Three and a Half Weeks (26 page)

“Affirmative.”

I feel hands. Cool, silken skin touching
me,
feeling
me—my face, my breasts, my bare shoulders.

Ian
.

The hands are gentle but insistent and in the next moment, there’s seductive warmth: tiny pockets of heated, humid air skimming my throat. Floating in some state of disconnect, neither dream nor
awareness, my sluggish brain scrambles to make sense of the tactile sensations and somehow I manage to decipher what it means: a lover’s breath. He’s close to me, so close. His proximity comforts me and I surrender to him, drifting back into the undulating rhythms of Morpheus’s arms.

Music. Plaintive notes waft in, as if through an open door from another room. It’s a familiar composition but I can’t place it: my ears discern the distinctive harmonies of harp, cello, violin—angel music.

Now there are voices, low and deep. Male. The phrase
sotto voce
springs to my mind and I try to smile.
Inside voices, children,
Mrs. Lowell would say to our kindergarten class when we got rowdy.

Surfacing gradually to consciousness, I drag my eyes open but see nothing. Too dark. My mind is yet hindered by cobwebs of sleep, and my body aches all over.

Where am I? The last thing I remember clearly is finishing up the editing conference with Lucien and the two editors we’re working with—Michael and Nico.

I lick my dry lips but even my tongue is too devoid of moisture to make any difference: there’s a terrible taste in my mouth. It reminds me of the time that Carrie and I, along with Emily Pedersen, the girl who lived around the corner from us and still wore diapers at age five, were sucking on pennies just for the fun of it… until Carrie’s mother caught us and washed our mouths out with yellow Listerine. No matter how long I live
, I’ll never quite forget the taste of copper on the tongue, a sensory experience that sticks like glue. So does yellow Listerine.

Right now I need water so I attempt to sit up, to seek out hydration, but my body will not serve its master. That is the precise moment when my heartbeat begins to take flight. Something is very wrong with me.

A disembodied voice reaches my ears. I don’t recognize it at first.

“Good. You’re awake. I’ve been waiting such a long time to speak with you.”

Not Ian. Who then? The voice is familiar but my brain is slow, synapses misfiring, and the room is pitch black, disorienting in the extreme. I can’t see anything and I’m starting to panic.

“Where am I?” A shout in the dark.

Laughter. The harsh sound of it grates on my nerves: it’s not melodic; it’s…
sinister
. And then recognition rushes in; I know. The voice belongs to Lucien.

“What’s going on? Why do I feel so ill? Where am I?”

“Relax, you’re fine. You passed out, Ella. I put you on my bed. Can I get you anything?”

“Water. Please. And can you switch on a light?”

“Hmmm. I’m going to leave you in the dark for now but here’s some water.” I feel his hand lift my head and bring a glass to my lips. He tilts it and cool water flows into my mouth. Ah, thank God. Better already.

“Lucien?”

“Yes, Ella?”

“Can you tell me what happened? What’s going on?” I again try to sit up but can’t move and I’m not exactly sure why. It’s too dark and my thinking is foggy.

“Yes, but I thought I’d give you time to fully awaken. I can tell you’re not up to snuff just yet.”

“How can you tell?”

“That will be my little secret for now, Ella. Just drink your water and try to relax.”

“Yes, but… I need to call Ian. He’ll be worried…”

“I texted your oh-so-important boyfriend from your phone. It’s fine.”

“Trust me, it won’t be fine unless I actually speak with him. He tends to overreact.” And right now I’m so grateful for Ian’s overreacting tendencies. I’ll take it any day over Lucien’s creepiness. “Lucien, where am I? I’m feeling very anxious. Please turn on a light.”

A long sigh made louder by the insulating dark. “Very well.”

I can feel his body heat move away and then a lowlight flashes on—a small lamp set on a table a few feet from the bed. I quickly take stock of my surroundings: it’s a room, a bedroom of sorts, but one I’ve never been in before. The walls are black and there are strange implements mo
unted on the walls. I feel something acid rush up my throat but I can’s sit up. “I’m going to be sick, Lucien—I need a bathroom!”

