Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,191

absurd.

Did John speak to Leila?

My BlackBerry buzzes.

TAYLOR

I’m in the car. Outside.

Wait for me.

TAYLOR

Copy.

I don’t understand what Prescott is playing at. How did she let this happen?

The phone scrapes along the desk and is dropped back onto the hard surface, the noise deafening again.

Fucking hell. Hannah is clumsy!

“Um. M-Mr. Grey?”

“Yes.” The word hisses out at her in frustration.

Get on with it!

“Ana says she’s sorry, but she’s b-busy and she’ll c-call you b-back shortly.”

Jesus Christ. She’s a tongue-tied mess.

“Fine,” I snap, and hang up.

Shit. What to do?

Prescott! Of course.

Ana said Prescott would be in the meeting with her. She has a phone, though I don’t think I have her number. “Andrea!” I shout once more, and a moment later she’s in the doorway, her demeanor tentative. “Get me Prescott on her mobile.”

Andrea looks momentarily baffled, and I think I’m going to explode.

“Belinda Prescott, Ana’s security,” I snap. “Now!”

“Ah, yes.” Andrea disappears.

Don’t be an asshole, Grey.

Taking a deep breath in an effort to calm myself, I get up and pace behind my desk, knowing it will be a moment before Andrea has Prescott’s number. I’m suffocated by my anxiety. Loosening my tie, I undo my top button to ameliorate the situation. But an image of Leila—bedraggled and destitute, holding a gun at Ana—remains at the forefront of my mind.

It’s torture.

My anger and apprehension rise several notches on the Richter scale.

When my phone rings, I grab it. “Mrs. Grey’s security for you,” Andrea says.

“Mr. Grey,” Prescott says.

“Prescott, I cannot begin to articulate how disappointed I am in you right now. Let me talk my wife.”

“Yes, sir,” she answers.

There’s a beat of muffled chatter. “Christian,” Ana snaps, and from her tone I know she’s on her high-fucking-horse, condescending to talk to me.

“What the fuck are you playing at?” I bark down the phone.

“Don’t shout at me.” Her retort only fuels my temper.

“What do you mean, don’t shout at you?” My voice bellows around the room and into the phone. “I gave specific instructions, which you have completely disregarded—again. Hell, Ana, I am fucking furious.”

“When you are calmer, we will talk about this.”

Oh, no! “Don’t you hang up on me!”

“Good-bye, Christian.”

“Ana! Ana!” The line is dead, and I think I’m going to erupt like Mount St. Helens. Incandescent with fury, I grab my jacket and my phone, and storm out of my office. “Cancel the rest of my meetings today,” I growl at Andrea. “And let Taylor know I’m on my way down.”

“Yes, sir.”

The elevator takes an eternal sixteen seconds to arrive. I know because I count each and every one in an effort to rein in my temper. After I step in and jab the button for the lobby, I clench my fists so tightly that my fingernails dig into my palms, and I know I have lost the fight. Andrea glances up, consternation writ large on her face, but I remain impassive, ignoring her as the doors close.

I am ready to do battle.

With my wife.

Again.

And with Leila. What the fuck is she thinking?

Taylor is standing by the car, holding the door open. I’m grateful that at least he’s on the case. We drive in silence to SIP as my anger simmers, ready to boil over at the slightest provocation. From the back of the car I call Flynn’s office, but I get his secretary Janet’s voice mail. I hang up, frustrated that I can’t even vent my anger on Flynn.

Was this Leila’s plan all along?

She knew that if she accosted my wife, then I would come running.

I’m playing into her hands, but I don’t give a fuck.

After an agonizing journey, Taylor pulls up outside SIP and I’m out of the car as soon as he stops at the curb. I don’t bother with reception, but head straight through the double doors toward Ana’s office. At her desk, Hannah looks up. I ignore her, too.

“Mr. G-Grey—”

I burst into Ana’s office, so forcefully that a few papers fall to the floor, amplifying the room’s emptiness.

Shit.

Feeling like a complete idiot, I turn around and glare at Hannah. “Where is she?” I snap, trying not to lose it. She pales and points toward the opposite end of the open-plan floor.

“In the meeting room. I-I’ll take you.”

“I’ll manage, thank you.” Scowling at her, my tone glacial and clipped, I blaze back in the direction I’ve come from, a storm cloud about to burst. I have to remind myself that it’s not her fault. Ignoring the curious glances from the staff at their desks, I pass by the double doors