Three and a Half Weeks (9 page)

“You called me Ella,” is the only thing that comes out of my mouth.

“Yes,” he whispers softly, his eyes filled with… what? Is it uncertainty? Regret? I just can’t tell. I think about spending the night with him, in bed
together, holding him, and having him hold me… and my chest tightens at the thought. I want to! So badly. But I shouldn’t want to. He’s a bastard who’s suing me. How much more kicking do I need before I get it through my head, for God’s sake? Why on earth do I still want him?

“That sounds like a rational plan,” I respond, my voice sounding perfectly normal—there’s no hint of the turmoil raging within. I’m
surprising myself tonight. “And, yes, I am exhausted. Thank you, Ian.”

He drives me to my hotel himself, in his little two-seater sports car. When I turn to say goodnight, I extend my hand to him. He accepts it but uses it to pull me closer and kisses me gently on the lips. No force, no tongue—just a soft kiss that confuses me even further.

“Good night, Ella. I look forward to seeing you again. Thank you for coming to Portland to meet with me.”

I nod my acceptance. “Good night, Ian. I’ll speak with you tomorrow evening.”

He assists me out of the car. Right before I step through the revolving door entrance of the hotel, I chance a look back. He’s standing by the passenger door, leaning on his car with his arms crossed and his long legs tilted outward. His whole demeanor is melancholy and it makes me sad, too. I wave and muster a small smile before heading into the lobby with a heavy heart and a guilty mind.

She was just playing him.

She never had any intention of agreeing to
any of his demands. As soon as she returned from making her phone call to her attorney, he pretty much knew he’d lost the game. His sweet, innocent little Ariel had become a force to be reckoned with and getting her back wasn’t going to be easy—perhaps not even possible. He might have to tell her how much she had come to mean to him in their brief time together, how he actually cares. Tell her even before he is sure of her feelings for him.

He shakes his head.
Never
. He’ll never give someone—a woman—that much power over him. If she knew how she could use it to destroy him…

After he’d had time to consider the evening, he realized that his plan never stood a chance, not a ghost of one. Out of the two of them, an open court battle would hurt him far worse th
an her—he had the most to lose, and surely any two-bit attorney would recognize that truth immediately. He would tarnish his sterling reputation, his business credibility, the respect of the corporate community… What would Ella lose? Right now, her public name was built on a sexy book. If anything, it could only help cement her reputation as an author of risqué prose.

If Ian could recognize it even from such a subjective position, certainly she and her high-priced lawyer could
, too. That meant they would call his bluff and when he thought about it, he really had no other hand to play: he might be the dominant personality, but she held all the strong cards.

He has to smile. When he first set eyes on her, she appeared so shy, so easily flustered. When she handed him his purchase at Archipelago that day they met and called him sir, it set all his instincts as an aggressive male and a
sexual dominant on fire. But one small, uttered word did not a submissive make.

Still, he’s certain sh
e has submissive inclinations—it’s in the way she responds to a sharp command—but perhaps she is willing to give up control only in a sexual context and only sometimes. He knows that is often the case with strong women who wield a lot of power in their careers, their lives in general. He’d probably asked her for too much control and she was only willing to give up some. And the pain? No, she won’t accept it, at least not the kind delivered from a whip.

Pity.
The crack of a whip is so sexy, and seeing it dance and flicker across the silky skin of a squirming girl excites him beyond belief.

But surely he can live withou
t it.

He could live with
or without just about anything if he could get her back. He just doesn’t know how exactly to go about it. So far, he’d only managed to alienate her further… and in the process cost her money and royally piss her off. Gone is the shy, innocent girl of last year, and in her place stands a kick-ass, confident young woman with a fat bank account and a pricey attorney. Perhaps the best thing to do right now is retreat. By doing so, he’ll run the risk of never seeing her again. But right now he holds a purely sucky hand and it is time to fold. The thought depresses the hell out of him.

He wakes up before dawn the next day and immediately the preceding night infiltrates his brain, depressing him again. He’ll call Jackson today and tell him to withdraw the lawsuit. He won’t sign a waiver relinquishing his right to sue but he will let it go… let Ella go. If she doesn’t come back to him, well, that is that. He’ll
manage to forget her and find someone else eventually. After a year of celibacy, it is high time.

“What? Why are you cutting and running, Ian? Are you actually letting this little girl win so easily?”

He laughs lightly, no heart in the forced humor. “Jackson, I know when to call the game. She was playing me for a fool last night, allowing me to think she’d acquiesce to my demands when she had no such intention. Let’s face it: I can’t let this get to court
and she knows it. Just drop the suit and advise her attorney. I have no plan to speak directly with her any further.”

