Spotless (Spotless Series Book 1)

by Camilla Monk

  “My box?”

  “She gave it to me a few days before you two disappeared. She told me she would be leaving soon and that she wanted me to keep the box for her. She said you might come back for it someday. I didn’t understand, but I owed her so much, I had to.”

  I translated again for March, who leaned forward across the table, scaring the shit out of Masaharu with one of his icy bad-guy looks. “Did he open it? What’s inside?”

  I translated the question, and Masaharu stared at March as if he had grown a second head. “Léa-san saved my life! I would have never betrayed her!” he roared, all traces of fear and embarrassment gone.

  I took it as a confirmation that Masaharu hadn’t opened the box and resumed questioning him, eager to discover yet another side of my mom which I had never known existed until now. “What do you mean she saved you? What happened?”

  He bowed his head, averting his eyes. “When I was young . . . I wanted to become someone, to be respected. I started doing favors for the wrong people . . . I made mistakes.”

  “You mean the yakuza . . . real criminals?” I prodded.

  He nodded with a grimace. “I was hoping I’d be admitted to the Inagawa-kai, that I’d have a clan, a family. But one night a club that belonged to my protector got raided, and they thought I had talked to the police.”

  March’s lips thinned, and I swallowed. Masaharu had no doubt narrowly escaped disaster. He went on in a tight voice. “Three men from the family came to look for me at home, but I was out. Mama Haru called me, and she was crying. I couldn’t go home, so I hid under the tunnel, in Kinshichō.”

  “Where the Korean prostitutes work?” I asked, remembering the poorly lit area and those skimpily dressed girls leaning against the wall while they waited for potential customers.

  He nodded again. “They found me, and they started beating me. It was already late. I think Léa-san was coming back from some shopping at Marui. She saw us and came to help me,” he recounted.

  “What did she do? Did she call the police?” I felt bitter that my mom had never told me this. She had saved the former love of my life, dammit!

  “No. She dropped her bag, and she ordered the man who was beating me to stop. She called him a fat pig.”

  My mouth fell open, and I noticed March’s eyebrows arching in curiosity.

  Masaharu went on. “He told her to go away, and she walked up to him. She said she was going to fuck him up because he was a nutless piece of shit.”

  My eyes wide like saucers, I kept translating, and near me, I heard March clear his throat. I leaned toward him and whispered, “My mom wasn’t that rude. I’m sure he’s exaggerating.”

  March nodded in agreement as Masaharu finished his tale. “I didn’t see everything, but she fought with them. She was much faster than these guys. She kicked two of them to the ground, and I think she pulled on the fat yakuza’s testicles really hard through his pants. He was screaming in pain. After it was over, she told them that if they touched me again, she’d tell their boss that they were violating rule number one and that they had been beaten by a woman. She said they’d surely undergo yubitsume over that.”

  An expert at all things criminal, March, once I had translated the ending of Masaharu’s story, proceeded to give me some additional insight. “Rule number one is a traditional rule stating a yakuza shouldn’t harm a good citizen. I don’t think it entirely applied to Masaharu, though, and yubitsume—”

  “I know.” I chuckled, wiggling my left hand’s little finger and mimicking scissors cutting it with my right one.

  “Precisely.” March smiled as he finished his coffee.

  Masaharu saw my gesture and nodded, as if to confirm that we had understood his tale right.

  Satisfied with these explanations, March pulled a few bills from his wallet to pay for our drinks and clasped his hands with a determined look. “Excellent. Why don’t we go fetch that box now?”

  We drove back to Kōtōbashi with Masaharu so he could give me the box my mother had entrusted him with. Needless to say, Haru was delighted to see March return, and she kept stealing burning glances at him through her lashes while we all waited in the living room for Masaharu to come back with the precious box—which he had kept hidden in his bedroom for all these years, and from what I gathered, the area didn’t exactly comply with March’s or Haru’s high cleaning standards.

  When Masaharu reappeared holding a small black lacquered box, I felt my heart rate increase. The box wasn’t anywhere near big enough to contain the Ghost Cullinan, but it didn’t matter. It was a secret my mother had left for me, and this alone was worth all the diamonds in the world.

