Three and a Half Weeks Page 6

  “Ian Blackmon enjoys a certain… lifestyle. His desire was for me to join him in a particular type of relationship. I declined by leaving the country rather precipitously. I’ve been told that he made numerous attempts to contact me but was unsuccessful. After a few months, he stopped.” I shrug my shoulders. “That’s about it.”

  “Hmmm, so do you think this suit is retaliatory?”

  Giving it a minute for serious consideration, I wait, framing my answer carefully. “I tend to doubt it. He never struck me as the vindictive type. I think he’s probably genuinely distressed, believing I am truly in violation of the legal agreement.”

  “Can it be a ploy to get you back into the relationship?”

  I snort. “I seriously doubt it. Why would he? I mean, we haven’t had any contact at all between us in a year. I’m sure he’s moved on… socially.”

  “So then, you have no idea as to his impetus?”

  “Well, he may be embarrassed by the book and possibly desire to embarrass me also. I’m just not sure.”

  “How much of the book is true?”

  Damn. I do not want to answer this question but everything hinges on it, doesn’t it? “All,” I say quickly, under my breath.

  “Excuse me?”

  I clear my throat. “All of it… but no names were used and locations were changed. Someone would have to be clairvoyant as well as totally malevolent to try to narrow in on identity. Plus, if it’s presented as fiction, why would anyone doubt it?”

  “You’d be surprised at how easy it can be to do so. You may not realize it but there very well may be some identifying details contained in the book of which you’re not even cognizant. If, say, one of your friends figured it out and casually mentioned it to someone else, the information can spread like wildfire in the public realm. Especially online. It could very well be traced back to Blackmon… and his business reputation could suffer as a result.”

  Under his breath he muttered, “It’s actually much easier to prove than when one author plagiarizes another writer’s work—even though it can be blatant theft.”

  He begins to spin to and fro in his swivel chair, obviously thinking, so I sit quietly and wait.

  Finally, he leans in, placing his elbows on the desk. “Okay. Let me meet with Delacroix this afternoon and then we’ll talk again. If he suggests a meeting between you and Blackmon, would you agree to it?”

  I close my eyes, frustrated. I’d spent so many sleepless nights missing him and crying over him—all from knowing him all of three weeks. Three weeks. I’d finally reached a point where I’d begun to slightly consider, maybe, possibly, in the near future, the perhaps unlikely possibility of dating another man. Seeing Ian would throw that all up in flux again. But, though, I didn’t want to acknowledge it even in my own head, just the mere suggestion of seeing him up close and personal sets my pulse to racing.

  “If you think it advisable, then, yes,” I simply say. Heave the ball into Stephen’s court.

  “Okay. I’ll let you know later this evening what we decide.”

  I rise from my chair. “Thank you, Stephen. I really appreciate your assistance in this matter. I know you don’t normally handle this type of case.”

  “Not at all. It’s a lot more interesting than copyright law… and I do handle this kind of thing, though admittedly they come few and far between.”

  Just as I reach the door, he calls to me. “Oh, and Ella? Please try not to worry yourself into a psychotic state. It will all work out just fine.”

  I nod and back out of the door, anxious to be free of this worry, even if only for a little while.

  I have a salad for dinner and am lounging on the sofa with a glass of wine when Aretha starts singing her heart out. Squinting at the number on my cell, I don’t recognize it right away but I answer it anyway. “Hello?”

  “Ella, it’s Stephen. I’m on my friend’s phone because mine is misbehaving. I wanted to update you so you wouldn’t continue to angst over it. “Jackson and I had a protracted talk and we both think you and Mr. Blackmon should meet face to face and discuss how best to go forward. Since I already had your approval on this course of action and he had Mr. Blackmon’s, we set up a dinner meeting for the two of you for tomorrow evening at eight. Is that doable?”

  “So soon?” My throat begins to constrict.

  “Ella, the sooner we reach a resolution, the sooner all this unpleasantness goes away. No?”