“Okay, Mr. Blackmon. You’re the boss. I’ll give Mr. Buch
anan the good news right now. I guess I’ll see you this weekend?”

“I’ll be there
.”

Before going in to the office, he visits the gym on the lobby floor to get in some exercise, wanting to burn off some negative energy. As usual the receptionist—Stephanie, is it?—tries her damnedest to engage him in conversation. He smiles politely and keeps going.

Thinking about Ella’s reaction when her lawyer tells her he dropped the suit makes him grin. She’ll certainly be happy and relieved… but will she also feel disappointed that she won’t see him again? At this point he really doesn’t know worth a damn. For a man adroit at reading people as easily as others read the newspaper, Ian can’t begin to assess what is going on in that little minx’s head—and that is probably part and parcel of her allure for him.

Since his defeat last night, he’d made a few decisions. Probably the most important one is that he would now begin to move on, starting immediately. He was planning on going to the club Saturday night and playing with one of the subs there—he is not cut out to be a monk, for God’s sake. Getting laid will surely improve his disposition. He was looking forward to being in that atmosphere again, with like-minded people—he and Jackson would go there after the
Tae Kwon Do
tournament at the dojo.

Rubbing his face, Ian leans back in his chair and stares into space. His back aches from sitting all day, despite the fact that he’d dropped a small fortune on the ergonomic chair in his office.
I have to get out of here
, he thinks. He’d been spending ten-hour stints at work nearly every day since his firm acquired a failing solar panel manufacturer that he and his team were trying to prop up—make it solvent and then hopefully profitable. It was a lot more work than they’d bargained for when they purchased the damn company.

He’d go to the club tonight
—this time definitely. It had been three weeks since he’d dropped the lawsuit against Ariel and he hadn’t heard from her, not a peep. He’d planned on going to the club weeks ago but then business picked up to a frenetic pace and he was just too tired to do anything other than some exercise and plopping on the sofa, using the remnants of his energy to hold up a glass of wine and a remote control. Yes, he’d been too tired to go to the club—it had nothing to do with hoping Ella would contact him. Nothing at all.

No, he was looking forward to going out tonight and spending some time with a warm and willing woman. Checking his watch, he realizes it’s already seven. Time enough to go home, shower and change, and make it to the private club before all the available women are spoken for. He clears off his desk and picks himself up out of the chair, a physical and mental effort at this point.

“Ian, about time you showed your ugly mug around here.”

He had just walked into the main room of the club and Jackson was threading his way to him through the throng of people. “Finally. Are you drinking this evening or planning to play?”

Looking around at who was already in the room, he nods in approval. “Play, I think. Anyone new and interesting tonight?”

“As a matter of fact, yes. I did see a pretty redhead I haven’t seen here before. I went to the restroom, though, and couldn’t find her when I returned. Maybe she went downstairs.” His bright eyes continually scan the room.

The club lighting is dim, the music pulsing so loudly and so heavy on the bass, it resonates inside the body. All the elements of the club—the dark, the rhythm of the bass, the scent of sweat and pheromones—combine to evoke the cradle of humanity, the primacy of the jungle and all things primal. It gets the heart pumping fero
ciously, and adrenaline surging through veins. There’s a dance floor and a huge circular bar on the first floor. All the action takes place in the dungeon that begins in the rear rooms and spills down to a floor below. Because the club is private, everyone pretty much knows everyone else, at least by nodding acquaintance, and new people are allowed to join based only on recommendation by longstanding members or by satisfying a lengthy application process. The annual membership fees are hefty enough to keep out all but the most determined and well-heeled patrons, as well. Privacy and discretion come at a premium.

Club members are allowed to bring guests, however, so around the bar there are usually fresh faces. Guests don’t generally wander too far afield their first night there and aren’t allowed in some restricted areas of the club.

“Ian!” A pretty dark-haired woman runs up to him, leaping into his arms.

“Juanita?” He looks at her admiringly, assessing the woman from head to foot. “What’s different?”

The young woman laughs. “Oh, about twenty pounds and a new set of boobs.” She swivels from right to left, sticking her chest up. “You like?”

Laughing, he nods in assent. “Very much. Though I liked them well enough before, too.”

She pats his cheek. “You’re so sweet. It’s so good to see you back here. Are you topping anyone tonight?”

“I just arrived a minute ago.” H
e winks. “I think I might have a drink first.”

