Kim looked over her shoulder in time to have Imai fix that piercing stare of his on her. He shook his head then turned back to his friend. “No. She stays.”
Koji made a frustrated gesture then looked at her. “I’ll give you a lift back to the house when he’s done.” He took one of the photographer’s business cards from the crystal holder on the table near the chairs and wrote on the back of it. He handed the card to Kim. “My cell, call me.”
“Thanks.” Kim managed to smile at Koji as he left. Imai grumbled something in Japanese ‑‑ something very rude, judging from the scandalized look on one of the young model’s faces as she left the studio.
With a glare, Kim folded her arms across her chest and turned back to Imai. He was sitting now, his nose buried in a copy of the fashion magazine Houyhnhnm, doing his best to avoid looking at her. “A ‘playboy,’ huh?” she muttered. “I wonder how many other good slaps you deserve.”
Kim thought she saw Imai flinch as if he’d heard and understood her. She frowned and leaned forward, but the photographer popped into the room.
“Imai-san, come. Come!” He waved them into the studio. “If you’re going to make it to tonight’s show, we can’t waste time.”
“Show?” Kim blinked at the photographer. Was this something else she didn’t know about ‑‑ did Imai have a performance scheduled for tonight? She turned to Imai. “Mrs. Nimura didn’t say anything about there being a concert.”
“It’s a fashion show,” Harada interjected with a stressed sigh. “Don’t tell me ‑‑ he’s not ready?”
“I ‑‑ I don’t know,” Kim admitted, embarrassed that she didn’t have a better grasp of her patient’s daily schedule. Everyone looked to Imai, who tossed the magazine onto the couch.
“Yes, go,” he huffed.
The photographer made a relieved noise and took Kim by the elbow. “We’ll get you started with your makeup first.”
“Me?” Kim’s eyes widened.
“You’re his date, yes?”
“What?” she and Imai both gasped in unison.
The photographer wailed. “I can’t take this!”
“Yes, yes!” Imai waved his hand through the air while Kim stared in shock between them. “She is.”
“What?” Kim gasped again.
Imai gave her a bored, irritated look. “Help stand. Now!”
Kim bent and allowed him to grip her shoulder as she slid her arms around his waist to help him stand. He snatched a crutch to support his weight, then made an angry gesture with his hand. “Go. Hurry!”
Kim handed him the other crutch before following the photographer, glancing back in confusion at Imai, whom she was certain was enjoying her discomfort a little too much.
“I can’t go to a fashion show dressed like this,” she mumbled at the photographer’s back.
“Well, of course not! That’s why he brought you here, isn’t it? That’s why he brings all his women here.”
“I’m not one of his women!” Kim wanted to shrink into the wall when the models lingering near the dressing room fell silent and turned to stare at her. She put her head down and followed Harada-san into the dressing room. Kim jumped when he stopped short and spun to face her.
“I don’t know what he expects me to dress you in.” He gestured to the wall-length rack of clothing he’d been photographing all week. “None of this will fit you.”
Kim felt her temperature rise with her anger. Okay, so she wasn’t one of these matchstick bimbos milling about, but she wasn’t Henrietta Hippo either. Being a size fourteen ‑‑ okay sixteen ‑‑ wasn’t a capital offense the last time she looked. “Fine, then I’ll leave!”
She turned and walked right into Imai’s solid chest. He began to lose his balance because he wasn’t using the crutches properly, and she pulled him against her body to steady him.
The chattering of the models faded away until all Kim noticed was that handsome face so close to hers. God, but his eyes were incredible. So dark, so deep, and full of secrets she couldn’t begin to fathom.
“Enough,” he growled, breaking the strange spell she’d fallen under.
She drew back quickly. “I can’t do this. This is crazy. Why didn’t you tell me about this?” He simply stared, and she gave an exasperated sigh then turned to Harada. “Will you please tell him that I can’t be his ‑‑ I can’t accompany him to this fashion show thing?”
