Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,21

at gunpoint.”

“If it’s any consolation, she’s full of remorse.”

I blow out a breath in exasperation; I’m not interested in her remorse. I want her healed and gone. “But doing well?” I ask.

“Yes. Very much so. The art therapy is working wonders; I think she wants to return to her hometown and pursue a fine-arts program.”

“Has she found a school?”

“She has.”

“If she stays away from Ana—and me, for that matter—I’ll fund her studies.”

“That’s very generous of you.” Flynn frowns, and I suspect he might be about to object.

“I can afford to be generous. I’m just glad she’s recovering,” I add quickly.

“She’ll be discharged this week. She’s going back to her folks.”

“In Connecticut?”

He nods.

“Good.” She’ll be on the other side of the country.

“I’ve recommended a psychiatrist for her in New Haven, so she doesn’t have to travel too far. She’ll be well looked after.” He pauses, then changes the subject. “Have the nightmares ceased?”

“For now.”

“And Elena?”

“I’ve avoided all contact, but I signed the contracts yesterday. It’s done. The Esclava group is hers now.” The name Elena chose for her salons and the group has always made me smile. Even now.

“How does that make you feel?”

“I haven’t really thought about it.” My mind is cluttered with other concerns. “I’m just relieved it’s over.”

Flynn eyes me for a moment, and I think he’s going to continue this line of inquiry, but he shifts. “And how are you feeling in general?”

I pause to consider his question, and the truth is, apart from the sabotage of my beloved Charlie Tango, and that someone wants me dead, I feel…good. I’m anxious, of course, and I’m pissed Ana won’t move in to Escala yet, but I understand that she wants another night with me in her apartment, and that could happen this weekend. The panic rooms are going into the penthouse and we need to be out of there. It’s a hotel, The Grace, or Ana’s.

“I’m good.”

“I can see that. I’m surprised.” Flynn looks thoughtful.

“Why? What is it?” I ask.

“It’s good to see you externalizing your anxiety, rather than turning it in on yourself.”

I frown. “I think the threat to my life is external.”

He nods. “Yes. It is. But it distracts you from giving yourself a hard time.”

“I’ve not thought of it that way.”

“Have you spoken to your father?”

“No.”

Flynn remains impassive, his lips tightening slightly.

I sigh. “I’ll get around to it.”

He glances at the clock. “Time’s up.”

Friday, July 1, 2011

There’s a knock on my office door, and as Andrea enters, I look up from the selection of wedding stationery that Ana has sent me. “Yes?” I ask, surprised by her intrusion.

“Your father is here.”

What? “In the office?”

“He’s on his way up.”

Shit!

“I’m sorry, Mr. Grey,” Andrea continues. “I didn’t want to leave him in the lobby.” She shrugs apologetically. “He’s your father.”

For heaven’s sake. I check the time. It’s 5:15 and I’m due to leave at 5:30 for the long weekend.

“Ask him to wait.”

“Yes, sir.” She leaves and closes the door behind her.

What the hell.

I do not want another conversation with good old Dad. The last one went so well. But thanks to my PA, I have no choice.

Damn.

He never turns up unannounced…unlike my mother. Taking a deep breath, I stand and stretch. I roll down my shirt sleeves and don the cuff links that have been lying on my desk. Grabbing my jacket from the back of the chair, I slip it on and fasten one button. I tug at my shirt cuffs, then straighten my tie and run my hands through my hair.

Showtime, Grey.

Carrick is standing outside my door, holding his battered briefcase. “Dad.” I keep my voice neutral.

His lips curl into a warm open smile that reveals twenty-four years of love and paternal pride.

Whoa. It floors me.

“Son,” he says.

“Come in. Can I get you anything?” I ask, trying to keep a handle on my suddenly warring emotions.

Does he want a fight? Make peace? What?

“Andrea’s already offered me something. I’m fine,” he says. “I won’t be long.” He enters my office and takes a quick look around as I close the door. “It’s a while since I’ve been here.”

“Yes,” I mutter.

“What a lovely portrait of Ana.”

On the wall facing my desk, a monochrome Ana looks captivating as she stares at us, her smile sweet and shy, hinting at her amusement and belying her strength. I like to think she’s laughing at me in that way she does; in that way that makes me laugh at myself. “My newly acquired portrait. Her friend from WSU, José Rodriguez, took