Three and a Half Weeks (48 page)

“Her uncles continue to lie low. Right now, they are living in Chechnya. There is no price on your head, anywhere that we could find. You are free to live your life and have some fun for a change. How’s that for an update?”

Ian is stunned into silence, trying to process his feelings about what Daniel just described to him. “Were you behind this new venture for Natasha?”

“The concept did not originate with me, no. I was enlisted to assist in the execution, so in that respect it was a joint effort and one I’m hoping my wife never hears about. The whole idea made me squeamish but I thought it might be the best outcome for Natasha while keeping you and your family safe.”

“Joint between you and…?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“Phillips?”

“That’s the one. Surprised me with how fiendishly clever he actually is. He’s relieved he lost the brothers, too, and plans to remain in the U.S. as much as possible so they can’t reconnect with him anytime soon. Turns out he’s actually a nice guy who was being influenced by rotten people.” He pauses for a second. “He genuinely cares about Ella and wants her to be safe and happy.”

“Good, as long as he keeps his distance.”

Daniel laughs. “If anyone understands your position, it’s me, Ian. Before I met Olivia, I couldn’t understand what jealousy was all about, never felt it myself. Ever. Now, I find I cannot even approach reasonable, rational thought and behavior where my girl is concerned. I know I drive her crazy on occasion… but it is what it is.”

“Ditto. By the way, we received your wedding invite and we will be there. I believe Ella already sent in the RSVP.”

“Great. We’ll share a toast together in honor of Ms. Yenin’s new marriage.”

“Make it DP: that’s her favorite bubbly.”

“We’ll have to drink her share since she won’t be imbibing anytime soon. Saudi Arabia is a dry country, of course. There’s always opium, however.”

“There you go.”

“Glad this is worked out, for now. I’ll see you in a few weeks.”

“Before you go, Daniel, tell me how this arrangement went down. How would our boy Lucien know the kind of people who would… facilitate this type of thing?”

“Lucien’s neighbor in his Paris flat arranged it, a man by the name of Michel Rimbaud, like the poet. I’m quite sure it’s not even close to his actual name. Lucien said he specializes in this specific transaction and does not appreciate being labeled a human trafficker. Claims he prefers the title of
marriage broker
. Anyway, he handled the entire matter, including the delicate matter of transportation, and from what I hear, almost all of the parties involved are extremely satisfied. All but one, so he tells me.”

“Yes, I can take a wild guess as to who that one party might be. All right then. I need time to acclimate myself to this resolution. Thanks, Daniel, for everything. I’ll be in touch.”

Ian disconnects the call and returns the phone to his jacket pocket. Leaning all the way back in his ergonomic chair, he groans and covers his face with both hands. “Fuck, what am I going to tell Ella? What will she think of this turn of events?

Contemplation, however, is not to be his lot this afternoon. No sooner did he ask the room that question, did his buzzer tear into the quiet of his office. “Yes?”

“Mr. Haddad on line two, Mr. Blackmon.”

“Haddad?”

“Yes, from Saudi Arabia. He mentioned a recent purchase he made through one of your subsidiaries?”

Ian’s heart begins to accelerate as his brain connects the dots. “I’ll take the call, Janine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Hello?”

“Mr. Blackmon?” Ian Blackmon?” The voice is urbane with just the barest trace of an accent.

“Yes, this is Ian Blackmon. How may I help you?”

“Mr. Blackmon, my name is Khahil Haddad and I am the man who made a purchase through one of your subsidiaries in the past week. I wanted to contact you to inform you that the product arrived in perfect condition and I am most pleased.”

“Were you asked to contact me when the shipment was received?”

“No, but names of involved parties are exchanged to ensure that everyone adheres to the stipulations of the agreement. I was also informed of some of the possible downsides to the product at the time of purchase. I wanted to at least provide you with a small measure of peace of mind, sir. You may not be aware, but you and I actually have done business together in the recent past.”

“Can you elucidate?”

“I purchased an energy company through one of my Japanese firms. I was given a most handsome price and I hold your business ethics in high esteem accordingly. The firm was in very good standing and all the books were in order. I appreciate honest businessmen, sir.”

