Spotless (40 page)

He gave me a comforting smile. “Don’t worry about that. I pick my clients wisely.”

I wanted to lose my temper and ask if that rule applied to me as well, but I figured Guita’s car wasn’t the place to rip his head off. Ostensibly bored with our exchange, our host picked the magazine from her lap and instructed the driver to start the car with a little flick of her wrist. “Well, that will be all for today. Until next time, March.”

March took my hand, helped me out of the Bentley, and we watched the car drive away. We walked back to the SUV that he had parked on the Shin-Ohashi Dori, and once the car started moving, I managed to relax a little. Night was starting to fall over the city, bright lights dancing around us like fireflies and gliding across the windows. As we reached Roppongi Hills, I stirred, watching the luxury store displays, the elegant Tokyoites carrying large shopping bags, and almost always a little drink: milk teas, ice coffees, strange sodas . . .

“Stop the car,” I told him, straightening in my seat.

“Why?”

“Because you don’t want to have this conversation while driving,” I said, intentionally using those same words he had pronounced back in Paris.

The peaceful smile that had been dancing on March’s lips until now vanished. “All right.”

THIRTY-THREE

The Voice of Reason

“Destiny tore Colt’s shirt passionately, revealing his huge, hard SEAL muscles. ‘I will never be afraid of death as long as I am with you!’ she moaned passionately.”

—Natasha Onyx,
Muscled Passion of the SEAL

March parked the car in a vast underground garage under the Ritz-Carlton. We both got out, and he stood in front of me on the concrete floor, waiting for the words to come.

I tried hard to sort my feelings and find the right way to tell him how mad I was that he had kissed me, swept me off of my feet like Ryker, the billionaire werewolf . . . and lied, lied like my parents, lied from the moment we had met in my apartment.

Too many thoughts were colliding inside my head—good and bad memories, the temptation to forget it all and jump into his arms, or, on the contrary, to yell at him until my voice was raw. All these boiled and merged until they were concentrated in one single response. Without thinking, I closed my eyes and gave him a violent slap. I slapped him
so hard I hurt my own hand, the sound of my palm against his cheek resounding with a loud smack in the deserted garage.

Of course, March could have dodged; I’m not Jet Li. Yet he didn’t, and kept looking at me calmly, the imprint of my fingers reddening his skin.

“You
lied
to me! About everything! I wasn’t your client . . . and you were there, the day she died! I remember you now!”

He remained silent, gazing at me with a saddened expression, and I almost wanted to slap him again for shutting down on me like this. How could he not see that he was messing with my heart? That said heart was beating like never before, for him, despite all that cleaning and folding!

Of course, I could have told him those things, but I wasn’t sure I could handle hearing him say out loud that we weren’t on the same page. I didn’t want to end up cast in the role of those pathetic spinsters who fall for the first guy who shows some modicum of interest. So I swallowed back the words and sought a dignified way out, my eyes intently studying the white lines painted on the floor. “Never mind . . . You saved me from the car. So thank you for that, I guess.”

A gentle smile tugged at the corners of his lips, and he finally spoke. “No,
you
saved
me
.”

I blinked. “Why do you say that?”

His hand rose to caress my hair, and I struggled to control the blush I could feel coming to my cheeks. “Pulling you out of that car . . . was the first good thing I ever did in my life. It made me realize that if killing was all I’d ever be good for, I had to at least do it on my own terms, with my own code. You’re the reason I left the Lions.” March paused, before concluding in a hesitant voice. “And when I saw you again last year, saw the woman you had become . . . I felt a little at peace with myself.”

Okay, he was obviously trying to make sure that I’d never get over him. My heart was racing in my chest, blood hammering in my temples, and that damn blush was probably long since out of control. I’m not
gonna lie, for a moment, there, in that garage, I pictured the kind of happy ending that only happened in my books: he’d say he was sorry, that I was awesome and he wanted no one else, and I’d burst into tears, and we’d kiss . . .

You can’t blame me for trying: I took a step forward, grabbed the front of his jacket, stood on tiptoes, and pressed my mouth to his. For all my inexperience, I didn’t miss the way his lips first parted, almost like a reflex, only to close. I kept kissing him anyway, because love makes you a little stupid and very selfish, I guess. His hands eventually moved to rest on my shoulders and push me away delicately.

Believe me, that single gesture hurt much more than not getting called back by my past dates. I looked up into March’s eyes, and in all that blue, in that sad and gentle smile, I saw everything that would never be.

I remember that I felt a little dizzy.

I remember realizing that neither Masaharu nor Ethan the gorgeous law student had truly broken my heart, but March was. And that just like the day my mother had died, I was powerless to stop the crash: all I could do was watch and count the seconds until it was over for good.

I took a deep breath to fight the strange metallic taste in mouth, the prickling sensation in my nose and in my eyes. “Sorry about that. I guess I kinda . . . I imagined things.”

March’s eyes widened, and once the flash of surprise was gone, all I could find was guilt and regret. We both knew that I hadn’t imagined anything, that something had been there, at hand’s reach, that neither of us were apparently ready for—or more exactly that
he
wasn’t ready for, because, frankly, if he had offered, I would have gladly become his bitch for all eternity.

In any case, it didn’t work like that.

Life didn’t work like that.

