Three and a Half Weeks Read online

  “Ian!”

  He catches me, but is clearly not expecting my… enthusiasm. “Ella. Did you have a good trip?”

  “Yes, but why didn’t you call me or text me or take my calls?”

  He ignores my question. “Do you have luggage to collect?”

  “No. I only brought my carry-on. I’m an efficient packer.”

  He takes my hand and leads me toward the exit and parking lot.

  “So… are you going to answer my question?”

  “I was angry, Ella. I didn’t think it productive to continue to argue with you and I knew any conversation would devolve into an argument. I’ve made my feelings crystal clear when it comes to your job.”

  “Yes.” I bite my lip, wondering whether I should tell him about Lucien showing up in Venice. I decide to put it off for now and change the subject. “Ian, how do you know Mo Jackson?”

  His expression is blank. “Mo Jackson? I don’t.”

  “She claims to know you… or know of you.”

  “Describe her to me.” Funny that he uses the exact same words as Lucien did before him.

  “Tiny, about five feet without heels but she wears giant ones, dark red hair, cute, sort of elfin face, late thirties, maybe early forties, dresses very expensively.”

  “And she claims she knows me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mo,” he says, thinking. “Mo is short for Maureen, isn’t it?”

  “Is it? I don’t know.”

  “A few years ago I was spending months at a time in New York—almost relocated there, as a matter of fact. I still own my downtown loft in the financial district, though currently there’s a tenant subletting. The woman I was… seeing… had a friend who threw these BDSM-themed parties in a loft in the meatpacking district. That’s probably how she knows me. I seem to recall someone of that description being one of the regulars.”

  “There is no way Mo is a submissive. She’s crazy strong.”

  “I didn’t say she was a submissive. But there was a tiny, redheaded Domme…”

  The laugh that erupts from my throat sounds more like a death rattle. “You have got to be kidding me? Is everyone in the world some kind of deviant?”

  He gives me a sidelong glance and smirks. “Everyone in New York, certainly. Personally I felt very comfortable there… Now, tell me about Venice.”

  Chapter 19

  “Venice?” she repeats, as if stalling for time. Ian doesn’t like the hesitant look on her face. “What about it?”

  He couldn’t wait for Ella to return to Portland, and unequivocally refused to analyze his feelings for her—mainly because it rather terrified him. Ever since Natasha, he’d managed to keep emotionally detached from every woman with whom he’d become sexually involved, no matter how attractive or affectionate she turned out to be. After what he’d endured five years ago, he vowed never to let down his guard and he hadn’t. For some reason, though, Ella Strong wasn’t letting him get on with the program.

  What was it about her? Not only did he immensely enjoy her company, the joking and the verbal sparring, but he also felt very protective of her. Right now those protective instincts were kicking into high gear over the prospect of Alexis getting anywhere near Ella. He’d already pulled the glass house off the market and his staff would move his things from the houseboat to the estate while they were in Japan. He’d tell Ella about the threat once they were out of the country—he didn’t want to worry her. He was pissed because he’d been really enjoying his life on the water with fewer layers between him and the rest of the world. Now he’d have to retreat behind his self-constructed walls again… but he aimed to take Ella with him this time around.

  And that was the one thing that scared him most—the fact that he never wanted to say goodbye to her, needed to keep her close at all times. That propensity was the most disconcerting of all to a dedicated bachelor like himself.

  Ella had texted him her flight information so he left the office at ten to ensure he’d be waiting at the airport when she arrived. He’d almost sent Brad, his new driver, but he wanted to see Ella badly and he didn’t want to wait until the end of the workday—and, by all indicators, today was going to be a tediously long one. He’d have to immediately return to the office once he deposited her home. He didn’t dare take her to the houseboat.

  Now he tries to chuckle but the look on her face chokes it off. “For one thing, your impressions. You’ve never been there before, correct?”

  She nods, a slight smile on her lips.

  “Also, your business there—how’d it go? How was the flight? What did you see?” He raises a brow. “Lots of things about Venice to discuss.”

