Three and a Half Weeks (29 page)

Ian stares at Daniel. “So exactly what did they discover?”

Rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands, Daniel leans back in his chair, his sleepless night catching up with him. “He’s not acting like an innocent man. For one thing, he’s used the day to pack up much of the apartment. Further, he had a pack of painters in there. Sean Blackwell, one of the two guys with me last night, claims he did see a black room but it looked to be an ordinary bedroom, nothing strange on the walls or anything. Still, it appears that Phillips is planning an extended leave so it might behoove you to pay him a visit before he goes. I can have a security team accompany you. Right now they’re on standby waiting to hear from me.”

Ian didn’t need any convincing. “Have them meet me in front of the building. I want my hands on that piece of shit.”

Daniel nods and punches in a number on his phone. “Morell? Is Luna still there with you? Good. Ian Blackmon will be on his way shortly. He’ll meet you outside the building in about twenty.” He looks up at Ian but says nothing. “Very good. Yes, check in with me before you leave the premises.”

He nods to Ian. “It’s a go.”

Ian stands in front of the apartment door listening. He hears someone moving about within and nods to Butler’s people: an African-American man named Peter Morell and a woman, small but built like a tank, Luna Stephens. Daniel assured him they were both among th
e best he had. “Ready?” he asks the two.

The tall man nods. “Step aside, Mr. Blackmon.”

Blackmon complies and Morell kicks the door in, Medeco lock and all. The man is a martial arts phenom; it takes only three kicks before the door flies open.

Ian gapes at the man and smirks. “Why, thanks. Gl
ad you’re on my side.” With that comment, he strides right through the door, coming up on one very startled Lucien Phillips.

Phillips is dressed all in black:
silk shirt, tailored pants, and boots. His blond hair slicked back, he looks every inch the European artiste. Apart from his initial surprise, he appears calm and expectant of the visit. Ian takes a deep breath, wanting nothing more than to put his fist through the man’s face. Keeping his voice light he says, “Going somewhere?” as his eyes take in the suitcases near the door.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. I’m returning to Paris. I suppose you’re the follow-up act to last night?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Ian gestures to the two people standing just to his right and a step behind him. “Meet punch and kick.” He leans closer to Lucien’s smug face. “And I’m smear,” he whispers, enunciating the word clearly. “We’re all here to pay you a visit, Monsieur Phillips.”

Crossing his arms, Lucien sighs dramatically. “Fine. My attorney will be arriving shortly, just for your information. I would very much like to inquire as to Ella’s health but I’m quite sure you won’t oblige me. So in the interests of everyone’s time, get to the point. What do you want?”

“Apart from a pound of your flesh, you mean? I want answers, fuckhead. Right now. I want to know exactly what happened, minute by minute, after Ella walked through your door. She went to your other place, as I understand it. How did she end up here?”

“We had our meeting at the loft. I was planning on coming back here afterward—alone—but she started complaining that her head hurt and she felt dizzy and ill. I didn’t want to just leave her so I put her in a cab and took her here. When we got here, I told her to lie down and rest. She did and fell asleep. She was still sleeping when your friends broke in late last night, as was I.”

“Mmmhmm. Who sent me the text message from her phone?”

“I did. Rather than have to explain the long and somewhat convoluted story, I just thought it would be easier for all concerned.”

“Where’s Ella’s phone?”

He shrugs casually. “I suppose it’s still at the loft. I really don’t know. I took her shoulder bag with us but if the phone wasn’t in there, I don’t know.”

“When I tracked the phone, it showed a midtown location, not uptown. Why?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea. Sorry.”

“Do you have a black bedroom in this apartment?”

“Why?”

“I’ll ask the questions. You’ll answer them. Do you?”

“Yes, one of the bedrooms was painted black. I had two of the rooms painted white today so it’s not black anymore.”

“And why would you have them painted today?”

“Because I’m subletting the place and the tenant asked me to do so before I vacated. She didn’t care for the vibrant colors.”

“Was Ella in the black room at all?”

“No.”

“Was she undressed at any time during her stay here?”

“No.”

“Why did you drug her?”

“I did not.”

“Was anyone else near her drink?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“What were you planning on doing with her?”

“Nothing. I was waiting for her to wake up to see how she felt. I checked on her periodically before I went to sleep. She was breathing normally and her temperature felt fine. I saw no reason to call a doctor.”

Ian steps closer to Phillips, uncomfortably close until the two are nearly nose to nose. “Allow me to make one thing perfectly clear: I don’t believe a word you say, Phillips. You’re a slimy liar. If you ever come near Ella again, I will kill you and throw your body to the alligators, even if it means I have to fly it to the Everglades. You are going to cut a check to Ella for all monies you owe her and you will send it to me. And then Ella and I are going to live the rest of our long, happy lives without ever having to waste another nanosecond on the likes of you. Do you understand?”

