Spotless (Spotless Series Book 1)

by Camilla Monk

  Technicalities. It’s always those damn technicalities, like wanting clothes but not wanting to wander through the aisles of a crowded supermarket wearing only an oversized men’s jacket and no underwear.

  I huffed, puffing my cheeks for good measure. “Can I give you a list? Please?”

  “I’m not leaving you alone in the car for that long.” The mirth was suddenly gone from his voice. I knew we had reached an impasse.

  Taking a long breath, I summoned the badass within me. I was getting used to perpetual shaming anyway. “March, can you swear on your dead body that your jacket is long enough?”

  He nodded. Balling my fists, I opened the door, and he followed me. I thought my first steps in the street would be awkward because I was barefoot and butt-naked, but the most annoying part was actually my leg. The muscles were still numb, and each step felt weird, like walking on cotton. I think he noticed. He made no direct attempt to help me walk, but his left hand hovered behind my back the whole time, ready to catch me if I fell.

  As expected, everyone was staring at me. Burying my head low in my shoulders like a pissed chicken, I tried to ignore the quizzical stares of the shoppers passing by. So I had no pants and no shoes, so what? Fuck you, France!

  I guess March was rubbing off on me, because this shopping was nothing but efficient. Clothes, shoes, and basic hygiene products piled into the plastic basket he carried for me at a surprising speed. I didn’t even bother with fittings: I wanted this over quick, especially since that old guy in the underwear aisle had been gawking at me for several minutes already.

  It wasn’t him, however, who spoke behind me as I shoved several pairs of panties in the basket with reddened ears. “The cream lace ones looked much better.”

  I tried to conceal the offending items under a pair of jeans in the basket with nervous hands. “This brand is too expensive.” I didn’t want to have this conversation. Not with March, not after what had happened in the car, and certainly not in public while I wasn’t wearing any underwear.

  “You’re not paying, and I saw your hand linger on them before you picked the discount cotton ones.” He was straightforward and matter-of-fact, as usual. Except he was discussing lingerie. My lingerie.

  Fearing he might keep badgering me for lack of a better thing to do, I swallowed my pride and replaced the cheap cotton knickers resting in the basket with the delicate silk and lace panties. Flustered, I pointed a decided finger at the registers. “We’re done here.”

  He didn’t budge. “You didn’t switch the bras. Your underwear won’t be coordinated.”

  Sweet Jesus, it was OCD time.

  I made it back to the rack with a growl and, this time, traded the discount bras for their elegant counterparts. Dropping them in the basket, I gave him a challenging glare. He nodded his approval and consented to resume walking.

  “Seriously . . . I wish I could see you when you run away from bed because you got a panic attack over your partner’s mismatched underwear,” I mumbled as we waited for our turn.

  He shrugged. “I don’t. It’s just a matter of personal taste.” He gave me a sideways glance as he said so, and I rolled my eyes to the ceiling.

  Never in my life had I wished so hard for a thousand-foot-wide asteroid to change its course to hit someone directly in the face. Granted, it would have wiped out the entire country and possibly caused an impact winter on Earth in the process, but the greater good of mankind was worth some modicum of sacrifice. At any rate, there was at least one good thing coming out of this: I was now officially over March. Whatever I had experienced in that car had clearly been a mirage. Case closed.

  Now, I realize I’m presenting things in a rather negative light. To be truthful, I’ll concede that there weren’t exclusively lemons on my plate, but also a few treats. Kalahari’s overwhelming kindness had been one of them, and our hotel turned out to be another.

  I can’t say I had ever dreamed of staying at Paris’s super glamorous Bristol Hotel, because I’m not the type to fantasize about wearing Louboutin heels or bathing in champagne. Still, I was a little light-headed when I entered the huge white lobby. As March took care of check-in, I marveled at the long red carpets, lavish furniture, and impressive crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling. At some point, I nearly started counting the roses in a massive round bouquet that stood on a mahogany table in the reception.

