Three and a Half Weeks(2)

“Of course,” I said, keeping my voice neutral when my body was imploding inward like a controlled demolition. I rang up the sale and he signed the slip quickly. I watched him closely: this guy was too damned gorgeous and he was near enough to me that I could smell him—his cologne or aftershave or whatever, and it was, like, sublime. He was tall too, with thick, dark hair that contrasted with those light eyes. But never mind what he had; what he didn’t have was a wedding band on his finger. Another woohoo.

Yeah, right. Why would a man who looked like he did and could spend three grand without batting an eye have any interest in a mousy shop girl? I went to the other counter to wrap the box, selecting the store’s signature silver and white paper and finishing it with a purple ribbon.

“Sir? Here you are. I hope your sister enjoys the necklace.”

He looked at me long and hard. Did I say something wrong?

“Thank you,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “I’m sure my sister will love it. I appreciate your assistance, Miss…?”

My face got hot so I knew I was blushing to my hair follicles. “Ella… well, Ariel, actually. Ariel Strong.”

“Very pretty name—unusual name. Thank you again, Ms. Strong,” he said, smiling for the first time and he sauntered off.

Wow. That smile could effectively compete with the Caribbean sun.

The next day, I asked Mariah if she’d ever heard of him. I’d Googled him and reams of information and images flashed brightly on my computer screen.

“Ian Blackmon? Of course I’ve heard of him. Haven’t you?”

“Uh, no? Or I wouldn’t ask you, right?”

“Well, it’s true he’s Portland royalty and you haven’t lived here very long at all. Okay, how would I describe Ian Blackmon?” She tapped her finger on her upper lip. “Combine the mind and personality of Steve Jobs, the looks of, oh, I don’t know, the most terrifically gorgeous man in Hollywood, for example, the philanthropy and bank account of Bill Gates, Warren Buffett, hell, even Angelina Jolie—and you’ve got Ian Blackmon.”

I naturally assumed Mariah was grossly exaggerating about him, as she was wont to do. “Really? Well, I met him last night at the shop. I can attest to the gorgeous and rich part. I felt like a giggly schoolgirl crushing on her teacher or something.”

“I’ll bet. Well, he’s a notorious bachelor who’s never seen with the same woman twice. God, I hope he’s not gay—that would be so unjust. The gays have more than their fair share of good lookers playing on their team, don’t you think?”

“Hmmm,” I replied, my mind back in the company of the man in a dark brown suit. I hoped he’d come back into the shop sometime soon.

Or did I?



I wrote the book because it was fun; I wrote the book to exorcise him from my system; I wrote the book because I had no extra money for Christmas gifts for my friends. I didn’t consider it a violation of the legal contract he had me sign, first, because the book was presented as fiction with no real names used, and second, the book was supposed to be read only by my friends, with no wider circulation than that one small circle of women.

What ended up happening was something I could never in a million years have predicted nor anticipated. I mean, come on: how could he hold that against me? But he very much was holding it against me and though I doubted he’d really drag me through court over it, he was planning on making me pay, one way or another.

He was the man who took my virginity. From the first moment I saw him in the shop—Archipelago—I wanted him.

Badly.

Still, I didn’t believe I’d have a ghost of a chance. The man was perfection in every way: looks, grooming, voice, and wallet. I was vastly inferior with my untamed hair, my designer knock-offs (for the most part), and my pathetic bank account. He had it all over me—just call me Cinderella.

Something about me must have appealed to him, though, because before too long, I found myself in his mansion on the mountain, hoping he’d try to seduce me. To say it didn’t go as swimmingly as it did in my feverish imagination would be vastly understating the situation.

I guess the fact that he had me sign a confidentiality agreement the day he summoned me to his office should have clued me in to the fact that he had something to hide. But I was too much in awe over him to notice any imperfection—the man could have had human taxidermy propped up on his desk and I might have overlooked it. It’s not everyday that one meets a man like Ian Blackmon.

Besides, he also had me sign a liability disclaimer. I just figured these kinds of waivers or contracts were standard issue for someone of his position and wealth. You know, no biggie.