“Thank you for calling. I just learned about the…
sale
and I wasn’t sure exactly how I felt about it. You may or may not know but I was not directly involved in either the decision to sell nor the execution of the resulting transaction.”

“Trust me, Mr. Blackmon: this is a win-win transaction. Normally, I wouldn’t consider Russian-made products but this one is exceptional. I suspect that all parties will eventually be satisfied, bar none, if you understand my meaning.”

“Yes. I believe I do and sincerely hope that is the case. I am not a vindictive man; however, I would like to pursue my life without… complications.”

“Please do not concern yourself on that point. I have everything well contained. I wish you a good day, Mr. Blackmon.”

“And I you, Mr. Haddad. Thank you.”

“It is I who should thank you. Goodbye, sir.”

In a sumptuously appointed room devoid of any vibrant color, the oversized ebony-framed cheval mirror reflects an astonishing image: my face on a slender body with a waistline too tiny to be real… yet it is real and it is mine, squeezed into nothingness by a white satin corset, which is part of the dress. I chew my lip, trying to decide if I could bear the pain of the garment for hours on end. It always comes down to the same thing: how much pain I’m willing to bear for the sake of one man. I would chuckle if I weren’t in such a cantankerous mood.

“Oh, Ella, that is magnificent, so Jane Austen-ish,” Mariah exclaims.

“Stop using words like magnificent so early in the game or the decision will be far worse than it would be otherwise,” I snap at poor Mariah, and then look over to my future mother-in-law. “What do you think, Faith?”

The older woman claps her hands together, apparently delighted just to be in the bridal salon with us. “Vera Wang is my absolute favorite wedding gown designer but I do like this one. It’s very demure. And it looks marvelous on you, Ella. A British designer, you say?”

I nod. The designer is up and coming, so says Madame Xavier who runs the salon. Like Faith, I much prefer Vera Wang’s designs, too. In the first group of five gowns I’ve selected to try on, two are Ms. Wang’s creations.

“Ella, I’ve taken a photo of this one. Bring on the next,” my forgiving friend says. I’ll make up my snarkiness to her for sure. I’m still working on pairing her up with the brawny Mason. All that muscle to manhandle has to be worth some bitchiness from her best friend.

“Okay,” I mumble, pivoting around to return to the dressing room. Because the salon was almost completely booked for the next six weeks, I had to take whatever opening Madame Xavier had available, and it fell on a day of the month when I’m bloated, uncomfortable, and massively cranky. Yes, I could have used Ian’s name to throw my weight around… or even mention that I’m a bestselling author, but I generally choose not to exercise that kind of obnoxious clout.

Contributing to my overall dissatisfaction is the fact that Ian is in DC on a business trip. He wanted me to come and I wanted to accompany him but I had this freaking appointment. Something is going on with Ian and it’s causing problems between us. It reminds me of the beginning of our relationship, the second beginning, I should clarify, when we held back and kept secrets from one another. Since we began to be brutally honest—the day I returned from my drugged ordeal with Lucien—our relationship has fared so much better. There’s less tension and far less domination tendencies by Ian. I hope we’re not regressing.

Ian wants me to continue life with a bodyguard and I don’t want to have that yoke around my neck. He claims that the thing with Natasha is over but he won’t tell me exactly how. I don’t understand what he’s keeping from me nor why. A showdown between us is imminent.

After trying on all five of the first batch and being wowed by none, I select a second group of four. The first one she hands me is a dress by a young American designer named Janey Sinclair. The dress is a simple satin shift. It’s strapless, hugs the body almost indecently and covers from breast to mid-thigh. Over the satin shift is a gossamer tulle overlay with a taffeta skirt. It is a full gown and flares out from a vee just below the waistline. The bodice is much more demure than the shift though completely see-through: it has a gentle scoop neckline and three-quarter sleeves. It is an ethereal beauty that enhances my figure and yet feels comfortable in motion. As I step out of the dressing room, I see jaws drop and I’m pretty sure I’ve found my gown.

When the right one comes along, you just know it.

My alarm goes off at eight the next morning.
Last night I let Mariah talk me into an all-night drunk. Inside my head were a hundred miniature tap dancers, shuffling off to Buffalo on my vodka-soaked brain. As soon as I got home, I threw myself into bed, eschewing even the basic ministrations of teeth brushing and face washing. Sometime during the night, my phone rang and I missed a call from Ian.