  I was about to follow him to the elevator when I caught movement in my peripheral vision; something fluffy was wiggling under a large burgundy armchair. Wasting no time, I squatted and tried to reach under said armchair. Two gorgeous aquamarine eyes glared at me, and a small creamy paw met my fingers, encouraging me to leave its owner alone.

  “His name is Fa-raon. He’s the hotel’s mascot.”

  I looked up at the owner of the gentle voice that had introduced me to the cat—a woman in her late forties, of Middle Eastern descent maybe. Her tall silhouette was hugged by an impeccable gray dress, and around her neck a single white pearl tied to a silvery chain shone softly between long raven tresses. She gave me a polite smile, which I returned. “You know him well?”

  “I love cats, so I pet him every time I stay here. I am Guita, by the way.” She extended a smooth hand ending with long burgundy nails as she said so.

  Shaking it with a timid gesture, I peered over her shoulder and noticed March was watching the exchange, staring at Guita’s back intently. Was he maybe into older women?

  “I’m Island. Thank you for introducing me to him. I have to go, but maybe we’ll see each other around.”

  “We will. I’m certain we will, Island.”

  She exuded a blend of kindness and self-confidence that reminded me of my mother: would she have been like Guita if she had still been alive? Would a dozen more years have lowered her voice to the same kind of soft alto as this woman’s? I didn’t really believe I’d ever see Guita again, but as she watched us step in the elevator, I felt a small pang of regret. She had seemed nice.

  After the bellhop finished showing us into a suite decorated with eighteenth-century French furniture and some intricate white-and-teal vegetal pattern on the curtains, seats, and bed linen, March ushered him out and started making himself at home. I watched in silence as he retrieved a few things from the mysterious black case that never left him, before inspecting the suite.

  I tried to peer at the contents of his suitcase when he opened it. I assumed there were more than shirts and socks in there, and I was curious about what it could be. Guns? Obviously. Grenades? Maybe . . . A flame-throwing pen? Okay, maybe not. Admitting defeat, I opened the bedroom’s wardrobe, claiming a shelf for my Monoprix bag.

  Once we were done, he turned to me with a full-blown poker smile. “I need to run some errands. Can I trust you to make yourself comfortable and not do anything stupid?”

  My eyes widened. “You would trust me alone in here? Even if—”

  “Not a single second. The doors and windows are locked and bulletproof, and someone will warn me if you try to escape.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. I had known that it was possible for hotels to buff up the security of some suites—like the presidential ones—but I had no idea gangsters could have their own bunker suites as well. My eyes darted to the windows. Indeed. Top floor, no balcony, no vis-à-vis. If on top of that the windows were bulletproof, I wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

  “All right . . .” I sighed. “Can I at least get something to eat?”

  He tilted his head, charming the living daylights out of me as he defined the terms of my incarceration. “I’m afraid it will have to wait for my return. No one comes in.”

  And with that he was gone, leaving me to stand in the middle of the suite, flabbergasted. Scratching my head, I decided to take a bath while he was out doing whatever it is that professional killers do when they roam the streets at night. My gaze traveled over the white furniture and light gray marble of the suite’s bathroom while I undressed tiredly. I examined the long porcela
in tub; it was pretty nice, but nothing mind-blowing, at least compared to the one I had seen during a girls’ weekend in Las Vegas for Joy’s birthday. You don’t know how much you need a futuristic hot tub with light effects until you’re sitting in one. It’s all I can say.

  I was almost done showering when I heard the room’s entrance door click. I turned the tap off, dried myself, and slipped into one of those cool free terry robes that they bill you for if you smuggle them in your suitcase. The white cotton was top-quality, and I felt pretty good, considering how bad my day had been. I opened the bathroom’s door. March was back.

  “Glad to see you took some time to refresh. Feel better?” He was standing in the middle of the room, and his intimidating gaze appraised me for a few seconds, eyes gleaming with interest.

  I fidgeted uncomfortably. “Is something wrong?”

  “No. You might want to either tighten that belt or get dressed, though,” he said, looking away.

  It took me a couple of seconds to figure out the meaning behind his remark, until I looked down.

  Oh. My. God.

  Oversized terry robe is oversized.

