Spotless (Spotless Series Book 1)

by Camilla Monk

  I gave her a sheepish smile. “Thank you. Can I borrow a towel from you?”

  “Of course you can! There’re clean ones in the bathroom; just help yourself once you’re done.”

  I nodded and was about to go jump headfirst in that tub, when Kalahari took a few steps until she stood in front of me. Her face had lost her joyful expression in favor of a soft, thoughtful one. “You’re going to be okay. Just relax for a little while.”

  I wasn’t so sure that I was going to be okay, but I was at least being offered some momentary relief. I gave a grateful smile and entered the bathroom. I had first intended to make this quick, but once I had sunk into the warm, flowery-scented water, I fell prey to its emollient effect and allowed myself to laze around. After an undetermined amount of time during which I stared at my toes, a soft tap echoed on the other side of the bathroom’s door.

  Kalahari’s voice resounded. “Did you fall asleep?”

  “No! Sorry, I’m coming out.”

  I extracted myself from the now tepid water with clumsy movements and wrapped myself in a large gray towel that looked like a long dress on me. Confident that I was decent, I stepped out of the bathroom.

  March had nothing on Kalahari where efficiency was concerned: by the time I entered the room, I discovered that she had prepared some clean clothes and even found a spare toothbrush for me—something that seemed like a small luxury, in my predicament.

  TWELVE

  The Octopus

  “Every time his eyes plunged into hers, Honestee felt desire’s inescapable tentacles slowly wrap themselves around her body, their suction cups clinging to her skin.”

  —Georgia Stilton, The Shifter’s Mail-Order Bride

  Half an hour and a few fittings later, I was wearing a pair of beige jeans, a plain white T-shirt, and a navy-blue hoodie that wasn’t unlike mine except its back boldly advertised me as having been a part of Abercrombie & Fitch’s Physical Ed class since 1892. I could live with that. A little cleaning in the bathroom sink made my ballet flats as good as new, and I was ready to face the rest of the day.

  I didn’t make it far. I got ambushed.

  “What’s your sign?”

  I blinked at the magazine Kalahari had just fished from her nightstand. Were we really going to take astrological tests in the middle of my kidnapping? I feigned disinterest. “I don’t know, I’m not really into this—”

  “When were you born?”

  “September 20.”

  She waved the magazine in my face. “Then you’re a Virgo!”

  Yes. Indeed. I was.

  Ignoring my frown, Kalahari checked the latest predictions for Virgos who got kidnapped by hit men. “It says you’re in danger of losing your good reputation because you flirt too much and you need to stop sleeping around. It also says you have no boundaries and you can’t resist the temptation of . . . your heated core.”

  “No it doesn’t say that!” I snatched the magazine from her hands.

  It did say just that. I reread the part about my “heated core.” Kalahari had been kind enough to spare me some of the worst details: that magazine was basically calling me a slut. My mouth fell open in an expression that probably made it look like someone had just crushed my toes with a hammer.

  She laughed. “Come on, maybe they’re exaggerating a little, but it’s not like you’re a nun either!”

  Maybe it’s because my face became really, really red; maybe it’s because you’re not supposed to look aghast when someone suggests the possibility that you have occasional intercourse: whatever the cause, she guessed.

  Kalahari’s smile faded, giving way to something halfway between awe and horror. “Don’t tell me you’ve never—”

  Instead of a firm denial, a faint whistle escaped my throat.

  It was her turn to gape like a trout. “Oh . . . my . . . God. But you’re what, twenty-two, at least!”

  I coughed. “I’m twenty-five.”

  Her hands flew to her mouth. “Stop shitting me!”

  I handed her the magazine back. “See? I’m the living proof that those predictions are random and baseless.”

  She took the offending publication, placed it back on her nightstand, and kept staring at me, tilting her head as if examining a new species.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. I was just wondering why . . .”

  I shrugged weakly and looked away. “I don’t know . . . it just happened to be like this.”

  “Island. Abstinence doesn’t ‘happen like this,’ sex does,” Kalahari chided as she sat on the bed.

