Spotless (12 page)

“If you try to talk to him about Étienne now, he’ll suspect something, and it might endanger him. What is done is done; he’s better not knowing that you learned about your inheritance for the time being,” Ilan commented, apparently reading my mind.

My eyes slanted at March. “Don’t worry, Ilan, it’s not like I have a phone anyway.”

I hoped I wouldn’t get killed, because I planned on having a long conversation with my dad when I got back to New York. I stole another glance at March, who seemed to be plunged in deep thought as well, his brow furrowed. March . . . who embodied every sort of trouble my dad had tried to protect me from by hiding that will from me. What was it that Paolo Coelho said in
The Alchemist
? “What good is money to you if you’re going to die? It’s not often that money can save someone’s life.”

Well, Paolo was damn right, and so was my dad, to some extent. Taking a deep breath, I made up my mind and looked at March. “I’ll help you find the Ghost Cullinan if I can, but I don’t want to know anything about the rest. I won’t take stolen money. I’m in enough trouble as it is.”

“No, it’s money paid in exchange for stolen goods,” Ilan corrected.

“Totally different,” March concurred with a little nod.

Aggravated by the fact that I was being given life advice by guys with failing moral compasses, I slammed back into my seat and crossed my arms. “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear this. This conversation is over.”

Ilan was, however, one of those “macho macho men” who decide when conversations are over and when they aren’t. “You know, if money makes you feel bad, you can always be like March. Save it all and live like a Jesuit in a cubicle,” he said with a cunning smile.

A mixture of embarrassment and annoyance flashed in March’s eyes. “My house is big enough, thank you.”

“I think you’re exaggerating, Ilan. A real tightwad wouldn’t fly private,” I offered in defense of my captor.

Ilan guffawed. “He negotiates Paulie’s prices!”

“I’m merely enjoying the benefits of his frequent flyer program,” March replied indignantly.

“Paulie
doesn’t have
a frequent flyer program.” Ilan snickered.

“Well, thanks to me, now he does.”

I couldn’t help it: witnessing the outrage in March’s expression, I dissolved into laughter.

Between two hiccups, I heard Ilan’s amused voice, addressing March. “Putain, c’est bien la première fois que je te vois faire marrer un client.”
Damn, it has to be the first time I see you make a client laugh.

I was surprised, to say the least; Ilan had talked in a rather colloquial French for the second time, and I hadn’t realized March could understand the language so well. It was becoming obvious he had been here before.

I spent the rest of the ride in silence, counting the cows and trying to figure what to make of all this. How many facets were there to the man people just called March?

TEN

The Goddess

“She was a mysterious, sensual goddess, gliding across the ballroom with effortless grace. Upon seeing her, Ryker immediately felt his pants tent: he had been hopelessly bitten by the potent arrow of love.”

—Gilda Sapphire,
Scorching Passion of the Billionaire Werewolf

Ilan must have been a wedding planner before turning to a life of crime, because when we reached the outskirts of Paris, he took charge naturally, March letting him do so without questions. I doubted it was a display of submission, though, more like he didn’t care and would do as he pleased in the end anyway.

A series of text messages made Ilan’s phone vibrate in his front pocket, and after he was done checking them, he looked at March in the mirror. “Your guy was seen at the Rose Paradise two nights ago. He’s a regular there. I’m sending someone. Shouldn’t be long until we catch him. I booked you a safe room, and your car is ready, but we’ll stop at my place first. She said she absolutely had to see you if you were in Paris.”

As he introduced the program, I recorded each single word in that special area of my brain where I store all data that could lead to shocking revelations and drama. Who the hell was “she”?

Ilan drove us through Paris until we reached rue Saint-Dominique, a narrow, crowded shopping street resting in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower and mostly bordered by low nineteenth-century buildings. I marveled at the store displays: shoes, clothes, jewelry, perfume, pastries . . . The place was a Parisian girl’s dream. We turned right on a smaller street and stopped in front of a more modern white building. Fumbling in his pockets, Ilan pulled out a small remote and opened a garage’s roll-up door.

Once out of the car, he led us to an elevator. As I stepped in cautiously, my brain sizzled with curiosity. Who was the mysterious lady who wanted to see March so badly? A friend? A . . . girlfriend? Ilan’s mom? By the time we reached the seventh floor, I was busy weaving an elaborate scenario in which their rivalry stemmed from the fact that March was doing Ilan’s mom.

We stepped out, and I noticed that there was only one set of black doors at the end of the hallway—someone seemed to own the entire floor. Ilan pushed them open to reveal a huge living room furnished with tasteful pearl-gray-and-white designer stuff—the sort that makes you wonder how much crime pays—and there, standing on the dark wooden floor, was an apparition.

A woman, perched on high pink platform heels, with skin as dark and silky as the coat of a Bombay cat and indecent curves hugged by a beige bandage dress. It might have been a bit rude, but I stared. Almond-shaped eyes, long wavy hair, full lips, and impeccable makeup. She was a fricking goddess, and judging by the way she smiled seductively and poised herself, she knew it all too well.

My eyes traveled down to focus on her generous breasts. How could girls like me be expected to feel good about themselves when such creatures roamed the earth? It was almost unfair. Finishing my inspection, I
noted she wore a series of large golden bracelets on her right arm. They clinked softly as she approached March.

I watched, aghast, as the sublime creature draped her arms around him and caressed his hair, greeting him with a suave voice. “T’es toujours aussi beau.”
You’re as good-looking as ever.

A thousand questions whirled inside my head. Who was she? Ilan looked super mad. Was he going to hit March immediately, or would he wait another minute? Could March escape her hug without an embarrassing boner?

