Three and a Half Weeks (13 page)

Plus, it’s very clear he has a dominant
personality—it’s quite evident in his business dealings. When I first met him, after a small argument about negotiation and compromise, I ducked into a bookstore on a rainy day to buy him a joke gift, a book called
Negotiating for Dummies
. I began chatting with another customer who noticed me buying the book and as fate would have it, she used to work for Ian. She told me that when Ian Blackmon walks into a board meeting or conference, the whole room goes silent, as if he sucks all the oxygen out.

And controlling? Ha! There’s probably a thumbnail picture of his face next to the definition of the word in Merriam-Webster. He just cannot function unless he has complete control of himself and everyone around him.

Ian’s twenty-eight—twenty-nine now—and he wants to be master of all he surveys. The impressive yet also frightening part is that he’s actually managed to accomplish it—and rapidly. But something happened last year. Something happened to Ian to make him take a long, hard look in the mirror. It was now for me to ponder what that something was. Could it possibly have been me?

He’s given up his luxurious and cavernous house in the sky for a considerably smaller, friendlier, and more accessible houseboat. I saw him laugh and talk with friends at his club, so relaxed, so different from the Ian Blackmon I had known previously. Has
he really changed or am I witnessing an anomaly, a blip in his normal routine? One thought repeatedly niggled at me though I continually dismissed it as preposterous: was
I
responsible for the sea change in him? Did losing me force him to do some serious introspection?

I make it through the week in relatively good shape. Of course, I have help. On Monday I receive two dozen long-stemmed roses. On Tuesday, a case of the wine I’d liked while at his house arrives. Fed Ex delivers a package on Wednesday with a CD he’d burned with songs he thought I might enjoy, and Thursday a gorgeous little black dress and black lace lingerie are delivered. The shelf bra is scandalous—it barely covers the girls. Still, when I try it on I have to admit it’s sizzlingly hot.

Mariah can’t help but notice Ian’s attention. This is so not good.

“Ella, looks like someone is smitten. Doesn’t it now?”

I don’t care for the scrutinizing look she gives me. “I suppose he enjoyed my company last weekend?”

“Uh-huh. Not just last weekend, either. He did come looking for you right after you left for London last year and I could see some serious panic in his eyes when I told him you’d left the country. You didn’t say fare thee well to him before you flew across the pond?”

Now I’m feeling desperate. Mariah’s no dummy. She can so easily figure out that my little fiction book is actually nonfiction if she makes some very simple connections—especially now that she knows that Ian is a member of that stupid BDSM club. Damn, but I should have seen this coming—preferably before I wrote the stupid book. I have to do damage control and fast.

“Um,” I say, my thoughts frantically cobbling together a response, “we only dated once or twice and I realized he was just miles out of my league. The fellowship award came and I kind of just booked. I’m sure I left a message with his assistant. No biggie.” I force myself to casually shrug.

She gives me a skeptical look. Uh-oh. “Really? I wonder why he came running over here looking for you then? Maybe she screwed up and didn’t give him your message?”

“Yeah,” I say, looking down so she won’t see my telltale lying face, “that must have been it.” I make a show of glancing at my watch. “Oh, shoot! Look at the time! I have an appointment in less than twenty minutes. I better fly. See you later, Mariah.”

I’m not sure I dodged that bullet but there’s nothing to be done about it. If she knows, she knows. I recall Stephen’s words to me about the story having identifiable details even if I didn’t realize it. He was surely right.

Here’s what happens on Friday: at seven a.m. I get a call from a man named Lucien Phillips. My friend Lara in L.A. gave him my number when he mentioned to her he was looking for someone to work with him on his documentary film on the women of famed artists of the early to mid twentieth century. His project is still in early stages of compiling research and taping subject interviews. He was so happy to reach me so quickly, he says.

“I’m leaving for Paris tomorrow evening, Ella, and I really need someone here to keep working on the research and possibly shoot an interview or two. Is there any way you can get to New York before tomorrow afternoon to meet with me?”

“Uh, I suppose I could do that.” The voice in my head is screaming,
No, No, No. You’re going to be with Ian this weekend
. But I hear the sensible girl looking for something worthwhile to do with her life agree to get to New York by tonight.

“Excellent, Ella! I’m really looking forward. Call me as soon as you get to the city, no matter the time and we’ll set up a meet. I have a good feeling about this partnership—it’s going to work. We’ll talk soon.”

