Three and a Half Weeks Read online

  “Inconsiderate? I’m praising you to high heaven.”

  “No, you just cannot pass it around, Kayla. Promise me.”

  “Okay, my bad, please forgive me for being a loyal friend. Listen, I’ve got to run. Keep me posted on that new man you met. What was his name? Simon, right?”

  “Just a friend, Kayla. I like him because he never makes a pass at me.”

  “Really? What’s there to like about that? Ella, don’t you have any kind of libido?”

  I laughed. If she only knew. Actually she did know but I can’t ever let her realize it. For the first time since I patted myself on the back over my book, I was beginning to realize it might have been a gargantuan mistake. Shit.

  In March, Mariah came to the UK to visit. I met her at Gatwick and took her to Earl’s Court to have lunch—there’s a little Pakistani restaurant tucked into a dead-end street and the food is to die for.

  “So, catch me up,” I said. “How is everything?”

  Mariah’s brown eyes gleamed. “Everything is super good. I have news, Ella. Good news. Big news.”

  “Really? What?”

  “Well, you’ll recall you wrote a book entitled Three and a Half Weeks? I loved it so much that I loaned it to a few friends.” Before I could interrupt by strangling every last breath out of her, she rushed to continue. “My friend Tamara was in the middle of reading it when she started working as an intern for a hot literary agent, Mo Jackson. Anyway, long story short, Mo asked Tamara what she was reading and she told her about it. Mo asked to check it out, read it in one night and asked if she could represent it. Isn’t that super?”

  “Just fucking super, Mariah. I’m absolutely thrilled that the whole world might learn that I like to write kink in my spare time.”

  “Well, you know what Sarah did with her copy, right? She scanned big parts of it and put it on a literary web site and it went viral in one week. Ella, you’re a star. You’re going to make mega bucks on this book. You have to get past this sense of embarrassment—the book is good.”

  I raked both of my hands through my hair as my frustration mounted. “It’s not good; I’m not a writer. I mean, it may contain titillating prose but it’s not well constructed and it’s not something I could be proud of. Don’t you understand?”

  She shrugged casually, amusement lighting up her hazel eyes. “Well, I would say you could use a pseudonym but I think that ship has long since sailed.”

  Burying my face in my hands in the blackest despair, I mumbled, “I could really kill Sarah. Damn, I should have just bought you all a pair of fucking gloves.”

  And that’s exactly how it happened. Before Mo Jackson even sold my book to a major publishing house, it had been read by over a hundred thousand people and counting. Mo worked out a seven-figure deal for me—let me say that again, seven figures. And that wasn’t all. Hollywood came calling and before the beautiful people left my attorney’s office, I had a second seven-figure deal in my hot, little hand. Shit. I was wealthy!

  By July, I had finished my time at Cambridge, traveled Europe a little, and finally returned to the States. All told, I’d been gone a few weeks shy of a full year. While still in Britain, I decided to relocate from Portland to Los Angeles, so I went straight there and rented a cottage while I trolled for the perfect house. I was having lunch with a college friend in Los Feliz—the neighborhood I’d chosen for my real estate search, when my cell phone began to blare Aretha Franklin singing Respect. I looked at the number but didn’t recognize it.

  “Hello?”

  “Am I speaking with Ariel Strong?” The voice was smooth, deep, and unfamiliar.

  “You are. May I ask who is calling?”

  “Yes. Ms. Strong, my name is Jackson Delacroix. I am an attorney with Delacroix, Steinem, and Tucker. I’m contacting you on behalf of a client, a Mr. Ian Blackmon. Ms. Strong, I’m afraid Mr. Blackmon is filing suit against you for breach of contract. I’ll need to meet with you and your attorney as soon as possible.

  “Ms. Strong, are you there?”

  Chapter 3

  Got her! Ian thinks. For a year now, he’d been trying to figure out a way to get Ella back into his life. He’d been rendered senseless at the desolation he felt when she disappeared: he didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but the girl had worked her way under his skin and so very quickly. He’d even been ready to give in to her, to agree to a traditional romantic alliance—just one ordinary relationship, hold the kink.

