THREE and a HALF Weekssmashwords

THREE AND A HALF WEEKS BY LULU ASTOR THREE AND A HALF WEEKS Copyright 2013 by Lulu Astor All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this ebooK only. This ebooK may not be resold or given away to others. No part of this booK may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from Lulu Astor, or I, Sisyphus Publications. Please purchase only authorized editions. Smashwords Edition ISBN: 13: 9781310632846 This novel is a worK of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. References may be herein contained to historical events and/or authentic locations; however, the names, characters, incidents, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination or are used in a fictitious manner. This booK would not have been remotely possible without all of my faithful online followers of One Shady Character. Over seven hundred of you were there for every chapter and we had almost 300,000 visits to the story site. Thanks to your enthusiastic support, sharp insight, pep talKs, and loyalty, a silly spoof on a popular novel became a booK all its own. A thousand cyber hugs to y’all. Other titles by Lulu Astor: Complements Complements, BooK II: A Force of Nature Complements, BacKstory: Between Us Prologue The platinum-frosted blonde sat at the reception desk trying her level best not to stare at the young woman seated in reception. The girl presented herself a minute ago at the desK downstairs and Kelly had phoned upstairs for clearance to send her up, stating she had an appointment with Mr. BlacKmon. Janine Albertson hated to bother her boss if it wasn’t important but his assistant Claudia was nowhere around and the young female visitor claimed to have an appointment with the busy CEO. Janine’s finger hovered over the intercom button before she gathered her courage to breaK into his meeting. “Mr. BlacKmon? I’m sorry to interrupt but there’s an Ariel Strong here to see you, sir.” Rather than being annoyed, her employer sounded uncharacteristically cheerful. “Have Kelly send her right up, Janine. She can wait in reception until I’m done with my meeting. Please see that she’s made comfortable.” “Yes, Mr. BlacKmon. Of course.” When the woman sauntered out of the elevator and presented herself, Janine was flummoxed. This girl couldn’t possibly be a friend or colleague of Mr. BlacKmon’s. For one thing, she wasn’t dressed the part, wearing an overly large sweater with tights and riding boots, her hair such a wild mess she looKed liKe Medusa. Second, she looKed far too young to fraternize with the liKes of Ian BlacKmon. True, he was not yet thirty but this girl didn’t look a day over seventeen. Janine decided she must be, had to be interviewing for a job or internship. Mr. BlacKmon was always telling her to be more proactive, so now she would be. “Miss?” The girl sidled up shyly and stepped nearer to the desK. “Yes?” Janine eyed her closely. True, she had ocean-blue eyes and an alabaster complexion… and legs that never ended, reminiscent of an awKward fawn. But, still… Ian BlacKmon? “May I offer you a beverage? Coffee, tea, or perhaps iced water?” “No, thank you,” Ella answered, feeling at a disadvantage, a fish out of water. Janine’s eyes skidded over the girl’s outfit, finding it even more lacKing up close. She frowned at the dishevelment of the stranger, barely hiding her disdain. For her part, the young auburn-haired Ella Strong didn’t much care about Frosty’s attitude. She just wanted to do whatever was necessary to take her leave in short order. Uncomfortable was what she felt in the manufactured and controlled air of Excalibur’s luxurious corporate offices. But first she needed to satisfy her curiosity—her mother always said that her intense curiosity would prove her undoing. When the driver had deposited her at the front entrance of the building a few minutes before, she looKed up and saw the name BlacKmon—his name—carved indelibly into the imposing limestone edifice of the tall building. Was the whole gigantic building owned by his father? She decided to ask Frosty. “Does Mr. BlacKmon’s father own this entire building?” The blonde stared at her in consternation. “Mr. BlacKmon’s father?” she repeated like an idiot. “Yes,” Ella elaborated, unable to resist, “you Know, the man whose wife gave birth to Ian BlacKmon and who then raised him into adulthood?” “I’m sorry I don’t understand. Mr. BlacKmon’s father has nothing to do with the corporation.” Though the frosted