I flop down on Mariah’s sofa, wondering how best to handle this situation. Ian will be displeased. More important to me, he’ll be disappointed—as I am. Then a thought occurs to me: perhaps he can come with? We could have a weekend in New York together. I decide to call him.

And that’s the precise moment I realize he never gave me his cell phone number. I used to have it but I don’t anymore. Glancing at the clock I see it’s just after eight. A bit early for him to be at the office so I use the next hour to make my travel arrangements and pack a bag for the trip. My flight leaves at noon and I need to be at the airport by ten so I jump in the shower, write a note for Mariah, and by 9:15 I’m in a taxi on my way to the airport. I pull out my phone and call Ian’s office. His admin picks up his line.

“I’m sorry. Mr. Blackmon is not in the office today.” A crisp, professional voice informs me.

“I see. Do you know when he’ll be in?”

“Mr. Blackmon will be away most of the day, I’m afraid. May I take a message?”

“Uh, it would probably be best if I left my message on his voice ma
il…”

“I’m sorry, but Mr. Blackmon doesn’t use voice mail. I’ll be happy to convey your message, however.”

“Yes, fine. Please tell him that Ariel Strong called and—”

“Ariel Strong? Please excuse me for interrupting but Mr. Blackmon left instructions that your calls be put right through to him. The problem is he’s really not here now; he’s in a conference meeting with international associates. What I can do is give him the message as soon as he checks in. Can he reach you at this number?”

“Uh,” I stammer, feeling self-conscious at the change in her tone, from cool and professional to obsequious. “I’ll be on a plane in a couple of hours so I won’t be able to take any calls. Please tell Ia… uh, Mr. Blackmon that he can send a text with a contact number and I will get back to him as soon as my plane lands.”

“I’ll tell him, Ms. Strong.”

“Okay, thanks.”

My cell chimes with a message as soon as I am seated on the plane. It’s Ian, asking me to call him on his cell as soon as I get his message. We have a few minutes before takeoff so I call him now.

“Ariel. Where are you?” His voice is low and tinged with emotion. Is it anger?

“I just boarded a flight to New York. I received a call early this morning about meeting with someone for a job that sounds pretty perfect for me. He’s leaving for Paris tomorrow so he asked me to come to New York right away to meet with him. I’m really sorry to cancel our plans at the last minute, Ian.”

“I’m sorry, too. Who is this person with whom you’re meeting?”

“A documentary filmmaker. His name is Lucien Phillips and my friend Lara recommended me to him. I can come back to Portland directly after I meet up with him and still spend Sunday with you.”

“That’s unnecessary, Ella. You’ll be exhausted if you do that. Didn’t you say you had business in New York anyway?”

“Yes, I was planning on visiting in a few weeks. I guess the sensible thing to do is just stay and get it all done this trip.” I pause, wondering if I should even mention my idea. Oh, what the hell? “I don’t suppose it’s possible for you to come to New York too?”

He’s silent long enough that I think the call’s been dropped but then I hear background voices on the other end. “No, that won’t be possible, not this week, Ella. Perhaps we can reschedule for next weekend?”

I try not to laugh at his use of the word reschedule, as if I’m a business appointment. “Definitely,” I say.

“Oh, wait. I just remembered I’m going to be out of the country next weekend. Why don’t we play it by ear for now? Call me when you get back to Portland.”

“Will do. Oh, and Ian? I just want to tell you I received all of the gifts you sent and I very much appreciated them. I was so looking forward to this weekend and I’m really disappointed.”

“As am I… and you’re welcome, Ella. I hope you have a good trip and I’ll speak to you soon.”

I disconnect, feeling depressed. If it weren’t for this last-minute trip, I’d be getting ready to spend my weekend with Ian and now I don’t know when I’ll see him again. I’m beginning to regret not telling Lucien I couldn’t make it. I shut off my phone and put my iPod headphones on, cranking up the music to take myself out of my head for a while. I already miss him so much and it’s only been a week. God, but I’m pathetic and stupid.

Fuck!!!!! The urge to send something breakable sailing across his office is nearly irresistible. This past week had shaped up to be one of the suckiest in recent memory. The only thing that had gotten him through it was the prospect of spending the weekend with Ella, and now she’s going out of town—to meet with a man, no less.

