Three and a Half Weeks Read online

  Ella smiles impishly. “How do you happen to know so much about it, Ian?”

  “I was probably as disturbed as you when I first saw it—prompted me to do some research on the device. Luckily, it’s not often used at the club.”

  She puts her plate on the coffee table. “Well,” she says, snuggling up to him, “Thank God for small favors. Now, let’s talk about something infinitely more pleasant, such as how it’s possible for a man to be as beautiful as you are, Mr. Blackmon?”

  Chapter 12

  I hear his sharp intake of breath when I ask why he is so beautiful. Did he really expect the same shy girl of last year? So much life has happened to me in the last twelve months—that girl is no more, not that she really ever was.

  Will he like the new me? In truth, I was never really that shy, easily flustered girl he thought me—it was just that he completely intimidated me. Still does. His is a very commanding presence. In addition, he’s rich, handsome, powerful, and smart. Oh, and tall. How could someone not be intimidated? In addition to all of his other overwhelming attributes, his dominant tendencies tend to cower me. It’s up to me now to ensure he doesn’t know the effect he has on me—he may try to use it against me. But all alone with my private thoughts, I can admit how much his dominance turns me on. And I sort of hate that it does.

  I don’t want to be submissive. Even the word pisses me off. Centuries of subjugation will do that to a girl: women are kind of sensitive about any show of weakness, or any masculine show of force. Well, most of us anyway, but certainly not all those women in scanty clothes at the club.

  Okay, I don’t get that at all. Maybe it’s because I’m sexually naïve? Or maybe I’m just built differently… but I just don’t find pain erotic and I don’t understand anyone who does. But damn: that club was sure jam-packed Friday night with people who do.

  I must accordingly concede one point to him: sexually, I like his being in control—at least my body likes it, responding instantly to his commands. Matter of fact, it’s damn irritating how my body betrays my mind—he’ll do something and I’ll tell him I don’t like it and then he touches me—you know where—and instantly knows otherwise. So unfair.

  So here we sit, in his beautiful new living room on his beautiful new houseboat, watching a silly British comedy, of all things. So not Ian Blackmon. He’s laughing at the show—a sketch about an overweight support group. He must feel my eyes on him because he swivels his attention from the television and looks over, catching me staring.

  For a long minute he just looks into my eyes and I try like hell not to break first. But I do. Of course.

  He suddenly stands and holds out his hand. “Come.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “I thought a steam shower would be nice.”

  “First give me the unabbreviated house tour.” I place my hand in his and he pulls me to my feet. Smiling, he leads me first to the kitchen.

  His new houseboat is charming and relatively simple, though luxurious. The floors are a dark gleaming wood throughout. The walls are all done in Venetian plaster, with bronze old-world style fixtures. The kitchen is state of the art, naturally, since he does so much cooking—not.

  Upstairs, each bedroom—and there are three—has its own en suite bath. The guest rooms are not large but comfortable, however, the master is sumptuous, and leads to the balcony I spied from outside. Inside the room, across from the sleigh bed, are a wood-burning fireplace and a magnificent Persian rug gracing the wood floor. The bath is done in Carrera marble subway tile from floor to ceiling and the furnishings are all dark wood with brushed nickel fixtures. There’s a huge double steam shower and a big, rectangular whirlpool tub. Very masculine but the height of luxury as far as baths go.

  “Bath or shower?” he asks.

  “I’d prefer a shower, if you don’t mind.”

  “A shower it is then.” He reaches in and turns on multiple sets of showerheads that protrude all the way down each wall. “After you, Madame.”

  I slip off the robe and step into the shower. The water is steaming hot, too hot for me, and as I move to retreat a step, I run into a wall. Of man.

  “Not so fast.”

  I can feel his enormous erection pressing into my back and it stops me dead in my tracks. “It’s too hot, Ian.”

  “Give it a moment. You’ll get used to it.”

  Reaching for the shower gel, he soaps up his hands and begins to wash my back… and everything else.

