Three and a Half Weeks (20 page)

“Yes, sir. We’ll handle it. I’ll let you know if anything else comes up.”

“Good.” He disconnects the call.

He gets to Los Feliz by three o’clock. If he and Ella are going to make their flight to Tokyo from Portland tomorrow, he’ll have to be quick about it. Pinning his hope that she goes to her rental house first, before she does anything else, he hasn’t allowed himself to consider alternatives. She had better not be with Phillips because she might do something very stupid out of hurt and anger, something that will compromise their relationship permanently. And he, in turn, might do something very stupid out of hurt and anger.

Following the GPS, he finds the house and notes that there’s a car in the driveway. Did Ella mention that she owned a car? He can’t remember, but hopes it’s a rental auto she picked up at the airport, and expertly pulls his rented car into a space partway down the block.

Pausing at the front door to listen, he can hear the faint strains of music. His racing heart slows down a tiny bit. He barely notices the charm of the cottage, the arbor dripping with pink-flowering vines, the Mexican tile paths and steps, the tall drought-resistant grasses swaying in the gentle breeze. All he can think of is finding Ella and setting her straight.

Ian raps the knocker hard against the door since there’s no bell. He can hear footsteps coming closer and he’s careful to stay out of view lest she spots him and refuses to answer the door. He’s counting on her naiveté to just swing open the door without checking to see whom it is first. She doesn’t let him down.

As soon as her eyes take him in, unadulterated shock drops her jaw open. “Ian! I have absolutely nothing to say to you,” she spits at him and attempts to slam the door in his face.

Anticipating her reaction, he slides his foot between the door and jamb so it’s impossible to close, then pushes his way in.

“Get out now or I’m calling the police.”

“No,” he answers simply and closes the door behind him.

“What do you want?”

“Are we alone, Ella?”

“What difference can it possibly make? Yes, we’re alone. Say your piece and leave.”

“Okay, I will,” he says, advancing toward her. Her eyes widen, in surprise or fear, he can’t tell. Might as well have a bit of fun for all the trouble she put him through.

She stands there—back straight, eyes wide, saying nothing now. He looks right into her eyes, smiles, and says one word.

“Strip.”

I’m gaping slack-jawed at the tall, enigmatic man standing in front of me, trying not to dwell on the fact that he looks good enough to bite. “Well, that answers one lingering question I’ve had since I’ve known you, Ian.” I aim for a flippant tone but my heart is hammering in my chest and all the spit in my mouth has evaporated. I don’t want him to see me this emotionally vulnerable—he’s arrogant enough as it is.

He cocks his head, his eyes inscrutable. “Am I supposed to ask what question?”

I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Ask or not, it makes no difference to me.” I begin to turn away and he grabs my elbow.

“Fine, I’ll bite: what lingering question, Ella?”

“Whether or not you’re insane—now of course it’s confirmed.”

He raises an eyebrow and smirks. “Well, good, now that that’s all cleared up, do as I said or I’ll do it for you.”

“If you actually think I’m going to have anything to do with you after what you did, Ian, you really are completely delusional. Now remove yourself from the premises. I have matters that require my attention. Not everyone in the world kowtows to the almighty Ian Blackmon, you know.”

He laughs. Laughs! And says, “Either you’ll take off your clothes or I’ll take them off for you—and I won’t be careful about it.” He makes a show of looking at his watch. “In less than five minutes after I’ve explained the matter to you, you’re going to apologize to me and, consequently, I’m going to punish you for making me drop everything to run here to get you, Ella. I’d simply like you to be ready for it.”

“Fuck you, Ian,” I snap and attempt to leave the room. I’m supposed to meet Lucien in a few hours in West Hollywood and I need to shower and take a power nap. I’m done crying over Ian Blackmon, really I am. I spent the whole morning doing it and I have the red, swollen eyes to prove it.

“Ella,” he says, spinning me around. “You really do owe me a heartfelt apology,” he says as his hands go to my shirt and rip it open, buttons flinging everywhere. I gasp so loudly and strongly that I almost choke on my own saliva.

“You ruined my shirt!” I’ve often been told I have a talent for stating the obvious. Blackmon totally ignores my shock, his face a wooden mask of impassivity—but his eyes? His eyes convey a quite different story.

His eyes are scorching. It’s beyond fascinating how every nuance of his mood is readily reflected in the depths of those strange eyes.

“I believe I told you to do it or I would.” He’s staring, mesmerized, at my breasts, encased right now in a skimpy lace shelf bra that barely covers the girls. “Every single time I see you without clothes, I marvel at the texture of your skin, Ella. No manmade material could ever approximate the exquisite feel of it,” he says hoarsely as he runs just the tips of his fingers across my collarbone and down to my hip. Everything from my navel down lurches into sharp contraction and instantly feels liquid. It’s in the midst of this elastic moment that I know I will submit to him, regardless of whether he deserves it or not, and I sway on my feet.

