Spotless (30 page)

She responded with an excited grin. “Welcome back, Mr. June. I’ll see what I can do!”

Her bubbly voice and the usual lame alias snapped me back to attention. I gave March a questioning look. “What’s going on?”

He gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder and glanced at the woman, who was busy explaining his request to a short guy with slicked-back raven hair. She came back a few seconds later, and this time she looked flushed. What the hell had he asked from her?

“Arrangements will made in the suite immediately, and—” More blushing if possible. “I would be delighted to assist you personally!”

That last line had come out in a near squeal, and my eyes narrowed in suspicion. Had March been . . . hitting on her? A lump formed in
my throat, which I deemed best ignored. We weren’t even together to begin with, so no need to get jealous. As I brooded silently, I realized she was staring at me. She was no longer smiling, more like . . . well, staring. Up and down.

I shifted under the pressure of her appraising gaze and cleared my throat uncomfortably. “I . . . do we get a room or something? I think I need some rest.”

“Can we expect you in two hours, Fubuki?” March asked her.

She nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, Mr. June! Anything else? A spa appointment for the lady, perhaps? We can offer a skin-brightening facial—”

He laid a hand on my shoulder and flashed Fubuki a bright smile. “Excellent idea! Island, why don’t you get pampered before we go?”

“Before we go? Where?”

“Well, on our date. Fubuki will find a dress for you. In the meantime, you can rest and get a facial . . . skinning,” he concluded, visibly unfamiliar with spa treatments terminology.

I didn’t care about that last point, though. My brain was stuck a little farther back in his sentence, unable to process its meaning. “We . . . uh . . . We’re going on a date?”

“Yes, one I believe I promised you.” He nodded with a smug expression.

I turned to Fubuki for some sort of confirmation, but she was already gone. He
had
indeed voiced his intent to fulfill his end of our bargain back in the plane, but in all honesty, I hadn’t really believed it would happen. I had filed it as little more than a pleasant fantasy, one that would keep me warm next time I’d see other people kissing.

Except it was happening, and he had asked Fubuki to find a dress for me. Like in
Accidentally Married to the Billionaire Sheikh
. I took a deep breath, trying to calm my fluttering heart. “Is this real, or are you going to laugh in my face in ten seconds and say that I got punked?”

He blinked. “Why would I do such a thing? Now run to that spa. You have one hour and fifty-five minutes left to look your best before Fubuki comes back with clothes for you.”

With this, a young bellhop I hadn’t noticed approaching popped at my side. Casting March one last befuddled glance, I followed the guy, my mind completely blown.

By the time I returned to the hotel’s fifty-third floor, I had been Brazilian waxed, cleaned, scrubbed, reenergized with vitamin C and aloe vera extracts, and the blazing agony between my legs had decreased to tolerable levels. When I entered our suite, still followed by that young bellhop whom I now understood to be in charge of watching me, the first thing I noticed was that March had already changed. The slight stubble of the last twenty-four hours had been replaced by a close shave, his usual jacket and jeans by what looked a lot like a tux—no tie or bow, though, and . . .

“Are you . . . Is that
cologne
I smell on you?”

I know it’s no way to greet someone, especially if you scrunch your nose while saying this, but I had gotten used to him never wearing any perfume. I suspected it had to do with his job: makes it easier to go unnoticed when people can’t smell you coming for them. I can even say I liked it. At any rate, he was dashing—the incarnation of a dream date.

A dimpled grin answered my question, and past the initial shock of standing face-to-face with the closest thing I had ever seen to Prince Charming, my eyes darted around, taking in our surroundings. Now,
that
was one damn cool suite. It wasn’t the size. It was a bit bigger than the one we had stayed in at the Bristol, but nothing insane. It wasn’t the elegant, modern furniture with a palette of soft creamy hues, or even the bottle of champagne resting in a tall, silvery bucket filled with ice cubes.

It was the fricking view.

The bedroom possessed large windows offering a panoramic view of the city, and I ran past March to lean against one of them, squishing my nose against the thick glass as I stared at the fiery gold of Tokyo Tower shimmering in the distance.

Taking a quick tour of my new kingdom, I couldn’t repress a victorious squeak when I realized that the bathroom boasted the same type of bay window, and that a smart architect had placed the tub right in front of it, lodged in an alcove.

“Aren’t you going to get changed?”

March’s tranquil voice hauled me back to reality, and as I returned to the living room, I finally noticed the three white bags sitting on a long beige sofa. “Fubuki picked a few things for you. She has an excellent eye for style. I trust you’ll be pleased with her purchases,” he said with a little wink.

I nodded and crossed the room to pick up the bags. “I’ll go get ready in the bathroom.”

He moved to go sit in a cream armchair facing the bay window, and I flew more than I walked to said bathroom, locking the door behind me and placing the bags on the floor. Opening the first one, I felt my cheeks flush and wondered if he had anything to do with . . . whatever I was holding between two fingers at a safe distance, like I would have a dead sea cucumber. Pink silk, frilly black Chantilly lace, ribbons everywhere . . . The lingerie set Fubuki had provided me with was simply outrageous. For God’s sake, I had never even
touched
a garter belt before!

I silently praised her for the push-up bra—a nice fit with some subtle padding—but I ditched the garter belt, since my stockings appeared to hold well enough on their own. Opening the second, much larger bag, I pulled out a sleeveless LBD that had me yet again wondering if March had given Fubuki any specific instructions. Much like my beloved flapper dress, it had some nice embroidery, but its cut was much more flattering, with an elegant portrait neckline and flared skirt that reached under my knees. Fifties-ish, chic, but not too daring. I loved it.