  The water is still hot enough to scald but I am getting used to it. Why do men like such hot water? My father is like that, too. The thought of my father right now where I am is disturbing so I banish him from my brain. It’s my turn to wash Ian and as I do, I once again marvel at his physique. “How many hours a week do you spend working out?” I finally ask.

  “Generally, two to three hours about four times a week.”

  “That’s a lot. When do you find time?”

  He shrugs dismissively. “My trainer comes to me at the office during the week and we get together one weekend day every other week.”

  “Hmmm. What kind of work-out?”

  “Kickboxing, running, some weight training. I don’t want to bulk up too much—just keep my stamina high and the fat off.” He grins. “So far, so good.”

  “Not bad,” I say with a smirk, as my hands travel from his throat down, washing him slowly and thoroughly and seeing evidence of his enjoyment grow bigger before my eyes.

  We make love twice more before we fall asleep. Ian has mostly kept the kink out of the bedroom tonight—I suppose the whipping is ever-present in both of our minds. Still, with his overpowering personality, he yet manages to exert control over me in some measure and I find I don’t mind it. The last time we were together I felt I was tolerating the whole thing. Now, for whatever reason, I actively like it. The idea of submitting to him turns me on, makes everything seem hotter. This night has been one of the best of my life and I don’t want it to end.

  But despite how happy I feel right at the moment, I realize that nothing’s actually changed between us. If he wants me long-term at all, it’s as a submissive, which is no commitment at all—I mean, what do I get out of it but a broken heart at the end of a rutted road?

  When I open my eyes the next morning, I glance over and see that I’m alone in the bed. The sun is high enough to stream in through the windows, reminding me that I never let Mariah know where I was. I’m not worried though, for Mariah surely can figure out where I ended up. My immediate need is a shower but my toiletries are in my bag downstairs. Hopefully I can get it before Ian sees me since I look terrible right now. Quickly, I wrap a sheet around my body and go in search of my bag. On the stairs, I hear Ian’s voice in a one-sided conversation: he must be on the phone. He sounds angry.

  “I don’t give a damn, Jonas. It’s not going to happen. Get on the phone with Keppler now and make sure he understands our position. We are not going down with this one, no fucking way. What else?

  “Who? You’ve got to be kidding me? How the hell did she get your number? No. Do nothing; say nothing. Just ignore it and let’s hope it goes away by itself. I’m going to try to enjoy my weekend now, if that’s okay with you? Fine. Till Monday then.”

  Timidly, I step downstairs, hoping I could get the bag and get back up before he spots me.

  “Ariel. Good morning.”

  I stop short, feeling sneaky. It also doesn’t escape me that he called me Ariel again. Last night I was Ella. “Good morning. Is everything okay?”

  “It will be. Sleep well?”

  “Yes, thank you. I just want to take a quick shower.”

  “Ah. Are we still on for the car ride today?”

  I nod my assent, feeling very shy all of a sudden. Last night I did every imaginable thing with this man and yet I have the nerve to stand here this morning with blushing cheeks? Gives new meaning to the term cheeky.

  He nods too, smiling. “Good. I’ll take you home to get changed. In the meant
ime, I’ve left a tee-shirt on the chair in the bedroom for you to wear over that sexy bra. Come down when you’re ready for breakfast.”

  I stand there stupefied. “You made breakfast?”

  He raises his left brow. “I take exception to your implication, Ariel. It’s extremely sexist of you to automatically assume that I can’t cook because I’m a man.”

  “Not because you’re a man,” I say, shaking my head. “Just because you’re you and you always have staff doing everything for you. This is a new side of Ian Blackmon that I’ve not seen before.”

  “I’m glad you can see I’m multifaceted. If you must get technical, perhaps cook is not the most appropriate verb to use in terms of what I did for breakfast.”

  I cock my head. “Is heat more appropriate?”

  His lips twitch. “I think bought would probably suit best.”

  “Aha. I knew it!” I giggle, strolling over to my bag and snatch it up. “I’ll be down in five.”

