Three and a Half Weeks (14 page)

As soon as I walk into Lucien’s loft, everything becomes clear to me. I immediately understand, a.) why Ian rushed to New York, and, b.) why he insisted on coming along with me on this interview.

Lucien Phillips is fucking gorgeous.

I won’t say he’s better looking than Ian because that would be humanly impossible. But I will say that Lucien gives Ian a definite run for his money.

He’s about an inch shorter than Ian, if that, and he has dark blond hair that he wears long, about chin length. His eyes are dark and smoldering and he has model gorgeous features. If I had to describe him in one word, face and body, it would be chiseled.

Plus, he is an absolute darling! Although he seems slightly surprised when I introduce Ian, he nonetheless rises to the occasion. He invites us both into the living room of his beautiful loft and we begin to chat. One of the things I find admirable is that he is unfailingly polite to Ian, including him in the conversation, even though this is supposed to be an interview to see if he and I might work well together.

While Lucien leaves for a moment to fetch some contractual paperwork, I take the opportunity to look around. The loft has its original wide-plank wood floors, and though refinished, the wood still bears the multitude of scars from its long industrial career, adding so much character and history. The walls are all cream, which provides a blank canvas for the artwork that covers many of the walls, from black and white photographs to driftwood sculpture. All the furnishings are modern and in quiet shades of brown and gray: very beautiful, very masculine… and very expensive. Either Lucien’s films do very well or he’s a trust-fund baby.

“Here, Ella. Look these over and let me know what you think. If you decide to sign on, I’m going to ask you to get started while I’m in France. Most of the research can be conducted online or in a decent library but there are two interviews I need taped: one in San Diego, and another in New York. The one in New York is the problem, since she’s traveling and will only be back in the city for two weeks, as of Tuesday. I won’t be back for nearly a month, so I’ll miss her.

“As for recompense, there are two options: a flat fee or a percentage of profits. The producers are trying to get an extended release in art theatres in every major U.S. city plus a few international houses but they’re also courting academic institutions. If that happens, profits will be robust. Unfortunately, at this point, opting for the profit sharing is somewhat risky. It’s your call. What do you think so far?”

I clear my throat, acutely aware of Ian and wishing he weren’t here with me. I can feel his jealousy hanging weighty in the air. “Lucien, I’m intrigued by the whole project and it does seem rather perfect for me, considering my academic background. I’ll read over the paperwork and consider what we’ve discussed this morning, but I will say that right now I’m inclined to accept if you’re inclined to offer. It’s almost too good to pass up.”

Lucien’s handsome face lights up at my words. “I’m delighted to hear you say that, Ella.” He takes his wallet out of his jacket pocket and fishes out a card. “Here’s my business card. It lists my cell number as well as my email address. You can contact me at either one. May I ask you for a definitive answer in 48 hours? Normally I wouldn’t rush you, but I need that interview with Picasso’s assistant’s daughter and I’d like to nail it down as soon as possible.”

“No, I understand. I’ll give you my answer within 24 hours, Lucien. Sound okay?”

“Absolutely. I cannot stress enough my gratitude in your coming here on such short notice. It’s very much appreciated.”

“No problem. I was casting about for something worthwhile to do when this just fell into my lap. I feel like the fortunate one.” I look over at Ian but his face is inscrutable. “Well, Lucien, we’re going to leave and let you get back to your packing. I’ll be in touch very soon.”

“Thank you, Ella. Would you happen to have a card with your contact info on it?”

“Uh, yes, actually.” I dig in my bag and find a couple, handing him one.

“Great. It was a pleasure meeting you,” he says, shaking my hand and then extends his to Ian. “Mr. Blackmon, very nice to make your acquaintance.”

“Likewise. Enjoy your trip to Paris. It’s lovely this time of year.”

“Yes. Certainly. I get homesick for the city every now and then, especially in autumn, for some reason.”