  But then she up and disappeared.

  He knew why, of course. He’d displayed an appalling lack of good judgment in using the single tail on her—a girl who was brand new to any of it, reward or punishment. He should have waited, at the very least, bided his time, until she got more comfortable with the whole idea. But he’d been anxious. His last submissive had been banished for nearly six months when he met Ella and he needed some consistency back in his life. The club had not been doing it for him and he knew most of the regular subs there already. None of them tripped his trigger. So he’d gone too fast with the innocent Ella, overly eager to play with her, introduce her to the pleasure of erotic pain, and it ended up costing him. Big time. He was furious with himself when she went MIA.

  He tried to move past it—no girl was worth such grief. But he found, much to his profound consternation, that no other woman interested him in the least anymore.

  He fucking wanted Ariel.

  At first, he couldn’t find her. It was infuriating: he could make anything happen and here was this little slip of a girl running him ragged, both emotionally and literally, all over town searching for her. He tried everything he could think of to locate Ella himself and came up flat. Where was she? What stuck in his mind most about that time was his unabiding panic at not knowing where she was, his pretty girl. Losing her threw him into the blackest funk, a place where no sunlight managed to filter into the dark. He had to find her, get her back.

  Finally, he resorted to hiring a private detective and the man ran her to ground in less than forty-eight hours. She was in the UK, studying at Cambridge, on a fellowship, he’d said. So Ms. Strong was as smart as she was beautiful. Somehow he wasn’t at all surprised.

  Ian was a man who knew his own mind, accepted his limitations, and made peace with his very real flaws. One thing he was not comfortable with was emotion. He loved his parents, his siblings, even the family dog: he did not, however, ever love his women.

  No. Emotions clouded reasoned judgment, thus getting in the way of an otherwise harmonious relationship. Women made for excellent dining or party company and for sex. That’s all. And that’s exactly how he liked it.

  Until he met Ariel Strong.

  She’d fiddled with his sense of self, unknowingly or not. He found himself stalking her. He had a dossier compiled on her, as he did with business competitors, and the wretched girl invaded his thoughts without warning on a regular basis. All it took was one chance meeting in a shop and a girl with wild tresses of chestnut-colored hair, looking up at him with impossibly huge eyes and calling him sir. He shook his head in self-disgust. What a pathetic ass he’d become.

  He’d been having lunch with his sister two weeks ago. Zoe had decided it was her mission in life to see him in a long-term relationship. Of course, she had no idea he usually had one, since he kept his romantic life quiet. They had just ordered their lunch when he stepped away to use the men’s room. While he was gone, Zoe had pulled out her iPad and was engrossed in reading something on it.

  “Well, that must be a good book since you’re risking my displeasure at your display of bad manners to read it.”

  Zoe’s face colored. “God, so pompous.” she muttered.

  At his sharp look, she rolled her eyes. “Sorry, Ian,” she said, and then her eyes turned mischievous, “but it is good. Dirty, too,” she whispered with glee.

  “Dirty?” he raised his brow. “I’m shocked. What is it?”

  “It’s called Three and a Half Weeks and it’s about this girl wh
o meets this gorgeous guy who happens to have a taste for whips and handcuffs. It’s a lot of fun.”

  Ingrained in him by years of business dealings, his poker face served him well, as he now kept it devoid of any expression. “Interesting. Who’s the author?”

  Zoe shrugged. “Someone named Ariel something or other. Oh, right. Ariel Strong.”

  He just managed to finish the swallow of Cabernet without aspirating it and muffled the choke to sound like a cough that hit at an inopportune moment. “Really? I think I’ve met the woman actually. I’d never have pegged her for a writer of kink, though.”

  “You know her? How?”

  His sister’s cheeks flushed even pinker—was it the wine or the conversation? Zoe had a pale complexion with dark brown hair and when flustered it was readily apparent on her face—like someone else he knew. Instantly he felt the familiar sharp ache in his chest.

