A Ruthless Proposition

by Natasha Anders

  By their last day, the zoning problem had been completely ironed out, and everybody was in a celebratory mood. They would break ground on the new hotel in less than a month.

  “Tonight, we will have an enkai to celebrate this wonderful occasion,” Ms. Inokawa stated happily. “This is a very formal Japanese event, so there will be many speeches, but after that we will all enjoy drinking together and have many after-parties.”

  Her pretty eyes slid to Dante in clear invitation, and Cleo pretended not to see the smile he slanted the woman in return. Of course she wasn’t jealous. Dante Damaso meant nothing to her. Just a bit of fun. A casual fling.

  So that evening as they were preparing to leave the hotel, Cleo suggested she stay behind. After all, she told herself magnanimously, he might feel a bit awkward flirting with Ms. Inokawa while Cleo was hanging about.

  “You’re not staying behind. You’ve read enough of those etiquette books to know that it’s damned bad manners,” he snapped. He’d been in a pretty foul mood most of the day, despite the news that his new hotel had gotten the green light.

  Cleo sighed and checked her appearance in the mirror one final time. She was wearing yet another variation of the same boring skirt, jacket, and blouse combo that she had rocked the entire week. She truly hated her work wardrobe; it wasn’t at all to her taste. She was more at home in torn jeans and T-shirts, or slip dresses with long bohemian skirts, than in these horrendous suits that made her feel like a trussed-up pigeon. She didn’t know who she was when she wore these clothes.

  Because this was a work-related enkai, everyone would be dressed in business suits. Dante looked his usual dashing self in a three-piece, pin-striped, navy-blue, bespoke Desmond Merrion suit with a white shirt, red tie, and Tanino Crisci Lilian shoes, all of which she knew were ridiculously expensive because she had seen his personal bills. The man looked gorgeous and smelled luxurious. Cleo, on the other hand, just felt frumpy in her department-store knockoff gray pencil skirt, matching blazer, and pink cotton blouse. Ugh, and the sensible black pumps she was wearing were completely hideous too.

  “Let’s go.” Dante ushered her out of the suite and to the elevator, and Cleo tried to drum up some enthusiasm for the event. At least she would get to see someplace other than a boring conference room in a bleak building.

  “I hope the food’s good,” she said once they were in the elevator. He stood beside her, close enough for her to feel his body heat without physically touching him. His hands were clasped in front of him, and his feet were braced shoulder-width apart. He looked like a soldier ready for battle.

  “Hmm,” he merely grunted, and she raised her eyebrows. So it was going to be like that, was it?

  Right, then.

  She didn’t say another word until they were seated in the car. Daisuke greeted them enthusiastically, like he hadn’t seen them just hours before, and Cleo smiled warmly at him before continuing the fascinating conversation about Japanese pop culture that they’d been having earlier. He was entertaining and genuinely funny, and it wasn’t long before Cleo was laughing at some of his anecdotes.

  “My girlfriend loves purikura, and she has many hundreds of tiny pictures of herself and her friends.” He told Cleo about something called “print club”—specialized photo booths found in most malls—that took tiny airbrushed pictures, which could be Photoshopped before being printed.

  “Do you have any pictures, Dai?” Cleo asked curiously.

  “I only go to purikura with Miki,” he explained. Miki was his girlfriend. He flipped down the sun visor and retrieved the pictures he had stashed behind the mirror. He handed them back to her, and Cleo exclaimed in delight over the colorful, brightly decorated little photographs of Daisuke and a pretty girl. She turned toward Dante to share the images with him, but he was staring out the window, ignoring them, his jaw tightly clenched as he glared at the passing scenery. Her smile slipped a little as she stared at the back of his head, wondering what was going on with him.

  She handed the pictures back to Daisuke.

  “They’re really cute. I wish I’d had time to take a few myself.” She could hear the wistful note in her voice and told herself to snap out of it. She was here for work, not vacation. “Miki is really pretty, Dai. How long have you guys been dating?”

  “Two years.” He beamed proudly. “She is studying to be a teacher.”

  “Fabulous. What will she teach?” He looked stumped for a moment as he considered her question.

  “Uh . . . she will be a shodo no sensei. A penmanship teacher?” He looked uncertain. “She will teach the art of Japanese writing.”

  “Oh?” Cleo was not quite sure what he meant but didn’t want to embarrass him.

  “Every stroke must be correct. It is almost artistic. Very difficult.” He glanced around before pointing to an incomprehensible sign written in bold black Japanese. “Like this!”

  “You mean like in cursive?”

  “Christ,” Dante suddenly said beneath his breath. “He means Japanese calligraphy.”

  “Oh,” she breathed, feeling like a complete idiot for not realizing that immediately.

  “You know it?” Daisuke asked eagerly, and Cleo nodded.

  “Yes, I read about it. I should have known when you said artistic writing,” she said apologetically.

  “It’s okay. My English is very bad,” he said with a diffident grin. That was such a staggering untruth that Cleo’s mouth dropped open.

  “Your English is great, Daisuke,” she said firmly, and he waved a hand in front of his face.

  “No, no, very bad.”

  “But . . . it’s not bad at all.”