He scowls. “Yes, I understand. I like Ella, very much, and I tried to help her yesterday. I suppose it’s true when they say no good deed goes unpunished. But I agree to all your terms. Now get out.”

“Gladly. But first…” he shifts his weight onto one foot and swings at the blond man, his fist making a satisfying thud as it makes contact with Lucien’s jaw. Ian follows it up with a left hook to the gut. When Phillips doubles over, Ian bends his leg and grabbing the blond man’s head, rams it into his knee, breaking his nose. Then he straightens up, adjusts his clothing, and turns to leave.

“Now I’ll get out. Have a nice day.”

“You fucking asshole! I’m going to have you arrested for assault, you motherfucker.” Phillips is yelling the words as blood spurts everywhere, running down his face, coloring his teeth, and spattering the formerly pristine hardwood floor.

Ian doesn’t even turn to admire his handiwork. He
only slightly tilts his head so the other man could hear his frigid voice. “A word of advice, Phillips: if you try any retribution against me whatsoever, Ella will file charges of attempted rape against you. We’ve already had her blood tested for drugs and I don’t need to tell you what the results were. There’s also that woman whom Ella interviewed in Venice. I suspect she’d have something to add to support our allegations, not to mention your ex-girlfriend. Eliza, I believe her name is? Eliza surely has many colorful stories to share with us. After all, a leopard never changes its spots. I’m a very wealthy man with exceedingly talented lawyers. The only one you’ll hurt by trying to get at me is yourself. And I’ll come gunning for you again if I have as much as a phone call from anyone in law enforcement. I do hope I’ve made myself crystal clear.”

Ten seconds later, Ian and his security personnel are out the door.

I’m standing under the scalding hot spray in the large steam shower when it occurs to me that I might be washing off any evidence of Lucien’s wrongdoing…
if
there was any wrongdoing. Should I go to the hospital to check for rape? Would they even be able to tell if Lucien covered his tracks and didn’t leave anything behind to find?

I rack my brain, trying to remember details. Snatches of conversation with Lucien are within reach… about my book; I can almost feel his hands sliding over my body
gently
.

Gently? The thought alone compels me to scrub raw my skin and every part of my body, rape kit be damned. I just want to put the whole ordeal behind me.

Without warning, flashes of memory come hurtling at me, staccato—like bursts of machine-gun fire. Lucien’s handsome face. A deep voice,
not Lucien’s
. Other different voices. Men’s voices.

Restraints. I remember being tied down and I raise my wrists up in front of my face. On the left one is a faint red mark but that’s it. Nothing on the right: the skin is without blemish. It’s impossible to tell what made the mark on the left wrist but it’s one thin straight line. Ignoring the built-in seat in the steam shower, I lean against the wall to check my ankles. Nothing. Damn it.

Words rush back at me and I try to force them away: I don’t want to think about all the horrid things Lucien said to me, the comment about pulling my teeth, the threat about the wooden pony. Could my subconscious really have manufactured it all? Admittedly, I’d been traumatized by the wooden pony at the BDSM club that long-ago night. Ian was, too. Could that scarring memory have manifested itself in this way? Ian’s been continuously telling me Lucien is evil; if I weren’t in my right mind, could my brain have created the whole horrific scenario? I just don’t know and it is driving me crazy.

Once I’m done with my shower, my skin is hot pink from the dual attack of the hot water and the vigorous washing I gave myself. Quickly blotting the water in my hair with a fluffy white towel, I begin to dress.

Ick. Scrunching my nose in distaste, I begin to don dirty clothes. As soon as I’m ready, I want to go to the hotel and get my things. I suppose I can change on the plane. Once I finish dressing, I apply some light make-up to banish my ghostly pallor and then go downstairs in search of Ian.

He is nowhere to be found, I soon learn. As I’m about to give up and return to the bedroom, the beautiful Daniel emerges from behind a closed door.

“Ella. Feel better?”

“Yes, very much so, thank you. I just wish I had clean clothes to put on.”

Nodding, he says. “I sent a driver to pick up your luggage—I just hope the hotel will release it to him. He’s in full livery so perhaps they’ll trust that.”

I feel strange when Daniel looks at me, as if he can see right through me, down to my naked soul. It’s probably his eyes: they’re very light green and have an incredible depth to them. His satiny voice interrupts my wayward thoughts.

“There’s fresh coffee in the kitchen. Would you care for some?”

“Yes. Thank you. Is your fiancée home? I’d like to thank her for her kindness and hospitality.”