  “If it’s the same woman, I met her one evening as I shopped for your birthday gift, as a matter of fact. She was the salesperson in the boutique. I took her out for dinner a couple of times.”

  “Well, well, aren’t you just full of surprises.” Her eyes narrowed. “You know, Ian, I suspect you have a secret life that you keep hidden from everyone. You probably have a whirlwind social life and binders full of women and then when any one of us, your family, I mean, comes over, you hide all evidence in your oversized closets and reach for a biography of FDR or something of that ilk. It’s all a big charade, isn’t it?”

  He managed to laugh. If she only knew how close to the truth she actually was.

  The next day he put in a call to his attorney. Delacroix was the soul of discretion and that’s precisely why he was his attorney. He set up an appointment for that afternoon, told the man it was critically important. At two the next afternoon, Delacroix strolled into his office, perfectly punctual as always.

  “Ian, good to see you. I hope all is relatively well?”

  “Yes, Jackson. Relatively. Please,” he gestured to the chair opposite his own, “have a seat. May I get you a drink?”

  “No, thanks. I have to be in court at four—with a clear head. Tell me what’s up.”

  Ian pressed his index fingers together, resting his chin on the point of them. “A bit of a dilemma, Jackson.” He proceeded to recount to the middle-aged blond attorney the whole sordid story.

  “You wouldn’t want this thing to go through the courts.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Yet there’s really no need for Ms. Strong to know that.”

  "No, none at all,” he agreed pleasantly.

  “Do you want to go after her money? She’s got to have plenty from the book sales, plus I believe that I read she sold the movie rights in a seven-figure deal.”

  “I’m not interested in her money, either. I’d like to use her breach as leverage to convince her to return to me, Jackson. She cannot, however, be made aware of that fact.”

  Delacroix smiled wickedly. In addition to being the soul of discretion, he shared his client’s penchant for kink and often played at the club Ian frequented. “My lips are as sealed and impenetrable as my ex-wife’s asshole.” He stood up, smiling as Ian chuckled at the comment, and extended his hand to shake. “I’ll see what I can do. You’ll be hearing from me soon, Ian.”

  “As always, thank you, Jackson, for your sage counsel. Will you be at the kickboxing exhibition at the dojo next weekend?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I assume I’ll see you there.”

  “I wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to kick your ass, Delacroix.” He gave his friend a two-finger salute.

  “Bring it on, Blackmon.” Delacroix exited the office laughing.

  Delacroix called the very next afternoon.

  “News, I presume?”

  “Indeed. Turns out our dear Ms. Strong is back in the States and, as of this morning, a bit anxious. You need to decide how you want to play this, Ian. Do you want to lull her into a false sense of security by allowing her to think it’s a simple matter of legal remedy and that the lawyers will handle the matter or do you want her to know from the start that the redress will require a… ahem… more personal approach?”

  “Hmmm, conundrum.” He rubbed his chin. “What do you suggest—since I pay you such a handsome hourly rate for your erudite counsel?”

  “I think the best approach is a soft one, as long as you’re not in a rush. I’ll meet with her and her attorney and we’ll discuss various outcomes. Perhaps I’ll feel her out about actually meeting with you directly to see if there’s a way all parties can walk away from the table feeling like winners. Sound acceptable?”

  “Very. Keep me posted.”

  Chapter 4

  “Normally, Ella, I’d say don’t worry about it—it’s just a simple matter of remedy but this is Ian Blackmon we’re talking about. The man wields considerable influence.”

  My attorney doesn’t sound optimistic.

  “Stephen, that’s not what I want to hear.”

  “Yes, Ella, I’m aware but it is what it is. Accordingly, we need to take a proactive approach.”

  She’d never seen Stephen look so defeated—a fact that didn’t bode well for her. “Why isn’t the disclaimer in the front matter of the book enough protection to defend against breach?”