After all, even if it had been possible for us to stay together, would I have been able to live surrounded by lies, wondering if I’d ever see him again every time he left?

His hand moved to take mine, warm and tentative. “Island—”

I shook my head. “In
Muscled Passion of the SEAL
, in the end, Colt Brannigan tells Destiny that he has to go, because she’ll never be safe around him since the FBI and the CIA are after him for a murder he didn’t commit.”

His fingers’ grip around mine tightened a little, and a line creased his brow. “He’s a very reasonable man. But then again, SEALs often are.”

I couldn’t repress a small smile. “They don’t get eaten by Lions much?”

“They do swim quite fast,” March conceded with a nod, before pursing his lips in apparent respect.

I nodded in my turn, throat tight. “When will you go?”

“I’ll leave Tokyo once I’ve arranged a flight back to New York for you.”

“Tonight?”

He glanced at his watch. “I suppose it’s a little late for this. I’ll ask Phyllis to book a seat for tomorrow morning.”

“Okay,” I rasped out.

He took my hand again as we made our way to the elevator, and I found myself wondering if I should tell him that after Colt has informed Destiny of his intention to leave, she fights him and decides to abandon her entire life to follow him in the shadows.

When we made it back to the Ritz’s lobby, no one dared to comment on our disheveled state, but Fubuki offered to send a doctor to check on us, to which March agreed.

I assume that this doctor too encouraged March to take it easy on the bazooka business, but I was in the living room chatting with Joy over the phone, so I didn’t listen this time. There was, in fact, a crisis brewing. My dad was getting suspicious of the way I hadn’t been answering my phone since the “pocket call” incident, and he had called
Joy, only to hear her explain that I had suddenly embarked for a romantic weekend in Paris—no, wait, in Tokyo!—with some forty-something limp-dicked guy who delved into bondage. Joy’s claims that March was reportedly a good kisser had done little to appease my father’s wrath, especially after she had confessed that she had no phone number where she could reach me.

Once I had raided the minibar for snacks and taken a quick shower, I decided to be brave. I called my dad while March soaked in the tub in his turn and watched a BBC documentary about star-nosed moles on the bathroom’s wall-mounted TV—a bit of luck, since these repulsive creatures were March’s second favorite animal after ostriches.

As expected, that was one tough phone call, filled with many occurrences of the words “immature” and “unacceptable” . . . that is until I cut into my dad’s tirade to mention my mother’s will. I asked him if he had ever planned on telling me about my inheritance, and his tone immediately changed. For once, the great Simon Halder didn’t sound so confident; he sounded like a father afraid of losing his only child to long-buried secrets.

I listened as his voice broke, and the tension between us dissipated. “Honey . . . When I arrived in Tokyo, Léa’s apartment had been searched, everything had been wrecked, and then there was that notary, all that money . . . You were so young, and I was afraid . . . afraid of what M. Étienne might tell you about Léa’s life, and about—”

“Dries.”

Panic gripped his voice. “You know about him?”

“Barely,” I lied. It was better this way. My dad seemed to gather Dries was bad company anyway. “It doesn’t change anything. You’re my father. No one can ever replace you,” I murmured.

“Honey, same goes for me. I never cared about him! I was so proud that Léa had chosen
me
to help her raise you. You bet no one will ever replace your daddy,” he chuckled anxiously, as if he didn’t believe it himself.

“I love you.” I pretty much never said things like this—my dad and I weren’t too good with big displays of affection—but that night, I felt like it was the only thing he needed to hear.

He breathed a sigh of relief. “I love you too, honey. When are you coming back? Joy scared me out my mind. We’ll find you a good, decent boyfriend when you get home. I recruited this young analyst, and I was thinking—”

“Dad.”

“A Harvard graduate . . . and, hear this, his mother is in the same yoga class as Janice!”

“Dad!”

On the other end of the line, a curt huff indicated that my dad was willing to grant me a five-second slot to speak. Which was all I needed, really.

“It’s over. I don’t want to discuss this,” I mumbled.

A silence; an embarrassed sigh. Did I sound that gloomy? “I understand. When are you back in New York?”

“Tomorrow, I think.”

“Call me as soon as you land. Goodnight, honey,” he said before hanging up.

As I was about to get up and place the phone back in March’s pocket, I realized he had gotten out of the tub and was standing in the bedroom’s doorway, wearing a clean white shirt that wasn’t entirely buttoned, revealing fresh bandages around his torso, a pair of jeans as usual, and, of course, the hotel’s complimentary slippers.

“How bad?” he asked, walking to my bed and sitting by my side.

“Not that bad. He just got scared.” I sighed.

March draped an arm around my shoulders. I shivered. “Rightly so. I’m sorry . . . for everything that you’ve been through,” he said. Then, that gentle smile again that made my chest tighten. “Would you like to get some rest?”

I really missed my smartphone in that moment: had it still been with me, I would have been able to pull together a playlist of super sad Italian songs and cried myself to sleep while listening to Riccardo Cocciante sobbing that he loved me more with every day that passed. I pondered over my state of exhaustion: would I perhaps be able to stay awake until dawn? That would amount to what, ten, eleven hours left to spend with him? The tears I had successfully held back in the garage bubbled back with a vengeance, blurring my vision. I swallowed and squirmed away from him. “I’ll watch some TV.”