Under a Silver Moon
Page 1
UNDER A SILVER MOON
Barbara Sheridan & Anne Cain
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This e-book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. Loose Id® e-books are for sale to adults ONLY, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
* * * * *
This book contains explicit sexual content, graphic language, and situations that some readers may find objectionable.
Under a Silver Moon
Barbara Sheridan & Anne Cain
This e-book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Published by
Loose Id LLC
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Carson City NV 89701-1215
www.loose-id.com
Copyright © June 2007 by Barbara Sheridan & Anne Cain
All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the purchaser of this e-book ONLY. No part of this e-book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including, but not limited to printing, photocopying, faxing, or emailing without prior written permission from Loose Id LLC.
ISBN 978-1-59632-479-4
Available in Adobe PDF, HTML, MobiPocket, and MS Reader
Printed in the United States of America
Editor: Barbara Marshall
Cover Artist: Anne Cain
Dedication
For Atsushi Sakurai who’s been wowing them on stage and off for over twenty years.
Chapter One
Tokyo, Japan
“Get out, you stupid cow!”
Imai Shimizu’s deep voice reverberated through the trendy house in the Aoyama district of the city, causing his friends and band mates, Koji Takasoto and Toruhiko Nakai, to look up as they entered to visit their injured friend. A moment later, a young nurse came running down the curving staircase, her makeup streaked from the flood of tears coursing down her cheeks. She dashed out the door without a word.
“And I want you gone, too, you inept old bastard!”
An older gentleman who’d been hired as Imai’s personal assistant soon appeared at the top of the stairs.
“How many does that make?” Koji asked the housekeeper, who’d let Toru and him in.
Nimura-san counted on her fingers. “Three nurses, two doctors, two stylists, and four assistants since he broke his leg last month.”
Toru winced as the assistant finally made it down the stairs and skewered them all with a frightened look. “He’s a demon, I tell you! A demon!” With that the man jammed his hat on his head and stormed out.
“How long ‘til he’s up and around again, Koj?” Toru asked.
“Too long I’d say.”
* * * * *
Los Angeles, California
Kim Donovan plopped her backpack down on a stool in the kitchen of the small apartment she shared with her daughter, then went to wash her hands. “Do you remember that time I helped Rita out after she had little Nicky? When I did the hair and makeup for that Japanese music guy for that award show?”
“Mom,” seventeen-year-old Mandy droned. “That ‘Japanese music guy’ is a living legend. He’s Ryuhei, the father of J-rock!”
“Whatever,” Kim muttered as she went to the fridge and took out the taco fixings she’d prepared that morning before heading off to work and school. She took the ground beef and sauce and warmed it on the stove before taking the lettuce and tomatoes from the fridge. “Didn’t I ask you to cut these when you got home?”
Mandy pointed to the pile of schoolbooks open before her. “I’ve been busy.”
“Uh-huh, and I guess the three-hour phone call to Jen didn’t enter into your lateness at getting started.”
Mandy rolled her eyes. “We were talking about the prom, so I kind of lost track of time.”
“Kind of.” Kim grabbed a bottle of cold water from the fridge, then sat at the counter to finish cutting the veggies.
“So, what about Ryuhei? Did you get to meet him again?”
“Not really,” Kim said, swiping a few stray strands of blond hair out of her eyes. “But Rita called me and said she could put in a good word with him for me on a temporary assignment as a stylist in Tokyo, if I wanted it.”
Mandy shrieked and jumped up, sending her stool tumbling backward. Startled, Kim knocked her water over and nicked a finger with the knife. “I know, I know, it’s the worst possible time with the senior prom and your graduation coming up. I’ll tell her never mind.”
“Oh my God! No! You have to take this job!”
Kim finished sopping up the water, then got a bandage for her finger. “I don’t know. I mean, it’s basically a hair stylist job. Feel like I’d be wasting all the time and money I’ve spent on college.”
“But, Mom, it’s Tokyo!”
Kim smiled. “It would be very cool. I’ve never been across the Pacific before. And it is a lot of money they’re offering. Rita said you could stay at her house ‘til school is over, then join me there, but I don’t want to miss your graduation.”
“But I can come over to Tokyo when I’m done, right? And stay for the rest of the summer?”
Kim nodded. “The job is a minimum of six months. I’m supposed to help some singer get his look together for a solo tour.”
“Oh my God, who?”
Kim took the notebook out of her backpack and flipped to the page where she’d written it down. “I-may-ey Shu-meye-zu, I think it is.”
“Let me see.” Mandy came around the counter and squealed in her mother’s ear when she saw the name on the paper. “Ohmigod! Do you know who this is?”
“Some singer.”
“Not just some singer!” Mandy darted to her bedroom and came back, leafing through one of the magazines she’d picked up in Little Tokyo.
Kim looked at the two-page photo spread taken during a concert. She couldn’t make out much as the band was bathed in red and blue lights, but she wasn’t much impressed with the man her daughter pointed to. His long hair was sweat-soaked and clinging to his face, his features contorted as he appeared to be shrieking like a banshee. She closed the magazine and studied the gorgeous woman on the cover. “Wow. Who is she?”