  “Yes, of course. Where will we meet?”

  “I’ve given your cell number to Jackson to give to Mr. Blackmon. Expect a call from him either tonight or tomorrow morning. Good luck, Ella, and please feel free to step away and call me if the need should arise. Also, don’t agree to anything until you run it by me first. Are we clear?”

  “Yes. Thank you, Stephen. Have a good night.”

  “You, too, Ella.”

  Chapter 5

  He stares at the number Jackson had given him. How many times over the past year did he want to call her? And now? Now she is expecting his call, ready to set up a meeting with him, to discuss their little problem. Ian leans back in his leather chair, gazing up at the ceiling, allowing himself—finally—to reflect on the past year. It still stings.

  He’d known he’d made a grave error the moment he saw Ella’s face afterward. After he… lashed her… with a fucking single tail. God, but it was such a stupid decision on his part. He’d been trying to introduce her to his sensual way of life, attempting to show her how pleasure and pain can so easily overlap, mingle seamlessly even, providing they’re delivered by an experienced Dominant—which he was. But he’d done it while in a poor frame of mind and he’d rushed it: she wasn’t nearly ready for that level of pain and he succeeded only in terrifying her. She must have thought him a monster.

  He’d decided to wait a few days before calling her again. It had cut him to the quick to let her run from him that night, but he dared not risk making any more mistakes with her. Cultivating relationships obviously wasn’t his strong suit since he rarely had any involving deep affection—he was picking his way through the dark. Adding to this volatile mix was the fact that she had been entirely innocent when they met—virginal, for God’s sake. So he let things lie, hoping she’d be able to process the experience and then come back to talk about it—at the very least.

  Those three days were torturous for him. So many times he began to punch in her number so he could hear her lyrical voice. Several days later, he could not tolerate waiting any longer and called her, but by then her cell phone had been disconnected. Panicked, he went by Mariah’s condo and she told him that Ella had moved out of the country. In three days? Impossible, but obviously Mariah had no intention of telling him where Ella really was, so he had to try tracking her down himself. His efforts, however, proved fruitless.

  Two weeks later he caved and hired a private detective. The man worked quickly and efficiently and his call came a day and a half later.

  “Mr. Blackmon? This is Allan Larson. I tracked down Ms. Strong, sir. I’m putting the case file into a manila envelope and sending a messenger with it to your office tomorrow morning but I thought you might like an immediate report.”

  “Yes, Mr. Larson, please.”

  “Ariel Strong has indeed left the country, sir. She is presently residing in the United Kingdom where she will shortly be attending classes at Cambridge University. Apparently she was awarded a fellowship to study at the esteemed institution. She left Oregon state exactly one week before you initially contacted me, so she’s been overseas only a little over a week. As far as I could ascertain, her stay is for a finite period of one year, however, she appears to have shut down her life in Portland before she left, closing bank accounts, disconnecting her cell phone service, and leaving no forwarding address for herself, though she did provide her mother’s address for next of kin, so I was able to obtain that as well.

  “I have secured for you her present location in Cambridge but I was unable to gain access to any teleph
one number in her name. It’s all in the report, sir.”

  “Excellent work, Mr. Larson. I’m impressed. I’ll look forward to receiving your report and I will certainly make use of your services in the future. Thank you.”

  So then he’d had her address but what good would it do him? Should he visit her? Another two weeks elapsed before he was desperate enough to answer his own question in the affirmative and he got on his company jet and flew to Gatwick.

  Once there, he vacillated between going home and dropping in on her. He waited outside her flat and the first time he caught sight of her, his lungs were robbed of all breath and his chest tightened painfully. Instinctively, he rose to his feet and followed her for a few blocks, just to see her beautiful face, watch her narrow hips sway gently as she walked, oblivious to her own charms. He missed her so much: how had she managed to do what no other woman had done before her?