  It wasn’t a complete disaster yet—and March had seen me entirely naked on Rislow’s table already anyway—but I had been rather careless, and the top of the robe was gaping in a way that left little to the imagination. Sweet Jesus. A nipple slip in front of a guy I had nearly canoodled with less than half an hour prior. How much worse could it get?

  “Sorry!” I tucked the terry robe’s gaping décolletage against my chest and retreated into the bedroom to get dressed. When I came back, March was no longer in the living room, and I could hear the water running. Blocking any inappropriate thoughts of him under the shower—something made easy by replacing these with visions of him manically wiping the walls afterward—I sat down cross-legged in a large teal armchair, my gaze turned to the room’s bay windows, through which I could see the Eiffel Tower shimmering in the night.

  I’ll be honest: there was this little perverted part of me that hoped he would exit the bathroom clad only in a towel, wet chest hair glistening and all, like in those Diet Coke ads. He didn’t. He came out dressed in his shirt and jeans, and he had traded his brown oxfords for the hotel’s complimentary slippers. Meh.

  I eventually turned the TV on, and he called room service while I watched that old show where the guy’s voice dubs baboons. I returned to the living room to discover that several tempting plates now stood on a small ornate mahogany table flanked by two Louis XV armchairs. Settling in one of the seats, he motioned for me to sit down. I plopped myself in front of him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Blame France all you want, call the French cheese-eating surrendering monkeys who wash only once a year, but there’s nothing like French haute cuisine! Closing my eyes in delight, I porked my way through a bunch of sexy little crayfish makis swimming in a creamy lobster sauce. As I considered the idea of drinking that wonderful sauce straight from my plate, my brain chose to remind me of a few practicalities.

  “March, I’ve been thinking . . . tomorrow’s Monday. People are going to notice I’m gone. What are you going to do about that?”

  He looked up from his Caesar salad, his eyes reflecting no traces of worry. “Work shouldn’t be an issue. You e-mailed EM Tech’s HR an hour ago to inform them that you would be taking a few days off for personal reasons.”

  I choked on a crayfish and coughed loudly upon hearing this. “I . . . what? I never . . . did you hack my e-mail account?”

  His eyes lit up, and he flashed me his trademark all-knowing poker smile. “Yes, I had someone take care of it. I realize it’s a little unpleasant, but it was a necessity.”

  I need to run some errands . . . Asshole.

  Once I had reined in my anger at his utter lack of regard for my privacy, I fought back a burp and dragged one of the two dessert plates toward me. My mouth watered at the sight of the gorgeous lacquered chocolate dome. “What about Joy?”

  “Well, I was hoping you could do something about her.”

  I licked chocolate mousse from my lips. “You mean call her and pretend I went on some improvised romantic getaway with you?”

  He laughed. “It’s close enough to the truth.”

  “To help you in your job, which was, if I recall properly, to abduct me, torture me until I gave you the diamond, and kill me afterward? The job for which you’re likely being paid more than what I make in an entire year?” My eyes narrowed with each detail, the chocolate in my mouth turning bitter. “It’s gonna cost you.”

  He leaned forward, resting his chin on intertwined fingers. “Name your price.”

  I eyed him pensively for a while, and when his gaze met mine, with that warm expression that belied everything he was, my skin tingled at the memory of what had nearly happened in the car. An idea crept into my mind.

  A bad one.

  And therefore a tempting one.

  Could I ask him such a thing? Would he laugh and say no? As I tried to sort my feelings about the whole plan, it struck me that I had to ask him because it was the best I could hope for. No one would ever love me “just the way I was” and kiss me in the snow like Mark Darcy did to Bridget in Bridget Jones’s Diary, but at least I would have this.

  “I want a date.”

  His eyebrows jerked, and a deep laugh echoed in the room that lasted for a good ten seconds. When he ended it, shaking his head with a smile, I tried hard not to blush. “A date? With me? What for?”

  I swallowed my pride upon hearing him laugh his ass off at the idea of dating me and straightened in my chair, ready to demonstrate my point. “Have you read Accidentally Married to the Billionaire Sheikh?”

