Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,158

you want to know?” Releasing her, I pick up her e-mail that’s fallen to the floor and take her hand.

“Lots of things,” she says, as I lead her to the couch.

“Sit.” She obeys, and I take a seat beside her. Putting my head in my hands, I steel myself for her onslaught of questions. Then I turn to face her. “Ask me.”

“Why the additional security for your family?”

“Hyde was a threat to them.”

“How do you know?”

“From his computer. It held personal details about me and the rest of my family. Especially Carrick.”

“Carrick? Why him?”

“I don’t know yet.” This feels like the Inquisition. I change tack. “Let’s go to bed.”

“Christian, tell me!”

“Tell you what?”

“You are so exasperating,” she says, holding up her hands.

“So are you.”

She sighs. “You didn’t ramp up the security when you first found out there was information about your family on the computer. So what happened? Why now?”

“I didn’t know he was going to attempt to burn down my building, or—” I stop. I don’t want to tell her about Charlie Tango. She’ll worry. I change tack again. “We thought it was an unwelcome obsession, but you know”—I shrug—“when you’re in the public eye, people are interested. It was random stuff: news reports on me from when I was at Harvard—my rowing, my career. Reports on Carrick—following his career, following my mom’s career—and, to some extent, Elliot and Mia.”

She frowns. “You said ‘or.’”

“Or what?”

“You said ‘attempt to burn down my building, or…’ Like you were going to say something else.”

She misses nothing.

“Are you hungry?” I try distraction and, on cue, her stomach rumbles. “Did you eat today?” She flushes, and I have my answer. “As I thought. You know how I feel about you not eating. Come.” Standing, I hold out my hand, and my mood softens. “Let me feed you.”

“Feed me?”

I guide Ana over to the kitchen, and I grab a barstool and drag it around to the other side of the island. “Sit.”

“Where’s Mrs. Jones?” Ana perches on the stool.

“I’ve given her and Taylor the night off.”

“Why?” She looks incredulous.

They deserve an evening off after last night. “Because I can.” Simple.

“So you’re going to cook?” Now she sounds incredulous.

“Oh, ye of little faith, Mrs. Grey. Close your eyes.”

She looks at me askance, still unsure.

“Close them!”

With a withering look, she complies.

“Hmm. Not good enough.” From my back pocket I pull out the scarf I bought earlier, and I’m pleased to see it’s a good match for her dress. She raises a brow. “Close. No peeking.”

“You’re going to blindfold me?” Her voice is soft and high-pitched.

“Yes.”

“Christian—” She’s about to object, but I gently press a finger to her lips.

“We’ll talk later. I want you to eat now. You said you were hungry.” I skim my lips over hers, then place the scarf over her eyes, tying it behind her head. “Can you see?”

“No,” she grumbles, lifting her head in that way she does when she rolls her eyes. It makes me chuckle. She’s so predictable sometimes.

“I can tell when you’re rolling your eyes, and you know how that makes me feel.”

She huffs and purses her lips. “Can we just get this over and done with?”

“Such impatience, Mrs. Grey. So eager to talk.”

“Yes!”

“I must feed you first.” I place a soft kiss on her temple. She has no idea how hot she looks perched primly on the stool, blindfolded and with her hair restrained in its bun. I’m almost tempted to grab my camera.

But I must feed her.

From the fridge I extract a bottle of Sancerre and the various serving dishes into which Gail has transferred the Greek deli food; the lamb is in a Pyrex bowl.

Shit. How long do I cook this for?

I pop it in the microwave and set it to heat for five minutes on full power. That should be enough. I place two pitas in the toaster.

“Yes. I am eager to talk,” Ana says, and the way she’s tilting her head, it’s obvious she’s listening to what I’m doing. I grab the bottle of wine and a corkscrew as Ana shifts in her chair.

“Be still, Anastasia—I want you to behave,” I murmur, close to her ear. “And don’t bite your lip.” I tug her bottom lip free from her teeth and she smiles.

Finally!

A smile.

I open the bottle, easing out the cork, and fill a glass.

Now for some musical accompaniment. I switch on the surround speakers and select Chris Isaak’s “Wicked Game” from the iPod. The pluck of a guitar string resonates through the room.

Yes. This