  Stephen sighs. “Normally it is, however, if a book is transparently disguised as fiction and actually about a real person… and that real person has the money, clout, and inclination to pursue a legal remedy…”

  He must see the dejection on my face for he smiles and brightens his voice. “Look, Ella, let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. Before I commit to any course of action, I’m planning to meet with Blackmon’s attorney to get some clarity as to how far his client wants to take this suit.”

  “Give me an idea of what we’re up against. My imagination is taking me to ugly places, Stephen.”

  “Well, it can go one of several ways. The worst-case scenario is that we have to pull the book off the shelves and remunerate Blackmon for copies already sold. I don’t think it will ever get that far—especially considering that the book was marketed as fiction and no real harm to Blackmon can be measured, at least none that we know of.

  “Or Blackmon might demand a percentage of all profits on a retroactive basis. That can become costly very quickly but it won’t bankrupt you. You’ll just be a lot less wealthy tomorrow than today. You’ll still do well, Ella, and we might be able to shield the film profits from his reach.

  “The third possibility—and this is the best outcome—is that you and Blackmon hash it out personally, as friends. If that’s a viable option, it would be best, since you may be able to mollify him with a few simple assurances. After all, he certainly doesn’t need your money. I can’t imagine what’s motivating him to do this since all it can garner him is negative publicity. Unless that’s what he’s looking for? Some notoriety?”

  I snort. “I seriously doubt that, Stephen, or he wouldn’t have everyone who comes in contact with him sign all sorts of legal contracts to protect him—from exposure and litigation. To my mind, that spells paranoid with a capital P.”

  “True, but it could be he’s merely acting on his attorney’s advice. You don’t get where Blackmon is without making a few enemies along the way.”

  “How did he make his money? Do you know?”

  “Yes, I know a lot more about Blackmon today than I ever did before. I do my homework, Ella. Let’s see: he was some kind of financial wunderkind back in college. Began at MIT, switched to Yale, I believe, for graduate studies. Money can buy one’s way into those schools but it can’t buy the grades and Blackmon had them. Graduated summa cum laude— Greek, of course, Delta Kappa Epsilon. So he’s not just a pretty face.

  “Apparently, though his parents are wealthy, they’re not big proponents of inherited wealth so their kids were encouraged and expected to succeed on their own merits, which undoubtedly he would have regardless but Ian had a friendly hand assist
him. As a teen, he befriended an elderly lady in his neighborhood—you know, mowed her lawn, took out her dog, picked up groceries for her—and when the woman died, she left our Mr. Blackmon a bundle. He was not even twenty.

  “He must be a poker player because he went all in. Bet on a few friends’ Web start-ups and parlayed his original principal—I think it was a few grand shy of a million—into a fortune. From there, he began to diversify, investing in commercial real estate, green-energy initiatives, and hydro technology. He has keen business acumen and he made the Forbes list by his second or third year in business.”

  “Hmmm.” I’m not surprised so a verbalization is unnecessary. Stephen’s eyes bore into mine. “What?” I inquire.

  “Ella, I have to ask some uncomfortable questions of you. First, do you have any idea why Blackmon is coming after you?”

  Blood rushes to my face. “Have you read my book, Stephen?”

  Now he flushes. “I regret to say I have not. I have a general idea as to its contents, however.”

  “Well, I met Ian last year, right out of college, and we dated for a brief time.” I know my eyes reflect my amusement as I train them on him—it’s important to look a person in the eye when talking about really, really embarrassing things. “Three and a half weeks to be precise.”

  Confusion was reflected in my attorney’s eyes. “Oh?”

  “Yes. Blackmon had me sign the CA right from the get-go. I had no intention of violating it, by the way. None. Circumstances created a totally unpredictable problem. You see, Mr. Blackmon…” I stop, grossly discomfited by what I have to reveal. “Is this conversation protected? For in disclosing this information to you, I may be in further violation of the CA.”

  “Attorney-client privilege, Ella. It wouldn’t be considered a violation. Go on, please.”