  “Okay,” she begins haltingly, “To start, Maya St. Sauveur was a most impressive woman and I enjoyed meeting her. She was a bit miffed at Lucien’s impatience to get the interview on tape… but other than that, she was charming.”

  “Obviously I’m not the only one he rubs the wrong way.”

  “No, apparently not. Um, what else? Oh, I fed pigeons in Piazza San Marco and they scared me witless… I think I gave everyone in the plaza a good laugh. We went to see the Palace of the Doges . . .”

  “We?” The volume of his voice escalates—there should be no we in Venice. The look that descends over her face chills his blood because he recognizes it as one of guilt and his stomach twists.

  And here comes the deep flush that colors her face instantly. “Uh, yeah, I was getting to that. Lucien showed up unexpectedly at the taping.”

  “Oh?” He could hear the ice in his own voice as he struggled for control. Right now if that blond bastard was in front of him, he’d definitely take a swing at his stupid pretty face. Pretty faces irritated Ian—even his own.

  “Yes. I was annoyed at first since if he was able to do the interview, I wouldn’t have had to drop everything to go to Venice. But he explained that he only realized he’d be able to make it once I was in the air so…” She lets the sentence lay where it drops.

  “Things have a habit of working out conveniently in Phillips’ world, don’t they? So… he took you sightseeing then?”

  “After the taping we went to lunch and he accompanied me when I went to see the Doges and the plaza. That’s it, Ian; nothing inappropriate happened and he knows that you and I are involved.”

  “How observant of him. Tell me, what tipped him off? Could it have been my presence at your interview with my arm around you? He’s obviously quick on the uptake.”

  “Stop it. You’re going to have to get past this antagonism. I’m going to be working with Lucien until June and then it’s done. Please tell me you’re not going to keep it up that long.”

  “There’s something slimy about the man, Ella. I’ve learned to trust my gut instinct about people. It’s never let me down yet.”

  “I promise, Ian, if Lucien does anything untoward, you’ll be the first to know. Okay?”

  “So then I can assume from that comment that he behaved himself during your time together? He didn’t touch you?”

  “Yes, he behaved admirably.”

  “He didn’t touch you?”

  “Ian! Stop it. As I said, if he did anything, I’d tell you. So, when are we leaving for Tokyo?”

  She’s avoiding answering my question, Ian thinks, and wonders what exactly it means. Had Phillips touched her and she set him straight? Or maybe he touched her and she interpreted it as benign? There was something there—Ella was a God-awful liar. He decides to let it go for now.

  “We’re leaving day after tomorrow. I’ll take you to Mariah’s so you can rest and get packed for Japan. I’m going to have a late night tonight at the office so I’ll head directly home and I’ll pick you up sometime tomorrow afternoon. Be packed and ready.”

  “Oh. I was hoping we could have dinner together tonight.”

  He touched her cheek affectionately—it was so incredibly nice to have her back with him. “I’m sorry, baby. I’m swamped at work—there’s too much going down next wee
k to prepare for and I’m going to be away, obviously.”

  “How long are we staying in Japan?”

  “I need to be home by next weekend at the latest so I thought Thursday or Friday. I know it’s a short stay for such a long trip but it’s the most I can manage right now.”

  “That’s fine. I have work to do here anyway.”

  He pulls up the SUV in front of Mariah’s apartment complex. “Look at that: a parking spot right in front. How auspicious,” he notes, smiling. “Come on, I’ll walk you to the door.”

  “Okay. Thanks for meeting me, Ian. I know you’re busy so it’s all the more appreciated.” She reaches across the console to kiss him sweetly.

  “I wanted to see you,” he says simply and honestly, and that earns him a beaming smile from her. When they reach the door, he sets down her bag and draws her into his arms. “I can hardly wait until tomorrow. A whole week I get to spend with you, Ella. We’ll have a very nice time, I promise.”

  “I know we will, Ian. If you change your mind about tonight, just give a holler.”

