Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,102

are going to forge this new life together, and as of yet I have no idea what that will entail. Maybe we could travel; I could take Ana to see the Great Wall of China, the Pyramids—hell, all the Wonders of the World. I could ease up at the office—Ros has done a great job since I’ve been away—and Ana could stop working. After all, she won’t need the money.

But she loves her job, and she’s good at it.

Maybe she has great ambitions in publishing.

I shake my head; she would be safer if she stayed at home.

Damn. Don’t dwell on the negative, Grey.

Ana is in the shower when I enter the bathroom, and I cannot resist. I step in behind her. “Good morning. Let me scrub your back, Mrs. Grey.” She hands me the sponge and body wash with a distracted smile. Lathering up the sponge, I start soaping her neck. “Don’t forget we’re going to my parents’ for lunch. I hope you don’t mind. Kate will be there.” I kiss her ear.

“Hmm,” she murmurs, eyes closed.

“You okay?” I ask. “You’re quiet.”

“I’m good, Christian. Getting pruny.” She wiggles her fingers.

“I’ll let you go.”

She smiles, exits the shower cubicle, and grabs her robe on the way out. She seems happy enough, but I think my girl is preoccupied. Something’s up.

Ana is in the kitchen making breakfast when I enter. She looks lovely wearing a black strappy top and the skirt she wore on our walk around Saint-Paul-de-Vence.

“Coffee?” she asks.

“Please.”

“Sourdough toast?”

“Please.”

“Preserves?”

“Apricot. Thanks.” I kiss her cheek. “I’ve got some things to do before we leave for lunch.”

“Okay, I’ll bring breakfast to you.”

In my study, I find Gia Matteo’s latest plans for the house on my desk where Gail must have left them. Setting them aside to review later, I fire up my iMac and get to work. Welch and Barney are combing through all of the past week’s footage from the CCTV cameras at Grey House, but there’s no news on the arsonist yet. Welch has been rolling out additional security at each of the GEH sites. I read through the schedule for our personal protection, to find it includes an additional operative. Her name is Belinda Prescott. But today, it’s Ryan and Sawyer who will accompany us to my parents’ place—Taylor, quite rightly, has gone to visit his daughter after so many weeks away.

Ana pushes the door open using her back, and places coffee and toast on my desk.

“Thank you, wife.”

“You’re welcome, husband.” Her smile is thin. “I’m going to unpack.”

“You don’t have to, Gail can do it.”

“It’s okay. I want to be busy.”

“Hey.” I get up and catch her hand before she leaves, scrutinizing her face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” She leans up to kiss my cheek. “I’ll be ready to leave midday.”

I frown and release her. “Okay.”

Something’s up.

But I have no idea what it could be.

It’s unsettling.

Perhaps Ana needs time to readjust to this time zone. She leaves, and I turn my attention to work, setting aside my disquiet for now. I have an e-mail from Gia Matteo, who wants to see us tomorrow to discuss her latest plans. I let her know that’s fine and suggest a meeting for early evening.

There’s good news from Eurocopter: they can replace both of Charlie Tango’s engines, so she should be back, fully functioning, within a couple of weeks; however, there’s still no progress in the FBI investigation into her sabotage. It’s irritating.

Why is it taking so long?

I move on and review the latest e-mails from Ros; the sooner I get through these, the sooner I can get back to my wife.

The drive to my parents’ home is a joy. I haven’t driven my R8 for weeks, and with my wife by my side, I’m enjoying the lush greenery of urban Seattle. After the old-world charm of the South of France, the landscape is pleasingly familiar. It’s good to be home. I’ve missed driving, especially in this car. I check the rearview mirror and, sure enough, Sawyer and Ryan are on our tail.

Ana is quiet beside me, gazing at the scenery that’s dappled with summer sun as we speed, top down, along I-5. “Would you let me drive this?” she asks out of the blue.

Is that what she’s been thinking about?

“Of course. What’s mine is yours. If you dent it, though, I will take you into the Red Room of Pain.” I give her a wolfish grin, knowing that I’m using her spurious name for the playroom, not mine.

Her mouth drops open. “You’re kidding.