“Now, allow me to return to the reasons to prompt your apology: first, for having absolutely no faith in me,” he says, his voice dropping into a deep, husky register while his hands rapidly slide the arms of my cotton shirt off my shoulders. He effortlessly unclasps my bra and slips it down.

“Additionally,” he adds as he moves to the belt of my jeans, “you obviously put no stock in my word, my vow to be monogamous.”

Feebly, I try to resist him, but I’m restricted by my arms pinned behind me by my own damn shirt—it’s currently half on and half off my body. His deft fingers skate over to my breasts, eliciting more immediate response from my disobedient body.

“Now that I have your unwavering attention, allow me to explain—the
explanation you should have demanded from me this morning when you visited my bedroom unexpectedly.”

He drops down to his knees gracefully, taking my jeans down with him in a fluid motion, every move efficient and almost balletic. I’ll admit that I’m not struggling as much as I know intellectually that I should but I’m flustered by his undeniable sexual gravity. Seriously, I’d like to meet the woman who could resist the libidinous magnetism of Ian Blackmon—I’ll buy her a new pair of
Blahniks
. Still, I make a halfhearted attempt to give him a hard time.

He looks up at me, his eyes alight with a fiery glow. “Do you stil
l have that lovely antique four-poster you used to have?”

I ignore him, suppressing an urge to stick out my tongue. The stupid, arrogant, perplexing… gorgeous bastard with the dazzling smile.

He rises to his feet, his shoulder dipping into my stomach to lift me over his shoulder—again!

“Ian, for fuck’s sake, I’m not a sack of potatoes!”

I know he’s smirking as only he can, a look that says
I see you… and I raise you
, as he chastises me, “Tsk, tsk, such language, Ella. I think I’ll add a few extra swats to your punishment.”

With his free hand he grabs a leather duffel bag from the chair where he deposited it and begins searching for my bedroom. In this vintage house, all the doors look the same, so the first one he opens is a closet, the second one a bathroom. The whole time I’m shouting profanities and pummeling his muscled back and lovely, tight little ass with my fists as hard as I can, but he just ignores me as thoroughly if I’m an annoying gnat. Finally, he finds the master and that four-poster bed… and drops me unceremoniously upon it. Quickly he finishes removing my shirt and bra and, wrapping his hand around my throat in a blatant display of dominance, gently pushes me flat onto my back.

“Don’t move,” he orders, “not an inch.” My eyes dart up at him and note that any amusement whatsoever has drained out of his face and his mood has visibly shifted in a markedly different direction. Aha, alpha Ian returns for a visit.

Well, tough. “I’m not done cursing at you, Ian. I still haven’t heard your so-called
explanation.” His eyes are devoid of any color right now and look so odd that for a moment I’m transfixed. I shake myself out of it—my wits cannot escape me, especially at this particular moment.

He inhales deeply as if collecting his patience with my infernal interruptions to his attempt to torment me. “It seems I have a stalker and that’s the woman you saw in my bed. Sometime last night, she broke into my house—and I still don’t know precisely how—and got into bed with me. I didn’t discover her presence until I opened my eyes this morning.”

I bestow upon him my most skeptical frown ever and say nothing, as if his explanation does not even merit a verbal response.

“I should have told you about her sooner, Ella, but I didn’t want to worry you and frankly, I thought my security staff had everything under control. I came home from the office very late last night—it was close to midnight. I had a fierce headache so I took a couple of Tylenol PM and went directly to bed. Honestly, I slept like the dead all night long and woke up to a rather titanic shock.”

He reaches into his bag and pulls out some things—looks like some kind of nylon twine and a small metal ball. I’m wearing nothing but my ivory lace panties that seem to mock me now, as if I wore them to entice him—I probably did, now that I think of it since early this morning I still liked him. He lays the objects on the bed and sits down on the edge of the mattress, crooking his finger at me. I shake my head no.

“Oh, yes. I think you owe me that apology now.”

“Ha, forget it. Assuming your story is true, and the jury’s still out on that one, you should have told me about this woman sooner and I’m still having a hard time believing you knew nothing about it—you had your arm around her, for God’s sake, Ian—you had your whole
body
around her!”

If I didn’t know Mr. Cool and Aloof better, I’d say his expression actually became contrite.

“In my sleep, I thought she was you. She’s been arrested, Ella.”

He’s silent for a moment, letting his words hang between us. Then a sharp light comes into those mesmerizing eyes and that infamous smirk makes its appearance as he says, “Now come here and tell me how sorry you are for inconveniencing me to this very considerable extent.”

“No.” I cross my arms for punctuation. “I’m not sorry.”