  March cringed. “No, I haven’t read . . . that.”

  “You should. It’s a compelling read and an insightful look into the dynamics of relationships that start with abduction and forced marriage.” I narrowed my eyes at him as I said so, in hopes that Mr. May would get my point. “In the beginning, Swanella—”

  “Wait, the heroine’s name is Swanella?”

  “I think it’s an homage to Twilight; let me finish. So Swanella is super mad that Sheikh Hedwardh kidnapped her, told her family she was dead, and staged her burial to force her to marry him.”

  His brow furrowed. “Why did he do such a thing?”

  “Because she’s the only girl beautiful enough for him, so he flew to America to ravish her.”

  He seemed lost. “But how did he know her? How did he know she was beautiful?”

  “She’s this world-famous supermodel, and she also founded her own non-profit that saves abused children.”

  The corners of his lips turned down in an expression of profound respect. “That’s remarkable. How old is she?”

  “Eighteen.”

  He gazed at a spoonful of chocolate cake thoughtfully. “So Swanella is young, successful, kind, and beautiful, and she’s looking at a few years of marital rape. Where does you and I going on a date fit into all of this?”

  “Like I said, she’s mad, so Hedwardh offers her a beautiful dress and takes her on this glamorous date so she’ll fall in love with him.”

  “Does it work?”

  “And how! He pops her cherry right afterward,” I said, accompanying this conclusion with a heartfelt thumbs-up gesture.

  He tilted his head, the corners of his eyes crinkling with mischief. “Are you suggesting you want me to deflower you?”

  “Of course not!” I blushed profusely before regaining my composure. “All I’m saying is that you’re a villain who kidnapped me, and you want me to call my best friend and pretend I’m okay, so you owe me. And what I want is this; I want the kind of date girls like me never get.”

  “Define ‘the kind of date girls like you never get,’” he answered with a quizzical look.

  I raised my arms in the air in an enthusiastic gesture, and years of ninety-nine-cent romance books and direct-to-DVD rom-coms poured out from my lips.
“The whole dreamy boyfriend experience! Dinner, champagne, candlelight . . . Also you’ll pretend you care, like you did in the car. I want stars; stars and fricking satellites!”

  He swallowed a bite of cake and nodded slowly. “I see. What makes you think I’m qualified for this?”

  I shrugged. “You’re a good liar.”

  “All right then. It’s a deal. Call Joy for me, and I promise to give you my best impression of a glamorous date.” He laughed, extending his hand.

  I shook it firmly, reveling in the contact of his skin against mine. “Deal. I expect you to spare me no compliment. I’ll make you a list, if you want.”

  “A list?”

  “Yes, things like ‘Baby, God stole all the stars in the sky and stuffed them in your eyes.’”

  March winced. “I will not say something like that, Island. Where is it from anyway?”

  “Slave to the Rich and Sexy Vampire.”

  “Oh. This one is not a billionaire.”

  “No, he keeps it low-key.”

  Visibly pondering over this, he rose from his armchair and pulled a smartphone from his pocket. Then, unlocking the device, he handed it to me with an expectant wink. “I believe you owe me one phone call.”

  “All right, give me that.”

  It went better than expected, mostly because, thanks to the time difference, it was four in the afternoon on the East Coast, and Joy was still in Southampton. I felt bad for lying to her, though, and even worse for making up that ludicrous story about embarking on a last-minute romantic getaway with March in Paris for the weekend. He listened attentively, watching for any sign that I might be trying to convey a hidden message, I assumed. While Joy did ask me several times if I was high, she eventually bought into my story—certainly because she would have done that sort of thing in a heartbeat, had the opportunity presented itself. I lied about our hotel’s name under the silent pressure of his gaze, and once we were done exchanging banalities about the local weather, Joy inquired on the only thing that truly mattered in life.

  “Is it big?”

  I cringed at her direct question, and I’m not sure what came over me, but I stared insolently into March’s eyes as I answered Joy. “No, super small . . . yeah, like a mini hot dog. Also he’s like forty, so you know . . . it’s all soft.”