Three and a Half Weeks (50 page)

“Do you remember Kira Firestone?”

“Of course I do. Why?”

“I just got word from a mutual friend. She took a dive off a bridge an hour ago.”

“What? Is she…?”

“Dead. Yes. Sorry to be the one to tell you, Ian.”

“Oh, God. Jackson, she called me earlier this evening, asking if we could see each other again. I told her I was involved with someone. She said she was sorry to bother me and hung up. God, I feel terrible.”

“Yes, well, not your fault. How could you possibly know she was in such despair? Anyway, I wanted to let you know in case anyone else contacts you. Your answer is
no comment
. There aren’t too many people who know of your connection with her, right?”

“No, but…”

“Shit! The cops will find your number on her phone undoubtedly. I’ll try to keep it under wraps to the extent possible. You hadn’t seen her recently, had you?”

“No. I was shocked to hear her voice.”

“Okay, I’ll do damage control. You certainly don’t need this type of publicity, Ian. You also don’t need me to tell you the obvious.”

“No, I’ve always been ace at detecting the obvious, Jackson. But, thanks.” He disconnected.

He rode up in the elevator in silence but his mind was screaming in despair. Kira had been important to him once upon a time, and he hated to think of her in such dire pain. Emotional pain is what frequently led people to crave the physical kind—it hurts less and distracts from the more severe psychological variety. Kira was a true sexual masochist, always wanting the worst anyone could deliver. It was ultimately what led to the dissolution of their relationship. He didn’t want to be the one to provide that level of pain anymore.

She didn’t take it well but she was so passive that her response was barely noticeable. Considering it one more rejection in a long line of them, she quietly moved on. It felt like a huge relief to him, though at times he did miss her tinkling laugh, the sparkle in her brown eyes when something struck her funny. Or when something struck her.

When he got inside, Ella was waiting for him, worry etched onto her face. “Is everything okay, Ian?”

The words came out of his mouth, unplanned: he was on autopilot. “Do you want to play?”

She nodded her assent but her expression showed ambivalence. Ella wasn’t sure she wanted to occupy this niche in his life. She was definitely more of a girlfriend type than a submissive, without a doubt. She did, however, enjoy the sex. And without a doubt, he enjoyed her.

“Come with me.” He led her to the locked room and once inside, instructed her to remove her clothes and kneel. He could feel something primal uncoiling inside him, stirred from a deep sleep. At the same time, strong emotion twisted his gut and the pain was becoming untenable—he needed to exorcise it somehow. He looked around, seeking a cure, an outlet, in this room devoted to rough and sensual sex.

And there Ella knelt.

He went to her, lifted her to her feet, and, walking her to the far wall, tethered her to the St. Andrew’s cross.

“What’s your safe word, Ella?”

“Crimson.”

“Crimson.” He lowered his face to her, until his lips were next to her ear. “Remember it: you might need to use it tonight. We’re going into advanced territory this evening, Ella. You need to tell me if it becomes too much for you, the moment it becomes too much for you. Do you understand?”

“Yes.” Her voice was uncharacteristically shaky.

He didn’t let that dissuade him from his course of action. Perhaps in that moment, nothing could have. Rational thought had abandoned him and he was operating on nothing but emotion-charged fuel.

He may have even tried to justify it to himself by acknowledging that Ella was a natural at this kind of play: she took to it immediately. But his mistake was in percept
ion. It wasn’t pain that she took to; it was sex—rough or gentle, she liked it both ways. She didn’t act like a virgin… ever.

For him, the crisis he was experiencing amounted to a loss of control. He couldn’t stop Kira from killing herself—one slip of his ability to regulate everything and everyone. He couldn’t stop himself from falling for Ella. Another slip. Emotions were eroding his ironclad control and that he could not accept, could never tolerat
e. He would reclaim control—consequences be damned.

He stepped over to the wall and selected an implement. He knew it should be the flogger—Ella was far from ready for the heavy stuff. Even a flogger might be pushing it. But despite knowing it was a very bad idea,
his hand reached for the single tail—his favorite whip and the one he used to use on Kira.

The first lash caught her unaware and she shrieked loudly. “No screaming, Ella. Just counting. I expect you to take it with grace. If you cannot do so, then use your safe word. Those are your two options.” He struck her again.

She never counted but she attempted to take more than she should have. Well before he got to ten, her knees gave out and she would have fallen to the ground if she weren’t tied to the crossbars. She managed to spit out her safe word, from a throat parched and running on shallow respiration, both caused by panting. The shock of hearing her safe word catapulted him back into his right mind and he threw down the whip, rushing to untie her from the cross.

Even as he carried her to the bedroom, he knew it was all over: she’d leave him for certain. His initial reaction was a quiet acceptance; he believed it was probably a good thing in the long term. No emotional attachments, he reminded himself… and Ella was starting to wiggle her way under his skin—with her alabaster complexion, her perfectly curvy ass, and her sharp wit, she was invading his thoughts during the day and his dreams at night.

But as he gazed down at her china-doll perfection, he felt crushed at the mere thought of never seeing her again… and he felt like weeping. He was overcome with grief—grief at Kira’s premature death and grief at how he’d just killed a young, tender relationship that was increasingly important to him.

Did it ever matter what kind? Grief was grief. And it hurt like fucking hell.

He gently laid her on the bed, soothed the red welts on her skin with a numbing salve, cooed to her, and brought her a shot of brandy and some ibuprofen.

“Ella, I’m sorry,” he whispered into her neck, wet from her tears. He could hear the anguish in his own voice.

She ignored him, turning away from him.

“Please don’t hate me; I made a mistake. It won’t happen again.”

“No, it won’t. You may need this lifestyle, Ian… but I don’t. I can’t.”