  Before I can leave the room, he makes a sudden lunge for me, catching my arm and yanking me close to his body. “When you giggle it does things to me and, besides, you look too delectable not to manhandle this morning, Ella.”

  Oh, good, we’re back to Ella. He nuzzles my neck, holding me tightly. “It’s incredibly nice to see you wake up in this house—you’ve christened it for me, baby.”

  I lean into him and inhale that delicious Ian Blackmon scent. Mmm. Just as I’m burrowing in and getting comfortable, he smacks me on the butt—hard. “Okay, off with you now before I forget about breakfast and eat you instead.”

  I gasp, unsure if I’m gasping at the hard smack or his dirty words. I sling my bag over my shoulder and with a haughty look thrown back at him, make my way upstairs to shower and get dressed. I hear him laughing in my wake and my heart feels happy and full to listen to such wonderful music.

  I end up spending the whole weekend with Ian and can only use superlatives to describe it. By Sunday night, I’m feeling depressed, knowing that it’s time to say goodbye. We can’t make any future plans—for one thing, I no longer live in Portland and have no idea whatsoever where I’ll be living. For another, Ian never gives me any direction in terms of where this thing between us may be heading.

  But he also seems a bit out of sorts when the weekend rolls to its close. He drives me back to Mariah’s, both of us brooding and silent, only the music softly playing. Beck is the only one vocalizing his feelings in the tiny car.

  When he pulls in front, he reaches over and presses the ignition off. “So,” he angles his body toward me, “do you have any idea as to when you’ll know where you’ll be landing?”

  I shake my head. “No idea. Right now I’m looking for either a doctoral program or an internship of some sort—whichever one grabs my attention first.”

  “What kind of internship?”

  We’d avoided discussing anything of this nature all weekend, possibly for this reason. “Not sure yet. I was thinking maybe of trying to work with an historian researching a book. Or maybe a television show, perhaps something associated with PBS. The other alternative is to go the academic route. Maybe teach as an adjunct professor while I scout out the right doctoral program. I’m just not sure.”

  “Why were you in L.A.?”

  “Honestly? I didn’t know where else to go. The unexpected windfall from the book provided me with a lot of options… but in giving me all those choices, it makes decisions considerably more difficult. And I’m indecisive by nature.”

  “Could have fooled me, Ella. You seem exceedingly directed to me.” He reaches over and caresses my chin, his fingers butterfly soft. “I’d like to see you again soon. Is that a possibility?”

  “Yes. I’m not going anywhere for the next two weeks, at least.”

  “Next weekend? Can you stay with me again?”

  “Yes,” I say, my voice so faint and breathless I’m surprised he hears me. But he does and smiles in response, kisses me softly.

  “Good night, Ella. Thank you for a wonderful weekend. Come, I’ll walk you to the door.”

  So now I have a week to think, to mull, to obsess—before I see him again. First things first: it’s time to face certain truths and the biggest one is that, for better or for worse, I’m in love with Ian and I have been probably since the day he strode into Archipelago all those months ago.

  I also need to contemplate all the drastic changes I’ve seen in him in the past few weeks. The radically important question for me is whether or not these changes are real and going to last? Has he truly evolved or is he playing at something? With Ian, I never can tell.

  When I met him, he was so… distant; perhaps inaccessible is the right word. He held himself apart from others, locking himself away in that ivory tower of his, the glass bubble set high up in the clouds, looking down on everyone else, both literally and metaphorically. He had staff to do everything for him—to keep him at a remove from everyone else in the world and provide a protective buffer zone between him and daily, messy life: grocery shopping, car parking, errands—all these activities wherein one might actually have to interact with other human beings. I snort, thinking it’s surprising he bathed and dressed himself. Wonder why he didn’t have a personal valet to do it for him, a Mr. Bates-type staff member?