“You want me to tell him?”
“Yes. I can’t speak Japanese.”
“But he ‑‑”
“Harada!”
Kim gave a start at the loudness of Imai’s tone, and she stared at him as he began to ramble something quickly to the photographer.
“Tell her,” Imai said, his expression even more perturbed than she’d seen so far.
Kim turned back to the photographer.
“Imai-san said he will go and find you something in Shibuya while we see to your hair and makeup.”
Kim turned back, but Imai was already hobbling away with a willowy Japanese model in tow.
Kim called to him, and he stopped. She hurried forward, shaking her head. “No. I can’t do this. You can take one of these girls to the show.”
The model smiled and clung tighter to Imai’s arm. He shook her off, all the while fixing that imperious stare on Kim. “You stay. Hair, makeup. You go to show.”
Kim stared after Imai as he limped away with the model once again in tow. “But ‑‑” she said weakly.
As often as she’d done makeup and hair for these types of gala events, this would be the first time she’d ever gone to anything fancier than a college graduation ceremony herself. Her stomach fluttered with more than nerves. After all his attitude, not to mention that embarrassing encounter last night, why had Imai picked her as his date?
As Harada dragged her away toward one of the vanities in the back of the studio, Kim got a glimpse of the French woman gossiping with a couple of other pissy-looking models. Imai brings all his women here.
Kim scowled at the group of cliquish supermodels, though if Imai had been there, he would’ve gotten a nasty glare as well. She suspected the only reason she’d been shanghaied into this “date” was because all of the other women in his little black book were fed up with him.
Kim was given a black silk robe to change into, and after the hairdresser working with Harada fussed with her hair, Kim applied her own makeup.
“Hmm.” Harada looked at her reflection in the mirror and nodded approvingly. “You have a professional’s touch. Very nice. How did you learn to do all this?”
They started talking, and Kim explained her background, along with her past jobs. Harada listened with growing interest and actually jotted down a few notes with tips she gave him. She forgot to keep track of time, and before she knew it, Imai stormed into the back of the studio.
“Here,” he said, and the model who’d accompanied him dropped a box and small shopping bags from designer boutiques onto her lap. “Get dressed.”
Chapter Six
The hairdresser helped Kim take the things to a changing area sectioned off by a purple curtain. She set the box on a chair and looked in the bags first. Leave it to a man to buy an impossibly high pair of stiletto pumps, in red no less. The next bag contained lace-topped, thigh-high stockings and some lingerie.
Black lingerie that looked like it belonged on a hooker. There was a black silk thong that had a tiny rhinestone heart charm dangling from the back. She’d never worn a thong in her life and didn’t want to start now, especially with that damn charm that was certain to be a literal pain in the ass. Next was a matching black bustier that hooked in the front and also had a rhinestone charm that would dangle between her breasts.
Kim simply stared at the impossible garments, then took them behind the folding screen to the left of the mirror. It certainly couldn’t hurt to try them on, and when it turned out they didn’t fit she could get out of this mess. The lingerie did fit, perfectly, and the charm wasn’t nearly as ann
oying as she’d thought it would be. And she really hated to admit that when she moved the rhinestone dangle in back sent little chills through her as the cool stones brushed against her skin.
She found herself grinning at her reflection in the full-length mirror. She looked damn sexy, in a Rubenesque sort of way. A gasp from the hairdresser caught Kim’s attention, and she watched as the younger woman took a blood-red evening gown from the box. “Oh my,” Kim whispered as she stepped forward to touch it. It was a floor-length, strapless sheath made of plush velvet that had just a touch of stretch to it. The hairdresser helped her into it and began zipping up the back, and Kim prayed that it would fit.
It did. It fit better than anything she’d ever owned, and she found it hard to believe that she was the same woman reflected in the mirror. She turned to the side and smiled a bit as the gown’s side seam parted and gave an enticing glimpse of thigh and curved calf.
“It is acceptable.”