In seconds, he produces a plastic bucket—as if he expected me to vomit—and
lifts and turns my head to the side so I can regurgitate into the bucket. My body heaves as everything in my stomach comes gushing up, burning my throat on the way out, and nothing can stop my stomach from its pumping imperative. It continues until I’m dry retching, my throat raw and fiery.

“I’m sorry you’re so ill, Ella. Would you like a cup of tea?”

“Yes. Please, Lucien. May I also call Ian to let him know I’m okay? He is a worrier.”

“I’ll bring you some tea. How do you like it?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

While he’s gone, I chance another glimpse around the room. My mind cannot accept the images my retinas are relaying to it. It’s not possible. Please, God, this is a nightmare. Now I finally see why I can’t
manage to sit up: I’m tied down to the bed, naked but for my underwear. My wrists and ankles are restrained and there is a long leather strap that runs from one side of the bed to the other, pinning me down like an insect on a glue strip. I have some movement, but not enough to sit upright, and my whole body feels weak.

I am so screwed, is my first thought. My second one is, Motherfucker, Ian fucking Blackmon was right all along about this little prick Lucien Phillips. If I live through this, I’ll never live it down.

If
I live.

He returns with the tea, tilting my head
up to allow me to sip it. I take a huge burning gulp, swallowing greedily, siphoning more into my mouth, and lay my head back down. I don’t want his smarmy hand to touch me any longer than strictly necessary. “May I sit up?”

“How do you feel?”

I snort. “I’ve been considerably better, obviously. What’s this all about, Lucien? Why are you doing this to me?”

“Don’t be coy, Ella, acting as if you don’t know.”

“Coy? Lucien, I have no idea whatsoever. All I do know is th—”

“Enough! Fine. I’ll indulge you in your silly little game and explain. First, I should say that I left all your belongings, including your cell phone, in a storage locker in midtown, safe and sound. When we’re done here, I will provide you with the location and the key. I sent Blackmon a message, ostensibly from you, from your phone, telling him you were busy and would be in touch. Obviously, that won’t hold him off for very long but it should put him off long enough for you and I to conclude our business together.”

I begin to ask him something but he holds up his hand, his eyes dead-fish cold, effectively silencing me.

“I’ll ask the questions, my dear. First, which lovely lady put you up to it? Was it Eliza or Maya St. Sauveur? I’m anxious to know.”

“Put me up to what? And who is Eliza?”

“Oh, I see this is going to be like pulling teeth.” He looks at me with evil intent. “Perhaps I should actually pull your teeth. Will that convince you to talk?”

I slam my head back onto the pillow. He doesn’t look insane yet he must be. Obviously he thinks I’ve done something to him but I have no idea what or why. I don’t know how to handle him because I don’t yet know what his problem is. I just wait, hoping my silence will prompt him to spill more information.

My plan works. As the seconds stretch into minutes, he begins to talk again.

“You will be telling me who was behind your little exposé, Ella, your attempt to ruin me. You will also provide me with restitution, i.e. the monetary profits you netted from your ill-gotten gains. After both of my requirements have been satisfied, I will liberate you.”

Lucien is watching me closely, s
earching for a reaction. I have none because I haven’t the slightest idea what he’s prattling about. I only know that, one, I have to pee like a racehorse, and, two, I hate this son of a bitch with all my heart. When I think of all the times I defended him to Ian… it makes me want to rip out his pretty blond hair, follicle deep.

“So, if it wasn’t Eliza I must then surmise it was Maya. Correct?”

“Maya? Who did
what
?”

He slaps me. Hard. There’s something about a slap to the face: it not only smarts but it somehow shames as well. I gape at him, tears in my eyes from my stinging cheek. I wish I could smack him back. First chance I get, I will. That’s a definite promise.