I inhaled her powdery perfume as she moved away from him. March seemed okay, not stiff in any way, not even moved. He looked . . . content. He had welcomed her attention with a gentle smile, and his hand lingered on hers in what looked more like a friendly gesture than a genuine attempt to score.

Clear disapproval burning in his green eyes, Ilan broke the spell, looking at me as he introduced her. “Meet my wife, Kalahari.”

I gaped. March’s voice as he taunted Ilan about ringing twice resounded in my head.
Please don’t tell me he’s banged Ilan’s wife. Please. I wanna live.

She locked her hypnotic brown eyes on mine. “March, aren’t you going to tell me more about your
friend
?”

There was a lovely accent in her French. She was probably an African native who had settled in France at some point in her life, something common, especially in Paris.

He placed a controlling hand on my back and complied. “Kalahari, this person is here to fulfill a small business agreement with me.”

She gave March a strange look. “Oh? And
this person
doesn’t have a name?”

“Clients don’t have names.”

Kalahari’s warm expression morphed into an icy one. Her nostrils flared ever so slightly, and a fascinating chemical reaction occurred that
turned the honey in her voice into the kind of hydrosulfuric acid that can melt spaceships, like in
Alien
.

“March, j’espère que tu te fous de ma gueule . . .”
March, you’d better be fucking kidding me . . .

My mouth fell open for the second time in five minutes. Her refined manners had vanished, and she was now voicing her discontent in one of the harshest ways the French language permitted.

Both men furrowed their brows at the same time, apparently aware that Kalahari was to be handled with extreme caution from this point on.

March’s features hardened. “Kalahari, stay out of this. Please.”

“You’re unbelievable . . .
fucking
hopeless! How can you do this to—”

“Kalahari!” March roared, cutting her off.

Against all odds, it was me who jumped, not her. March had never raised his voice since we had met. Not even once. It didn’t work, though.
I
would have cowered in fear and begged not to be shot, but she seemed to be immune to his wide range of intimidation tricks. Fearing she would claw at his face soon, and aware that Ilan seemed unwilling to step into their quarrel, I chimed in to give March what little credit he deserved in an effort to appease her. “It’s okay . . . I’m getting special treatment. I don’t go in the trunk.” My chest burst with pride as I said this. I was no ordinary client, and I thought the world ought to know so.

March nodded his appreciation of my short and positive input on the current situation, and I felt his hand push me forward. “Well, I’m happy I was able to see you, Kalahari. We’ll be on our way now. Ilan, can you give me the car key and the additional equipment, please?”

Well, that had been one helluva short visit . . . except not.

Before Ilan had the time to comply with March’s request, she pointed an accusing finger in my direction. “You stay here!”

I felt his hand steer me toward the door while the anger in her voice nailed my feet to the floor, and I thought of King Solomon’s judgment. Were they going to split me in two to solve their dispute?

Kalahari glared at him. “For the love of God, look at her! She’s dirty, her pants are torn, and I swear I’ve been listening to this annoying gurgle coming from her stomach ever since she passed that door!”

I bowed my head in shame. It was true. I was in used condition, and my belly had been growling nonstop for the past hour.

March seemed embarrassed by her accusations, but he resisted bravely, fighting for his constitutional right to treat me like crap. “Island will have plenty of time to eat and take a shower later, and she’s doing fine. She told you so herself.”

I managed a crisp smile meant to confirm his bullshit and soothe her, but she would have none of it.

“How can you look at yourself in the mirror? I’m
so
disappointed in you!”

March recoiled, at a loss for new excuses, and Ilan finally stepped in, attempting to calm his wife. “
Chérie
, it’s the job. He can’t . . . you need to understand—”

“Like hell it is! Would you do that, Ilan? Would you dare to treat me like this?” I noticed she was trying to ball her fists in anger, but she couldn’t because of her long nails. Her fingers were trembling, though.

He caved. “It’s different!”

“A true gentleman keeps his girl well-fed, well-dressed, and well-fucked. That’s final!” she yelled, emphasizing each part of this primitive triptych with a resounding slam of her high heel against the apartment’s wooden floor.

I tried to assess the situation. Ilan no longer controlled his dark Aphrodite, March was staring at me as if all of this was somehow my fault, and Kalahari was adamantly advising him to screw me. I was scared shitless, but I realized I could make something of the chaos unfolding before my eyes.

“I-I think we can cut March some slack regarding that last point. I’m sure he has other things on his mind right now, but I could do with
a meal and a shower.” I held out my hands to protect myself as I said this, fearing swift retribution from the so-called gentleman.

The sound of my pleading succeeded in appeasing her wrath, and she turned to March, planting her hands on her hips.

I gulped and looked up at him. “Would that be okay with you, March? I know your time is precious, but it’s been a rough two days. Please—”

I made sure to make my tone weak and begging like the plaintive mewl of a fuzzy kitten that got hit by a Hummer, to ensure that he would have no choice but to indulge Kalahari. She obviously held some sort of superpower over him, and I intended to use it to my advantage.

His soft, calculating smile returned, and the hand that had been resting on my back for the past five minutes receded slowly. “Kalahari is right. Island, I’m terribly sorry for denying you the comfort you
so much
deserve.”

Ouch. Here came the fake apology . . .

“Please sustain yourself and take the time to bathe. Then we can leave, and before we part, I’ll make sure that I’ve
thoroughly
abided to all of Kalahari’s prescriptions.”

And there was the threat. Double ouch.

I won’t lie, I was a little miffed. I had earned some momentary relief, but March was now implying that he would make sure to “thoroughly” rape me before he let me go, so the results of my little strategy were mixed at best.