“No. She has a full day at school today. She probably won’t return till evening.”

I glance at the mariner’s clock on the console table: almost three. “Do you know where Ian is?’

An inscrutable look flickers across his face but disappears just as quickly. “Yes. He’ll be returning very soon, Ella. He had a task to attend to. Please make yourself as comfortable as possible; help yourself to coffee and whatever else you desire. I hope you don’t think me rude but I’m planning on escaping upstairs for a nap. I don’t think I can remain coherent much longer.”

“Oh, please. Don’t let me keep you up. You must be exhausted, Daniel. I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate your kindness.”

Daniel holds up his hand to stop me. “Please think nothing of it. I’m just glad you’re feeling better.” He smiles, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Sipping a cup— a bowl really—of coffee with steamed milk, I wait for Ian to return while my kaleidoscope of mixed-up thoughts keeps me occupied. Evicting all the thoughts associated with Lucien and my time with him, I concentrate on Ian.

So…
I did it
. This morning I told Ian I love him and the earth held onto its axis, Ian didn’t cast me out into the cold, and the best part of it all is that he said he loved me, too. I have to wonder, though, if his feelings were just raw from the night we’d had or he really does love me. I’ve known I love him since the night at the club when I felt such a vicious blast of jealousy seeing other women touch him, even innocently. Afterward, I went home with him and we made love—and it
was
love. Looking into his eyes, nuanced with emotion as we became one, I knew with every fiber of my being that I was irretrievably in love with him. Perhaps I loved him from day one. I used to scoff at the idea of love at first sight, but now… now I’m not so quick to dismiss it.

As for Lucien, I need to put some time and space between last night and my ultimate resolution of the whole affair. Considering the possibility that none of it actually happened is difficult: why would my subconscious fabricate such horrible things?

At 3:35 I hear the elegant chimes of a doorbell and go to see who’s outside. Looking through the sidelights, I see Ian. Standing immediately behind him is a woman, early thirties, with streaky blond hair pulled into a neat ponytail, wearing pale green scrubs. Over her scrubs she wears a jacket, a lined windbreaker. I can’t imagine why she’s with Ian so I pull open the door to find out.

“Ella, how are you feeling?” Ian asks as soon as he walks through the door.

“Better,” I reply, conscious of the strange woman who stands beside him.

“Ella, this is Stephanie Wilcott. She’s a nurse whom Daniel kindly requested to come here for your sake. She’ll take a blood sample to check for drug residue and she can also check for other things at your request.”

His eyes don’t leave mine when he says it and I know what he’s conveying: a rape kit. If I choose to do it.

I turn to the woman. “Thank you so much. I appreciate your coming here and I’d be only too happy to submit to a drug test. Where shall we go to conduct it?”

Ms. Wilcott removes her jacket and says, “Wherever. It doesn’t matter.”

“In that case, why don’t we step into the kitchen? I was just having some coffee and perhaps I could offer you some?”

“Oh, no, thank you. Lead the way and I’ll get this done quickly.”

It takes less than five minutes for her to collect the blood and she asks me to provide her with a urine sample so I run to the powder room to comply posthaste. I want to get on the plane and back to Portland as soon as possible. After she leaves, promising to have the results as soon as possible, I sit down with Ian at the refectory table in the kitchen. He looks terrible and I tell him so.

“Yes. I’ve been better,” he sighs, running a hand through his messy hair tiredly. “On my way here I checked in with Scott. He’s on his way to the airfield to ready the jet. We can leave anytime you’re ready.”

I nod, gulping my coffee.

“Why didn’t you choose to do the rape kit?”

I don’t look up from my bowl of coffee. “I’m confident it didn’t happen and I want to put this whole experience behind me, at least for the present.”

He grabs my hand and squeezes it and when I look down at our entwined hands, I gasp so strongly I nearly aspirate saliva. “What happened to your hand, Ian?” I practically scream. His knuckles are torn and bloody and large purplish bruises are beginning to form.

He smirks. “You should see Lucien’s face.”

Another gasp. “You went there and fought with him?”

“The preposition
with
doesn’t apply here, Ella. I beat him and he accepted the beating. End of discussion. Come on, let’s get ready to go. We’ve imposed on Daniel enough and I need to get back to Portland to attend to business matters.”

This conversation wasn’t nearly done but I could continue it during our long flight home. The idea that Ian went there, probably alone, and became embroiled in a physical altercation with Lucien didn’t sit well with me. At all. First, he might have been hurt. And, second, I’m still unsure what crimes Lucien committed against me, if any. Until I have some proof, I’m hesitant to thoroughly indict him though it’s beyond impossible not to detest him right now. And on the heels of that thought, I suddenly remember giving him or someone my PIN for my bank account.

