Three and a Half Weeks

by Lulu Astor

  Chapter 7

  Pierre has a room ready for Ian when he arrives at the restaurant. What he really would have preferred was to host the dinner at his house but he knew Ella wouldn’t feel comfortable with that arrangement. Not now. Still, their discussion required discretion and privacy so he selected the French restaurant for its private dining rooms.

  “Is this acceptable, Mr. Blackmon?” the maître d’ is annoyingly fawning.

  “Yes,” he answers tersely, “it will do nicely. When my companion arrives, please ensure she is directed to join me here. Her name is Ariel Strong.”

  “Very good, sir. I’ll send a waiter up immediately to take your drink order.”

  Ian nods at the man and pretends to look at the menu, effectively dismissing him. I’m nervous, he realizes with some small amount of shock. When was the last time I felt this out of control? Was it when she left me? I’ve never felt this way in the boardroom, never with any other female, never in a fight I couldn’t win. This woman has me twisted in knots. He laughs. If she only knew.

  Checking his watch, he expects she’ll be here in about five minutes. His driver called as soon as he picked her up at her hotel.

  The door opens and he catches his breath. Not her. It’s a young waiter in a black suit that appears a bit too large for him. “Would you care to order drinks, sir?”

  “Yes. I’d like a bottle of the California Malbec. Also, some mineral water. Thank you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As the waiter opens the door to take his leave, she is suddenly there in the doorway, the light from the hall radiating around her like an aura, and deepening the impact of the moment. When Ian makes eye contact, it feels as if the air gets immediately sucked out of the room, leaving him desperate for oxygen. He takes a step back before even realizing what it will say about his frame of mind.

  Ella. She looks ethereal, angelic even, if angels wore killer heels. Her hair has gotten much longer, the soft waves cascade well past her shoulder blades, nearly to her waist. She’s wearing fitted black pants that highlight some of her best attributes, and a silver silk camisole, over which she has on a mesh silver sweater, open so it covers only her arms. A belt with a huge buckle sits low on her hips—as do the pants—matching her sterling jewelry that catches teasing glints from the lamplight, and her shoes are black patent leather fuck-me stilettos. The phrase dressed to kill springs to mind and he smiles slowly.

  He forces himself to stand still and wait for her to come to him, all the while his eyes drinking in every ounce of her. Yes, she looks different: more confident, a bit older, even thinner. But she also looks the same: sweet, unpretentious, and possibly… terrified.

  Good.

  He holds out his hand as she approaches. “Ariel. I’m pleased to see you.”

  “Ian.” She places her hand in his and pulls it back just as quickly.

  “Please, have a seat.” He holds out her chair as she sits and then returns to his own. “You look beautiful. I hope all is well with you… apart from our little situation?”

  She nods, taking a few moments to appraise the man in front of her. He’s as handsome as she remembered—more handsome than the picture stubbornly residing in her memory: the impossibly strong jaw, straight nose, mercurial eyes, long lashes, and gracefully arched brows. Oh, and that illicitly sensual mouth. The things he could do with that mouth. Naturally, everything is in proportion and topped by a headful of lustrous hair. She wouldn’t even think about the body underneath his custom-tailored clothing. For Ella, that was wading into treacherous waters since she could barely resist him physically without even going there.

  There are some changes, though. He looks leaner now and his eyes aren’t as bright as before; in fact, if Ella were pressed to say, she’d swear he looks haunted. But why? It couldn’t have anything to do with the lawsuit, could it?

  “Yes, thank you, Ian. You look good, as well. And… how are you?”

  “Fine. Business is hectic, but that’s par for the course. Other than that, life is fairly serene.”

  The waiter returns with the bottle, opens it, and pours a bit into his glass to taste. Ian does and nods his approval, anxious for the man to make himself scarce. “Very good, thank you.” After pouring the wine and water, the server retreats quickly.

  Ian turns his full attention back to the girl seated in front of him. “So, Ariel, I’m exceedingly pleased to see you. I was so very disappointed when you disappeared last year without any explanation. May I ask why you chose to do so?”

  Her face floods with red but she appears to arrest it—mind over matter—and thrusts her chin up, as if defying her own nature. “I think you know why, Ian. Let’s not bother with playing games.”

  His head snaps back in surprise at her tone; clearly Ms. Strong has come into her own. “I know you were angry with me but I don’t think it warranted the drastic actions you took. Obviously, you do?”

  “I did at the time. Perhaps in retrospect it seems a tad excessive.”

  “Hmmm. When did you learn of your fellowship?”

  Again she flushes. “The letter of acceptance arrived in the morning mail the very next day.” She smiles, satisfied. “I had less than two weeks to pack up and get there before classes were slated to begin.”

  What incredibly bad timing for him. That damn letter arriving that day brought him a year’s worth of misery.

  She clears her throat. “Ian, I don’t mean to be rude but I would really like to cut to the chase. Do you mind?”

  Again the door opens and the waiter steps over to take their dinner order.

