Fifty Shades Freed (35 page)

Kate’s reaction makes me laugh.

“What’s so funny, Steele?” she snaps, but not seriously.

“I feel the same way.”

“You do?”

“Yes. She was all over Christian.”

“She had a fling with Elliot.” Kate pouts.

“No!”

She nods, her lips pressed together in the patented Katherine Kavanagh scowl.

“It was brief. Last year, I think. She’s a social climber. No wonder she has her sights set on Christian.”

“Christian is taken. I told her to leave him alone or I would fire her.”

Kate gapes at me once more, stunned. I nod proudly, and she lifts her glass to salute me, impressed and beaming.

“Mrs. Anastasia Grey! Way to go!” We clink.

“Does Elliot own a gun?”

“No. He’s very antigun.” Kate stirs her third drink.

“Christian, too. I think it was Grace and Carrick’s influence,” I mutter. I’m feeling a little tipsy.

“Carrick’s a good man.” Kate nods.

“He wanted a prenup,” I mutter sadly.

“Oh, Ana.” She reaches across and grasps my arm. “He was only looking out for his boy. As we both know, you have
gold-digger
tattooed on your forehead.” She smiles at me, and I poke my tongue out at her then giggle.

“Mature, Mrs. Grey,” she says grinning. She sounds like Christian. “You’ll do the same for your son one day.”

“My son?” I gape at her. It hadn’t even crossed my mind that my kids will be rich. Holy crap. They’ll want for nothing. I mean . . . nothing. This needs further thought—but not right now. I glance at Prescott and Sawyer seated nearby, watching us and the evening crowd from a side table while they each nurse a glass of sparkling mineral water.

“Do you think we should eat?” I ask.

“No. We should drink,” Kate says.

“Why are you in such a drinking mood?”

“Because I don’t see enough of you anymore. I didn’t know you’d up and marry the first guy who turned your head.” She pouts again. “Honestly, you married so quickly that I thought you were pregnant.”

I giggle. “Everyone thought I was pregnant,” I mutter. “Let’s not rehash that conversation again. Please! And I have to use the restroom.”

Prescott accompanies me. She says nothing. She doesn’t have to. Disapproval radiates off her like a lethal isotope.

“I haven’t been out on my own since I got married,” I mutter wordlessly at the closed toilet door. I make a face, knowing that she’s standing on the other side of the door, waiting while I pee. What precisely is Hyde going to do in a bar anyway? Christian is just overreacting as usual.

“Kate, it’s late. We should go.”

It’s ten fifteen, and I have downed my fourth strawberry mojito. I am definitely feeling the effects of the alcohol, warm and fuzzy. Christian will be fine. Eventually.

“Sure, Ana. It’s been so good to see you. You just seem so much more, I don’t know . . . confident. Marriage obviously agrees with you.”

My face warms. Coming from Miss Katherine Kavanagh, this is indeed a compliment.

“It does,” I whisper, and because I’ve probably had too much to drink, tears prick the back of my eyes. Could I be any happier? In spite of all his baggage, his nature, his Fiftyness, I have met and married the man of my dreams. I quickly change the subject to stem my sentimental thoughts, because I know I will cry otherwise.

“I have really enjoyed this evening.” I grasp Kate’s hand. “Thank you for dragging me out!” We hug. As she releases me, I nod at Sawyer and he hands Prescott the keys to the car.

“I’m sure Miss Goody-Two-Shoes Prescott has told Christian I’m not at home. He’ll be mad,” I mutter to Kate. And maybe he’ll think of some delicious way to punish me . . . hopefully.

“Why are you grinning like a loon, Ana? You like making Christian mad?”

“No. Not really. But it’s easily done. He’s very controlling sometimes.”
Most of the time.

“I’ve noticed,” Kate says wryly.

We pull up outside Kate’s apartment. She hugs me hard.

“Don’t be a stranger,” she whispers and kisses my cheek. Then she’s out of the car. I wave, feeling strangely homesick. I have missed girl talk. It’s fun and relaxing, and reminds me that I’m still young. I must make more of an effort to see Kate, but the truth is, I love being in my bubble with Christian. Last night we attended a charity dinner together. There were so many men in suits and well-groomed elegant women talking about real estate prices and the failing economy and the plunging stock markets. I mean, it was dull, really dull. So it’s refreshing to let my hair down with someone my own age.

My stomach rumbles. Jeez, I still haven’t eaten.
Shit—Christian!
I scramble through my purse and fish out my BlackBerry.
Holy crap—five missed calls!
One text . . .

*WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?*

And one e-mail.

From:
Christian Grey

Subject:
Angry. You’ve not seen angry

Date:
August 26, 2011 00:42 EST

To:
Anastasia Grey

Anastasia
Sawyer tells me that you are drinking cocktails in a bar when you said you wouldn’t.
Do you have any idea how mad I am at the moment?
I’ll see you tomorrow.

Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

My heart sinks. Oh shit! I really am in trouble. My subconscious glares at me, then shrugs, wearing her you-made-your-bed-you-lie-in-it face. What did I expect? I contemplate calling him, but it’s late and he’s probably asleep . . . or pacing. I decide a quick text may be enough.

*I’M STILL IN ONE PIECE. I HAD A NICE TIME. MISSING YOU—PLEASE DON’T BE MAD*

I gaze at my BlackBerry, willing him to respond, but it’s ominously silent. I sigh.

Prescott pulls up outside Escala and Sawyer gets out to hold the door open for me. As we stand waiting for the elevator, I take the opportunity to quiz him.

“What time did Christian call you?”

Sawyer flushes. “About nine thirty, ma’am.”

“Why didn’t you interrupt my conversation with Kate so I could speak with him?”

“Mr. Grey told me not to.”

I purse my lips. The elevator arrives, and we ride up in silence. I’m suddenly grateful that Christian has a whole night to recover from his snit-fit, and that he’s on the other side of the country. It gives me some time. On the other hand . . . I miss him.

The doors to the elevator open, and for a split second I stare at the foyer table.

What is wrong with this picture?

The vase of flowers lies smashed into fragments all over the floor of the foyer, water and flowers and chunks of china are strewn everywhere, and the table is overturned. My scalp prickles and Sawyer grabs my arm and pulls me back into the elevator.

“Stay there,” he hisses, drawing a gun. He steps into the foyer and disappears from my field of vision.

I cower in the back of the elevator.

“Luke!” I hear Ryan call from inside the great room. “Code blue!”

Code blue
?

“You have the perp?” Sawyer calls back. “Jesus H. Christ!”

I flatten myself against the elevator wall.
What the hell is going on?
Adrenaline spikes through my body, and my heart leaps into my throat. I hear soft voices, and a moment later Sawyer reappears in the foyer, standing in the puddle of water. He holsters his gun.

“You can come in, Mrs. Grey,” he says gently.

“What’s happened, Luke?” My voice is barely a whisper.

“We’ve had a visitor.” He takes my elbow, and I’m grateful for the support—my legs have turned to jelly. I walk with him through the open double doors.

Ryan is standing at the entrance of the great room. A cut above his eye is bleeding, and there’s another on his mouth. He looks roughed up, his clothes disheveled. But what’s more shocking is Jack Hyde slumped at his feet.

My heart is pounding and blood thrums loudly in my eardrums; the alcohol flowing through my system, amplifying the sound.

“Is he—” I gasp, unable to finish the sentence and gazing wide-eyed and terrified at Ryan. I can’t even look at the prone figure on the floor.

“No, ma’am. Just knocked out cold.”

Relief floods through me.
Oh, thank God.

“And you?” I ask, gazing at Ryan. I realize I don’t know his first name. He’s panting as if he’s run a marathon. He wipes the corner of his mouth, removing the trace of blood, and a faint bruise is forming on his cheek.

“He put up one hell of a fight, but I’m okay, Mrs. Grey.” He smiles reassuringly. If I knew him better, I’d say he looked a little smug.

“And Gail? Mrs. Jones?”
Oh no . . . is she okay? Has she been harmed?

“I’m here, Ana.” Glancing behind me, she’s in a nightdress and robe, her hair loose, her face ashen and her eyes wide—like mine, I imagine.

“Ryan woke me. Insisted I come in here.” She points behind her into Taylor’s office. “I’m fine. Are you okay?”

I nod briskly and realize she’s probably just come out of the panic room built adjoining Taylor’s office. Who knew we’d need it so soon? Christian had insisted on its installation shortly after our engagement—and I had rolled my eyes. Now, seeing Gail standing in the doorway, I’m grateful for his foresight.

A creak from the door to the foyer distracts me. It’s hanging off its hinges. What the hell happened to that?

“Was he alone?” I ask Ryan.

“Yes, ma’am. You wouldn’t be standing here if he wasn’t, I can assure you.” Ryan sounds vaguely affronted.

“How did he get in?” I ask, ignoring his tone.

“Through the service elevator. He’s got quite a pair, ma’am.”

I stare down at Jack’s slumped figure. He’s wearing a uniform of sorts—coveralls, I think.

“When?”

“About ten minutes ago. I caught him on the security monitor. He was wearing gloves . . . kinda strange in August. I recognized him and decided to give him access. That way I knew we’d have him. You weren’t here and Gail was safe, so I figured it was now or never.” Ryan looks very pleased with himself once more, and Sawyer scowls at him in disapproval.

Gloves
? The thought distracts me, and I glance once more at Jack. Yes, he’s wearing brown leather gloves. Creepy.

“What now?” I try to dismiss the ramifications from my mind.

“We need to secure him,” Ryan replies.

“Secure him?”

“In case he wakes.” Ryan glances at Sawyer.

“What do you need?” asks Mrs. Jones, stepping forward. She’s recovered her composure.

“Something to restrain him—cord or rope,” Ryan replies.

Cable ties.
I flush as memories of the previous night invade my mind. Reflexively, I rub my wrists and glance quickly down at them. No, no bruising. Good.