Today
I’m supposed to meet an old friend who’s visiting Portland for just a few days. I mentioned it to Ian—what I “forgot” to mention was that this old friend happens to be of the male persuasion. Why ruffle his feathers for no good reason?

I sit up, rub my eyes, stand up to stretch, and gasp so loudly I nearly choke on my own spit… for leaning against our bedroom wall is a tall, seething man—mine to be specific. His posture is defensive, slightly slouched with arms folded across his chest, and I can see anger flaming in his gray
-blue orbs. That’s the thing with his eyes: they’re basically clear so they absorb any hue or color of environment or emotion.

I would lick my lips if I had any saliva left in my mouth. It evaporated the moment after it tried to choke me. He’s not saying anything, a situation that I always find completely unnerving. It’s up to me to defuse the situation.

“Ian! Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home early? I expected you tomorrow morning.”

“Clearly,” he says, not moving a muscle.

“Is there a problem?”

“You tell me, Ella. Do you have a problem?”

“No, I don’t. Do you?”

“My only problem of the moment is you.”

“Why?” I ask, genuinely confused as to his anger with me. What did I do?

He finally unfurls his arms, stands up straight, and walks over to me, his long legs closing the distance in three strides. “Why? Why.” He says the second interrogative rhetorically with a bitter little laugh. “For one thing, your phone was ringing and you weren’t answering it. I picked it up the second time and saw there was a text message from someone named Michael. Who is Michael? I didn’t want to read your personal messages so I’m left to wonder. My imagination is taking me to unfriendly places, Ella.”

“What are the other things?”

“Other things?”

“You said, for one thing, implying there are others. What are the others?”

“You didn’t answer your phone when I called last night either, so I’ve been worried. Also, Mason told me you shook him off when you went out last evening with Mariah. More stress for me. I’ve been standing here debating the wisdom of dragging you by the hair into the dungeon where I could properly punish you for your multiple transgressions.”

I rub my eyes again. “Ian, I didn’t mean to lose Mason last night; in fact, I’m trying to get him and Mariah together. But we couldn’t find him when we were ready to leave so…” I shrug. “I apologize. And Michael is the old friend I told you I was planning to meet. He’s just a friend, nothing more. Dragging me to the dungeon is not a good idea, FYI, unless you’re interested in a swift yet crippling kick to the groin along the way. If it’s any consolation, you’ve given me stress, too.”

No humor at my remark registers on his face… at all. He is really pissed off. His voice is deadly soft when he asks, “How is that?”

“Whatever you’re keeping from me, Ian. And whatever happened with Natasha that you’re not telling me. And the fact that you insist I take Mason with me wherever I go when supposedly everything’s been resolved.”

“Fair enough. Let’s go reconcile our differences in the dungeon.”

“No. That’s not smart. Sex is supposed to be loving and fun, not a way to vent aggression.”

“What’s wrong with occasionally employing it as an outlet for aggression? No one gets hurt, not really.”

“I don’t like it, that’s why.”

He gets closer to me, leans down; he’s in my face as he whispers, “Liar. You, Ariel Strong,
love
it. You love it when I tie you up, torment you, tease you, tickle you, and ultimately, fuck you till you scream. How long will you continue to deny it?”

My respiration is speeding up. I haven’t even had coffee yet but at this point, I probably don’t need any. Is he right? Do I love it? My body is reacting in a way that doesn’t ple
ase me: it’s contradicting my words. I can say I don’t like it, but he can tell I do by my body’s response. Am I some kind of masochistic pervert?

“What are you going to do?” I ask, voice barely audible.

His eyes bore into me; right now they’re the color of a roiling sea. “I never divulge my evil plans, Ella.”

When I don’t respond, he wraps his hands around my throat and kisses me, squeezing slightly to assert his domination. Should I go for it or tell him no?

“Okay,” I finally croak out, “but no dragging by the hair.”

He stands straight. “Agreed. You know the drill once we’re inside.”

“Okay, but first I have to brush my teeth.”

As we walk to the room, I contemplate the dynamics of our relationship. When Ian is feeling the need to dominate me, he creates reasons to justify it. He’s not really angry with me. He may have been worried but he’s had far worse worries of late. It seems to me he’s manufactured issues so he could get me into this room and do things to me.