blonde behaved very politely, her tone was insulting. “Are you here to interview for a job?” “Job?” Ella repeated blanKly—a perplexed expression descending over her face. “Uh, no. I’m here because Mr. BlacKmon summoned me.” Now Frosty looKed taKen abacK. “Oh. Please accept my apology, Ms. Strong. I thought you might be one of the candidates for the open positions for which we’re interviewing. I was wondering why you were on this floor, rather than 23 where HR is located. Ella didn’t much care about the slight. She was too worried about whether her extreme agitation was plainly visible to everyone in this plush corporate bubble. Could they see her perspiring excessively? Was her face shiny with sweat, her eyes bulging in terror like the fish out of water? Or were they all too distracted by her wrinKled clothes and messy hair to taKe note of anything else? Just then the massive mahogany doors opened and a tall, wicKedly handsome man emerged with two people in tow, an older, silver-haired gent and a stern looKing fiftyish woman. Ella looKed up and everyone else disappeared. There he stood, the man in the brown suit in all of his Armani glory. Today, though, he wore navy, with a pearl gray shirt, and aubergine tie. His light eyes swiveled toward her, dazzling Ella with his peppermint smile—all red and white and delicious. “Ms. Strong,” a silky baritone voice slid through the air and into her ears where it diffused into all the pertinent body parts. “Thank you for agreeing to see me on such short notice. Please come into my office.” He turned to Frosty and said, “No calls, please, Janine. You might also have to reschedule my five o’clocK. If you don’t hear from me by 4:30, cancel… but checK with Claudia for conflicts before rescheduling.” Frosty, a.K.a. Janine, nodded deferentially, jumping to puppy-like attention. “Yes, Mr. BlacKmon.” After he closed his office doors, the blonde sat there staring at her shoes. They cost four hundred dollars and were currently sitting on her American Express bill. She hoped like hell she still had a job by day’s end after insulting Mr. BlacKmon’s friend. She wondered who the hell was Ella Strong. She didn’t looK liKe someone who Knew Mr. BlacKmon nor did his staff ever get to meet any of his friends or love interests—if he had any: Mr. BlacKmon Kept his private life so very private. Even still, Janine expected his lady friends to be tall and stunning with expensive dresses and killer shoes—shoes like the ones Janine was currently sporting. That wispy thing of a girl dressed down and had wild hair. What the hell did he see in her besides those impossibly long legs of hers? Chapter 1 The whole thing was meant to be a joKe. I wrote the booK as a Christmas gift for my closest friends: it was way too dirty to send to anyone else. My best buds believed it to be pure fiction—and why wouldn’t they?— and that was exactly how I planned it all. How many of them would believe that the KinKy man in my booK was someone I had actually met, the man who tooK my virginity, who made me an indecent proposition, who wouldn’t get out of my head no matter how hard I tried to KicK him to the curb? I had met Ian BlacKmon, gorgeous tycoon-extraordinaire, by pure and accidental chance. At the time, I was in my last year of college, and my friend Mariah had helped me snag an excellent part-time job in an upscale boutique. Trying to get me ready for the job interview—me, the girl who shops at Target (pronouncing it Tar-zhay to give it panache)—was a comedy of errors in and of itself. “OKay,” Mariah said, holding up a pair of platform patent-leather high heels, “what designer?” “Jimmy Chow?” “Choo. Jimmy Choo—Jimmy Chow’s is a restaurant— and, no. They’re Louboutins! For God’s saKe, Ella, pay attention. What about these?” She held up a pair of low, very pointy slingbacks. “I know this,” I yelled, snapping my fingers. “Those are Manolo BlahniKs!” “Right! There’s hope for you yet. OKay, let’s move on. What about this sKirt?” And it went on all evening long, with one breaK for yummy thin-crust pizza. By the end of the night, I had my upscale designers down pat. Then it was time to try to score some pricey clothes on eBay. For the interview itself, Mariah lent me her red Stella McCartney suit and I somehow managed to dupe the owner and snare the job. Woohoo. It was on a Friday night, just before closing, when he walKed in, commanding the small shop without even trying.

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