  I joined her. “Like I said, I don’t know why. I guess the conditions were never united, that’s all.”

  “What conditions?”

  “It’s difficult to explain . . . for starters, I had zits and braces until college, so most boys steered clear because I really wasn’t that hot.”

  She smiled knowingly. “That sounds more like an excuse . . .”

  “Well, I did have some sprinkles, and used to be able to stick a pen between my front teeth.” I opened my mouth to demonstrate. “But, really, I think I just . . . didn’t want to get close to anybody. School, people, I didn’t want any of that. I didn’t fit in.”

  “Because this life was too different from the one you had known with your mother?”

  “Maybe . . . I had gotten used to taking care of myself, to spending my time either alone or with adults. And there I was, going to school for the first time in my life, and all people around me cared about was sneaking out beer from their parents’ fridge and, well, sex.”

  A bubbly laugh escaped her. “What did you care about?”

  “Super Mario 64.”

  “But this was high school, right? What about after the braces and the zits were gone?”

  “I went to college.”

  “Perfect place to experiment with sex, or so I’ve heard,” she observed with an impish grin. “So?”

  “So, nothing! I had read all those romance books, and I had high expectations. I thought I would be courted by some perfect guy, hold hands, wait for the right time, and make sweet love.”

  A chortle made her shoulders shake. “In college?”

  “Yeah, I know . . . By the time I figured out it was never gonna happen I was twenty-three and had a master’s degree. That’s more or less when I realized I had missed the train,” I concluded. Kalahari was the second person after Joy to hear this, and I wasn’t sure it made me happy. Scratch that: it was mortifying.

  “Twenty-three is a bit young to give up, don’t you think?”

  Resigning myself to the fact this conversation was happening whether I wanted it or not, I resumed my tale of woe. “I was afraid to talk to guys, afraid of their reaction when they’d discover I didn’t have any experience . . . I didn’t want to face rejection.”

  She rolled on the bed to rest closer to me. “Don’t worry so much. Truth is, if you don’t say anything, most men won’t even realize!”

  I let that sink in for a second. “So they just don’t care? How can they not notice—”

  “Well, if the shoe fits . . .” She shrugged.

  I winced.

  Kalahari seemed to realize I was thinking of battering rams and icebreakers: She gave me a comforting smile and patted my hand. “Don’t worry, March takes excellent care of his turf.”

  I chose to ignore the many possibilities outlined by this choice of words. “I’m not his—well, I am, but not in the way you suggest,” I mumbled, trying—and failing—to block any wayward thought. Was he a good kisser? Would it taste like mints?

  “Sorry! I guess I have to try to plead his case because that’s the part he’s not great at!”

  Understatement of the year, although I highly doubted March was trying to lure me under the sheets. If he was, then it probably qualified as the second-worst attempt at seduction ever in the animal kingdom—the worst one being, in my opinion, the way some octopuses tear their own penis off and throw it in their girlfriend’s general dir
ection, only for it to swim toward the lady and latch onto her body. No. Just no.

  A horrifying mental image of March doing the same flashed in my mind, and I knew I’d never get back those two seconds of my life, or manage to scrub my brain clean of that particular visual.

  Kalahari’s voice broke through my zoological considerations. “Island . . . how come you’re not asking?”

  “Asking what?”

  “About March and me. Aren’t you curious?”

  I wasn’t sure I wanted to venture into this particular territory, but I indulged her nevertheless. “Well, okay . . . Are you his ex?”

  “Yes.”

  I didn’t even bother with a surprised look. It had been completely obvious. “So, what happened?”

  She sighed. “We were both too young! I was twenty-three, he was twenty-four, and we had no idea what we were doing.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He had helped me out of a pretty shitty situation, so he felt responsible for me, and I had gratitude and love all mixed up. In the end, it took us a while to figure out that friends didn’t necessarily have to be lovers.”

  I hated to admit it, but she had piqued my curiosity. “How long did you two stay together?”