Despite everything, she still allowed him to touch her.
He made love to her very gently, trying to show her how deeply his feelings for her ran. Afterward, well...

She got up with obvious difficulty, hissing when the movement pulled on her back. His whip had left one stripe across her shoulder blades and several on her backside and upper thighs. Seeing his whip marks on his women usually made him hard; now, they just made him sick.

“I’d like you to avoid making any decisions until you’ve had time to calm down. Please, Ella?”

“I’m oh so calm, Ian.” She was standing with her back to the floor-length mirror, head turned to survey the damage. “Will these leave scars?”

“Of course not! I would never mark you like that.” He was truly affronted.

“Oh, silly me. Are these small signs of affection then?”

He stopped talking at that point. Her snide remarks told him he would get nowhere with her tonight. The shy salesgirl who entranced him was gone; in her place was a strong, pissed-off woman.

Her wits about her again, she grabbed for her clothes and dressed hurriedly, occasionally grimacing when it hurt. She had to go, she told him; she had an early morning tomorrow. He was adamant about driving her home. She was vehement in her refusal. They ultimately compromised: his driver would take her home. When Ian said goodnight to Ella, he knew in his gut it was really goodbye. She merely nodded grimly, turned on her heel, and walked out of his life.

He nearly cried himself to sleep that night, like a child. His emotions were all over the place and he didn’t know what to do about it. He began to feel her absence the moment she strode out the door, taking with her his happiness, his contentment, even his pride.

For three days he forced himself not to call her, not to show up on her doorstep. He allowed himself to send flowers once and that was all. Giving her time to think—and hopefully miss him as he missed her—was his intention. He never expected her to disappear.

On the fourth day, he called her cell phone and received his first shock: it was disconnected. A half hour later, he stood on the steps of her condo’s front entrance. When he knocked on the apartment door, he had an awful premonition but he refused to allow it into the light of day. It forced itself through anyway: something told him he wouldn’t see Ella again.

Mariah answered the door. “Yes?”

Relief. He cleared his throat. “Hello. I’m Ian Blackmon. I’m here to see Ella?”

“I’m sorry but Ella’s gone.”

What? “Gone?”

“Yes. Forgive my lack of manners. I’m Mariah, Ella’s friend and roommate—former roommate now, I guess. Ella left the country two days ago.”

“Left the country? How could that be? She never mentioned any plans to that effect when I saw her four days ago.”

Mariah shrugged. “I didn’t see it coming either but she packed her bags in a rush, handed me her share of next month’s rent and said
adios
, promising to keep in touch. I’m sorry, but that’s all I know.”

“Thank you,” he said, and turned away. Whether it was true or her friend was lying was immaterial; he had to be gracious about it until he knew for certain. On his way home, as his heart thundered in his chest in a cold-sweat panic, he outlined in his mind how he’d find her.
Be logical and proactive,
he reminded himself. Hopefully she was using plastic since her cell phone was disconnected. Credit cards and cell phones leave a trail of breadcrumbs.

Two weeks passed, and after zero luck in scouting out her location, he called his security expert to recommend an investigator. He needed to run somebody to ground.

Forty-eight hours later, he had her new address in front of him, courtesy of Allen Larson, the PI he’d hired. Still, he wasn’t sure of his next step. Knowing where she was now was comforting enough to allow him some time for reflection and perhaps time to try to resist the inevitable. He didn’t want to give in to the weakness of love. Emotion was debilitating; detachment was empowering. For a little while, that became his new mantra. Kickboxing became his new obsession.

Exactly two weeks after receiving the information on Ella’s location, he stepped off a Virgin Air jet at Heathrow, a piece of paper with an address written on it in his hand. Would she be happy to see him or horrified he found her? He just didn’t know, so he took a cautious approach: he waited outside her flat, sitting on a park bench for several hours at a stretch. When he first spotted her coming out of the brick building, his heartbeat seemed to falter for a moment, then thrummed strongly like a motor revving while his whole chest tightened painfully. It was so good to see her beautiful face. He’d missed it so much.

That was the moment when he had to confront reality: despite his best efforts and his diligent attempt to distance himself from all things romantic, he’d fallen in love. And, another slap in the face: chances were rather excellent that his love was unrequited. He was Ian Blackmon, one of the most eligible bachelors in the country, so said Fortune, People, Maxim, and Forbes, and the one girl he loves probably despises him and all of his evil ways.

The very evening he walked into
Archipelago
and saw her for the first time, he probably began his descent into life as a besotted fool. She was exquisitely beautiful but Ian had seen so many gorgeous women—most wealthy men do. Physically beautiful people almost always use their looks to trade up in life, so he always had lots of them fawning around him.

But it was more than mere looks. Ella had something else, a sort of dual persona going on. On the one hand, she was pristine innocence, almost angelic in her purity. Warring with the innocence, however, was a kind of innate
femme-fatale
allure, daring men—with her azure eyes—to come closer so she could destroy them with her charms, a kind of vagina
dentata
, the nightmare of anyone with a penis and a healthy libido. It sucked him in immediately.

On their first date, he’d decided he would mold her to be his next submissive if she were at all amenable. He could easily make it worth her while financially and she was a struggling student. In return, he could feed off some of that innocent charm while nurturing her undiscovered
femme fatale
. He pursued her with a single-minded determination.

Her virginity threw him for a minute or two—he wasn’t expecting it and wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. What he did know beyond a shadow of a doubt, virgin or no virgin, was that she wasn’t leaving his house that night without him fucking her, one way or another. Her virginity merely caused him to reconsider his plans. His planned domination became a seduction and he found it every bit as satisfying as any BDSM scene could be. Maybe even more.