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proper, I want you to step on the gas. We’re being followed.” Followed! Holy shit. My heart lurches into my mouth, pounding, my scalp prickles and my throat constricts with panic. Followed by whom? My eyes dart to the rearview mirror and, sure enough, the dark car I saw earlier is still behind us .

Fuck! Is that it? I squint through the tinted windshield to see who’s driving, but I see nothing.

“Keep your eyes on the road, baby,” Christian says gently, not in the trucu-lent tone he normally uses where my driving is concerned.

Get a grip! I mentally slap myself to subdue the dread that’s threatening to swamp me. Suppose whoever’s following us is armed? Armed and after Christian! Shit! I’m hit by a wave of nausea.

“How do we know we’re being followed?” My voice is a breathy, squeaky, whisper.

“The Dodge behind us has false license plates.” How does he know that?

I signal as we approach the 520 from the on-ramp. It’s late afternoon, and although the rain has stopped, the roadway is wet. Fortunately, the traffic is reasonably light.

Ray’s voice echoes in my head from one of his many self-defense lectures.

“It’s the panic that’s gonna kill you or get you seriously hurt, Annie.” I take a deep breath, trying to bring my breathing under control. Whoever is following us is after Christian. As I take another deep steadying breath, my mind begins to clear and my stomach settles. I have to keep Christian safe. I wanted to drive this car, and I wanted to drive it fast. Well, here’s my chance. I grip the steering wheel and take a final glance in my rearview mirror. The Dodge is closing on us.

I slow right down, ignoring Christian’s sudden panicked glance at me, and time my entrance on to the 520 so that the Dodge has to slow and stop to wait for a gap in the traffic. I drop a gear and floor it. The R8 shoots forward, slamming us both into the backs of our seats. The speedometer whips up to seventy-five miles per hour.

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“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?”

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“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?”