“Okay, well find me if you’re interested. I’ll be on the dance floor showing off my new cleavage.”

“Will do. Jackson, a drink first?”

“Sure, why not? I want to see if I can scope out that redhead again.”

The two men walk over to the bar. “Ah, thar she blows.”

Ian arches his brow.
“I don’t think any woman would appreciate your using that reference about her.”

Jackson’s grin is rueful. “No wonder I never get laid.” He tosses his head back with a spurt of laughter. “I never know whether being seen with you is an asset or liability. Either I might bask in your reflected glory having your stupidly handsome face by my side or I might wither in comparison. But since I’m a loyal friend, I’ll err on the side of camaraderie.”

“Much appreciate it.”

“Ian?”

He turns to see a tall, slender blonde strolling toward him. “Kim.” He leans over to give her a kiss on the cheek. “God, it’s good to see you. How’s everything?”

“Much better, thank you. It is so great to see you, too, Ian. I never had the chance to properly thank you.”

He smiles. “Can I buy you a drink? We were just heading to the bar. Jackson, do you know Kim?” He almost forgot and tacked on her last name—club etiquette dictated that surnames not be used.

Jackson is too busy gaping at the blond woman for intelligent conversation. Ian understands: utterly beautiful, Kim attracts attention wherever she goes. Even more appealing than her incredible physical beauty is her genuinely kind personality. Kim is an absolute sweetheart.

Ian slings his arm protectively around Kim as they continue to the bar. While Kim and Jackson converse, Ian glances up and directly into a pair of very determined, very surprised, perhaps even angry blue eyes.

Ella? Here?

I’d been rehearsing what I was going to say to Ian when I called him back the next day to give him my answer, when Stephen’s call came in. My nerves were so on edge that I jumped when Aretha started singing. I grabbed for the phone to quiet it.

“Yes?”

“Ella, Stephen. Incredible, great, fantastic news. Blackmon dropped the lawsuit.”

“What? Just like that?”

“Just like that. I just got off the phone with his attorney. He said as far as his client is concerned the matter is closed.”

“Wow. I’m… confused… happy, but confused. It doesn’t seem like him to just change direction like that with no explanation.”

“I think Blackmon realized he was going to go down in flames so he cut his losses. He’s a smart man, Ella, and he couldn’t win this one. I was really surprised he tried at all but after getting to know you a bit, I may understand his motives.”

I laugh nervously; Stephen has never said anything untoward to me so I wasn’t expecting that compliment. “Well, thanks for letting me know. Do I need to do anything now?”

“Anything? You mean like send him a thank-you note?”

“Uh, yeah, I guess so. Is there a proper etiquette for situations like these?”

His responding laugh is sharp and loud. “No, Ella, not really. My advice is to do nothing, just go on with your life as if this upsetting little event never happened—unless you want to celebrate your win over the big, bad Ian Blackmon, for it is a win. In fact, why don’t I take you out for a celebratory dinner?”

“Oh, thanks, but no, Stephen. I think I’m going to head back to L.A. sooner than later. But thank you… for everything. Really.”

“No thanks n
ecessary, Ella. I’m taking a vacay on your dime, after all. Take care and please let me know if you need me for anything.”

“Yes, thanks, Stephen. Oh, and enjo
y your vacation.” I disconnect quickly, horrified that he was hitting on me. Or was he? I don’t trust my own judgment these days. Do I even want to go back to L.A.? I have some thinking to do now that the lawsuit’s been dropped. Even though I know I should feel elated, somehow I don’t. In fact, I feel let down in some way. How odd.

That night I have dinner with Mariah. I haven’t told anyone what’s been going on for to do so, would be to further infringe on the CA. It would be great to have a friend with whom to commiserate but it is what it is, as Stephen would say.

“So,” she says between bites of a plate of
enchilada mole
, “how long will you be staying in Portland?”

I shrug, eyes scanning the crowded restaurant. I find myself doing that every time I leave my hotel room. Who or what I’m looking for, I don’t know. “Not sure
, honestly. If the whole crazy book thing never happened, right now I’d be applying to doctoral programs and looking for an interesting internship. Having all money worries removed is liberating to be sure, but it also makes goals less clear, if you know what I mean.”

“Mmm, wish I did, Ella, but, no. I’m still a working stiff. I do have
your old bedroom still vacant and I could use the extra rent if you’re interested in hanging around for a while?”

“Hmm, maybe. Let me mull it over tonight and I’ll let you know tomorrow. Good enough?”

“Absolutely. Mmm, you have to taste this, here,” and holds a forkful out to me.