  Ian leans back in his chair, feeling his equilibrium return to him, and casually sips his wine. His hand must be played oh so carefully—no need to rush it, despite her impatience, or rather because of it. He just watches her react to his presence and enjoys her unease. Or is it disdain? Perhaps his power no longer affects her quite so dramatically? The distinct possibility leaves an acidic taste in his mouth.

  “So,” she starts.

  She’s decided not to wait for his lead, then. Let’s see where she goes with it.

  “I understand you consider my book a violation of the contract you had me sign when we first met. May I explain the circumstances to you?”

  He gestures with his hand for her to continue, saying nothing, and by his manner keeping the pressure up and on her. He just isn’t sure it matters anymore.

  She launches into her explanation. As she recounts the story, Ian watches her face closely, scrutinizing her for lies or half-truths. None. It seems as if she’s being honest. He has to suppress his laughter at the impossible situation in which she finds herself, through no fault of her own, not really. Poor Ella: not good for her but excellent for him.

  Initially, it was to his consternation to learn she had ignored the CA and in the most public of ways, by writing a damn book! The news had taken him aback for it didn’t seem like something Ella would do, to tread on someone else’s privacy so thoroughly. But when Delacroix read the book—and enjoyed it immensely, so he said—and saw there were no identifying details, Ian had felt better. Still, there remained a lingering sense of betrayal about the whole affair, over the fact that she profited monetarily by disclosing intimate details, however anonymously. Now that she explained how it unfolded, he can find it comical.

  She flips her long hair back off her shoulder, distracting him from his thoughts and continues to speak. “The question now becomes what exactly will you accept as restitution for your injury? I’m perfectly willing to consider anything you put on the table, Ian.”

  A brow goes up. “Anything, Ariel?”

  No blush—ten points for her. “Within reason. I just want to clear this matter up.”

  “You could have turned down the offer from the publishing company, you know.”

  She shrugs, bringing attention to her bare shoulders. Now on her second glass of wine, she’s removed her sweater and her tanned shoulders gleam in the low light. A shiver runs up his spine: h
e wants her in his bed tonight. Is it within the realm of possibility? Her voice interrupts his reverie. “By that point it had been all over the Internet. It became a matter of continuing to give it away or make some money on it. Seemed like a no-brainer.”

  “Indeed. Allow me to say I have no interest in sharing in the monetary profits from the sale of the book or the film rights. None at all.”

  Her face registers her suspicion. “Go on.”

  “Nor do I wish to see the book pulled from the shelves; I’m rather flattered that it’s so popular, as a matter of fact.”

  “So, then, I don’t understand. What’s the purpose of the lawsuit, Ian?”

  “Very simple, Ariel: I want you to accept my original offer to you to become my submissive. The only difference is in the length of time. I’m extending the trial period from six weeks to six months. Should you satisfy the terms of our agreement, I will relieve you of all liability now and in the future for this specific book.”

  “Six months? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “I’m afraid not, Ariel. Six months. And I want your definitive answer before we leave the restaurant this evening.” He peers at her, his face now devoid of any amusement. “In fact, I’d like to begin the arrangement tonight.”

  Words apparently fail her. Instead, she turns a full-on glare at him, her eyes never wavering in their focus or intensity. Their verbal exchange has now evolved into a stare down. Neither wants to be the first one to look away. He knows his eyes are daring her to challenge him, reflecting confidence, arrogance, even expectation. Hers are blazing with disbelief and outrage. Either it would become a showdown or she’d capitulate—though he wouldn’t bet on the latter based on her body language at the moment.

  Pushing her chair back from the table, she practically spits at him. “Excuse me, please.”

  He rises with her, as ever polite, noting she leaves her sweater draped on the chair back. Good, he thinks, she’s not planning on ditching me, but still . . .

  “May I ask where you’re going?”

  “Not that it’s any of your damn business but I assured my attorney that I wouldn’t agree to anything without his prior approval. Since you demand an answer tonight, I need to speak to him first,” and with that announcement, she flounces out of the room, her spiky heels clicking furiously on the marble floor. Worried he may have overplayed his hand, he watches her hips swing back and forth, and pulls out his own phone.

  “How did it go, Ian?” Delacroix answers on the first ring.

  “I’m not sure, Jackson, but not as good as I’d hoped or anticipated either. She was a lot more malleable when she was fresh out of college and without resources, and, more to the point, had no attorney to help fight her battles. What do we know about this Stephen Buchanan person? He’s advised her not to commit to anything until he gives his okay.”

  “Buchanan? He’s known to be a bit of a shark in protecting his clients’ rights to their intellectual property. In other words, he’s usually sitting on the other side of the courtroom—his clients are mostly victims of copyright infringement. Other than that? Nice guy. Late thirties, handsome, comes from an old family, tennis aficionado.”

  “Married?”

  “I’m not sure—he was at one time. Is it material?”

  “Hmmm… I’m sorry?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, just wondering if he has more than her legal interests at stake. He wants her to get his approval first—I realize, of course, that she engaged him for legal counsel but after hearing my proposal, it’s become more of a personal matter at this point, hasn’t it?”