At least she’d invited him to accompany her. On the spur of the moment, he got an idea to surprise her there but he’d told Ella he couldn’t make it—just in case circumstances made it impossible, then he wouldn’t disappoint her.

He picks up the phone. “I need a security check. Right away. Lucien Phillips. Double ell, I think. Try it both ways. Filmmaker, New York. That’s all I have. Get back to me ASAP.”

Ian slams the receiver back down into its cradle, finding it somewhat satisfying to vent his frustration on an inanimate object. Nothing but problems this week, starting with that big loser, Solar Systems, Inc. The cash-bleeding company he’d taken on was going down in flames, despite his firm’s hemorrhaging more money into it, throwing good money after bad. The government was backtracking on tax breaks he’d been counting on—it was a big part of the impetus for giving it the green light in the first place. Now for the cherry on the cake of his day: their Japanese partners in the electronic security systems manufacturer that they finally brought back into black ink with the military contract they’d been awarded, were getting antsy over new tariff regulations that just passed Congress. He had to fly to Tokyo next weekend to placate them.

As if all of that weren’t enough to ruin his week, that crazy bitch Alexis had begun to stalk him. He rubs the back of his neck, massaging the stiffness out of it. He’d hardly dated the woman; she was a mistake from the word go. The barely-there relationship was a consequence of his dedicated effort to give up on Ella: he went to the club one night, about six months after Ella absconded to Britain, and he met Alexis Martinez.

She wa
s very attractive and friendly, bubbly even, intelligent—all positive attributes in his estimation. He’d taken her out—what? Twice? Dinner and nothing else. He found he couldn’t shake off his obsession with Ariel. When he demonstrated no interest in continuing the nascent relationship, Alexis seemed to move on, bearing no grudge. Yet now, five or six months later, she was beginning to hound him at work. She’d called ten times over the last four days, trying to reach him, refusing to leave any message other than to say she called. He assumed by her failure to do so, there was no emergency that prompted her contact with him.

Thank God, she didn’t have his new address. Of late, he’d begun to get lax about protecting his privacy. Stupid. He’d learned an inordinately painful lesson five years ago and he never wanted to forget it, lest history repeat itself.

He leans back in his chair, realizing he’s exhausted already, and it’s barely two o’clock. Long day. New York is almost certainly out of the question—not after the meeting he just took. Too many things require his constant attention to avoid all-out disaster. He’d have to work over the weekend—get some paperwork done that he’d neglected over the past week while he was actively engaged in damage control. Trying to squeeze in a ten-minute power nap, he closes his eyes.

Returning to the office after yet another time-leaching meeting, Ian finds the security report on Lucien Phillips sitting on his desk. He nods in appreciation—fast work. When he opens the folder, an 8x10 glossy spills out. The masculine face in the photo smirks obnoxiously back at him, confident in his fashion-model good looks.

He quickly rifles through the paperwork: Lucien Phillips, age 27, filmmaker, director. Born in San Francisco, raised in Paris, now resides in New York City. Studied at Juilliard, earned both undergraduate and graduate degrees from the esteemed school. Won accolades for his debut film that premiered at Sundance.
Naturally
. Well-respected, up and coming, work in demand. Personal life: recently terminated relationship with long-term girlfriend (Eliza Littleton, 28, actress), and currently single.

Oh, I don’t think so, Monsieur Phillips.
Ian slaps the paperwork down and depresses the speaker button on the phone.

“Janine, call Scott Weldon and tell him I’ll require the use of the Gulfstream tonight. Yes. New York. Have Scott call me for details. I’m leaving the office now; he can reach me on my cell.”

Assuming Scott was available to pilot, he’d leave around eight and should make New York by early tomorrow morning. Perhaps he could even accompany Ella to her meeting? No, she would perceive that as too pushy. But, damn. Was it asking too much from the universe for Lucien Phillips to be short and bald? He didn’t want Ella to be alone with the man. Not now… not ever.

He finally indulges himself and throws that thing across the room—a crystal paperweight that shatters into a hundred tiny, sparkling shards—and smiles. Better.

By eight p.m. he’s in the air, sipping a glass of ruby Cab and trying to slough off the filth of the day and week. He leans back into the leather headrest and allows his thoughts to float away with the soft jazz playing in the cabin. There’s nothing like Connick to soothe the savage beast.

