Spotless (42 page)

I imitated him, looking away to conceal at least part of my embarrassment. He was right. Over the past few days, I had turned from March’s captive to his accomplice, and well, I
had
shot one of Dries’s henchmen. “You didn’t leave me much of a choice. Do you want to discuss what happened at the Rose Paradise, or even with Rislow?”

“March and his friend
chose
to offer resistance at the club.” Dries sighed. “And I took care of Mr. Rislow personally.”

“What? You’re the one who shot him?”

He turned to look at me, and the hard gleam was back in those golden eyes. “I ordered him to bring you to me. He disobeyed that order.”

My thoughts raced at the implication of Dries’s words. “You mean . . . you didn’t ask him to do the . . . table thing?” I asked hesitantly.

His expression darkened. “No.”

I stared down at the crumpled paper in my hands. This warm feeling in my chest was, in fact, worse than the sort of Stockholm syndrome I had experienced with March. He, at least, had possessed some redeeming qualities, and his moral compass, while customized to accommodate the demands of his job, made a surprising amount of sense. Dries . . . Dries was
Satan
, the man I held responsible for my mother’s death. And
my father . . . who had executed Creepy-hat as a punishment for trying to dismember me in his own special way.

In other words, Dries
cared
, to some limited extent.

“Thank you,” I murmured.

He gave me a surprised look. “What for?”

I shrugged. “Buying me ice cream and telling me this. Maybe you could have been a decent father . . . in another life.”

Dries laughed. “I doubt so.”

“Why did you really come back?”

The last of his laughter died, and he tilted his head, examining me with piercing eyes. “There was something I wanted to give you. It’s only fair you should have it, now that it’s no longer of any use to me.”

I stiffened reflexively as he reached inside his jacket, but all he pulled out was a folded sheet of paper, which he handed to me. It was a little crumpled, and when I opened it, the logo of Paris’s Hôtel de Crillon decorating its header seemed to have partly faded over the years.

The start of everything. My mother’s letter.

The one Dries’s men had stolen from M. Étienne’s office after spying on us at the Rose Paradise. The one I should have received ten years ago, if my father hadn’t told Étienne’s assistant to leave us alone.

It was in French, but at first I couldn’t really focus on the words. I kept caressing the paper, tracing her round, ample handwriting.

Island,

If you are reading this, I can only hope that you will forgive me for all the lies, for everything I couldn’t give you because of the choices I made. I leave it to Simon and Étienne to tell you who I was, what I’ve done. My only regret is that I won’t be able to do it myself.

By now, Simon probably told you that he is not your biological father. I would have wanted for you to meet that man, to see him in the same light I have, but it’s better you don’t. He’s not ready,
and may never be. Unfair as it may sound, keeping him away from you was perhaps the only good decision I ever made as your mother.

It’s a little ironic that at thirty-eight, I’m finally beginning to understand that for everything we do in this job, for every tip of the balance, there are large-scale consequences. Yet it’s too late, the clock only ticks forward, and my time is running out. I won’t be there to see you become a woman, I made a terrible mistake, and all I can do now is try to make things right before I go.

If I fail, and people ever come to you or Simon asking for a little trinket I once borrowed, go see that young man you love in Tokyo, he has what you’ll need. Do not let your father have it, no matter what. Do not trust him. He’s a dangerous man, one who’ll choose his brotherhood over you in a heartbeat. Go to the police if you must, but don’t trust them either. Use them to shield yourself, that’s all they’re good for anyway.

I’m sorry, I know this is a lot to take in. I never wanted for you to grow up so fast, like I once had to. I wanted a different life for you. I still do. I know you’ll be happy with Simon, he’s a great dad, and you’re everything to him. Go to school, make new friends, I don’t want you to become like me. I’ve sometimes felt all-powerful, your father made me feel like that, but in the end, it wasn’t worth all the things I had to sacrifice.

I love you,

Mom

As I finished reading, I wondered how Dries had felt when going through those same lines. Had it been like looking at himself naked in a mirror? Had it hurt? There was nothing in there he didn’t already know: my mother had chosen to escape him because she no longer wanted the Lions to have the Cullinan, and she had been convinced he would never choose us over his “brothers.”

I gazed at him and recognized that look, one I had seen in March’s eyes. A sense of emptiness, of loss, too deep to even allow for regrets. There was a strange ache in my mouth, a prickling in my eyes. “Was she right about you?”

A familiar poker smile stretched his lips, the very same one he had taught March, I assumed. “You’ve already asked me this, little Island. If I remember well, I told you that—”

“Dries,
was she right?
” I felt so stupid for crying in front of him, but I couldn’t help it.

Now, I’d like to state that if anyone ever confronts me regarding what happened next, I’ll deny everything.

He hugged me.

Yes, with his arms.

No, there was no knife, no gun.