Mandy laughed. “That’s a guy, Mom.”
“That’s a guy?” There was no way in hell that was a guy. If anything the cover photo reminded her of an Asian Marlene Dietrich with a bit of a modern Goth twist. “A guy. You’re sure?”
“Um, yeah. His name is Miji Makana, and he’s even more famous than Imai.”
Kim gave the magazine cover one last look. “This should be an interesting assignment.”
* * * * *
As soon as she arrived at the office building, Kim began to second guess her decision to take the job. Somewhere inside that sleek tower of glass and steel she was to meet the recording executives who’d hired her to work with their artist, and her stomach gave an uneasy flutter.
“Donovan-san, we have seen from your resume that you are a nurse?” the executive, Suzuki asked as he looked over a sheaf of papers.
“I’m still studying for my RN, but I’m a Licensed Practical Nurse and I work as a private duty nurse while I attend school.”
“Yet you were recommended to us as a stylist?” the snooty woman exec, Miss Izumi, chimed in.
Kim shifted nervously on the too-
hard chair. “Cosmetology is what I did before I began nursing school. I’m very good at it. I worked at one of L.A.’s best known salons, and I won a number of statewide competitions and finaled in the Nationals.”
Mr. Suzuki and Miss Izumi began to converse in rapid-fire Japanese, and Kim’s doubts about this leap of faith swelled enough to make her seasick.
Mr. Suzuki cleared his throat a moment later and turned back to her. “Donovan-san, please forgive us if we seem rude.” From the sour look on the female exec’s face, Kim doubted that sentiment was mutual.
“It’s fine, really.” Kim resisted the urge to start picking at her nails; she was more nervous than she really had any right to be. She had Rita’s recommendation, for crying out loud, and a solid resume. But Kim had never been the type of person to handle any kind of failure well; she gave her all in everything she did. The idea of going back to the US now without even getting a chance to prove herself on the job left a sour taste in her mouth.
“We just have some…reservations…about assigning this position to you,” Suzuki continued. “The job would include a few more duties than we’d originally thought, and it would be advantageous to hire just one person to cover everything. You will, of course, be compensated above the initial offered amount as a stylist.”
Kim straightened up. “I actually enjoy work that requires the use of all my skills,” she said.
“You do have a diverse resume.” The female exec raised her eyebrow. “But would you be willing to work a twenty-four hour-a-day position? No holidays or weekends off for the next six months?”
Suzuki added, “Full room and board provided, of course, for your daughter as well when she arrives.”
Kim gave a confident nod. “I’m perfectly amenable to that.”
“Good.” Suzuki nodded and slid the employment contract across the table to her. “Just sign here and we’ll get you started right away.”
Mandy was giddier than Kim had ever heard her when she called home before reaching the small, traditional Japanese guest house that lay a short distance from the main house where Kim would work for Imai Shimizu, whom Mandy assured her was “Oh my God, so awesome.”
Kim wasn’t entirely thrilled about the prospect of spending the next couple months sleeping on a futon on the floor, especially after being shown into the main house a short time later and seeing the ultra king-sized bed the convalescing Mr. Shimizu had in his room.
“Imai-san, Donovan-san is here,” the older housekeeper called softly, making Kim’s surname sound like Donoban.
Kim felt an invisible punch to her midsection when the rock star sat up and turned toward her. Imai Shimizu was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, painfully, perfectly beautiful in a way that no man should be. Long, gleaming black hair hung past his shoulders, and yet there was no doubt as to his masculinity. High cheekbones and a full, sensuous mouth balanced the firm line of his jaw, and his dark brows and eyes assessed her the way only a man can assess a woman.
As he looked her over, Kim found herself feeling every one of her thirty-six years and then some. She wasn’t obese, but she had pounds to spare and she knew she should have given herself a more up-to-date hairstyle than her tried and true long pageboy. She probably should have lightened the natural blond as well, and applied heavier, more model-like makeup than she normally wore for school. And maybe she should have chosen something more fashionable to wear than a staid charcoal pantsuit with a black silk tank beneath.
Imai raised a glass to his lips and took a long sip of the amber-colored liquid inside as he continued to eye Kim. The silence in the room started to feel heavy, making her more self-conscious and aware of his piercing stare. In an effort to be as professional as possible, she approached the bed and offered a short bow instead of a handshake.
Kim smiled. “Mr. Shimuzu, it’s nice to meet you.”
Instead of replying or smiling in return, the rock star looked over to the maid. He said a few words in Japanese, his deep, throaty voice adding another invisible punch to Kim’s stomach that almost made her whimper out loud. She had to go through Mandy’s CDs in the suitcases to see if she could find one of Imai’s group’s albums. If his singing voice was anywhere near as sexy as his speaking voice…
Mrs. Nimura gave the man a puzzled look and tried to say something in response, and Imai narrowed his eyes and gave the older woman such a scowl she stopped in mid-sentence. Kim wondered what was going on, the feeling in her stomach changing into something like dread.
