Snapping me out of my reverie, Ian’s voice perforates the silence in the small bedroom. “Ella,” he gazes into my eyes, his shaded with emotion so profound it’s easy to see it in the liquid mercury depths, “I love you, Ella, so much. I know it took me a long time to say it… but I’ve been here for a while, maybe even from day one.”
He’s caressing my face, sweetly and gently, his eyes never leaving mine. The emotion of the moment is so intense, I almost can’t bear to look into those light and haunting peepers.
He’s still speaking softly to me. “I promise to give my absolute best to be a good partner to you. Since you’re willing to put up with the… lesser… facets of my personality, I can surely put up with your tiny imperfections.”
Trying to lighten the mood just a bit, I screech, going for indignant. “Imperfections? Name one, buster.”
“Buster?” He smiles. “Getting yourself into trouble is a big one.”
I can’t argue with that assessment, though I’m up for a try anyway. Before I can utter another syllable, though, he speaks up again.
“I’ll help you out of every hole… even while getting into a few of my own—the nice, warm kind.” He winks at me, smiling sweetly and pulls me into his arms, embracing me tightly. “The difficult I’ll do right now; the impossible will take a little while.”
I smile. He’s reciting the words to one of our wedding songs, Crazy He Calls Me. So Ian Blackmon, mogul, Dominant, sexually kinky demi-god, is also a romantic deep down where no one but I can see. I can live with that. I finish the lyrics. “Crazy, he calls me. Sure, I’m crazy. Crazy in love am I.”
Ireland and Scotland: what can I say? One might have to be a poet to do them justice but I’ll give it a go: green swaths of hill and dale, sun shimmering on azure blue waters so vibrantly it’s blinding, friendly pink-cheeked people, astoundingly good ale, and fantastically superb sex—oh wait, we supplied that last part.
Then we decided to go to the beach.
Not just any beach, mind you, but a beach in the South of France. Yes, the beaches of France are rather incomparable and we’ve been lying in chaises reading and sipping icy cold cocktails for four days straight. Though we planned to end our trip in Scotland, we decided to stay another week and visit Provence. I’m thinking about Lucien, as I usually do whenever France is on my mind.
I realize that at the time, I wanted to put that whole episode with Lucien behind me as fast as I could… and did. But now removed from it by the distance of time and place, I can more easily reflect. I don’t think Lucien was as blameless as he claimed to be in that whole tawdry affair. I think he participated to some significant extent, and participated with a measure of zeal. It’s my belief that he actually said some of those awful things to me and did touch me inappropriately while I was grossly impaired.
Afterward, he was ashamed and guilty, which is what I’m figuring led him to turn on Natasha and help us out. I suppose we could say he redeemed himself in so doing. Regardless of any redemption, I still want nothing to do with him. He sent us a beautiful piece of art as a wedding gift, a set of four miniature paintings of a street in Paris, each reflecting a different perspective. We discussed what to do and ultimately decided to re-gift the paintings. Neither of us wanted to keep anything from Lucien fucking Phillips. The paintings now hang on the walls of Quentin’s San Francisco Victorian, I believe. No reason to take it out on the art.
As for Natasha? We ultimately decided to let things be. Lucien promised Daniel she was alive and kicking—boy, was she kicking. But her new man is up to the challenge of subduing her, apparently. Am I thrilled by the outcome? Let’s just say the idea is growing on me and it’s certainly a damn sight better than it could have been for her. After all, she started this nasty game with Ian and he finished it. If someone throws down a gauntlet to Ian Blackmon, he or she shouldn’t be surprised if he picks up the glove and accepts the challenge.
I reach for my sunglasses, blowing a kiss to my husband who is lounging next to me, reading some boring business magazine. So, Mr. and Mrs. Blackmon send their regrets to Ms. Natasha Yenin and sincerely hope she is enjoying the sands of Arabia with her new… oh, we’ll just call him husband.