Freed (Fifty Shades as Told by Christian #3) - E.L. James Page 0,90

know about this place?” she asks.

“Dad e-mailed me when we were in London. He and Mom came here back in the day.”

“It’s beautiful.” Ana waves her hand in homage to our spectacular surroundings.

We stop at a small gallery with some striking abstract art in the window and decide to venture in. I’m taken by some erotic photographs that are on display inside. They’re beautifully composed. “Not quite what I had in mind,” Ana says, her tone wry.

I grin down at her. “Me neither.” My hand finds hers as we study some still-life paintings, all vegetables and fruit. They’re good.

“I like those.” Ana points to some peppers. “They remind me of you chopping vegetables in my apartment.” She giggles, her eyes alive with mischief and memories—of our reconciliation—maybe?

“I thought I managed that quite competently. I was just a bit slow, and anyway”—I embrace her and nuzzle her ear—“you were distracting me. Where would you put them?”

Ana gasps, distracted by my teasing lips. “What?”

“The paintings—where would you put them?” I graze her earlobe with my teeth.

“Kitchen,” she breathes.

“Hmm. Nice idea, Mrs. Grey.”

“They’re really expensive!”

“So?” I kiss the spot behind her ear. “Get used to it, Ana.” I release her and approach the sales assistant to purchase all three of the paintings and give her my credit card and our address in Escala for shipping.

“Merci, monsieur,” she simpers, with a flirtatious smile.

Sweetheart, I’m married.

I raise my left hand to stroke my chin, making my ring obvious, then return to Ana, who is looking at the nudes.

“Changed your mind?” I ask.

She laughs. “No. They’re good, though. And the photographer’s female.”

I cast my eye over them again. One catches my attention: a woman kneels up on a chair, her back to the camera. She’s naked, except for hooker heels, her long, dark hair loose. A memory I don’t want stirs in the back of my mind and I’m reminded of the bleak black-and-white photo on my bulletin board.

The crack whore.

Fuck.

I look away and take Ana’s hand. “Let’s go. Are you hungry?”

“Sure,” she says with an uncertain look as I open the door and step out into the fresh air. I’m grateful to get back outside where I can breathe again.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Protected from the fierce Mediterranean sun, we sit beneath bright red parasols on an archaic stone terrace at a hotel restaurant. We’re surrounded by geraniums and ancient ivied walls. It really is stunning. The food is off the charts, too. Damn, but the French can cook. I hope Mia’s learned some of these skills. I’ll have to persuade her to make dinner for us someday.

When I pay the check, I give the waiter a hefty tip.

Ana is sipping coffee, admiring the view. She’s been quiet, and I wonder once more what she’s thinking about.

Yesterday?

I shift in my seat.

I’m still trying to shake off my nightmare. Fragments keep haunting me and it’s unsettling. I’m reminded of Ana’s question yesterday evening about braids. Did it stir something from my subconscious?

Communicate and compromise. Flynn’s words circle my brain.

Maybe I should talk to Ana. Tell her the truth. Perhaps that’s why I’m getting these vivid flashbacks. I take a deep breath. “You asked me why I braid your hair.”

Ana looks up, expectant. “Yes.”

“The crack whore used to let me play with her hair, I think. I don’t know if it’s a memory or a dream.”

Ana blinks, in that way she does when she’s processing information, but her eyes are wide and clear, and all I see in them is her compassion. “I like it when you play with my hair,” she says, but her voice wavers, and I think she’s just trying to reassure me.

“Do you?”

“Yes!” The vehemence in her tone surprises me. She clasps my hand. “I think you loved your birth mother, Christian.”

Time stills, and it’s like she’s knocked all the air out of my lungs.

I’m in free-fall.

Why does she say shit like this?

She says she doesn’t want to hurt me.

And yet…

My eyes stay glued to hers, because in spite of what she’s just said, Ana’s my life raft, and I’m drowning in a wave of uncertainty that I don’t understand or know how to process.

I can’t do this.

I don’t want to think about the past.

It’s been. It’s done.

It’s too painful.

My gaze drifts to her hand in mine and to the red mark around her wrist. It’s a stark reminder of what I did to her yesterday.

I hurt her.

“Say something,” she whispers.

I need to get out of here. “Let’s go.”

In the street,