  Even the most intimate of encounters—sexual relationships—he’d conduct within the strict confines of BDSM. One doesn’t need to be a psychologist to see why he found that lifestyle attractive, perhaps even necessary. Let’s face it—he’s a young, healthy male who wants sex. But he doesn’t want emotional entanglement. What better way to get one without the other than by restraining your partner—both literally and figuratively—from getting too close?

  Plus, it’s very clear he has a dominant personality—it’s quite evident in his business dealings. When I first met him, after a small argument about negotiation and compromise, I ducked into a bookstore on a rainy day to buy him a joke gift, a book called Negotiating for Dummies. I began chatting with another customer who noticed me buying the book and as fate would have it, she used to work for Ian. She told me that when Ian Blackmon walks into a board meeting or conference, the whole room goes silent, as if he sucks all the oxygen out.

  And controlling? Ha! There’s probably a thumbnail picture of his face next to the definition of the word in Merriam-Webster. He just cannot function unless he has complete control of himself and everyone around him.

  Ian’s twenty-eight—twenty-nine now—and he wants to be master of all he surveys. The impressive yet also frightening part is that he’s actually managed to accomplish it—and rapidly. But something happened last year. Something happened to Ian to make him take a long, hard look in the mirror. It was now for me to ponder what that something was. Could it possibly have been me?

  He’s given up his luxurious and cavernous house in the sky for a considerably smaller, friendlier, and more accessible houseboat. I saw him laugh and talk with friends at his club, so relaxed, so different from the Ian Blackmon I had known previously. Has he really changed or am I witnessing an anomaly, a blip in his normal routine? One thought repeatedly niggled at me though I continually dismissed it as preposterous: was I responsible for the sea change in him? Did losing me force him to do some serious introspection?

  I make it through the week in relatively good shape. Of course, I have help. On Monday I receive two dozen long-stemmed roses. On Tuesday, a case of the wine I’d liked while at his house arrives. Fed Ex delivers a package on Wednesday with a CD he’d burned with songs he thought I might enjoy, and Thursday a gorgeous little black dress and black lace lingerie are delivered. The shelf bra is scandalous—it barely covers the girls. Still, when I try it on I have to admit it’s sizzlingly hot.

  Mariah can’t help but notice Ian’s attention. This is so not good.

  “Ella, looks like someone is smitten. Doesn’t it now?”

  I don’t care for the scrutinizing look she gives me. “I suppose he enjoyed my company last weekend?”r />
  “Uh-huh. Not just last weekend, either. He did come looking for you right after you left for London last year and I could see some serious panic in his eyes when I told him you’d left the country. You didn’t say fare thee well to him before you flew across the pond?”

  Now I’m feeling desperate. Mariah’s no dummy. She can so easily figure out that my little fiction book is actually nonfiction if she makes some very simple connections—especially now that she knows that Ian is a member of that stupid BDSM club. Damn, but I should have seen this coming—preferably before I wrote the stupid book. I have to do damage control and fast.

  “Um,” I say, my thoughts frantically cobbling together a response, “we only dated once or twice and I realized he was just miles out of my league. The fellowship award came and I kind of just booked. I’m sure I left a message with his assistant. No biggie.” I force myself to casually shrug.

  She gives me a skeptical look. Uh-oh. “Really? I wonder why he came running over here looking for you then? Maybe she screwed up and didn’t give him your message?”

  “Yeah,” I say, looking down so she won’t see my telltale lying face, “that must have been it.” I make a show of glancing at my watch. “Oh, shoot! Look at the time! I have an appointment in less than twenty minutes. I better fly. See you later, Mariah.”

  I’m not sure I dodged that bullet but there’s nothing to be done about it. If she knows, she knows. I recall Stephen’s words to me about the story having identifiable details even if I didn’t realize it. He was surely right.

  Here’s what happens on Friday: at seven a.m. I get a call from a man named Lucien Phillips. My friend Lara in L.A. gave him my number when he mentioned to her he was looking for someone to work with him on his documentary film on the women of famed artists of the early to mid twentieth century. His project is still in early stages of compiling research and taping subject interviews. He was so happy to reach me so quickly, he says.