We spend the rest of dinner stuffing our faces while Mariah gives me all the details on her recent trip to San Francisco.

A week later I move into her spare bedroom, to Mariah’s relief. I’ve decided to stay in Portland for a month while I decide what to do with my life. After, I’m going to visit my parents, and then maybe make a quick trip to New York to meet with my agent and visit some museums. I’ve decided to put my real estate search on hold until I make decisions on my immediate future—it would be silly to do otherwise.

I never called Ian and he hasn’t made any effort to contact me. I know I should be happy; I know I should feel nothing but relief… but I don’t. I mean, I’m definitely relieved about the lawsuit going away and there was never any real chance that I’d actually become his submissive. But if I’m brutally honest with myself, I’m also massively disappointed. I’m sort of crushed that I won’t see him again. I’ve been pining for the man for the entire past year and I have to remind myself of the reason why I wrote the book in the first place:
I missed him
.

How can I possibly have fallen in love with a man after knowing him less than a month? But then I think, who wouldn’t fall in love with him? Even with his deviant predilections, he’s an amazing man. He’s wickedly intelligent, incre
dibly competent in so many ways… he’s funny, gorgeous, generous with his money if not himself, and he treated me very well—apart from the little matter of the whipping.

But I agreed to it. It wasn’t as if he forced me into it. I was curious about the whole thing and I never expected he would strike me that hard. Why did he? That’s what I don’t get.

I’ve been reading up on BDSM and I understand it a little better than I did back then… but understanding intellectually is not the same as living it. I’ve always been able to see how erotic it can be… but I’m not certain I’m wired for it. And I take exception to the fact that Ian called me a natural submissive. I’m not. I’m strong and capable and independent—I don’t plan on submitting anything to anyone. So there, Ian Blackmon. Have a nice life.

The intercom rings one Friday afternoon. Mariah’s not home from work yet and she didn’t mention she was expecting anyone. I pick up the intercom. “Yes?”

“Yes, Ms. Strong. I have a Naomi Lewis here to see Mariah?”

Naomi Lewis? Yes, Mariah mentioned she might be hanging with us this weekend; she just didn’t say to expect her. “Oh. Okay, send her up.”

“You must be Ella,” the redheaded woman shouts, as I open the door and she flings herself into my arms. “I’ve heard so much about you!”

“Good things, I hope?”

“Oh, yes, Very good things. You are Ella, aren’t you?”

Laughing, I admit it’s me. “Naomi, it’s nice to meet you. Mariah speaks highly of you, too.”

“Now you’re just lying,” she chuckles. “Mariah thinks I’m completely insane. And I am, FYI. But it’s a fun insane, not a dangerous, creepy insane.”

I like her instantly. Still giggling, I go into the kitchen to get us some wine. “White or red?”

“Ooh, definitely red. What do you have?”

“Is Cabernet okay?”

“Perfect. Thank you.”

I pour out two glasses and we bring them into the living room. Digging out my iPod from my oversized bag, I park it in the dock and put on some Chili Peppers.

“So,” Naomi says, leaning back into the sofa. “Has Mariah mentioned what we’re planning for tonight?”

I swallow a sip of wine. “Planning? No, she hasn’t said anything.”

“Really? Hmm, I wonder why. Okay, well I’ll wait until she gets here to explain.”

“That sounds mysterious. What’s in the bag?” I gesture to a large silver shopping bag she’s parked at her feet.

“Weeeell,” she says, stretching out the syllable, “that’s part of what we’re doing tonight.”

“Okay, well, now the suspense is killing me. Spill your guts, Naomi.”

At that precise moment, the key turns in the door and in struts Mariah. When she sees Naomi, she drops her coat and bag and makes a beeline for the woman. “You made it! I was sure you’d bail on me yet again. I never get to see you anymore.”

“My job has taken over my life… but I’m all yours tonight and Ella here was just about to extort our plans for the evening out of me. How come you didn’t tell her?”

Mariah shrugs. “Nothing nefarious afoot; I just wanted it to be a fun surprise.”

My eyes volley back and forth, feeling as if I’m watching tennis. “What, damn it?”

“We’re going to my club tonight.”

“Your club? That’s the surprise?”

“It’s a very special club, Ella. Isn’t it, Mariah?”

“Oh, yes. Mucho special.”

“Really?” I ask. “What’s so special about it?”

The look on Naomi’s face has me worried. “Well, considering the racy book you wrote, you may not find it all that unusual, but it’s a private BDSM club and I’m taking you and Mariah as my very important guests.”