  “Thank you. Thank you,” he said so abruptly she blinked.

  What?

  The whole exchange left her feeling a little confused and flustered. She hoped she hadn’t offended him by implying his English was bad.

  “Let it go, Knight,” Dante muttered, clearly not as oblivious to their conversation as he had appeared to be earlier.

  “But . . .”

  “It’s the Japanese way to be self-effacing. Just leave it.”

  She nodded, even though it went against every instinct she had to just comply with what could only be described as a command. She changed the subject, asking Dai a question about the relatively new Tokyo Sky Tree. It was obviously a subject he took great pride and passion in, and by the time they reached their destination five minutes later, Cleo knew exactly how tall the building was, how long it had taken to construct, how many men had worked on it, and how people from all over Japan flocked to come and visit the tallest tower in the world—a point of pride for most Japanese people.

  Cleo was still thinking about how much she would have loved to see the views from the observation deck of the Sky Tree while they were being ushered into the restaurant by Ms. Inokawa, who’d been waiting for them at the entrance. Their party was being held in an extremely traditional Japanese room. It had straw mats called tatami on the floor, and rice paper—or shoji—doors and panels. The décor was very minimalist, featuring only one long, very low table in the center of the room, with flat cushions known as zabuton on the floor beside each place setting. There were no chairs.

  Cleo immediately felt intimidated by the room, not sure what would be expected of her and not wanting to offend in her ignorance.

  “Knight-san, please.” Ms. Inokawa gestured toward a spot close to the end of the long table before she ushered Dante up to the pride of place, dead center of the table. She bowed, left him there on his own, and rejoined Cleo.

  Other somber-suited people filed into the room, while Ms. Inokawa gestured for Cleo to sit down beside her. Wondering if there was any graceful way to sit on the floor in a tight skirt, Cleo clumsily sank down flat on her butt with her legs folded to the side.

  “Knight-san.” Ms. Inokawa leaned over to whisper abashedly. “Because this is a formal party, we will sit in seiza.”

  “In what?”

  “Like this.” Ms. Inokaw
a sat beside Cleo, folding herself up delicately on the way down. Cleo grimaced, already dreading what was to come because there was no way in hell she could sit like that. The other woman was on her knees with her legs folded beneath her thighs and her feet tucked neatly beneath her bum.

  “How long will we have to sit like that?”

  “It is usually proper for women to sit this way for the entire party.”

  “Really? And the men?”

  “They too will sit in seiza, but after a while they will probably cross their legs.”

  “I can’t sit like that,” Cleo whispered urgently. Ms. Inokawa’s perfect brow furrowed ever so slightly, and she affected a lovely look of helpless distress. Dante, who could see everything from his central position on the opposite side of the table, got to his feet and ambled around to their end of the table.

  “Is there a problem here?” he asked, and Ms. Inokawa bowed gracefully before shaking her head.

  “There is no problem, Damaso-san.” Rather surprised that the other woman didn’t rat her out, Cleo slanted her a shocked glance before meeting Dante’s eyes.

  “I can’t sit like this.” She gestured to where Ms. Inokawa sat like the perfect epitome of modesty and beauty.

  “Everybody will be sitting in seiza,” Dante pointed out. Cleo nodded and tried very hard not to react to his impatience.

  “So I’ve heard,” she said. Dante sighed and glanced up as several important-looking men—some of whom she’d never seen before—entered the room.

  “I don’t have time for this, Knight. Stop playing childish and attention-seeking games and don’t embarrass me,” he growled, before striding away, leaving Cleo humiliated. She was absolutely—and unexpectedly—shattered that he had spoken to her like that in front of Ms. Inokawa, who was very discreetly keeping her gaze focused on her place setting. Cleo blinked hard when she realized that her eyes had actually gone misty, and she was annoyed with herself for letting him get to her. Still, after a week of sexing her up, surely he’d noticed the extensive scarring on her right knee. Surely he’d wondered about it. She knew every single detail of his body, every little imperfection—of which there were few—every nook and crevice, and he hadn’t noticed the huge and ugly vertical scar on her knee? Well, wasn’t that just a much-needed reality check for Cleo? She had to be careful around this man; she had to guard her heart, because while she had started to soften toward him, he hadn’t ever seen her as more than a casual hookup.

  “We can start in seiza,” Ms. Inokawa leaned over to whisper conspiratorially, “but after everybody has had a few drinks, no one will notice if we move our legs to the side and sit on our behinds.”

  Surprised by the sympathy and camaraderie in the other woman’s voice, Cleo looked up and saw genuine warmth in her eyes. Great. As if the whole situation with Dante wasn’t bad enough, she’d gone and completely misjudged Ms. Inokawa as well.

  “I’d like that,” she said with a watery smile. “I have a bad knee. I don’t know how long it’ll hold up if I were to sit like that for too long.”

  “Don’t worry,” Ms. Inokawa said with a swift pat on Cleo’s hand. “It won’t be long before the beers start to take effect.”

  Cleo giggled when the other woman winked dramatically, and started to think that maybe this entire evening wouldn’t be too much of an ordeal after all.

