Fifty Shades Freed (Christian & Ana)(29)

Oh! Reticent one minute and forthcoming the next? How . . . Fifty! How can I keep up with him?

"How do you feel?"

Bleak eyes gaze at me. "Uncomfortable," he murmurs.

Oh, no. I unbuckle my seatbelt and scoot closer to him, leaving my feet in his lap. I want to crawl into his lap and hold him, and I would, if it were just Taylor in the front. But knowing Gaston is there cramps my style despite the glass. If only it were darker. I clutch his hands.

"It's the hickeys I don't like," I whisper. "Everything else . . . what you did"—I lower my voice even further—"with the handcuffs, I enjoyed that. Well, more than enjoyed. It was mind-blowing. You can do that to me again anytime."

He shifts in his seat. "Mind-blowing?" My inner goddess looks up startled from her Jackie Collins.

"Yes." I grin. I flex my toes into his hardening crotch and see rather than hear his sharp intake of breath, his lips parting.

"You should really be wearing your seat belt, Mrs. Grey." His voice is low, and I curl my toes around him once more. He inhales and his eyes darken, and he clasps my ankle in warning. Does he want me stop? Continue? He pauses, scowls then fishes his ever-present BlackBerry out of his pocket to take an incoming call while glancing at his watch. His frown deepens.

"Barney," he snaps.

Crap. Work interrupting us again. I try to remove my feet, but he tightens his fingers around my ankle.

"In the server room?" he says in disbelief. "Did it activate the fire suppression system?"

Fire! I take my feet off his lap and this time he lets me. I sit back in my seat, buckle my seat belt, and fiddle nervously with the fifteen-thousand-euro bracelet.

Christian presses the button in his door armrest again and the privacy glass slides down.

"Anyone injured? Damage? I see . . . When?" Christian glances at his watch again then runs his hand through his hair. "No. Not the fire department or the police. Not yet anyway."

Holy crap! A fire? At Christian's office? I gape at him, my mind racing.

Taylor shifts so he can hear Christian's conversation.

"Has he? Good . . . Okay. I want a detailed damage report. And a complete rundown of everyone who had access over the last five days, including the cleaning staff . . . Get hold of Andrea and get her to call me . . . Yeah, sounds like the argon is just as effective, worth its weight in gold."

Damage report? Argon? It rings a distant bell from chemistry class—an element, I think.

"I realize it's early . . . E-mail me in two hours . . . No, I need to know. Thank you for calling me." Christian hangs up, then immediately punches a number into the BlackBerry.

"Welch . . . Good . . . When?" Christian glances at his watch yet again. "An hour then . . . yes . . . Twenty-four-seven at the off-site data store . . . 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.