Without another word, he reaches his long arm over to yank me by the wrist, pulls me over his lap and swings his leg over mine so I can’t move. I’m hanging off lopsidedly so my feet are off the floor. He’s done this purposely so I have no leverage to pull myself up. I feel him touching my posterior and then, slam!

“Ow! That hurts, you bastard!”

He hits me harder this time. “Ahh!”

“Until you stop cursing at me and start counting respectfully, your count remains at zero.”

“What? That’s incredibly unfair. I didn’t even agree to this punishment and I’m not the one who should be spanked, damn it. Ow!” Another one. They’re getting harder and harder.

“Count, Ella, and start from one.”

Wiggling doesn’t help and I can’t stand up. My butt is on fire already and I don’t how many he’s planned. Do I truly owe him an apology? Wasn’t the conclusion I’d drawn the only reasonable one to reach? He hits me again. I refuse to count—I don’t care how many times he wallops me. So he keeps on swatting me with so much force that my hindquarters are growing numb.

“Okay, then. I was going to give you twenty but now I’ll just keep going until my hand gets tired.”

“Good. I hope your hand hurts like hell, you asshole.” I pay for that remark with the next slap but it’s worth it in satisfaction.

When he is finally done, he flips me over on the bed and I can barely tolerate even the silky sheets on my tender skin. I watch as he takes the nylon twine and stands to tie it from the right post at the head of the bed to the left post at the rear. He orients my body so that I am in the center of the queen-size bed.

“How did you have time to bring your bag of toys? Wasn’t this an unexpected trip?”

He barely looks at me to answer, so engrossed he is in what he’s doing. “I’d left the bag in the jet when I flew to New York—which is why I had to buy new toys in New York. It worked out nicely this time, though.” Cocking his head, he finally glances at me, waiting for some response. “Well? Am I going to get that apology?”

I shake my head emphatically—I still feel as if I were wronged.

“In that case, you’re not permitted to speak any more.”

I finally give in to my baser instincts and stick out my tongue at him. If he has any reaction, he chooses not to show it.

He clips leather cuffs on my wrists and thighs and secures them to chains he wraps around each of the head posts. I’m not fighting him but I’m also not helpful. Instead, I’m watching his every move, suspiciously eyeing that diagonal line above my head. I see him remove something else from the bag and then he leans over me and his mouth descends on my left breast, and he sucks... hard… almost painfully. I close my eyes to process the sensations when I feel something bite into me. My eyes fly open: he’s attached a jeweled clamp to it with a long delicate chain hanging from it. He does the same thing to the other breast.

I gasp. “These really hurt; they’re too tight.”

“Just breathe, Ella. The pain will fade to something more bearable in a few moments.” He watches intently until I somewhat relax and then he drops a kiss on my lips and continues to do whatever he has planned.

“Now,” he whispers, “I’m going to help you keep quiet. Remember last time you had some difficulty?” He holds up the metal ball: it’s the size of a large walnut, made of metal, and doesn’t look very intimidating. He attaches a nylon rope section to it and then clips the rope to the chain that links to the two nipple clamps, tossing the ball over the other side of the nylon string above my body.

“Here’s how it works,” he says, feeding the rope slowly over the twine until the ball lands on my stomach and jerks the clamp chain up, tugging painfully on my nipples as I swallow a shriek of pain. Then he pulls the ball back up and takes the slack rope and puts it between my teeth and tells me to bite down… and smiles the most malevolent grin I’ve seen in a long time, if ever, and his eyes are filled with carnal promise.

“If you keep the rope in your teeth, you’ll be just fine, Ella. But if you attempt to talk or even scream in ecstasy, then you’ll lose the rope, the weight will pull down on the other side of the twine and it will yank up the clamp chain. Might hurt a bit. So you see, incentive to keep quiet and all without a gag.” He leans his head close to mine and whispers in my ear, “You’re welcome.”

If looks could kill they’d be digging his grave by now. I flash him the filthiest possible one ever and he couldn’t seem to care less. Truly.

He holds my face in his hands and gazes into my eyes, his expression entirely unreadable. If I were forced to guess, I’d say he looks…
hurt
. Ian is so mercurial, his mood changes are so fast and frequent, they’re dizzying. He takes the rope out of my mouth to kiss me—deeply—and I realize with a start that he is expressing himself. He’s upset at the rift between us and he’s trying to make it better in the only way he knows how. In light of this revelation, I feel the sexual pull to him grow ever stronger and gain momentum.

He puts the rope back into my teeth, “Bite down,” he commands and I comply. “So, Ariel, I’ve taken away your autonomy and movement. I’ve taken away your ability to speak.” He picks up a satiny black blindfold off the bed. “Now I’m taking away your sight, so you’ll feel everything more intensely. You’re entirely exposed, open and available to me, and at my complete mercy. Right now, to be perfectly honest, I’m not feeling inclined to have any. Of course, if I receive a penitent apology, I might change my mind and develop a bit.”