  “Will you hear me?”

  “I’ll keep my window open,” she replies, her voice deepening in a very sexy way. When her voice deepens, other things happen in and on her body, Ian knows, and suddenly he can’t wait until tomorrow. He pulls her to him for a kiss that just gets deeper and deeper. Finally he manages to end it—very reluctantly.

  “Are you sure you have to get right back to the office?” she breathes. “We could make it quick?” She puts the key in the door and twists it open.

  At that invitation, his eyes darken and with one hand he grasps hers and the other reaches for the bag, swinging them both inside the apartment. Ian drops the bag in the hall and bends down, his shoulder dipping into her stomach, picks her up and tosses her over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. She yelps but starts laughing so hard that she can’t catch her breath enough to complain.

  Chapter 20

  I can’t sleep. My circadian rhythm is all screwed up from the back-to-back travel I’ve been doing. It’s five a.m. and I’ve been staring at Mariah’s guest bedroom ceiling for an hour, noting all the imperfections in the paint that the soft lamplight allows to show. Giving up the fight for more sleep, I decide to shower and dress. I’ll go buy breakfast and surprise Ian with it. We’re leaving for Tokyo tomorrow afternoon and he told me he was taking today off to get ready for his trip so I know he’ll be home. Anyway, I’ll get there well before seven.

  As soon as I finish my shower, I throw on my favorite jeans and a cotton sweater, and grab my phone, which I left charging the night before on the kitchen counter. There are several messages and I scroll down to see two of them are from Lucien. I read the most recent.

  Ella, something’s come up and I have 2 travel 2 L.A. tomorrow. I will b there 4 a week at least -- if I’m still there when u get back from Tokyo, can u meet me? We could tape interview w/Stieglitz/O’Keefe subject and go 2 exhibit at Getty Ctr 2 c his NY Gal collection there. Keep me posted RE ur sched. LP.

  Ugh, I think. Ian is not going to like that one little bit. Am I going to have a steady diet of stress from him until I complete this project and finish working with Lucien? And what about the next project that I get involved in? Do I have to work with only women and ugly old men to make Ian happy? He’d probably be jealous of ugly old men, too, now that I think of it.

  Well, yesterday I got everything packed, paid bills, called friends and family, and even had time to hike over to the library to do some research on the subjects we’ll be focusing on in the film. Mariah and I had dinner together at a neighborhood bistro and I soaked in the tub for an hour, then crawled into bed exhausted. I actually feel pretty good today and I’m dying to see Ian. Though we only had forty-five minutes or so together yesterday, every second was golden. He’s so yummy that the more I have, the more I want: I can’t seem to get enough of the man.

  So, happily I head out into the still-dark morning in search of breakfast and my beautiful boyfriend.

  A half hour later, just as the sun is poking through the cloud cover, I arrive at Ian’s houseboat. Curiously I find the front door open and an alarm bell rings through my brain. It’s certainly not like Ian to leave the door open—quite the contrary; he leans to the more paranoid side. Debating whether or not I should go in or call someone instead takes up five minutes. Who would I call? I don’t know Jarvis’ number—his head of security at Excalibur. Finally, I very cautiously edge the door further open to peek inside. Nothing looks amiss so I step in, all the while looking all around me. So far, so good, but my heart is thudding in my chest. I make a quick detour to the kitchen to grab a weapon and put the breakfast bag down, feeling foolish but better safe than sorry, right?

  Good thing I’m wearing my comfortable jeans and my low-heeled biker boots. That way, I can run fast if I need to—but also kick worth a damn. I regret they don’t have steel toes. As I make my way up the stairs, kitchen knife in hand, I can’t help but feel like the idiot girl in a horror film, the one at whom the audience is screaming not to go inside, open the door, go down to the basement, answer the phone, or whatever she’s doing that’s egregiously stupid. We all know she’s in mortal danger by the music scoring the scene. If only real life had a soundtrack to let us know when danger is near, it would be very helpful.