  “Yes and no. First, he doesn’t know about your intentions or didn’t until now. At the very least, he’ll expect to draw up papers for you to sign, relieving Ms. Strong of all liability if she satisfies your requirements, so you might as well disabuse yourself of the notion that you’ll have company for breakfast tomorrow morning.”

  He laughs. “Well, I can always invite you.”

  Chuckling, Jackson disconnects the call, leaving Ian alone with his thoughts, to contemplate what he should do in either case. Ariel struts back into the room before he expects her return. He leaps to his feet as she approaches the table but she makes no move to sit down. This doesn’t look good, Ian thinks, but he waits patiently for her next move.

  “I accept your offer, Ian, with limits, naturally. I’d like you to draw up a list of all the… obligations… you’ll require of me—everything; I want no surprises. Also, I need to know where I’ll live while we’re engaged in this relationship. My attorney will draw up a waiver for you to sign, relieving me of any legal liability for the specific book, as you put it.”

  “Very good. Shall I assume these conditions must be met before we begin? Or is it possible that we may start tonight before the paperwork is signed?”

  “We can start tonight.”

  Chapter 8

  I decide the best way to handle Blackmon is to lull him into a false sense of security. I could not believe the unmitigated audacity of the man to demand what he did of me. Yes, I’m still obscenely attracted to him, and yes, I’m probably still half in love with him… but I have absolutely no intention of becoming his submissive and allowing him to abuse me, physically or otherwise. Is he genuinely mad—as in out-of-his-mind crazy?

  The last twenty-four hours have been exhausting. After Ian and I arranged to meet at the restaurant, I went to bed early, knowing I had to be on my A-game the next day, but sleep proved elusive. I finally conked out just before dawn, so I was grouchy all the next day, snapping at people a number of times—behavior that I instantly regretted and for which I apologized. I got myself ready and went shopping.

  I opted for pants since I always feel more powerful when my legs are covered, for some reason… but I wanted to feel sexy, too. I knew Ian would look fantastic—he always does and so effortlessly—and I didn’t want him to best me in anything. I needed every ounce of mojo available to me in order to pull this off. And pull it off I would.

  At 1:45, the plane took off from a private airfield not too far from Burbank Airport. I got into Portland at about five and went straight to my hotel to check in. Seeing the familiar city again gave me a pang of nostalgia and I realized I had missed it. While I was here, I would go visit Mariah and a few other friends, for sure. Tonight I had to meet Ian at eight, so I had enough time to shower and dress at my leisure. Though I never drink anything stronger than wine, I nonetheless help myself to a bottle of Absolut from the mini-bar. It infuses me with calm and maybe a little bit of courage. I need all the help I can get.

  As I see it, I have to anticipate what Ian’s going to say. There are three possibilities: first, that he wants money. But I tend to doubt it. Ian Blackmon has more money than God. Going after my wealth would be small fry to him.

  Second, that he wants to have the book pulled from bookstore shelves. That’s a greater possibility but it seems silly. After all, so many people have already read it and there are millions of copies in circulation so pulling it wouldn’t really achieve anything at this point.

  The third and most probable possibility is that he wants something more personal: perhaps he wants to reestablish our relationship? But that also seems insane. Why would he? He could get any woman he wants. Plus, I left him in a hurry without even a phone call. He never tried contacting me after his first few attempts. At one point, I felt sure he’d put his considerable resources to use, easily finding me and showing up at my flat in the UK. But he never did.

  I could only surmise that he didn’t care… and it didn’t matter anyway since he whipped me. I just couldn’t get over that experience. Who could?

  Here’s what I figured I’d do: show up at the restaurant, find out what he wanted from me, and as soon as I learned his demands, I’d call Stephen and he would tell me what to do. But I must admit I didn’t handle it well at all when he told me what he wanted. His fucking submissive? Really? I thought at least he’d upgrade me to the status of
girlfriend. At this point I probably wouldn’t take that either.

  I took my time getting ready to meet him. I slid into the tight black pants and very high heels, softening the look with silk and silver. Checking the mirror after dressing, I nodded: it made just the right statement, sexy but powerful, feminine but not a pushover. I carefully applied some make-up—enough to look good but not too much. Ian didn’t like garish… and then I remembered that I didn’t care what Ian liked, damn it. The make-up was war paint and I was dressing for battle.

  After he makes his outrageous proposal, I step away to call Stephen as promised. It is quite a conversation.

  “Let’s have it, Ella. What does he want?”

  “I warn you it’s shocking, Stephen. I think Blackmon has lost his mind.”

  “Don’t’ fret: I’ve been around the block a time or two. Try me.”

  “Okay. Well, you know what my book is about, right? It seems that Mr. Blackmon would like me to assume the role of his submissive for a period of six months in order to rid myself of any liability for his injury resulting from my big, bad book.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding?”

  I manage to squeeze out a brittle laugh despite the fact that my body is as taut as a bow and arrow tensed to fly. “My words exactly, Stephen. But, no, he doesn’t appear to be joking. Further, he wants a definite answer before we leave the restaurant and, here’s the best part: he wants to begin this relationship tonight.”

  “Not going to happen. Let me think a minute, Ella. We don’t want to give him a definite answer—that won’t work for us.”