“You are?” I look helplessly at Mariah. “We are?”

Mariah nods slyly. “I thought it would be fun—and educational—to see a real club after reading your imaginative novel. C’mon, Ella, it will be epic.”

Naomi jumps in. “And trust me, there are hunky men always lurking about there—always. Beautiful men, both Dom and sub, whatever trips your trigger. What do you think, ladies? Are you all in?”

I take a big swig of wine, gulping it like water. “So what’s in the bag?”

Shrugging again, Naomi casually says, “Oh, some fetwear, and some plain but sexy clothes—things for you and Mariah to pick through and try on. I have mine on already.” She stands and removes the tunic-type sweater she’s wearing and underneath she has on a very short, very tight black latex dress that zips up in front from bottom to plunging neckline.

“Oh. Wow. Okay, let me think about this idea for a second.” I try to clear my head but the wine is already causing my brain to buzz. “Are we allowed to just sit at the bar and observe? I mean, we don’t have to do anything, right?”

“Noooo, but you very well might want to, once you get an eyeful of some of those men. Sometimes members even bring guests who aren’t into this particular thing so you can meet conventional people there every so often. You know, normal men.”

Mariah claps her hands. “Oh, no, I want to meet the abnormal ones! Normal is boring.”

I look at both of their eager faces and shrug my shoulders. “Oh, what the hell? What’s the worst that can happen?”

“Famous last words. Didn’t Napoleon say that ere he saw Elba? Or was it Anne Boleyn? General Custer?”

I laugh. “Okay, Mariah, I take back the fate-tempting words. Sorry.”

Mariah leaps to her feet and grabs my hand. “Come on, let’s go try on some bad-girl clothes.”

Two hours and two glasses of wine each later, we’re dressed for the night out. Mariah is wearing a black leather corset that makes her body look killer—she can’t breathe but it’s worth it. A short black leather skirt—so short it’s almost not there—completes the outfit. Her shiny reddish-blond hair is piled high on her head and she’s doubled down on the eyeliner.

I opt for a black leather bra tha
t happens to fit me as if it were made for me personally. Over that I’m wearing a sheer white see-through long-sleeved top. It has a vee-neck that plunges down low enough to allow the top of the bra to peek out. Naomi wraps a pewter choker around my throat—slave chic, I suppose. Since I wasn’t about to wear the ridiculous skirts she brought for us (they looked like broccoli rubber bands), I slide into—and slide is the operative word—a pair of super tight Lycra jeans-style pants, and my black stiletto shoes. I leave my hair down and put on some extra make-up.

“Excellent!” Naomi exclaims when she see
s us. “We all look so hot we’re gonna set the place on fire. It’s just about seven-thirty now. Should we grab a bite on the way there? The club usually doesn’t start hopping until about nine.”

“Are we really going to go into a restaurant dressed like this? I don’t think so—unless you let me wear a fake nose and mustache to disguise myself.”

Laughing, both Naomi and Mariah roll their eyes and Mariah says, “Ella, I swear I don’t know how you wrote that dirty novel of yours. You’re such a prude—a babe but a prude.”

I stick
out my tongue at her. “Am not,” I huff. “Just sensible and slightly dignified. Ever so slightly,” I add.

Naomi solves the problem for us. “How about we go to the diner on the same block as the club? They’re used to seeing it all.”

“Okay,” I say in defeat. I have a strong feeling I’m going to be overruled in everything we do tonight. I have to admit, though, I’m having fun for the first time in… well, since I can remember.

We get to the club at nine on the dot. Naomi signs us in and we have to show ID and sign disclaimers relieving the club from any liability for insult or injury—not the most reassuring t
hing in the world. As soon as we enter the room, my blood pressure rockets up: it’s scary. Everyone is in various stages of undress and/or outlandish clothing. There are very big, scary men dressed in black leather, strolling around, coiled whips and handcuffs dangling from their belts. One even smiles at me—an evil smile—and I get icy shivers sprinting up and down my spine. He sees my reaction and his grin gets wider. I reach for Mariah’s hand and clutch it for dear life. All of a sudden this is not so fun anymore.

“Naomi,” I shout over the din of the loud music, “dumb question: do you know most of the people here?”

“I know many of them by face, not name. I’ve been a member for about two years already so, yeah. But there are always new faces cropping up.”

I notice an older blond man checking out Naomi and she looks back at him with interest. Maybe she’ll go a separate way tonight? And that thought leads me to a chilling one: what if Mariah and Naomi both hook up and I’m left by myself? No, they wouldn’t do that to me. Would they?