  “A year or so. I had nowhere to go, so we basically lived together from the start.”

  “Oh my God . . . with the cleaning and all?”

  To my horror, she nodded with a smile. “Yes, but that was okay. He was really sweet to me. It’s just that the relationship was bad for both of us.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he’s the control fairy, and I needed someone to help me grow and become independent.”

  Figured. With his strange cleaning obsession and at times arrogant attitude, March hardly seemed like the best candidate for a long-term relationship—unless you were a French maid, that is.

  “He was smothering you, right?”

  “Exactly. And I don’t blame him. I was all too happy to play along. He did all the thinking for two, folded my clothes, gave me money to go shopping, and I didn’t have to face life at all.”

  I listened silently, fascinated by her tale. She went on. “You know, I think he would have married me. He started talking about it at some point—”

  I cringed at the idea of a hit man juggling contract killings and a wholesome family life. “What happened?”

  “He grew up a little, enough to realize that our relationship only made his controlling streak worse, and I’ll never thank him enough for that.”

  My mouth hung open for a few seconds in shock. “So he . . . dumped you?”

  “You could say that! He actually supported me until I was back on my feet. I came to France to work in my aunt’s beauty salon, and later he helped me start my own business. I met Ilan after that. He was still working for the DGSE at the time, so we had a rough start when he learned that my ex was . . . well—”

  Still struggling to control my slack jaw, I processed the information she had given me. “Ilan used to work for the Secret Service? March has shares in a beauty salon?”

  She nodded enthusiastically. “Well, you can call Katmosphère a chain now. I opened a second salon on rue de Rivoli in June. We’ll be launching a product line soon!”

  I was impressed, to say the least. Not only was Kalahari drop-dead gorgeous, but she was also in fact a successful entrepreneur. That being said, I didn’t like the way it made me feel to discover that March did possess a soul like anyone else and was capable of an act of kindness—or, worse, potentially capable of committing marriage. I found the idea unsettling. It made my imagination run wild with terrifying scenarios of him having his baby perform a three-hour shift in the living room with one of those mop onesies.

  Lost in visions I suspected were far more pleasant than mine, Kalahari closed her eyes. “You know, I don’t love him the way I love Ilan, but he’s my best friend.”

  I had never felt at ease with big words like “love,” so I didn’t know what to say. I chose to play it safe and merely acknowledge the obvious. “I’m sure he likes you too. You had him wrapped around your little finger back there. It was amazing!”

  “Hey, only Christmas call he ever makes! That’s how powerful I am!”

  I broke into a fit of giggles at this detail; she truly had him on his knees. My breath was still short when she resumed speaking with a wistful smile. “You know . . . you resist March in a way he likes.”

  “I don’t think so. He seems pretty pissed to have to deal with me.”

  She propped herself up on her elbows. “That’s because he’s been alone for years. He’s used to his little comforts. Give him some time.”

  I jackknifed up in my turn. “He kidnapped me, for God’s sake! What exactly are we talking about?”

  “You’re so cute when you pretend to be angry! Don’t you like anything about him?”

  “I like that maybe, if I collaborate with him, I get to stay alive,” I stated grimly.

  Why was she implying things about March and me? Was this some sort of punishment for having fantasized about him, even for a second? Her suggestive wink did little to comfort me. “Don’t worry about that. He’ll take good care of you. I’ll kick his ass some more if he doesn’t spoil you!”

  All right, now I knew without a trace of doubt that she was hiding something from me. Was there no end to Paulie’s shitty gossiping? “Look, I don’t like this. It’s like when Paulie said I was March’s girlfriend. It’s wrong . . . and embarrassing!” I felt bad for snapping at her like that when she had been nothing but kind to me, but I hated to be toyed with.

  She got up from the bed too, and her eyes turned way, too serious for my liking. “I’m sorry, Island. What I’m trying to say is that I think I know who you are. I realized it was you when Ilan told me about the job yesterday. March wouldn’t say much, but Ilan knew your face and your name, so it was easy to put the pieces together.”