Kim gave a start at the unexpected sound of Imai Shimizu’s deep voice.
“It’s beautiful. Thank you.”
“Handbag,” he said nodding toward the box.
Kim reached into the box and picked up the matching velvet clutch, her brow furrowing when she realized that something was inside. She felt the outside of the bag and realized it was a box.
“Open,” he said, those gorgeous dark eyes sweeping over her from head to toe then back again.
“Um.” Kim looked down at the acrylic nails they’d put on her.
Imai hobbled over, then balanced himself between the crutches and held his hand out. He took a slim velvet case from the handbag and opened it.
“Oh my God. They’re beautiful.” She stared open-mouthed at the thin diamond choker, bracelet, and dangling earrings. She looked up. “They’re real, aren’t they?”
He smirked as if she were an idiot to think anything less.
Kim was speechless ‑‑ no flabbergasted ‑‑ until she remembered how the big jewelers in Hollywood often lent things to stars for gala events. That’s all this was ‑‑ a loaner set. She slipped in the earrings and the hairdresser helped her with the bracelet clasp. She was about to hand the choker to the younger woman as well when Imai touched her wrist.
“I do that.” The hairdresser bowed, then left, and Imai moved behind Kim, nudging her to face the mirror once more. He slipped the choker around her neck. She held it in place with trembling fingers as he fastened the catch.
“Beautiful,” he said softly, his hands coming to rest lightly on her bare shoulders.
Kim stared at his reflection, especially those intense dark eyes that were riveted onto her. “Thank you for letting me be your date…”
Her words dissolved into nothingness when Imai leaned in and kissed her neck, his tongue teasing her rapidly heating flesh. She heard someone whimper and realized she was making the plaintive sound. She felt like a total fool when Imai pulled back, a teasing smirk curving those full lips of his.
“Imai-san.” Harada peered into the dressing area, adjusting his glasses. “If we’re going to take those photos, it has to be now.”
Kim turned away before either of the two men could see the blush spread across her cheeks. God, it had been a long while since she’d felt a man’s kiss…and even then, the passion had been nothing like this.
“Come now,” Imai called out her. “Pictures.”
“What?” she gasped and turned back around.
But Imai was already making his way out into the studio, and Harada waved for her to come. “You’re in the photo shoot,” he said, exasperated. “Quickly, please.”
“But, no, I can’t do that.”
Kim’s words fell on deaf ears as she was placed beside Imai, who was leaning against a chrome pillar.
“A little more to the right, Donovan-san, to hide the cast.”
She took a step to the side, and Harada motioned for her to move a bit closer. Imai placed his hand on her hip and pushed her to the proper spot, but he didn’t remove his hand once she was there.
Kim prayed her deer-in-the-headlights feeling wasn’t showing up on film, although the exasperated noises and faces Harada was making made her fear the worst. Next, they took photos with Imai seated on a leather chaise, his broken leg hanging off the back edge.
When Imai tugged her down onto his lap she yelped and totally lost her balance, falling backward, one leg flying up. Oh no, her brain screamed as she heard the camera shutter clicking away. She struggled to sit up only to have Imai tangle one large hand in the back of her hair and pull her to him.
His lips met hers and time stopped.
In the background, she heard the camera snapping away while Harada gave directions neither she nor Imai was paying attention to. The warmth and velvet texture of his lips and the hot wetness of his tongue as it eased into her welcoming mouth held Kim’s focus completely. Before she realized it, her hands were wrapping around his neck, their bodies pressing tighter until she could feel him harden against her hip.
Kim pulled away first, her breath coming hard and fast. Imai blinked at her as though he was surprised himself, and then he gave her one of those self-assured smirks.
“You…” Kim breathed. Bursts of laughter broke out from off to the side. She looked up to see a group of models cackling away and whispering among themselves. Kim flushed.
“Bastard,” she muttered angrily. She slapped Imai across the same cheek the French model had and pulled away from him.