  Fifteen minutes later her knee was screaming in agony, she could no longer feel her lower legs, and yet another man had started yet another long-winded speech. She suppressed a moan and wished there was some discreet way to shift her legs out from beneath her thighs without drawing everybody’s attention to the movement. She was very much aware of the glances Dante was throwing in her direction and fought to keep her face impassive even while she felt like weeping.

  Finally, everybody raised their small glasses of beer and held them aloft. The speaker said a few more things before ending with a word Cleo was happily familiar with.

  “Kanpai!” He yelled the Japanese version of “Cheers,” and everybody followed suit.

  “Kanpai!” There was loud and manly laughter—Cleo and Ms. Inokawa being the only women present—as everybody clinked glasses and started drinking.

  “It’s okay for you to move your legs to the side now,” Ms. Inokawa whispered, obviously sensing her distress.

  “I don’t think I can move my legs,” Cleo whispered back, while she painfully tried to shift her position without crying out.

  “Daijoubu?” the woman asked, and Cleo recognized the question—which she’d heard often over the course of the week—as “Are you okay?” She shrugged miserably.

  “I’ll probably be okay once I get the feeling back in my legs. They’ve fallen asleep.” Although her knee was a different matter entirely, she wasn’t sure if she’d done some damage to it, but it definitely didn’t feel all right. She tried to placate the woman with a smile and picked up the bottle of beer placed in front of her and held it up to Ms. Inokawa. “May I?”

  It was traditional to pour for the people seated closest to you and considered poor form to allow your neighbor’s glass to run dry. The guy on her right, whom she didn’t know at all, was holding a bottle up and smiling expectantly, and even though she pretty much hated beer, she managed a smile and a nod while he added the drop of beer that would be needed to fill the glass to the brim again. If she didn’t stay alert, she would probably wind up extremely drunk, because it was almost impossible to monitor one’s alcohol intake in a situation like this.

  Things got rowdy quite quickly, and it was a little shocking to watch the previously somber Japanese businessmen get wasted and exceptionally loud and cheerful in pretty short order. Nobody remained seated—pouring etiquette went out the window—and soon people were crawling about on the floor from one person to the next, chatting and topping up each other’s beers. She noticed that quite a few of the men had immediately moved toward Dante and were all vying to pour his drinks. He took the time to chat amicably with each and every man, looking sober as a judge but cultivating a jovial manner that Cleo didn’t believe for a second was genuine.

  A few of the younger men made a point of talking with her, some in great English, others a little less fluently. Cleo forced aside her pain, kept smiling, and delighted the men when she butchered a few of the standard Japanese phrases she’d learned over the course of the week. They were ridiculously flattering of her bad Japanese, and remembering Daisuke’s reaction in the car earlier, she modestly waved off their compliments.

  She turned to say something to Ms. Inokawa, but the woman was gone. Cleo cast her gaze toward Dante, expecting to see the woman fawning over him, but she wasn’t there. Dante, however, met and held her eyes for a few long moments. His face was completely inscrutable, almost grim. Cleo frowned and wondered if he was pissed off with her yet again. She was the first to break eye contact, still looking for Ms. Inokawa, and she was surprised to see the other woman blatantly flirting with Craig Templeton, the contractor for the hotel build. The handsome older man was smiling and flirting back.

  Well, that was new.

  Cleo turned her gaze back to Dante to see if Ms. Inokawa’s shift in romantic attentions bothered him, but he was still watching Cleo intently. His complete focus was starting to make her a little hot under the collar, and she shifted restlessly. Unfortunately, the inadvertent movement caused a shaft of pain to shoot through her knee, and she flinched. Dante’s entire body went still, and his head tilted slightly to the left as he watched her quizzically. In that moment he reminded her of a wild animal on the scent trail of something small and wounded, and Cleo desperately tried to throw him off that trail with a casual grin and a careless wiggle of her fingers. As expected, the frivolous and flirtatious wave did the trick, and he gave her a frown before returning his attention to one of the many sycophants huddling around him. Cleo heaved a relieved sigh and gave her knee a surreptitious little massage before focusing on one of the earnest young men trying to have a conversation with her.


  It was going to be a long night.

  At around two the following morning, Cleo was more than ready to call it quits. The merry group had dragged Cleo and Dante from one night spot to another and was now insisting on karaoke.

  “I have to get back to the hotel,” she whispered to Dante, who didn’t look as drunk as the rest of their loud group. In fact, he looked much too sober for a man who’d been drinking all night, and she wondered about that for a few moments before he distracted her with a glare.

  “You have to do no such thing,” he snapped, keeping his voice low. By now her knee was radiating almost constant pain, and all Cleo wanted was a hot bath, pain medication, and a long, long sleep.

  “You don’t need me here. This isn’t part of my job description, and you can’t force me to stay.”

  “One of your unofficial duties is to accompany me to business lunches and dinners.”

  “Unofficial as in not contracted,” she pointed out, and he rubbed the nape of his neck before switching tactics.

  “Okay, then, what about coming along in a personal capacity, as my . . .” He struggled to find a definition, and she raised a brow and folded her arms across her chest.

  “Girlfriend?” she supplied, and he blanched.

  “God, no.”