  He handed me the object reverently. It had been sealed with a thin green ribbon, and Masaharu had told the truth: It didn’t appear anyone had ever undone the delicate tie. I pulled on the crumpled satin with trembling fingers and lifted the shiny black lid with the utmost care. Behind me, I could feel March and Haru bend over my shoulders to look inside as well.

  I heard a long sigh—Haru’s—and a tongue smacking in irritation—March’s. They were disappointed, and rightly so. All that box contained was a thin square of white rice paper with a word and a number on it.

  Miyamoto

  2120

  I let out a dejected sigh, and honestly, I was on the verge of giving up, but Masaharu came to the rescue. “Miyamoto is a bank, and 2120 is the safe number. Léa said you’d know the combination.”

  After I had translated this to March, I gave him a desperate look. “We can always check, but frankly, I have no idea what this means, or why Masaharu thinks I know that safe’s combination.”

  He gave me one of those coy little winks I liked so much. “Let’s give it a try anyway.”

  I nodded and proceeded to ask Masaharu about Miyamoto Bank. He explained to me that it was a small private bank with only one branch on the Harumi Dori in Kōtō-ku, which doubled as its headquarters. As we discussed the best way to drive there, I seized the opportunity to ask for his cell phone number and e-mail address. I intended to add him to my Facebook contacts if I survived this hunt for the Cullinan. He scribbled them on a piece of paper, which I tucked in my pocket, and I was good to go.

  March wasn’t.

  Haru had found a way to catch his attention. Smiling at him and dusting his jacket hadn’t worked. This, however . . . I watched in fascinated horror as she demonstrated to him a new type of remote-controlled mop that you could either pilot yourself or program to roam around your house during the day, so that your floor always remained sparkling clean. March’s gaze was locked on the plastic robot and the bright yellow mop attached underneath. His breath was a little short, and he was completely oblivious to Haru caressing his arm as he witnessed the miracle of a wooden floor mopping itself.

  I had to call his name twice, and when he responded, his poker smile immediately fell in place to conceal any interest in the object.

  March was in love.

  With Haru’s remote-controlled mop.

  We said our good-byes, and I plotted once again for March to kiss Haru on both cheeks, but this time he seemed happy to do so. The remote-controlled mop had obviously helped him see beyond any gender-related issues.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Stars & Satellites

  “Here’s one secret no one will tell you about getting laid after a date. DON’T TALK. Most girls blame either their looks or excessive timidity for their virginity. This is only true to an extent. These girls are also horribly annoying.”

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

  Once we were back in the car, a quick glance at the dashboard clock made it clear that we weren’t going to accomplish much more until morning. It was almost six p.m., and according to their website, Miyamoto Bank’s offices had closed half an hour ago.

  “How about we get some rest tonight?” March asked as he started the engine, voicing my thoughts.

  “Okay. It’s been a few crazy days . .
. You need to slow down too, right?”

  He gave me a surprised look as we waited at a red light. “Do I look tired to you?”

  “You told that old prune of a doctor that you hadn’t slept much since we left the United States, and those bruises you got at the Rose Paradise probably aren’t healed yet,” I explained, resting a tentative hand on his right forearm.

  “Don’t worry. I’ve been through much worse.” He laughed, but I didn’t find that particularly funny.

  March drove us through large streets, and as we progressed the surroundings started to feel colder—tall buildings, concrete and glass everywhere, and no one in sight. After a few minutes we passed a parking lot and a black sign that read Hotel Entrance, and I figured we had used some sort of shortcut.

  A room at Tokyo’s Ritz-Carlton. I could live with that.

  After he had parked, we made our way through a huge lobby that had me wondering if the floor was real marble and whether someone would throw me out if I touched those pretty Japanese paintings on the walls, or even the graceful cherry blossom branches sticking out of that big bowl-like flowerpot. Figuring that the chances were pretty high, I decided against it and watched as March leaned against a lacquered black counter and offered an impeccably dressed receptionist his most charming dimpled smile. He leaned forward to whisper in her ear—maybe he was asking for another room with bulletproof windows?

  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?”