The heat he’d begun to arouse in her paled in comparison to the anger burning in her flushed cheeks as she pushed her way through the gauntlet of snarky bimbos to get to the dressing area.
She knew it was a mistake to take this job. She had no business here. It had only been a day, and already it felt like she’d suffered through an endless sojourn in hell. Kim clenched her jaw and shut her eyes. She refused to cry and let them know how stupid she felt.
Her cell phone rang, and she pulled her purse from beneath her clothing. It was Mandy. “Hi, honey. Is everything all right? Yes, I’m okay. I think I’m coming down with a cold, that’s all, or allergies. Different climate and air and all…”
Imai stood on the other side of the purple curtain. He didn’t want to eavesdrop, but he didn’t want to leave either. He peered around the curtain edge. Her back was to him and as his mind replayed the quick kiss his hands again felt the lush curves of her body encased in the soft velvet. His tongue tingled with the memory of the minty taste of her mouth.
“I think I might be coming home early,” Kim said into the phone, bringing a short end to Imai’s thoughts. He furrowed his brows in alarm.
“I know you wanted to see Tokyo. But things aren’t…” Kim paused. “I don’t think I’m really needed here, Mandy.”
Imai stormed into the dressing room and grabbed the phone out of her hands. “Your mother is busy,” he said gruffly before hanging up.
“What the hell are you doing?” Kim stood up. In her face, Imai saw more hurt than he cared to admit. Tossing her phone onto the dressing table, he grabbed her shoulders. She tried to pull away, but he held fast.
“You had no right to do that. Now let me go.”
She tried to jerk away, and in doing so the crutch on Imai’s left side fell from under his arm. He came down on his broken leg, and it gave out beneath him. Kim fell with him, somehow purposely twisting her body so that she took the brunt of the fall first with him landing on top of her.
His elbow connected with her midsection, and she cried out.
“Donovan-san. Kim, are you all right? Are you hurt?”
Kim was barely aware of the models and Harada beginning to crowd around. All she could see was Imai Shimizu’s dark eyed focused entirely on her. All she could hear was the echo of his deep voice in her ears. The deep voice that spoke English perfectly and as clearly as a native speaker.
“You lying bastard!”
He winced and she bet it wasn’t only from any pain in his leg. Not letting her personal
feeling override her duty, she asked Harada-san to help Imai up, then got to her own feet. She pulled a chair over so Imai could sit and then grabbed another to elevate the singer’s leg. “Someone get a glass of water.”
“Get me a drink,” Imai grumbled.
“No! Water only,” Kim ordered, going to her purse to retrieve the bottle of pain meds she’d brought from the house just in case. She gave the French model a hard look when the woman returned with a tall champagne flute.
“It’s water. I couldn’t find another glass.”
Kim gave the contents a quick sniff just to be sure, then handed the glass and the pill to Imai. “Just close your eyes and relax and let it work.”
She straightened up and started waving away the crowd of models and makeup artists that had gathered around to gawk. “Everyone has to give him some space,” Kim said. “Go on.”
Harada translated for the Japanese crew and helped usher everyone out of the dressing area while Kim dimmed some of the lights. Passing in front of the mirror, she noticed her choker hanging crookedly from her neck.
Fingering the clasp, Kim found the tiny latch in the back had twisted during the fall. “Damn it,” she sighed as she removed the choker and placed it carefully on the table. When she looked up, Imai was staring at her through the mirror, his handsome face pale and drawn from the pain.
“That was a dirty trick to play.” Kim frowned at his reflection, folding her arms across her chest.
Imai rubbed his eyes. “It had its moments.”
Furious, Kim turned around. “And just when were you planning on saying something?” She shook her head. “Imai Shimizu, you’re nothing but a spoiled brat.”
The words certainly seemed to have hit their target dead center. There was no mistaking the resentment in the singer’s eyes, and Kim was reminded of that old saw about how “the truth hurts.”
But not as much as the truth that he only kissed you to amuse his friends.
Under a Silver Moon Page 5