After we leave Lucien’s, we head straight to the Met and spend three hours wandering the galleries. Never having been to New York City before, I am simply amazed at the sheer number of famous works located in one place. It’s beyond exciting, especially for me, since art history is my academic focus.

Ian takes me out to lunch at Balthazar’s, a restaurant that’s apparently impossible to get into most of the time but he somehow
manages it. We head back to the hotel around six.

After a two-hour nap, he wakes me up by undressing me and kissing me up and down my naked body. There are worse ways to wake up.

“Do you want to play tonight?” he asks me.

“Play how?”

“My way,” he answers, his eyes gleaming.

“Do you mean by going to a nasty club?”

“No, that’s not what I mean. But I do mean kinky fun. Are you in?”

I narrow my eyes, mulling over my answer. “Okay. What do you have in mind?”

“You’ll see.”

He leads me into the shower and we take turns washing each other. I never realized how much fun a shower could actually be before I met Ian. By the time we’re through, he has a huge hard-on and I’m hot enough to make friends with a doorknob or something. The strange thing, though, is he makes no attempt to scratch the itch—for either of us. I’m beginning to wonder if his version of kinky fun involves sexual torment and I have a strong feeling it does.

Ian dries us both off and we go into the bedroom to get dressed.

“Here. Wear this one,” he says, pulling my short black cocktail dress out of the hotel room closet. The dress is made of slinky fabric and it has three-quarter sleeves and a plunging vee-neckline that’s held together by satin lacing, providing peek-a-boo glimpses at what’s inside.

“Okay.” I take the dress.

“Do you have a garter belt?”

“No. But I do have silk stockings that stay up without a garter. Do you want me to wear those?”

He nods. “And your black stilettos, please.”

It’s not until we get in the taxi that he makes his next request. Once he gives the driver an address, he leans in to whisper in my ear. “Take off your panties.”

I look at him as if he’s lost his mind. “What?”

“You heard me. Do it.”

“In here?” I screech, thinking about all the people and… stuff… that’s been on these car seats. “It’s not hygienic.”

He shakes his head, a gesture he uses when he is dismissive of my concerns. “Keep the dress underneath you, but do as I say, Ella.”

I look at him with suspicious eyes but my hand slowly travels under my hem. Watching the driver in the rearview mirror, I surreptitiously slide down my panties, being extra careful that my butt does not touch the icky car seat. When I work them down off my ankles, Ian holds out his hand and I give them to him. He pockets them without taking his eyes off me and those eyes? Smoldering.

“I’m not sure I like this, Ian.” My voice is shaky.

His voice is smooth and deep. “My money says you do. Care to make it interesting?”

“How interesting?”

He shrugs. “We’ll keep it
manageable. Say a thou?”

I chew my lip nervously and nod my assent. His hand snakes up my dress and he touches me intimately, then thrusts a finger up into me. Then two. After only a moment, he withdraws his hand and holds it up in the glare of the streetlights outside. His fingertips are glistening. “I win,” he whispers and licks my ear. Again I glance at the driver and see his eyes in the mirror. Nosy bastard is watching us and I can only hope he didn’t
manage to see anything worthwhile.

In a few minutes we reach our destination. Ian comes around to open my door and help me out—and, believe me, with no panties, a rather short dress, and high heels, I need help. He pays the driver and leads me to a shop front. I look up. A jewelry store?

“Why a jewelry store, Ian? And why is it still open at nine o’clock, by the way?”

“No questions. Tonight you’re my sub: just be quiet and follow my lead. Okay?”

I nod. I can do this—it’s exciting and it may just be fun. I’ll play nice for now. “Lead the way.”

Before we could get in, his phone rings. Checking the caller, he frowns but takes the call. “Talk,” he orders the poor slob on the other end of the line.