Shit. I have to check my accounts… and I should share the information with Ian. It’s not too much money but it’s a significant amount and who knows? It might provide access to other information or monies. While Ian is on the phone with Scott, I place a quick call to my bank.

Relief. No activity whatsoever on my account. I quickly change the numbers. Maybe I shouldn’t bother Ian with this recollection then? I allow myself time to mull it over.

The plane sits on the tarmac waiting for us and Scott greets us at the door.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Blackmon, Ms. Strong. Welcome aboard.”

Ian nods in acknowledgement. “Thank you, Scott. I trust you were able to rest up?”

“Yes, sir. Thank you. I also managed to wrangle up an attendant to make your flight a little nicer. We’ll be taking off within the half hour, I think.”

“Excellent.”

As soon as we enter the cabin I see the attendant: she’s young, can’t be much more than twenty, and she’s quite pretty. Amerasian, I think.

“Good afternoon. I’m Cassie and I’ll be serving you for the duration of the flight. May I get you a beverage?”

Ian eyes the girl with some suspicion. “Pellegrino, please. Ella?”

“The same, thank you.”

“Very good,” she replies demurely and vanishes into the galley. I dart my eyes over to Ian and decide to just tell him.

“So I remembered having a conversation about my bank PIN during the whole ordeal. I checked my bank accounts before we left Daniel’s and all was quiet. I changed the numbers of course.”

He turns angry eyes at me. I know he wants to kill Lucien more with every passing minute and I’m just glad he didn’t do it when he had the chance. “What else have you remembered since we last spoke about it?”

“Nothing much. Just snatches of conversation but weirdly the voice isn’t always Lucien’s. I’m wondering if there were other men there, talking to me while I was under the influence of whatever drug I’d ingested. I checked my wrists and ankles and there aren’t any marks left by restraints, either.”

He holds out his hand. “May I see them, please?”

I place my hand in his and he wastes no time in flipping my wrist to check. “Other hand?”

I switch hands and he scrutinizes that one too.

“Ankles now, please.”

Sighing, I thrust one leg at him and then the other. Satisfied, he leans back into the roomy leather seat. “He could have used padded cuffs which wouldn’t leave any marks. Do you recall anything about the restraints?”

I shake my head. “No, just that I couldn’t seem to move.”

“Mmm. It’s not impossible that the drug rendered you incapable of moving and not any restraints. I’m ready to believe the worst of Phillips but we’ll see what the evidence suggests. Regardless of the extent of his culpability, he’s no angel, Ella. Trust me: he did not act like an innocent man and Daniel Butler can attest to that fact—and Daniel has no reason for bias, unlike me.” He arches his left brow and waits for my challenge. But I have no reason to issue one, so I recline my chair to try to rest for a few minutes.

“Oh, by the way: Daniel’s man picked up your luggage and brought it directly to the airport so it’s on board with us. If you’d like to change or need anything, it’s stowed under the bench seat near the galley entrance.”

Hearing that I immediately jump up to change while we await takeoff.

Hovering in a state between sleep and wakefulness, I begin to think of my impressions of Ian when we first met. That first night, Ian took me to a French restaurant. Not an intrepid foodie, I played it safe with the
coq au vin
: chicken in wine. The chef could have poured an entire bottle of wine down the chicken’s throat and it wouldn’t have been as intoxicating as my dinner companion. I was drunk with his aura, his liquid sexuality, and the high-proof looks he flashed in my direction.

Gauchely gulping my actual wine, I tried to pull myself together, give myself a stern talking to.
You’re a strong woman, Ella; you have on power clothes; you have a near-genius IQ. Sure, you’re a salesgirl in a pricey clothing shop but it’s merely a pit stop on your way to fame and fortune. The man in front of you is there because he’s interested in you. The red McCartney suit says it all: strong, smart, sexy.

Even after time together, Ian Blackmon continues to intimidate me. Making a valiant attempt to put the essence of him into words, black letters on white paper, categorized, understood, I think that I will thereby diminish some of his potency, his hypnotic sway over me—body and soul. Maybe I’ll be able to reduce to scientific
explanation the way he sucks up all the air in the room by dint of his presence: a shimmering energy that radiates in waves off his spectacular body. Ian is a study in contrasts, a host of contradictions. Perhaps his middle name should be oxymoron: warrior-lover, lethal-kind, frightening-sweet. His smile can slay even the most impervious among mortals. Shakespeare said there were daggers in men’s smiles. Though the bard, referring to backstabbers, meant something very different, every time I see Ian’s megawatt grin, that line springs to mind.