“We’re right behind the unsub, Mr. Grey,” Sawyer’s voice says over the speaker. “He’s trying to catch up with you, sir. We’re going to try to come alongside. Put ourselves between your car and the Dodge.”

“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 speed past the bridge control tower. We’re halfway. Ana is traveling fast, but smoothly and confidently. She’s got this. “You’re doing really well, Ana.”

“Where am I headed?”

“Mrs. Grey, head for I-5 and then south. We want to see if the Dodge follows you all the way.”

The lights on the bridge are green, thank goodness, and Ana continues at speed. “Shit.” There are cars backed up coming off the bridge. Ana slows, and I see her glance in the rearview mirror, looking for the Dodge.

“Ten or so cars back?” she says.

Staring behind us, I spot it. “Yeah, I see it. I wonder who the fuck it is?”

“Me, too. Do we know if it’s a man driving?” Ana directs her comment to my phone.

“No, Mrs. Grey. Could be a man or woman. The tint is too dark.”

“A woman?” I ask.

Ana shrugs. “Your Mrs. Robinson?”

What? No!

I’ve not heard from Elena since—well, since the wedding, when she sent that fucking text. I reach for my phone and pull it out of the cradle to mute it.

“She’s not my Mrs. Robinson,” I grumble. “I haven’t spoken to her since my birthday.”

That’s not right, Grey. I called her when I gifted her the business, but now is not the time to mention that. “Elena wouldn’t do this. It’s not her style.”

“Leila?”

“She’s in Connecticut with her parents. I told you.”

“Are you sure?”

“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.” I sound brusque, but I don’t care. Ana, as ever, is challenging. Unmuting my BlackBerry, I place it back in the speaker cradle.

The traffic starts to ease, and Ana’s able to increase her speed along the intersection.

“What if we get stopped by the cops?” she asks.

“That would be a good thing.”

“Not for my license.”

“Don’t worry about that.” The arson attempt and Charlie Tango’s sabotage are all part of a police investigation. I’m sure any police officer would be more interested in our stalker.

“He’s cleared the traffic and picked up speed.” Sawyer’s disembodied voice is calm and informative. “He’s doing ninety.”

Ana accelerates and my beautiful car responds like the finely honed machine she is, climbing to ninety-five with ease.

“Keep it up, Ana,” I assure her.

Ana coasts onto I-5 and immediately crosses several lanes to get into the fast lane.

Smooth, baby. Smooth.

“He’s hit one hundred miles per hour, sir.”

Fuck. “Stay with him, Luke,” I bark at Sawyer.

A semi lurches into our lane and Ana hits the brakes, so we’re thrown forward. “Fucking idiot!” I shout.

Christ. He could have killed us!

“Go around him, baby,” I grit between clenched teeth. Ana maneuvers across three lanes, past several cars and the fucking semi, then back into the passing lane, leaving the asshole behind us. “Nice move, Mrs. Grey. Where are the cops when you need them?”

“I don’t want a ticket, Christian,” she says without heat. “Have you had a speeding ticket driving this?”

“No.” But nearly.

“Have you been stopped?”

“Yes.”

“Oh.”

“Charm. It all comes down to charm.”

Yes, Mrs. Grey. Believe it or not, I can be charming.

“Now concentrate. Where’s the Dodge, Sawyer?” I ask.

“He’s just hit one hundred and ten, sir,” Sawyer says.

Ana gasps and she puts her foot down so the Audi picks up speed.

There’s a Ford Mustang in our way.

Fucking hell.

“Flash the headlights,” I yell.

“But that would make me an asshole.”

“So be an asshole!” I hiss, trying to keep my anger at the Mustang and my spiraling anxiety in check.

“Um, where are the headlights?” Ana asks.

“The indicator. Pull it toward you.”

The prick gets the message and moves over, giving us the finger. “He’s the asshole,” I mutter. “Get off on Stewart,” I tell Ana. “We’re taking the Stewart Street exit,” I inform Sawyer.

“Head straight to Escala, sir.”

Ana glances in the mirror, her brow furrowed. She signals and moves across four lanes of the highway, straight down the off-ramp, slowing down and then turning smoothly onto Stewart Street.

She’s amazing.

“We’ve been damned lucky with the traffic. But that means the Dodge has, too. Don’t slow down, Ana. Get us home.”

“I can’t remember the way,” she squeaks.