  In the past, every time one of his subs had begun to develop any strong feelings for him, he’d quickly and coldly terminate the relationship, always softening the blow with expensive parting gifts. Sometimes it was harder than others but it never felt impossible. With Ella, it did feel impossible yet he wasn’t the one at the wheel—she was, damn it—and perhaps that burned his ass most of all. Losing control, and to a little slip of a girl? And she’d decided to lose him. He was going to have to accept it, bitter though it might taste. He flew home less than a week later, never having made his presence known to her, and resolved on putting the young woman behind him for good. His resolve lasted at least as long as the flight home.

  Almost immediately upon returning to Portland, he began to inch inexorably toward swallowing the truth, consuming it in very small portions, for the whole taken in one sitting might choke him: he accepted the fact that despite knowing Ella for such a brief time span—what was it? Five, maybe six nights spent together, all told?—he had developed feelings for her. It infuriated him because he’d worked so hard to keep himself detached from romantic entanglements only to get ensnared while he wasn’t paying attention. The pain of losing her was real, constricting his chest to the point where he thought he might be having a heart attack and actually went to the doctor for a check-up.

  After, he began to slowly come to terms with the idea that he might possibly love her. Once he was comfortable wearing that on his sleeve, he began to let seep in the crazy notion that he might just be in love with her. That was the most difficult of all. How could it be true? What was so different about this girl that caused him to fall so hard and fast for her? All these years he’d been with women—happily—and yet was easily able to walk away at any time. Why now? Why her? Was it her innocence? Her witty repartee? Was it that she continually stood up to him despite how he intimidated her? Or was it merely her ethereal beauty, the kind that left his mouth dry and his eyes locked on her? Most likely it was the amalgamation of all of these things. The real question now was how was he to get her back?

  The answer seemed to be as simple as it was awful: he wasn’t. Someone had finally said no to Ian Blackmon and that was essentially that.

  As the months went by, he became used to the separation, perhaps as one gets used to a missing limb, but he never could get over wanting her. Even more disturbing to him was his complete lack of interest in any other women. For the first time in his life, he experienced a protracted period of sexual dormancy… and he didn’t like it. Not since he’d begun to be sexually active at fifteen had he gone even a month without sex and now many months had gone by. In the beginning, right after Ella left, he’d gone to the club and tried topping one of the regular submissives but ended up retreating before they could become intimate. It felt too much like cheating.

  By the end of the year he’d embraced his new way of life: he directed his energy and efforts into exercise and work. His net worth had nearly doubled and he was in the best fighting shape of his life. He was battle ready.

  Still, the problem was thorny—even if he could get her back long enough to have a chance, he just didn’t see a clear path to get her past their fleeting history together. And now that so much time hung between them, it only made matters more difficult. Sailing his catamaran west of Tillamook, he spent long hours mulling the situation and ultimately realized he would have to force her to listen, to give him a chance. The question remained how? The elusive answer came to him one afternoon when Zoe pulled out an iPad and showed him a book—the book that was like a gift that fell to earth. Now he had a situation that would coerce Ella into his company, impel her to listen to him, and the convincing was up to him.

  But he had to be sneaky about it: he didn’t want to show his full hand—not right away. He would first make her believe that he only wanted her as a submissive, as was his original offer to her, and only as reparation for the legal breach.

  How would he find Ariel? The last time he saw her she was an innocent girl, fresh out of college. Now she had a year of life abroad under her belt, not to mention a few million in her bank account. Would she be changed? He hoped to hell not and didn’t think so. He’d never met anyone less affected by wealth than Ella: she’d still be the same sweet girl—he’d bet money on it.

  He punches in the number he’d jotted down on the piece of paper in front of him.

  Chapter 6

  Less than an hour later, he calls. I’m glad the call comes so soon because my entire body had begun to tremble somewhat violently as soon as Stephen told me I was meeting Ian tomorrow evening. Over the past twelve months, I’d spent so many hours trying to exile the man from my heart and mind; leaving him nearly broke me in two. I had never understood real grief before I left Ian; now I definitely do—I understand it with my chest, my throat, and my stomach, in addition to my heart and soul.

