Fifty Shades Trilogy Bundle: Fifty Shades of Grey; Fifty Shades Darker; Fifty Shades Freed by E. L. James Page B

starts the engine and reverses out of his space in the parking lot. He switches on the sound system. The car interior is filled with the sweetest, most magical music of two women singing. Oh wow … all my senses are in disarray, so this is doubly affecting. It sends delicious shivers up my spine. Christian pulls out onto Southwest Park Avenue, and he drives with easy, lazy confidence.
    “What are we listening to?”
    “It’s ‘The Flower Duet’ by Delibes, from the opera
Lakmé
. Do you like it?”
    “Christian, it’s wonderful.”
    “It is, isn’t it?” He grins, glancing at me. And for a fleeting moment, he seems his age: young, carefree, and heart-stoppingly beautiful. Is this the key to him? Music? I sit and listen to the angelic voices teasing and seducing me.
    “Can I hear that again?”
    “Of course.” Christian pushes a button, and the music is caressing me once more. It’s a gentle, slow, sweet, and sure assault on my aural senses.
    “You like classical music?” I ask, hoping for a rare insight into his personal preferences.
    “My taste is eclectic, Anastasia, everything from Thomas Tallis to the Kings of Leon. It depends on my mood. You?”
    “Me, too. Though I don’t know who Thomas Tallis is.”
    He turns and gazes at me briefly before his eyes are back on the road.
    “I’ll play it for you sometime. He’s a sixteenth-century British composer. Tudor, church choral music.” Christian grins at me. “Sounds very esoteric, I know, but it’s also magical.”
    He presses a button and the Kings of Leon start singing. Hmm … this I know. “Sex on Fire.” How appropriate. The music is interrupted by the sound of a cell phone ringing over the sound system speakers. Christian hits a button on the steering wheel.
    “Grey,” he snaps. He’s so brusque.
    “Mr. Grey, it’s Welch here. I have the information you require.” A rasping, disembodied voice comes over the speakers.
    “Good. E-mail it to me. Anything to add?”
    “No, sir.”
    He presses the button, then the call ceases and the music is back. No good-bye or thanks. I’m so glad that I never seriously entertained the thought of working for him. I shudder at the very idea. He’s just too controlling and cold with his employees. The music cuts off again for the phone.
    “Grey.”
    “The NDA has been e-mailed to you, Mr. Grey.” A woman’s voice.
    “Good. That’s all, Andrea.”
    “Good day, sir.”
    Christian hangs up by pressing a button on the steering wheel. The music is on very briefly when the phone rings again. Holy hell, is this his life—constant nagging phone calls?
    “Grey,” he snaps.
    “Hi, Christian, d’you get laid?”
    “Hello, Elliot—I’m on speakerphone, and I’m not alone in the car.” Christian sighs.
    “Who’s with you?”
    Christian rolls his eyes. “Anastasia Steele.”
    “Hi, Ana!”
    Ana!
    “Hello, Elliot.”
    “Heard a lot about you,” Elliot murmurs huskily. Christian frowns.
    “Don’t believe a word Kate says.”
    Elliot laughs.
    “I’m dropping Anastasia off now.” Christian emphasizes my full name. “Shall I pick you up?”
    “Sure.”
    “See you shortly.” Christian hangs up, and the music is back.
    “Why do you insist on calling me Anastasia?”
    “Because it’s your name.”
    “I prefer Ana.”
    “Do you now?”
    We are almost at my apartment. It’s not taken long.
    “Anastasia,” he muses. I scowl at him, but he ignores my expression. “What happened in the elevator—it won’t happen again, well, not unless it’s premeditated.”
    He pulls up outside my duplex. I belatedly realize he’s not asked me where I live—yet he knows. But then he sent the books; of course he knows where I live. What able, cell phone–tracking, helicopter-owning stalker wouldn’t?
    Why won’t he kiss me again? I pout at the thought. I don’t understand. Honestly, his surname should be Cryptic, not Grey. He climbs out of the car, walking with easy, long-legged grace around