Three and a Half Weeks(159)
Mariah and I clap. “Very good,” we praise in chorus. And so it went. Truth to tell, I think Mason had the best time ever. Maybe, just maybe, there’s a future for these two, judging from the way Mariah’s been behaving around him.
After, we went for ice cream cones and sat in the park to eat them while Mason was on high alert. Watching him angst over my safety, I finally gave in and told Mariah I had to get back. Being the good sport that she is, she offered to come back and watch movies with me, and the two of us ended up making a Mexican dinner for Mason and one of his assistants.
Just as I am dozing off for the night, my phone buzzes. Attempting to move nothing save for my arm, an exercise in supreme laziness, I grasp the phone, dragging it to my ear. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself. I’m leaving New York tomorrow at 6 a.m. and should be back in Portland around nine or ten.”
“Will you go straight to the office?”
“Probably. But I wanted you to know I’ll be with you in the evening, without a doubt, baby. Everything else okay? Nobody else threatening you at gunpoint, I hope?”
“Not today.”
“Ella, I’m sorry, so sorry. I had no idea she was back on the West Coast. I had seen her yesterday in New York.”
“Everything turned out fine, Ian… but we’ll need to have a long talk when you get home.”
His sigh seems to come from a place of utter exhaustion, a confluence of physical, emotional, and psychological depletion. “Yes. On a happier note, have you begun shopping for a wedding gown?”
“Not yet. Well, I’ve surfed through some sites but not a serious hunt as of yet. Why?”
“Because I thought it would be nice to have a late spring or early summer wedding and it’s almost March now.”
“I suppose I should let the mothers know, huh?”
“I suppose so. We’ll do it together. We’ll phone yours tomorrow evening and we’ll visit mine over the weekend to share the news. How does that sound?”
“Perfect. I can’t wait to see you—I’ve missed you, Ian.”
“And I you.” His voice drops into a lower register. “I expect to be greeted accordingly.”
I giggle because I know he has dirty things on his mind. “Yes, sir.”
“Ooh, Ella, you know what that does to me. You’ll pay up tomorrow.”
“I’m counting on it. Goodnight, my love.”
“Good night.”
Afterward, I lay in bed, chasing sleep that continues to elude me. Finally, I give up trying and slip out of bed to get a glass of water, maybe make myself a cup of tea. That’s it: a cup of tea and a mystery will help lull me to slumberland. On the way back to the bedroom with my tea and a book under my arm, a mystery about a medieval tome that holds unsolved codes, my eyes alight on a framed photo of Ian. I snapped it on the deck of his houseboat. He’s standing at the railing, his hair windblown, his endlessly long legs wrapped in dark blue jeans. What I love most about this photo? He’s shirtless, and he has a chest to die for. Every muscle in his chest and abdomen is sharply delineated, a human map, a symphony of sinew, muscle, tissue, and bone. Not many people ever get the opportunity to see Ian without a shirt and that’s a damn shame for the world. A damn shame.
I bring the photo back to bed with me and look at him long and hard: he’s young, gorgeous, stupidly rich, brilliant, sexy… and he’s my fiancé. How lucky am I? And tomorrow we’ll be together again. My body begins to rev as I imagine him without the jeans, his bitable tight, slightly plump butt cheeks, perfectly proportioned legs, trim waist, wide shoulders, masculine feet… and there’s the part of him I happen to be extra fond of, the part that salutes me at attention when he smiles deviously, lowers his head, and swaggers over to me. A rush of heat sweeps through my body as I envision him that way: this is going to be a long, possibly wet night since I’m now counting the minutes until I see my lover again.
Smiling, my eyes flutter closed, and I’m down for the count almost instantly. My darling lulls me to sleep from thousands of miles away. I never even had a sip of my tea or read a single word of the book. Tomorrow. Tomorrow holds such promise.
Chapter 45
“What the fuck happened, Joseph? Your so-called professionals were made before they even got to the city of their damn targets. This screw-up could have been costly for my friend—and I’m not talking about money, either.”
The voice on the other end of the line is cold enough to freeze water into ice. “You might have mentioned that the targets were professional assassins themselves. That would have proved a helpful nugget of information, Butler.”