He listens for a long moment. “Please tell me you’re not kidding? This is good news, Jonas, the best news. Have Terence get his ass on a flight to Beijing ASAP. Oh? Well, then, have him follow them to Hong Kong or around the fucking world, for all I care, as long as he gets to them quickly. No, Terence speaks fluent Mandarin and can muddle his way through Cantonese; he needs to be the one to court them. And notify Jackson Delacroix about the offer. Tell him we’re definitely interested but we need to show a healthy profit on the sale—we’ve sunk too much into it already. Have accounting do their best to pretty up the books—to the legal extent possible. Keep me posted.”

“Good news, I take it?” I ask after he disconnects.

“If I ever say I don’t believe in God, remind me of this day, Ella. I just received a gift from heaven, routed through China. We’ve been bleeding out on this solar panel company we took on, hoping for tax waivers into 2020. With recent budget cuts, the government phased out the waivers starting next year. We were set to take a bloodbath on it. A Chinese firm offered to buy us out. They can make it profitable because it’s an open secret that the Chinese government illegally subsidizes their green energy companies so that no American company can effectively compete. If they take it on, it’s a win-win for everyone involved. Especially me.”

“It’s a good night for you; you also just made a cool thou in the taxi.”

His response is the most lascivious grin I’ve ever seen on anyone’s face—it travels right into my girly parts—as he takes my hand and we enter the store.

It looks like an ordinary jewelry store—nothing different at all.
The saleswoman is a blonde, mid-forties, tan and fit. She immediately assesses Ian, up and down. I know what she’s doing: besides ogling his beauty, she’s appraising him for wealth. Having worked in an upscale shop, I know how these commission hounds operate—especially in New York, where they can tell volumes about a person just by his or her shoes.

Ian is cool as he asks, “May we shop in the rear store, please?”

Blondie nods impassively and steps over to a door, rapping her knuckles on it twice. I hear it unlock and then the door opens and Ian leads me inside.

Oh my
God.

Inside the rear store is a sex shop that has every imaginable (and many unimaginable, believe me) toy and accessory anyone could ever want for sex. I’ve never seen anything like it and I’m pretty sure I don’t want to see it again. It’s the dildo section that causes me the most distress while also fascinating me: every shape, size, color, and material, is on display. Are there people who will shove anything remotely phallic up there? I gape at Ian and he smiles reassuringly before he begins to completely ignore me. Oh, that’s right: I’m the sub—or second-class citizen—tonight.

Taking my wrist, he pulls me toward a counter that has silver and leather chokers. It takes me a minute before I realize what I’m looking at. Not chokers, dear stupid Ella.

Collars.

There’s a thirtyish woman in purple hair and black leather, manning the counter. If I had to choose one adjective for her, I’d pick formidable even before female. “Can I help you, sir?”

“Yes,” Ian replies smoothly, “I’m looking for a gold or sterling collar. Something with clean lines, simple yet elegant.”

The woman looks at me curiously as I watch her. Ian catches her glance and whispers in my ear. “Eyes down, Ella.”

Oops. I’m a bad submissive, apparently. After a second, I realize that eyes-down is actually a kindness in this place. I hope he doesn’t think I’m going to kneel on this scuzzy floor, though.

“I like this one. Do you agree?”

I look up to answer him, only to realize he’s speaking to the saleswoman, not me. Apparently I’m not to be consulted for my own collar—and that sounds just so wrong.

“Yes, that one would look lovely on her.” She hands it to Ian and he sweeps my hair to one side to put it around my throat. “Yes. We’ll take this one.”

Chancing a glance up, I see the woman looks delighted. I take a wild guess that the collar is pricey and she just scored a hefty commission.

“Here’s my credit card. Don’t close out the balance until we’re finished shopping.

“Of course, sir. Will she be wearing the collar or would you like it packed up?”

“Wear, I think.” Still holding my wrist, he leads me to the other side of the store. An older man, also in black leather, is managing this side and I immediately feel way more uncomfortable, especially seeing the items Ian is homing in on. Oh, no.

“May I see that one?” he asks the man. “The one with the gemstones?”