Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,107

speed.” Sawyer’s disembodied voice is calm and informative. “He’s doing ninety.”

Ana accelerates and my beautiful car responds like the finely honed machine she is, climbing to ninety-five with ease.

“Keep it up, Ana,” I assure her.

Ana coasts onto I-5 and immediately crosses several lanes to get into the fast lane.

Smooth, baby. Smooth.

“He’s hit one hundred miles per hour, sir.”

Fuck. “Stay with him, Luke,” I bark at Sawyer.

A semi lurches into our lane and Ana hits the brakes, so we’re thrown forward. “Fucking idiot!” I shout.

Christ. He could have killed us!

“Go around him, baby,” I grit between clenched teeth. Ana maneuvers across three lanes, past several cars and the fucking semi, then back into the passing lane, leaving the asshole behind us. “Nice move, Mrs. Grey. Where are the cops when you need them?”

“I don’t want a ticket, Christian,” she says without heat. “Have you had a speeding ticket driving this?”

“No.” But nearly.

“Have you been stopped?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Charm. It all comes down to charm.”

Yes, Mrs. Grey. Believe it or not, I can be charming.

“Now concentrate. Where’s the Dodge, Sawyer?” I ask.

“He’s just hit one hundred and ten, sir,” Sawyer says.

Ana gasps and she puts her foot down so the Audi picks up speed.

There’s a Ford Mustang in our way.

Fucking hell.

“Flash the headlights,” I yell.

“But that would make me an asshole.”

“So be an asshole!” I hiss, trying to keep my anger at the Mustang and my spiraling anxiety in check.

“Um, where are the headlights?” Ana asks.

“The indicator. Pull it toward you.”

The prick gets the message and moves over, giving us the finger. “He’s the asshole,” I mutter. “Get off on Stewart,” I tell Ana. “We’re taking the Stewart Street exit,” I inform Sawyer.

“Head straight to Escala, sir.”

Ana glances in the mirror, her brow furrowed. She signals and moves across four lanes of the highway, straight down the off-ramp, slowing down and then turning smoothly onto Stewart Street.

She’s amazing.

“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,” she squeaks.

“Head south on Stewart. Keep going until I tell you when.”

She cruises down the street.

Shit, the lights at Yale are on yellow.

“Run them, Ana,” I urge.

Ana overreacts and we’re thrown back as we speed through the intersection. The light on red.

“He’s taking Stewart,” Sawyer says.

“Stay with him, Luke.”

“Luke?”

“That’s his name.” Didn’t you know?

She glances at me.

“Eyes on the road!” I yell.

“Luke Sawyer?”

“Yes!” Why are we talking about this now?

“Ah.”

“That’s me, ma’am,” Sawyer says. “The unsub is heading down Stewart, sir. He’s really picking up speed.”

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

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

“Ana—quick—in here.” I point to the parking lot on the south side of Boren Avenue. She turns sharply, gripping the steering wheel, and the expensive tires on my magnificent R8 squeal in disapproval, but Ana holds it, and swerves into the crowded lot.

Shit. That must have been a quarter-inch off the tread.

“Drive around. Quick.”

Ana takes us to the back of the parking lot. “In there.” I point to an empty space. Ana gives me a quick, panicked look. “Just fucking do it,” I growl. And she does. Perfectly. As if she’d spent her whole life driving my car.

Well done, Ana.

“We’re hidden in the parking lot between Stewart and Boren,” I tell Sawyer.

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

Tough.

I turn to Ana. “You okay?”

“Sure.” Her voice is deathly quiet, and I know she’s really shaken.

I try for humor to calm us both. “Whoever’s driving that Dodge can’t hear us, you know.”

Ana laughs. Loudly. Too loudly. She’s masking her fear.

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

Thank Christ. The relief is instant, for Ana, too. I blow out a breath. “Well done, Mrs. Grey. Good driving.” Reaching up, I startle her when I stroke my fingertips down her face. She takes a huge gulp of air.

“Does this mean you’ll stop complaining about my driving?” she asks.

I laugh, and it’s cathartic. “I wouldn’t go so far as to say that.”

“Thank you for letting me drive your car. Under such exciting circumstances, too.” She’s trying to stay bright, but she sounds brittle as if she’s about to break.

I switch off the ignition, as she’s made no attempt to do so. “Maybe I should drive,” I offer.

“To be honest, I don’t think I can climb out right now, to let you sit here. My legs feel like Jell-O.” Her hands are