Free Fifty Shades Freed by E. L. James Page A

good.” He hangs up.
    “Philippe, I need to be onboard within the hour.”
    “ Monsieur. ”
    Shit, it’s Philippe, not Gaston. The car surges forward.
    Christian glances at me, his expression unreadable.
    “Anyone hurt?” I ask quietly.
    Christian shakes his head. “Very little damage.” He reaches over and clasps my hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Don’t worry about this. My team is on it.” And there he is, the CEO, in command, in control and not flustered at all.
    “Where was the fire?”
    “Server room.”
    “Grey House?”
    “Yes.”
    His responses are clipped, so I know he doesn’t want to talk about it.
    “Why so little damage?”
    “The server room is fitted with a state-of-the-art fire suppression system.”
    Of course it is.
    “Ana, please . . . don’t worry.”
    “I’m not worried,” I lie.
    “We don’t know for sure that it was arson,” he says, cutting to the heart of my anxiety. My hand clutches my throat in fear. Charlie Tango and now this?
    What next?

I’m restless. Christian has been holed up in the onboard study for over an hour. I have tried reading, watching TV, sunbathing—fully dressed sunbathing—but I can’t relax, and I can’t rid myself of this edgy feeling. After changing into shorts and a T-shirt, I remove the ludicrously expensive bangle and go to find Taylor.
    “Mrs. Grey,” he says, startled from his Anthony Burgess novel. He’s sitting in the small salon outside Christian’s study.
    “I’d like to go shopping.”
    “Yes ma’am.” He stands.
    “I’d like to take the Jet Ski.”
    His mouth drops open. “Erm.” He frowns, lost for words.
    “I don’t want to bother Christian with this.”
    He represses a sigh. “Mrs. Grey . . . um . . . I don’t think Mr. Grey would be very comfortable with that, and I’d like to keep my job.”
    Oh, for heaven’s sake! I want to roll my eyes at him, but I narrow them instead, sighing heavily and expressing, I think, the right amount of frustrated indignation that I am not mistress of my own destiny. Then again, I don’t want Christian mad at Taylor—or me, for that matter. Striding confidently past him, I knock on the study door and enter.
    Christian is on his BlackBerry, leaning against the mahogany desk. He glances up. “Andrea, hold please,” he mutters down the phone, his expression serious. His gaze is politely expectant. Shit. Why do I feel like I’ve entered the principal’s office? This man had me in handcuffs yesterday. I refuse to be intimidated by him, he’s my husband damn it. I square my shoulders and give him a broad smile.
    “I’m going shopping. I’ll take security with me.”
    “Sure, take one of the twins and Taylor, too,” he says, and I know that whatever’s happening is serious because he doesn’t question me further. I stand staring at him, wondering if I can help.
    “Anything else?” he asks. He wants me gone. Crap.
    “Can I get you anything?” I ask. He smiles his sweet shy smile.
    “No, baby, I’m good,” he says. “The crew will look after me.”
    “Okay.” I want to kiss him. Hell, I can—he’s my husband. Strolling purposefully forward, I plant a kiss on his lips, surprising him.
    “Andrea, I’ll call you back,” he mutters. He puts the BlackBerry down on the desk behind him, pulls me into his embrace, and kisses me passionately. I am breathless when he releases me. His eyes are dark and needy.
    “You’re distracting me. I need to sort this, so I can get back to my honeymoon.” He runs an index finger down my face and caresses my chin, tilting my face up.
    “Okay. I’m sorry.”
    “Please don’t apologize, Mrs. Grey. I love your distractions.” He kisses the corner of my mouth.
    “Go spend some money.” He releases me.
    “Will do.” I smirk at him as I exit his study. My subconscious shakes her head and purses her lips. You didn’t tell him you were going on the Jet Ski , she chastises me in her singsong voice. I ignore her . . .