In a moment of penetrating insight, I realize that I too must need the justification. My sense of self requires that I pretend I’m doing it to satisfy Ian’s needs, not my own. For in admitting I like to be dominated sexually, I feel like I’m acknowledging an irrefutable weakness. And that is an admission I find nearly impossible to concede.

The room is early-morning dark and cool, and my skin shrinks in protest when I remove my clothes and kneel. My eyes are cast down so I’m unable to see what he’s doing, but my ears tell me that drawers are opening and closing, and his footfalls are heavy across the hardwood floor. After a few moments his shoes—beautiful Italian leather—come into my view. “Stand,” he says and helps me up by the arm.

I keep my head down, wondering what he’s planning. I don’t wonder long, though, for he immediately begins to buckle cuffs on my wrists and ankles. “Come,” he says when he’s done, and leads me over to a round cushioned piece of furniture. It looks like a hugely oversized ottoman and he tells me to climb onto it on my hands and knees.

Every time I obey a command, I can feel him watching me closely. Is he trying to unnerve me or appraise my mood and level of anxiety? He’s left me in this position for at least five minutes without saying or doing anything. At one point, he comes over and using the toe of his shoe pushes my legs open wider without saying a single syllable.

“We’ve explored this before: I’m going to render you helpless, take away your sight and sound. Any commands will be relayed by touch. It requires a high level of trust but I think we have it by now. Do you trust me completely, Ella?”

Without hesitation, I answer in the affirmative.

“Let’s give it a try. First, your sight.” He slips the black satin blindfold over my head and tightens it till it’s snug. “Now, your hearing,” and I feel the cushioned earpieces descend over my ears and the room falls deathly still for me except for the deafening sound of my own respiration. Taking my left wrist, he pulls it back and clips it to my left ankle. My balance is precarious at this point but he gently grasps my shoulders and lowers me to the ottoman thing. I rest my left cheek on the soft fabric as he tethers my right wrist to my other leg.

If losing your sight heightens your other senses, then losing both sight and hearing makes the sense of touch incredibly vital. I feel everything keenly: the warm slightly callused skin of his hands dancing on my backside, the ends of his fingernails, clipped short though they are, skating lightly up my thighs, his satiny lips brushing my skin—everything. I’m practically quivering in anticipation of the hard stuff. One piece of the hard stuff in particular.

From one moment to the next I cannot predict his position. Sometimes it seems he’s in front of me but a half-second later, he’s behind me. It’s as if there are three of him, coming at me from all angles. Though he hasn’t touched me in the places that count, I feel an inexorable shift toward an orgasm.

Suddenly, a hundred pings of sensation hit my shoulders, proceeding up my back, and down my rear, my thighs, calves, ankles. A flogger.

The pings get sharper, more painful but in such tiny gradations as to be almost imperceptible. I know it’s pain now but I can’t tell how we got there. This is the punishment part.

When it gets so sharp I’m about to tell him, it begins to wind down. His hands run over me again, soothing the bite of the flogger. Nice and easy, I drift toward a
dreamy trance until his fingers find my nips and pinch—
hard
. I rear back but find I cannot move my body but for an inch or two. It’s still too much for him so he knees my legs out wider. Now I have no purchase to move at all.

Pain, pleasure. Pain, pleasure. It continues for a long time, until I’m panting. Tears are running down my face from the extremes and he pushes into me without any advance notice. Empty one second, full to bursting the next. The detail I notice most is his body heat: his body is on fire and it’s igniting mine. I come so fast that it takes me unaware.

He rips off the headphones and begins to whisper in my ear. Dirty words he’d never say otherwise—filthy, even. The heat ratchets up again, degree by degree. I want to see him, touch him but he’s like a phantom lover. At least I can hear him, his ragged breathing, his sounds of exertion, flesh slapping flesh, my moans layered with his growls.

I’m climbing a mountain, frantically chasing an orgasm that is tantalizingly just out of my reach. Beads of sweat race down my
back, slip down my neck toward my head, following the incline of my body. He slaps my backside so hard, I see white and the orgasm comes crashing upon me like a rogue wave. I hear him grunt as he slides into his own satisfaction.