  How could a person fall in love in three weeks? We were together exactly eight nights with a few days strewn about here and there. It seems impossible but I so did. I loved the bastard so much. It took a Herculean effort to leave him and break off all communication. But I did it. I did it, and proved to myself that I was made of tempered steel. Maybe my name is Strong for a reason.

  Warrior I may be, but I definitely bear battle scars. I left him because he whipped me… but even I had to admit the pain from losing Ian made the whip’s bite pale in comparison. Pale into utter insignificance, I should qualify. I also might have given him a chance to explain himself more fully. He’d been so sweet a lover the night he took my virginity, going slowly, deferring his own pleasure to ensure mine. The least that I could do was to allow him another chance to explain why he felt the irrepressible need to beat on women.

  Here’s why I didn’t give him the opportunity: I knew whatever he said, whatever words he so eloquently flung in my direction, I’d accept as gospel and stay with him—not because I’m weak or because I’m gullible, but simply because I love him too fucking much and that love leaves me way too vulnerable to him and his dirty little proclivities. And if I already love him after knowing him for just a few weeks, what would become of me if I had to walk away from the man after a few months or even years? Total annihilation.

  So, a clean break was made, the bloody wound healed— albeit covered over with lumpy scar tissue—and my life kept on trucking.

  But now? Now it’s going to start all over again and the only thing left for me to do is answer the phone.

  I pick it up on the fourth ring. “Ian.”

  I can hear the tremor in my voice so clearly—can he?

  There’s a moment of… not silence but emptiness, as if the single word, his name, needs to travel across a great divide of emotional distance.

  “Hello, Ariel. Is this a convenient time for you to speak?”

  Exhale. Inhale. Breathe, you idiot. “Yes, fine.”

  “Good. I trust that you are well?”

  I try to laugh, keep things light but it sounds more like something’s lodged in my esophagus. “As well as can be expected, considering the circumstances.”

  “Yes. My attorney provided
me with your number, informing me that you and I are to meet to discuss the matter between the two of us. Is that plan agreeable to you?”

  “It is.”

  “I was given to understand that you are no longer residing in Portland?”

  “Correct. I’m currently in Los Angeles.”

  “Ah. Would it be terribly inconvenient for you to make a trip to Oregon? I could send my corporate jet to pick you up?”

  “That will work. Yes, fine. Are we still on for tomorrow evening?”

  “If that’s acceptable to you, then yes.”

  So polite, agreeable even, but that’s how he sucks his prey into his lair to ravage, isn’t it? “Okay. So how do I… where do I meet the plane?”

  “I’ll have the pilot text you with the flight information tomorrow morning. You should plan on leaving Los Angeles no later than two o’clock. It’s about a three-hour flight, and you’ll want time to check into a hotel and get changed, I presume… Unless you’d care to stay with me?”

  “No,” I say far too quickly, hearing him laugh quietly in the background. Damn him, he said that just to get my back up and I fell for it. I should have accepted—that would show him.

  “Well, then, if you could text me with your hotel information, I will pick you up at 7:45 so we could make an 8:00 reservation. Agreed?”

  “No, just text me the name and address of the restaurant. I’ll meet you there.”

  “If you prefer. I’ll have my driver pick you up at your hotel and deposit you at the restaurant.”

  Deposit me? As if I’m a check to be cashed? But I suppose in a way I am some kind of deferred payment for his trials over my silly little book. “I’ll check for the flight information first thing tomorrow.”

  “Very good. I’m looking forward …”

  I disconnect the call without saying goodbye. My heart is hammering in my chest, my hands are so sweaty that my phone is slipping out of my grasp, and I think I might regurgitate my salad any minute now. In just about twenty-four hours, I get to see him again. It should feel like an onerous burden—after all, the man is suing me. But all I can think of is how much I want to see him, kiss him, hold him… and my very next thought is—what the hell am I going to wear? I’ll have to go shopping tomorrow morning.”