  I get to the top of the staircase and nothing looks to be out of order. I don’t hear anything, either. I tiptoe to Ian’s bedroom door and ever so slowly turn the handle. Luckily, everything in the house is new so nothing creaks, squeaks, or clicks. Pushing the door inch by inch, all the while holding my breath, I finally have it open enough to peer inside. And what I see almost sends me into cardiac arrest.

  Ian is sleeping peacefully in his big bed, wrapped in his 600-thread-count Egyptian cotton sheets. His lustrous dark hair spills upon the white pillow and his face is serene as he slumbers, his tanned, muscular arm wrapped around a dark-skinned, dark-haired woman—who is naked. At least I’m assuming she’s naked by the upper part of her body that’s not covered by the sheet. Ian’s arm is slung around her waist and her huge breasts are resting on his forearm. It also appears that Ian has his leg across her. He wraps around me like that, too.

  Or at least, he used to.

  I back out and leave the door slightly ajar, my guts twisting tightly as if a hand is wringing them out like a sponge, inside my body. Bile rushes up my closing throat and I think I’m going to puke, plus I’m shaking like a leaf in an approaching hurricane. I hurry down the stairs and right out of the house, pulling the door shut behind me. Too late I realize I left the breakfast I’d bought in the kitchen. Oh well. I guess the cat’s out of the bag now: he’ll know that I know when he sees the food there. Just as well since I never plan to see him again… ever.

  First, a white-hot anger takes charge of me: I feel it inhabit my body and it makes me want to kill him, the fucking bastard! How dare he do this awful thing to me? Now I know why he didn’t want to spend the night with me last night. Stupid, stupid, stupid girl that I am, it never occurred to me that Ian might be a player, a cheater. Why not, I wonder in retrospect? True, he never seemed to look at another woman with any interest at all when he was with me. But the man is rich, gorgeous, and relatively well known: he can have just about any woman he desires so why did I think he’d possibly be exclusive to me? Because he said so?

  I scoff at my sheer gullibility. I don’t know why but I believed him. Somehow I’d convinced myself that he had feelings for me, and only me. I know I have strong feelings for him—I’m pretty sure I’m in love with him. And that, more than anything, is my personal tragedy.

  Then dire misery—a combination of sadness and acute pain over the betrayal—sucks me into its dark, inescapable vortex: the tears cascade down like rain, with almost no warning. I stagger over to my rental car, barely able to see a few feet ahead, I’m crying so hard. How am I going to drive? I have to calm down but I can’t. I’m sobbing and I can’t stop so I sit in my car, switch
on the ignition and turn on the A/C so it’s blasting cold air in my face—I figure if I’m so freezing cold, I won’t be able to concentrate on the burning pain flaying open my guts right about now—and I manage to slow down the weeping long enough to shift into drive and pull out of the marina parking lot.

  Somewhere along the highway, I find enough resolve to help me make it back to Mariah’s apartment. The pain I’m experiencing is so intense, I just want to shrivel up and die. Fleetingly I wonder if anyone ever dies of grief? Surely the answer is yes. I allow myself an hour to curl up in the dim room and wallow in the abject misery that grips me.

  Since my bags are packed already and I’m not going to Tokyo after all, I decide to go straight to the airport and wait for the next flight to L.A. I’ll drop the rental car off at the airport and I’ll go back to my leased cottage in Los Feliz where the deep pink bougainvillea will be in full bloom.

  So that’s exactly what I do. Along the way, I open my window and say my final goodbyes to Portland and all its denizens.

  Chapter 21

  The solar rays streaming through the window shine directly onto his face, warming it and gently edging him toward a conscious state. He keeps his eyes closed, enjoying the heat of the sun that so rarely makes an appearance in Portland in such potency. Next to him, he can feel the added warmth of body heat.

  Mmm, Ella.

  He snuggles up to her. It takes a few moments to remember that Ella wasn’t with him last night and, as if someone jammed his thigh with a hypodermic of adrenaline, he jerks his head up to look at the woman in his arms.