“Is something wrong?” Kim asked, her eyes moving from Imai to the housekeeper.
The older woman’s gaze darted to the singer, then back to Kim. “Imai-san wishes you to know that his English is not fluent. He can understand a bit more than he is able to speak, but he feels this will be a difficult arrangement.”
“Oh.” Kim took a deep breath and smiled at them both. “Well, I’m sure we’ll work it out.” She noticed a prescribed medication on the nightstand next to the bottle of scotch. Walking over, she looked at the prescription bottle which had the dosage and medicine written in both English and Japanese. “No, no, no. We do not mix Percocet with booze.” She plucked the glass from Imai’s hand and took it and the bottle of liquor away, handing both to the housekeeper. “This is too dangerous. He can’t drink while on this medication. I don’t know why the doctor didn’t say anything.”
“He did,” Mrs. Nimura said softly.
Kim glanced at the rock star, who was even more pissed than he’d been, and yet he looked so damn good even with that scowl. He began to complain ‑‑ loudly ‑‑ in Japanese, not allowing his housekeeper to get a word in. Kim went back to the side of the bed and pointed to the small warning label on the medication bottle. “You cannot have alcohol.”
Imai glared, those attractive dark eyes of his both amazingly sexy and frightening at once. “Get. Out.”
“No,” Kim told him firmly. She looked at Mrs. Nimura. “Please tell him that I didn’t come five thousand miles to be sent home on the first day. I was hired to do this job, and I’ll do it. I’m a licensed nurse, and I will not sit by and watch my patient harm himself, even if he lives and breathes sex, drugs, and rock and roll.”
Imai had never cared much for American politics and countless other things, but he was quite drawn by the forthrightness of the American psyche and the self-assured attitude of their women in particular. Donovan-san looked back at him, and he made certain to keep his expression harsh as Nimura-san dutifully rattled off what the American had said, in addition to telling him ‑‑ again ‑‑ that he was cruel to play such a trick of not speaking English on this nice lady.
“Nice lady, my ass,” Imai hissed, amused by the look of chagrin on the housekeeper’s plump face. “After putting up with one shitty assistant and nurse after another, I think I have the right to do whatever the hell I want.”
Nimura-san sighed. “I’ll go show Donovan-san around the house, then.”
Imai snorted. “She’s not here for a tour.” He turned back to Kim and stabbed his finger in the air towards her. “You!” he barked in English, making his accent heavier than usual. “Food!”
“Food?” Kim managed to keep herself from flinching when he skewered her with a hateful look.
“Eat! Now!”
“Oh! Right. You want dinner.” She gave him an embarrassed smile. “I’ll bring that right up to you, Shimizu-san.” With a quick bow of her head, she left the room behind the housekeeper.
“He isn’t usually like that,” Mrs. Nimura said as they went down to the kitchen.
“Oh, it’s all right,” Kim said, imagining that he was exactly like that all the time. The man was a prima donna rock star; how could he be anything else?
Kim was starving from the long flight and eagerly tried some of the soup Mrs. Nimura offered her before preparing Imai’s tray. She said it was called miso and was made from the paste of red beans. The smell reminded Kim of the Middle Eastern grocery she used to pass when she worked at Rita’s
salon. It was a direct, “no-nonsense” smell, like the smell of cumin, cinnamon, pepper, cloves, or garlic. The taste was saltier than Kim was used to, and while it wasn’t like any bean soup she’d ever had back home, she rather liked it.
She finished her tea, then took the covered tray upstairs. She made certain to smile as she entered the bedroom and struggled to hold onto that smile as Shimizu glowered and pointed to his wristwatch.
“Mrs. Nimura was in charge of the preparation. You’ll have to take it up with her.” Setting the silver tray on a table near the bed, she picked up the bed tray and settled it over Imai’s lap, then removed the cover from the tray and brought over the meal. He had miso soup, as well, along with a bowl of steamed white rice, and a plate of grilled vegetables and a small fish. There was a small ceramic spoon for the soup and chopsticks for the rest.
Making her smile grow wider, Kim spread out the crisp linen napkin on the singer’s lap. “There you go ‑‑ enjoy. I’ll come back to check on you in a bit, okay?”
“No.”
“Pardon?”
He pointed to the food, then to his mouth.
“You want me to feed you?”
“Hai.”
Biting back a tired sigh, Kim nodded. It wasn’t anything she hadn’t done countless times before. Of course, those patients were physically unable to make use of the utensils.
Chapter Two
She took a spoonful of the soup and brought it to his lips. Instead of sipping it, he pressed his lips together and gave her a pissy look.
“Um, you don’t want soup?” Kim raised her eyebrows. He pursed his lips in a clearly annoyed expression, and she returned the spoon to the bowl. “Okay, then let’s try some rice.”
Kim picked up the chopsticks, trying to remember the many times her daughter had tutored her in the fine art of dining with them. She fumbled a bit, dropped the few grains of rice she’d scooped up, and muttered a curse under her breath.