Fifty Shades Trilogy 03 - Fifty Shades Freed

up to seventy-five miles per hour.
    “Steady, baby,” Christian says calmly, though I’m sure he’s anything but calm.
    I weave between the two lines of traffic like a black counter in a game of checkers, effectively jumping the cars and trucks. We’re so close to the lake on this bridge, it’s as if we’re driving on the water. I studiously ignore the angry, disapproving looks from other drivers. Christian clutches his hands together in his lap, keeping as still as possible, and in spite of my fevered thoughts, I wonder vaguely if he’s doing it so he doesn’t distract me.
    “Good girl,” he breathes in encouragement. He glances behind him. “I can’t see the Dodge.”
    “We’re right behind the unsub, Mr. Grey.” Sawyer’s voice comes through the hands-free. “He’s trying to catch up with you, sir. We’re going to try and come alongside, put ourselves between your car and the Dodge.”
    Unsub? What does that mean?
    “Good. Mrs. Grey is doing well. At this rate, provided the traffic remains light—and from what I can see it is—we’ll be off the bridge in a few minutes.”
    “Sir.”
    We flash past the bridge control tower, and I know we’re half way across Lake Washington. When I check my speed, I’m still doing seventy-five.
    “You’re doing really well, Ana,” Christian murmurs again as he gazes out the back of the R8. For a fleeting moment, his tone reminds me of our first encounter in his playroom when he patiently encouraged me through our first scene. The thought is distracting, and I dismiss it immediately.
    “Where am I headed?” I ask, moderately calmer. I have the feel of the car now. It’s a joy to drive, so quiet and easy to handle it’s hard to believe how fast we are going. Driving at this speed in this car is easy.
    “Mrs. Grey, head for I-5 and then south. We want to see if the Dodge follows you all the way,” Sawyer says over the hands-free. The traffic lights on the bridge are green—thank heavens—and I race onward.
    I glance nervously at Christian, and he smiles reassuringly. Then his face falls.
    “Shit!” he swears softly.
    There is a line of traffic ahead as we come off the bridge, and I have to slow. Glancing anxiously in the mirror once more, I think I spot the Dodge.
    “Ten or so cars back?”
    “Yeah, I see it,” Christian says, peering through the narrow rear window. “I wonder who the fuck it is?”
    “Me too. Do we know if it’s a man driving?” I blurt out toward the cradled BlackBerry.
    “No, Mrs. Grey. Could be a man or woman. The tint is too dark.”
    “A woman?” Christian says.
    I shrug. “Your Mrs. Robinson?” I suggest, not taking my eyes off the road.
    Christian stiffens and lifts the BlackBerry out of its cradle. “She’s not my Mrs. Robinson,” he growls. “I haven’t spoken to her since my birthday. And Elena wouldn’t do this. It’s not her style.”
    “Leila?”
    “She’s in Connecticut with her parents. I told you.”
    “Are you sure?”
    He pauses. “No. But if she’d absconded, I’m sure her folks would have let Flynn know. Let’s discuss this when we’re home. Concentrate on what you’re doing.”
    “But it might just be some random car.”
    “I’m not taking any risks. Not where you’re concerned,” he snaps. He replaces the BlackBerry in its cradle so we’re back in contact with our security team .
    Oh shit. I don’t want to rattle Christian right now . . . later maybe. I hold my tongue. Fortunately, the traffic is thinning a little. I am able to speed over the Mountlake intersection toward the I-5, weaving through the cars again.
    “What if we get stopped by the cops?” I ask.
    “That would be a good thing.”
    “Not for my license.”
    “Don’t worry about that,” he says. Unexpectedly, I hear humor in his voice.
    I put my foot down again, and hit seventy-five. Boy, this car can move. I love it—she’s so easy. I touch eighty-five. I don’t think I have ever driven this fast. I was lucky if my Beetle ever hit fifty miles an hour.
    “He’s cleared the traffic and picked up speed.” Sawyer’s disembodied voice is calm and informative. “He’s doing ninety.”
    Shit! Faster! I press down on the gas and the car purrs to ninety-five miles per hour as we approach the I-5 intersection.
    “Keep it up, Ana,” Christian murmurs.
    I slow momentarily as we glide onto the I-5. The interstate is fairly quiet, and I’m able to cross straight over to the fast lane in a split second.