A pair of almost perfectly sized black satin pumps and a gray silk coat completed the outfit. I examined the results of my extreme makeover in the mirror for a few seconds and came to the conclusion that the contents of the third bag were going to be needed. Being dressed like a movie star and skipping the makeup part looked weird.

Damn, these things were even more complicated than third-degree equations! Should I put on the light-optimizing primer before or after the sheer matte foundation that would control my shine? After much effort, I looked in the mirror to see someone who wasn’t me but didn’t look too bad. I had stuck to the basics, afraid that too much fiddling with the eyeliner or the eye shadow might turn me into a raccoon, the touch of gloss being the only actual bold move, in my opinion.

I didn’t bother with my hair, confident that some finger brushing was more than enough for my bob, and gave a doubtful glance at the pink bottle of perfume staring back at me on the counter. Did I really want to douse myself in an unidentified Japanese fragrance whose name was Vice and Virtue? Hell, I hadn’t gone this far to lose the battle to fifty milliliters of water and ethanol. Vice and Virtue it would be.

I can truthfully report I swayed back into the bedroom, but it was because of the shoes. Those high heels were giving me a hard time. March was still waiting in his armchair, gazing at the sparkling skyline with a flute of champagne in his hand. I took a few tentative steps toward him, and he rose from his seat, appraising me silently. He did an amazing job at giving me the
Pretty Woman
look, the one that tells a girl she cleans up nice. “You look absolutely stunning.”

I didn’t blush, but my ears felt a little hot at his compliment. “Thank you. Where are we going?”

“I was going to ask you. This is, after all, your date. Tell me what you’d like, and Fubuki will arrange it.”

Well, that was some heavy dream date scenario. Where to, indeed? Michelin stars were not hard to find in Tokyo, and a good deal of my romance books enforced the necessity for the hero to take the heroine
to a super exclusive place in order to successfully seduce her. I wasn’t certain that was
my
idea of a dream date, though. Tapping the tip of my nose in deep thought, I looked up at March and got a better idea. “Where do
you
want to go?”

His eyebrows rose. “Me? I’m not entirely certain I’m qualified to choose a restaurant that will meet all of your expectations—”

“No, March. Where would
you
go? What would you enjoy? Molecular stuff? Italian?” I insisted.

The cutest expression of embarrassment appeared on his usually confident face. “Well, I—”

“What?”

He fumbled in his left pocket, still looking hesitant, and showed me a couple of bright-colored coupons, the kind of overenthusiastic advertisement only Japanese businesses can come up with. “They were distributing these near the hotel. I took some because it sounded like an excellent bargain, but I’m not sure—”

I closed my eyes, trying hard not to laugh. Some
tonkatsu
joint in the area offered a free dessert with every order of a fried pork sirloin dish, along with all-you-can-eat rice. “Okay! Fried pork it is!” I proclaimed, much more comfortable with the prospect of a ten-dollar dinner than that of some overly posh and expensive restaurant.

March nodded his approval while tucking the coupons back in his inner pocket, and offered me his arm to go down to the hotel’s lobby. As I rested my left hand on his forearm and leaned closer to him, I wondered if he understood that I had asked him to choose our destination because I cared more about knowing him better than I did about my dream romance date thing.

Everybody stared when we entered the
tonkatsu
joint. I could understand why: we looked like some sort of ridiculously jamesbondish pair in the
middle of a tiny restaurant that smelled of fried food, soy sauce, and coffee. Tired salarymen ate directly on the wooden counter, sitting on high stools, downing glass after glass of cheap beer. A young waiter guided us to a small table near a window, and March handed him his two coupons with a regal gesture. I bit my lower lip not to laugh and ordered a can of C.C. Lemon soda for myself and some iced coffee for March.

While we waited for our dishes to arrive, I pulled out a crumpled advertisement for an antiaging cream, on which I had scribbled a list of questions, back at the hotel’s spa. I handed it to March.

“I think you should tell me immediately which questions are unsuitable for a date,” I said, producing one of the hotel’s pens from my coat pocket.

He nodded and started reading. The pen went down, and I cringed as half of my list was crossed off with a steady hand. He then seemed to examine the remaining items until his brow knitted, and he crossed out yet another item. “That is totally inappropriate.”

I leaned forward to look at the list. “What?”

“I’m not discussing when, or to whom, I lost my virginity!”

“It would only be fair! Joy told you about me!”

He snorted. “I’m sure you’ve already heard the answer to this question anyway, and in florid detail, no doubt.”

I blinked. “Kalahari?” My hands flew to my mouth as I remembered her tale. “Wow, you were twenty-four? That’s almost as bad as me!”

He looked offended. “Is this the sort of compliment you usually give to your partners?”

I flushed upon realizing that I had once again failed to make appropriate small talk during a date, and I was grateful for the distraction provided by the waiter arriving with our drinks. March handed me back my list, stern blue eyes observing me over his iced coffee.

I took the paper and went through his changes. Everything related to his family had been crossed off, and I wasn’t allowed to ask how he had become a professional killer either. Some questions he had answered
directly on paper, suggesting that this was all I would get and the topic, therefore, needn’t be discussed. Indeed, near the lines where I asked if he too was South African, like Dries, and if his mentor was a Lion as well, a simple “yes” had been scribbled in poor handwriting. That left us with friends, hobbies, cleaning tips, trivia, and . . . I crossed my eyes at the single word he had written at the bottom of my list.