Fortunately, Scott was available so Ian didn’t need to pilot the jet himself but since Scott needed to get back to Portland immediately, Ian would have to catch a commercial flight back home. No problem, he thinks, checking his watch again. Ella would be getting into New York in about an hour. Would she try to meet with Phillips later tonight or wait for morning? Common sense would dictate morning but Ella didn’t always display an overabundance of sense.

Once he’d seen to all the exigencies of travel, he’d texted her, asking where she was staying. He decided to go straight to her hotel and surprise her before she could get going for the day. Hopefully, it wouldn’t leave her a wealth of time to meet with Mr. Phillips. Now that he’d seen the man’s photo, he really hoped the job wouldn’t pan out.

New York: he hasn’t been there in almost two years. What could he do to make it special for her? As far as he knew, she’d never set foot there before. Well, there was the Empire State building, of course. And Ellis Island, which garners one a beautiful view of the Statue of Liberty as the ferry crosses the river.

She’d mentioned going to museums; New York had among the finest ones in the world. They could spend a week going to a different museum each day and still not run out of options. A helicopter ride by twilight? A midnight cruise up the Hudson on a yacht? Endless possibilities. After another glass of wine, Ian rises from the chair, stretches his long legs, and makes his way into the bedroom to finally get some sleep. He’s going to have to pay for this impromptu trip with torturously long workdays next week. Might as well tank up on some sleep while he can.

It’s six a.m. in Union Square. New York City is dark and dreary with pounding rain, and since it’s Saturday, only a few shift workers are scurrying about the wet streets. Now what? Should he go straight to her hotel? If he doesn’t, there’s a chance he’ll miss her before she heads out for that meeting with Lucien Phillips.

If he does, she might be a tad ornery at the early hour and be unable to show her appreciation for all the trouble he went to in order to see her. He decides to pick up some lattes and take his chances with the rude awakening.

“Ian!” She flings herself into his arms—a very good sign—and he kisses her hello. “I can’t believe you’re here. I thought you said you wouldn’t be able to come to New York?”

He gifts her with an ear to ear grin. “Turns out I could.”

“Please tell me that’s coffee I smell in the shopping bag.”

“Indeed it is. If you invite me into your room, I’ll share.”

“Oh, sorry. You totally caught me by surprise. Come in.” She steps aside to allow him entry.

“Have a seat, Ian. Just give me five minutes to take a quick shower and I’ll join you.”

“I have a better idea. How about we drink our coffee now while it’s hot and then I’ll join you in the shower?” He arches his brows suggestively.

“Okay,” Ella agrees, laughing, and accepts a cup from him, curling one leg under the other as she perches on the chair. He eyes her: she looks sexy in a pair of drawstring pants and a slinky camisole. What would she do if he just began to peel them off her, with no preamble whatsoever?

“Tell me your plan for the day, Ella.”

“I’m meeting this man, Lucien Phillips
, at ten and then I’m free for the rest of the weekend.”

“Where are you meeting him?” Ian asks as he reaches for a bagel, acting as if his question is very casual when it’s anything but.

“Um, at his loft in Soho.”

He sits back, his posture unnaturally erect. “You’ve never met this man before, know nothing about him, and you’re going alone to his apartment?”

Flushing, she tries to defend herself. “Lara… my friend, Lara, knows him quite well, Ian. I’m only meeting him there because he’s really pressed for time. He’s leaving for Paris this evening and he has a lot of things to do beforehand. I was just trying to make things easier for him…”

“At your expense, no doubt.” He exhales audibly, casting a sharp glance in her direction. “In that case, I’m accompanying you, Ella. I’ll sit quietly and wait until you’re done and then we’ll go to the Met and look at some wonderful art. Agreed?”

She rolls her eyes at his overprotectiveness. “Fine. You can come with me though I’m going to feel silly having my chaperone along. Now, since we have at least two hours before I need to get ready, what should we do?”

“I can think of a few things… but every single one involves taking off that sexy little camisole and pants. Are you game?”

Just as she did the first night at the houseboat, she climbs on his lap, facing him, and wraps her arms around his neck. “I’m very happy to see you, Ian and I’d like to show you just how happy I am.”

His lips smile but there’s heat in his eyes. “Please do. It’s been a very long and tiring 24 hours and I’ve been a very good boy. I would definitely like proof that patience is a virtue and not its own reward.”