Spotless by Camilla Monk Read Free Book Online Page B

recall wondering if I would get lasting PTSD over all this.

FIVE
    The Road Rules
    “Let’s be real. If you purchased this book and are currently riding alone with a man, he’s, in all likelihood, one of the following: a relative / a taxi driver / a kidnapper.
    —Aurelia Nichols & Jillie Bean,
101 Tips to Lose Your Virginity after 25
    If what you listen to says something about who you are, then March’s musical tastes confirmed my earlier impression that, even if he wasn’t a psycho killer, he
was
a terrible human being. Old country? Really? We were in New England, somewhere near a place called Barnstable, and a cold drizzle covered the windshield while Bobby Bare’s drawl filled the car, asking Jesus to drop-kick him through the goal posts of life. Oh well, at least March had been kind enough to free me from the handcuffs, thanks to some sort of universal key—I had no idea they even made these.
    As we drove through miles and miles of pine woods, though, I did start to mentally fill a scorching review of March’s chauffeur service. I had no choice but to give him a one-star rating, because this simply wasn’t how you drive when you carry guns and rifles in your car. As ateen, I had been used to my father’s boorish driving and constant challenging of speed limits. March was nothing like him: his driving was smooth, slow, mindful of other drivers and cute animals crossing, and, to sum it up, completely lame. I mean, stopping on the side of the road to text?
Who
does that anymore? I refrained from huffing every time we paused in front of a red light waiting for no one to cross, rubbing my feet against the floor mat in impatience.
    I caught him glancing at my muddy shoes and rolled my eyes. So what if I got a little mud on his carpet? No big deal.
    Okay, maybe big deal.
    “I’m sorry for being a little tense, Island. I suppose I’m not used to having guests in the front seat. My clients usually ride in the trunk, you know.”
    Wow. He was the first person I’d met who could turn the gentlest apology into an ominous threat. Squirming uncomfortably, I peeked at his profile while he drove. Could you read noses like you read the lines of a hand? Were men with nice aquiline noses more prone to pursuing criminal careers than others? If so, where did Hitler’s and Al Capone’s bulbous appendages fit into my newly established table of criminal noses? I spent several minutes lost in my classification efforts, until my thoughts drifted to my mother’s own “criminal career.”
    “March, that diamond . . . how big is it? Is it really worth two billion?”
    The usual poker smile swiftly fell in place, and I was beginning to understand that the man smiled whenever he needed to conceal his hand. For all his skills, March was actually a shitty bluffer. “Approximately 4,137 carats.”
    My jaw went slack. “Sweet Jesus, that’s like”—I did the math in my head—“almost two pounds! It’s bigger than the Cullinan, right? Why does your boss call it the Ghost Cullinan?”
    He tapped his fingers against the wheel while we waited at a red light. “When the Cullinan was discovered near Pretoria in 1905, one ofits sides was perfectly smooth, likely the product of a split. The experts concluded that the stone was actually half of a bigger diamond and that the remaining part might still await in the Premier Mine.”
    “The Ghost Cullinan?”
    “Precisely. It was eventually found in early 2004. Tests confirmed its purity equaled the Cullinan’s and that it topped its sibling as the biggest natural diamond ever found.”
    “So the Board decided to dig in—”
    “Excellent choice of words. They charged Léa Chaptal with the task of stealing the stone from the Premier Mine before its discovery was made public,” he went on. It felt strange, almost painful, to hear my mother’s name in his mouth.
    “Why didn’t she deliver it to them? What happened?”
    He shrugged as the car restarted. “I’d be tempted to