Spotless (20 page)

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.”

The slight twitch of his lips promised a world of hurt later on, but I figured life was too short for regrets anyway—especially mine. Joy groaned in despair on the other end of the line, encouraging me
to dump him right away because small, limp dicks were a total deal breaker. I don’t know if it was guilt over my claim that he was poorly endowed, or because I knew he could hear Joy making terrible jokes about overcooked mac’n’cheese through the speaker, but I felt the need to rectify my account, even a little.

“He-he’s a decent kisser, though,” I stammered, feeling my face heat up at this particular lie—was it even a lie?

In any case, it was no use. Joy believed nothing in this world could redeem a mini-hot-dog dick, and we decided to leave it at that. I felt a diffuse weariness when we said good-bye before hanging up, perhaps born from the fear that my adventure wouldn’t end well and I’d never go home, in spite of March’s best efforts.

I handed him his phone back without meeting his eyes. As expected, there was a price tag on that mini hot dog. I didn’t think it would be so high, though.

His lips quirked. “I’m actually thirty-two, and I never thought I’d hear a socially crippled virgin who binges on romance books speculate on my size. You made my day.”

I had earned that one, and it hurt in all the right places. I got up from the sofa with gritted teeth and gave my best shot at a haughty glare. “I’m going to sleep. I’m taking the room. You get the couch.”

I saw the smugness vanish from his face and his hand rise in an attempt to stop me, but I ran into the bedroom before he could open his mouth, slamming the door behind me. Once I was inside, I allowed myself to fall to the floor, my back sliding down against the door.

SEVENTEEN

The Ostrich

“He was a billionaire with a fortune of cosmic proportions, but he yearned for one thing only: the beautiful waitress who worked in his massively big skyscraper’s cafeteria.”

—Livia Torrente,
The Billionaire’s Beautiful Waitress

“I never thought I’d hear a socially crippled virgin who reads romance speculate on my tiny Jell-O junk, mmmhh’kay!”

Some people blow off steam through exercising, others do drugs, a few eat mints and kill people.
My
way had been the same for years: imitating people I hated with the voice of
South Park
’s Mr. Mackey.

I was lying in bed, clutching the teal comforter in aggravation, my recent interactions with March replaying over and over in my mind. Who the hell did he think he was to call me socially crippled and mock my reading choices? So he had nearly kissed me. So what? Did that give him the right to play with me like that? To monopolize my thoughts? Of course not. He was nothing special. Other guys had kissed me—really kissed me! Those had been great, memorable kisses.

Super hot
, actually.

Yeah.

No, March was just some OCD-ridden freak with too much attitude, and his chest hair was lame. I slammed my fists on the bed with determination; I wasn’t going to let him walk all over me.

I was still seething, and repeating to myself that I too, was a warrior with balls of stainless steel, when I realized that some parts of my body were, in fact,
not
made of steel.

There was a dull ache in my bladder. I needed to pee.

Since my scalp was prickling at the idea of having to face him to access the toilets, I decided that nature could wait. According to the TV’s clock, I struggled for fifty-four minutes before the urge became intolerable and I had to get up. Mortified, I slid into my jeans and tried to crawl out of the bedroom unnoticed, to no avail: March wasn’t asleep. He was resting on the room’s long sofa, reading something on his phone.

Detaching his gaze from the screen, he gave me a lazy smile. “Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“I need to . . .” I gestured to the toilet’s door, scratching my tangled hair, eyes still half-closed.

He nodded his understanding, and I scurried across the room to lock myself in. Hell-bent on making sure March didn’t discover that I possessed a bladder like the rest of mankind, I stuffed the bowl with toilet paper to muffle any undignified sound—and yes, I’m aware that this is stupid and I could have clogged the toilet. Having a crush is complicated. Flushing proved even more of a torturous process, especially with all that paper. I shuddered at the loud gurgle that sounded like a thousand voices yelling, “Hey! Island went to the TOILET!”

I washed my hands and headed back to the bedroom, only to be stopped by his voice. “You seem tense. Are you still angry?”

“No,” I mumbled.

“I see. Still angry, obviously.”

Ignoring his snide comment, I leaned against the bedroom door, focusing my gaze on his phone to avoid his mocking eyes. “What are you doing, playing?”

“No, I’m checking the messages coming from my website.”