Ian looks at his watch: plenty of time for Jarvis’s team to be in position. Nearing noon, he’d taken care of all of his most pressing business. Now it was time for his reward. His eyes glint in anticipation at the prospect of his reunion with Ella. He pulls out his iPhone.
Chapter 46
The text message from Ian comes in at 12:02 P.M. and reads: meet me on the top-floor restaurant of the Knickerbocker Club-Portland. Give them my name to gain entrance. Wear a simple dress with no undergarments and definitely wear high heels. Be there by 12:45; if you don’t see me upon entering, wait for me in the lounge off the bar. Ian.
Perhaps I’m neurotic but I’d rather hear his voice to ensure the message is truly from him. All of this Russian mob crap has me on pins and needles. Since I’ve showered already, I just have to select a dress and put on some make-up. No underwear? What the hell is he planning?
I ask Mason to confirm the message is from Ian in case there’s a reason he didn’t call. Before Mason can even put his hand on his phone, Aretha starts singing and it’s Ian.
“Ella, I realized after I sent the text that you’d probably rather hear my voice than read a text. It’s from me and I want you to follow the instructions. Comprende?”
Relief makes me giddy at hearing his voice and knowing he’s close. “Si, senor. Hasta la vista, baby, at 12:45.” I hear a chuckle before I disconnect and begin a hunt for a killer dress.
Fourteen minutes later, I’m in the elevator with Mason. He insisted on escorting me to the club entrance. I’m mortified because my dress barely hits mid thigh and I’m sans panties. Feeling cool air on those parts—out in public especially —is unnerving.
The dress I chose is a gunmetal-colored chiffon draped dress. The built-in silk shift clings to the body but the outer chiffon swishes enough to conceal what I’m hiding—or what I hope I’m hiding anyway. I added light gray strappy sandals with five-inch heels. My hair is worn loose but I braided some of it last night so it has kinks in it, and I wore very spare make-up since it’s the afternoon: a bit of bronzer, pink lip-gloss and a titch of eyeliner. The only jewelry I slapped on is a large silver cuff on one wrist and a watch on the other, plus my rings that I wear daily. Ready or not, here I come, Ian.
Turns out he’s ready, of course. Mason leaves me at the entrance of the sedate limestone building and I’m whisked up to the top floor in a whisper-quiet elevator. It’s so silent and so smooth that I can’t tell when it stops until the doors swish open. Right there, in perfect view, is the most gorgeous man in all of Portland… and possibly North America… and possibly Planet Earth, sitting on a plush settee in a crisp navy-blue suit, snowy silk shirt, and copper tie, smiling at me. How does he manage to look so flawless when he got dressed out of a suitcase early this morning? I always look like I’ve recently slept on a park bench or in a cardboard box when I travel, unless I take the time to utilize those ridiculous hotel room irons that never get hot enough to cause a sunburn.
Attempting to keep my cool when what I really want to do is hurl myself at him, I sashay over to where he sits, bend straight so as not to embarrass myself while entertaining others, and give him a quick kiss on the lips. “I would have preferred your homecoming to be a bit more private, Ian.”
Unapologetically eyeballing me up and down, he grins, obviously approving of my outfit. “Ah, you’ll have fun, trust me, Ella.” He stands up and extends his hand to me. When I place my hand in his, he brings it to his lips and gently brushes it with a kiss, keeping his smoldering eyes trained on mine. It makes my legs a bit wobbly and that’s never a good thing in concert with stiletto heels. “Come. Our table is ready.”
We’re seated at a corner window table with four place settings. “Are we expecting company?”
“After lunch, guests will be joining us for dessert and coffee.”
“Aha. And may I enquire as to whom those guests will be?”
“Yes, you may.”
I wait and he says nothing. Rolling my eyes to annoy him in return for his annoying me, I ask, “Who are our guests, Ian?”
“Our guests are Lissette Simmons, wedding planner extraordinaire, and her assistant Mykonos will be accompanying her.”
I drop my voice to a low but harsh whisper. “So why, pray tell, am I not wearing any underwear? I thought I was coming here for sex!” Being deprived for three days has made me testy.
He laughs. Laughs! And then reaches for my hand, squeezing it. “Baby, you’re not advanced enough for clandestine public sex. But someday…”