I’ll never forget the way I froze, the chill I felt course down my back at first. I’m a little ashamed of my reaction, but hey, Dries was no father of the year. Once I had processed that he wasn’t going to crush my vertebrae or kidnap me again, I relaxed in his arms, and the smoky scent of the sandalwood seemed warmer than it had once been. My arms found their way around his torso, burying themselves under his jacket, and I rested my head on his broad chest, listening to his heartbeat.

Above me, I registered his voice, low, almost strangled. “I’ll never know if she was right, little Island . . . Maybe . . . But I wish she had given me the choice.”

Hearing this only made me cry harder. My fists bunched in his shirt, and all the pain, all the anger that had been bottled inside me found their way out, drenching the blue cotton my cheek was pressed against. We both let go after perhaps a minute, and to my amazement, he looked almost as embarrassed as I did. He recovered quickly, though, a calm mask falling on his features again, leaving nothing but an enigmatic smile.

I grinned back, almost in spite of myself.

I think he was about to say something when something changed in his expression. A frown deepened the lines on his forehead, and his index finger rose to trace a tender spot on my neck, making me shiver. “Interesting.”

I took me a couple seconds to figure out what he was talking about. When I did, my cheeks heated up, and I thought of the hero of
Scorching Passion of the Billionaire Werewolf
marking his lover. A love bite. Somewhere along the way, March had given me a fricking
love bite
!

Dries probably sensed my distress. His eyes narrowed and took on a devilish expression. “Am I mistaken in presuming that my favorite disciple defiled my own daughter?”

I did feel my lower lip quiver at the memory of my last moments with March, but dissolving into tears again in front of Dries would have been the worst possible response. I straightened my back, steeled my jaw, and jerked one of my shoulders in a badass shrug. “Indeed, you are. He’s gone.”

“I see . . . Well, I suppose it’s better this way. I certainly wouldn’t have given my blessing,” he noted with a little judgmental pout that reminded me of my dad.

I couldn’t suppress a chortle. “I wouldn’t have asked . . . Dries, what are you going to do now?”

He leaned back on the bench, placing his hands behind his head and casually crossing his legs. “Do you mean in the next five minutes, or are we having a more general philosophical debate here?”

“Very funny. You know what I mean: the Queen wants your head. Badly. She asked March to do it, but he refused, so I guess she’ll send someone else after you,” I said, imitating Dries’s virile posture.

He stretched nonchalantly. “I wish them the best of luck!”

I winced at the memory of how he had beaten March, back on the roof; the best of luck, indeed . . .

He rose from the bench, towering over me with a mysterious smile. “I suppose it’s time for me to say good-bye, little Island.”

I gave an affirmative nod and watched him walk away in the direction of the narrow street we had arrived on. After his tall silhouette had faded in the crowd, I got up to head to Narita Airport. This moment might have been all he and I would ever have—
could
ever have—but it was a tiny, precious memory I would cherish. For the record, however, the official version remains that Dries was a soulless turd.

I think I floated through the huge, half-empty halls of Narita: I can’t remember much until that moment where I was sitting in the boarding area, struggling to concentrate on an issue of
Hanako
while a toddler was throwing a tantrum a few feet away.

Outside the terminal, a light rain started to fall on the tarmac.

Should have I told Dries?

My mother said in her letter that I shouldn’t trust him, so I had chosen not to say anything.

What about March?

I felt my cheeks flush with guilt. Ultimately, I had been just as unworthy of March’s trust as he had been of mine. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t told him. Probably because it had made no sense at the time. Then people had started shooting at us in the club, so it wasn’t the best time. Then . . . then it had just become my secret, something warm that I cherished and kept jealously because it came from my mother, and it was only for me, even if I had no idea what it meant.

The little secret Mr. Étienne had whispered in my ear at the club.

I2000009.

I two million nine.

ISLAND AND MARCH RETURN IN
BEATING RUBY
, THE SECOND NOVEL IN THE SPOTLESS SERIES BY CAMILLA MONK.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to Sharon Belcastro and JoVon Sotak for giving me my shot, to Tiffany Yates Martin for educating a clueless grasshopper in the mystic art of editing, and most of all, to Katerina Baker—my friend and crit partner—without whom I wouldn’t have submitted in the first place.

Last but not least, I’d like to thank you, dear reader, for either buying, receiving, borrowing, or stealing this book—no, it did
not
“fall from that truck.” Jesus
saw
what you did. In any case, it means a lot to me, and I hope you had some modicum of fun reading
Spotless
!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Camilla Monk is a French native who grew up in a Franco-American family. After finishing her studies, she taught English and French in Tokyo before returning to France to work in advertising. Today, she’s a managing partner in a small ad agency, where her job is to handle all things web-related and make silly drawings on the white board when no one is looking. Her writing credits include the English resumes and cover letters of a great many French friends, and some essays as well. She’s also the critically acclaimed author of a few passive aggressive notes pasted in her building’s elevator.