  “Kalahari, what the hell are you talking about?”

  Uncertainty suddenly flashed in her eyes, and her delicate eyebrows knit together in an expression of dilemma, as if she suddenly remembered that March might object to her sharing the details of his private life with a perfect stranger.

  “I shouldn’t tell you this . . . I think he took the job because it was you, but it must be hard for him.”

  Sweat started to form on my brow. She wasn’t going to leave me hanging like this, right?

  “You’re his Barefoot Contessa.”

  “What the—” I remembered how Paulie had called me a countess, back at the airport, and I was about to pester her until she explained herself, but a faint knock on the other side of the door cut me off. “Shit! I think they’re waiting.”

  “Oh, let them wait!”

  My eyes traveled between her and the door. She was right, they could wait. I couldn’t. “Why are you saying I’m a contessa?”

  Her lips curled into a knowing smile. “You need to have this conversation with March. If he doesn’t have the balls to tell you, I will. But I think it would be wrong. He’s made it this far, found you again . . . he has to tell you.”

  Again? Oh God, what did she mean by that? My mouth had opened to question her some more when the same impatient knocking resumed.

  She shook her head with a sad smile. “It’s okay, go.”

  I headed to the door with a sigh; Kalahari’s riddles had me on edge, and I still had a long and potentially bad day ahead of me. She followed me into the living room, where Ilan was busy showing March what looked like a big bullet, arguing about the unbelievable amount of damage it could do. She swayed through the room until she was sitting on her husband’s lap and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead. “It’s all fun and games until someone loses an eye.”

  “Are you ready to go, Island?” March’s voice turned my spine to ice. Of course I wasn’t. I wanted to know more about the Barefoot Contessa thing. I wanted to run away and return home. I was essentially ready for everything except spending the re
st of the day alone with him.

  Getting up, Ilan reached me before March could. “Look, it won’t be long until my guy catches your notary, twelve hours max. As soon as we’re done, if March doesn’t need you anymore, I’ll send you back home.”

  His voice was firm, reassuring, and I desperately wanted to believe him. Kalahari gave me a gesture of encouragement with her two thumbs up, and I nodded.

  I was going to be okay.

  Right?

  THIRTEEN

  The Choice

  “Some people will tell you that even when looking solely for sex, you can occasionally draw the line and dump a guy on the premise that he really isn’t good for you. BULLSHIT! DON’T DO THAT! Being picky is the best way to remain a virgin.”

  —Aurelia Nichols & Jillie Bean, 101 Tips to Lose Your Virginity after 25

  The enchanted interlude ended roughly five seconds after we passed the building’s entrance. March turned to me, creepy poker smile etched on his features, and once again, I felt like I had in that glade: ready to bolt. He led us to a gray Mercedes that had likely been provided by Ilan and opened the passenger door for me. As soon as I heard the powerful hum of the engine, I fastened my seat belt in a hurry: I knew March enforced road safety rules strictly, and his thinly veiled threats had made a lasting impression on me. Better not end up in the trunk over something as trivial as failure to buckle up.

  He nodded his agreement as the seat belt alarm went off, and the car started moving. We passed the Esplanade des Invalides with its church’s extravagant golden dome, slowing down for a bunch of female joggers to cross the rue de l’Université, and as we drove along the Seine, a wave of corny nostalgia washed over me.

  Paris runs in the blood, I think, and my mom had never been able to stay away for long. We moved all the time, but every three months or so she would find a good reason to come back here, if only for a few days. The bond wasn’t social in nature: her acquaintances were scattered all around the globe, and she had no family left in Paris that I knew of. It was, I believe, the same type of visceral attachment that I felt as soon as I stepped on Parisian soil too—the need to stroll down deserted avenues early in the morning or inhale the delicious smell of roasted coffee and crack a hard-boiled egg on the counter of a noisy bistrot. It had been nearly four years since my last trip to France. Though I tried my best not to think about all these little things, and fit into my “normal” life in the US, being back in Paris shattered that intimate balance all over again.