypad and the gates swing open in welcome.

  He glances at me, and his expression has changed. He looks uncertain, even nervous.

  “What is it?” I ask, and I can’t mask the concern in my voice.

  “An idea,” he says quietly and eases the Saab through the gates.

  We head up a tree-lined lane just wide enough for two cars. On one side the trees ring a densely wooded area, and on the other there’s a vast area of grassland where a once-cultivated field has been left fallow. Grass and wildflowers have reclaimed it, creating a rural idyll—a meadow, where the late evening breeze softly ripples through the grass and the evening sun gilds the wildflowers. It’s lovely, utterly tranquil, and suddenly I imagine myself lying in the grass and gazing up at a clear blue summer sky. The thought is tantalizing, yet makes me feel homesick for some strange reason. How odd.

  The lane curves around and opens into a sweeping driveway in front of an impressive Mediterranean-style house of soft pink sandstone. It’s palatial. All the lights are on, each window brightly illuminated in the dusk. There’s a smart black BMW parked in front of the four-car garage, but Christian pulls up outside the grand portico.

  Hmm … I wonder who lives here. Why are we visiting?

  Christian glances anxiously at me as he switches off the car engine.

  “Will you keep an open mind?” he asks.

  I frown.

  “Christian, I’ve needed an open mind since the day I met you.”

  He smiles ironically and nods. “Fair point well made, Miss Steele. Let’s go.”

  The dark wood doors open, and a woman with dark brown hair, a sincere smile, and a sharp lilac suit stands waiting. I’m grateful I changed into my new navy shift dress to impress Dr. Flynn. Okay, I’m not wearing killer heels like her—but still, I’m not in jeans.

  “Mr. Grey.” She smiles warmly and they shake hands.

  “Miss Kelly,” he says politely.

  She smiles at me and holds out her hand, which I shake. Her isn’t-he-dreamily-gorgeous-wish-he-were-mine flush does not go unnoticed.

  “Olga Kelly,” she announces breezily.

  “Ana Steele,” I mutter back at her. Who is this woman? She stands aside, welcoming us into the house. It’s a shock when I step in. The place is empty—completely empty. We find ourselves in a large entrance hall. The walls are a faded primrose yellow with scuff marks where pictures must once have hung. All that remains are the old-fashioned crystal light fixtures. The floors are dull hardwood. There are closed doors to either side of us, but Christian gives me no time to assimilate what’s happening.

  “Come,” he says, and taking my hand, he leads me through the archway in front of us into a larger inner vestibule. It’s dominated by a curved, sweeping staircase with an intricate iron balustrade, but still he doesn’t stop. He takes me through to the
main living area, which is empty save for a large faded gold rug—the biggest rug I have ever seen. Oh—and there are four crystal chandeliers.

  But Christian’s intention is now clear as we head across the room and outside through open French doors to a large stone terrace. Below us there’s half a football field of manicured lawn, but beyond that is the view. Wow.

  The panoramic, uninterrupted vista is breathtaking—staggering even: twilight over the Sound. In the distance lies Bainbridge Island, and farther still on this crystal-clear evening, the setting sun sinks slowly, glowing blood and flame orange, beyond Olympic National Park. Vermilion hues bleed into the cerulean sky, with opals and aquamarines, and meld with the darker purples of the scant wispy clouds and the land beyond the Sound. It is nature’s best, a visual symphony orchestrated in the sky and reflected in the deep, still waters of the Sound. I am lost to the view—staring, trying to absorb such beauty.

  I realize I’m holding my breath in awe, and Christian is still holding my hand. As I reluctantly turn my eyes away from the view, he’s gazing anxiously at me.

  “You brought me here to admire the view?” I whisper.

  He nods, his expression serious.

  “It’s staggering, Christian. Thank you,” I murmur, letting my eyes feast on it once more. He releases my hand.

  “How would you like to look at it for the rest of your life?” he breathes.

  What? I whip my face back to his, startled blue eyes to pensive gray. I think my mouth drops open, and I gape at him blankly.

  “I’ve always wanted to live on the coast. I sail up and down the Sound coveting these houses. This place hasn’t been on the market long. I want to buy it, demolish it, and build a new house—for us,” he whispers, and his eyes glow, translucent with his hopes and dreams.

  Holy cow. Somehow I remain upright. I’m reeling. Live here! In this beautiful haven! For the rest of my life …

  “It’s just an idea,” he adds cautiously.

  I glance back to assess the interior of the house. How much is it worth? It must be what—five, ten million dollars? I have no idea. Holy shit.

  “Why do you want to demolish it?” I ask, looking back at him. His face falls. Oh no.

  “I’d like to make a more sustainable home, using the latest ecological techniques. Elliot could build it.”