“You know, I didn’t want to do that, Ella. Despite myself, I actually like you. If I didn’t know what you’re capable of, we could have been such good friends. I would have happily welcomed you into my personal life.” He begins to stroke my face and I turn my head the other way to escape his touch, eliciting a chuckle from him.

“Oh, sweetheart, I’ve touched much more than your face. Do you realize you’re nearly naked?”

Clouded memories of hands touching me fill my head. I grimace as I try to pull my hands free but they’re tied down tautly. I whine in frustration.

The sound I make prods him to
move. His hand skims my flesh, causing goose bumps to emerge. They are from utter disgust, not excitement. I hate him so, so much.

“You’re very beautiful, Ella. Blackmon is a lucky man.” His hand moves to my breasts now.

“Don’t touch me! Just tell me what you want from me so I can escape this hell you’ve consigned me to—for whatever twisted reason.”

My words must
inflame him for his eyes hold heat now. He yanks down the cups of my bra, exposing my breasts and starts fondling them, pinching me until my eyes water, his eyes boring into mine. The strap across my belly precludes me from shrinking away from his touch. Again I yell. “Stop, Lucien! Tell me what you want, for fuck’s sake, and I’ll try to make it happen. Please!”

Ignoring me, he continues to run his hand over my body. Now he’s touching me intimately, through the scrap of silk that is my panties. For the first time in my life, I wish I were wearing huge granny bloomers. The pig.

“I hold all the power, Ella, see? I can touch you; I can finger-fuck you… or a great deal more. Right now, if I choose. There’s not a thing you can do to stop me, either. So be a good girl and play by my rules or you’ll be punished. Severely. I will forewarn you: I’m not a kind master.”

I stop talking, hoping his anger will
wane. Obviously yelling at him is not the brightest thing I can do—it’s tantamount to playing with fire. I close my eyes and try to pretend he’s not touching me. It’s impossible but I keep trying because if not, the rage I’m feeling might strangle me to death if I allow it free rein.

“What’s the pin number on your debit card and how much is in your checking account?”

“The pin number is 8989GTH… there’s about nine thousand in there now.”

“Okay. Where’s the rest of the money?”

“The rest of it?”

“Your profits from the book: where did you put the money?”

I clear my throat. So that’s what he’s after? My money? “Um, I invested much of it in mutual funds and a commercial real estate venture. I do have another bank account but my broker controls it, too.”

“Well, by the end of day tomorrow it all has to be in my account in the Cayman Islands so we’ll get right to work on it first thing in the a.m. It’s not that I need the money, you understand. Far, far from it. It’s just the principle of the whole thing.

Now, I’m going to offer you a choice, pretty Ella. Either you tell me who gave you the lowdown on me, or I will show you firsthand what pleasures and pain await you in my special little room here. Which will it be?”

“Please just tell me what you mean by the lowdown, Lucien, and I’ll tell you. I swear.”

Rolling his eyes, he sighs again. “What I mean is who told you about me, my particular appetite, my little hobby, my room of torture as you so charmingly named it in your book.
This
room.”

A gasp escapes me. “You think my book is about you?”

“No. I don’t think; I know. I read your book, Ella. You describe my room down to the doorknobs. You describe the… tools… of the trade. My demeanor, my words—everything.”

Shaking my head, I swallow whatever saliva I can muster. I’m in a difficult position here: I obviously don’t want to tell him about Ian but I may have to. Will Ian care if it means saving me from possible rape and even death? I doubt he would hold it against me in such a circumstance. I may be overestimating his feelings for me but I think… that is, there’s the possibility, however remote, that he…
loves
me. I know in this moment wherein my very life may hang in the balance that
I
love
him
. If I ever am so graced again as to see the beautiful contours of his face, I’m going to tell him, come what may. Life is too short to play games. I want him to know what he means to me. If my love is unrequited… well, so be it. No one ever said that life is fair.