Under a Silver Moon Page 3

  “What was that?” Kim looked up, startled. A moment later, the kitchen door burst open and Imai hobbled in on crutches, a cigarette dangling from his mouth.

  “You!” he shouted at Kim, before turning to Mrs. Nimura and rattling off a spate of Japanese.

  The housekeeper turned to Kim. “He says he’s late for an appointment with a photographer in Hibiya,” she explained quickly. “Imai-san was supposed to be there an hour ago.”

  “I had no idea. I wasn’t told ‑‑ I don’t know where Hibiya is ‑‑”

  Shimizu growled; Kim was certain of it.

  “Bath. Hair. Dress. Drive.”

  Kim continued to stare at the irate rock star.

  “Now!” he barked before hobbling toward the door to the entrance hall.

  “I will help him, Donovan-san ‑‑”

  Kim jumped up. “No. I’ll do it. It’s my job. Can you phone whomever he’s supposed to meet with and tell them we’ll be there as soon as possible?” She rushed forward, catching up to Shimizu as he reached the end of the expansive kitchen. “Let me help you.” She held the door open, trying not to let the withering look he shot her get to her.

  Imai limped past her, thoroughly enjoying the look of panic on her face, though he made sure not to show it. After catching him off-guard last night, she deserved to writhe a little. Bad choice of words. He scowled and quickly tried to force away the image of Kim Donovan thrashing around on his bed while he made love to her.

  “Let me help you,” she repeated. She came up next to him as they reached the staircase and slipped a hand around his waist to support some of his weight. He tensed under her touch and grumbled loudly in Japanese, taking some more smug satisfaction in the way she grimaced and started apologizing.

  And was that a hint of a blush on her cheeks? Priceless.

  “Bath!” he grunted again as soon as they reached the master suite upstairs. “Now.” Donovan left him leaning against the wall as she scurried to fill the tub.

  The phone rang, and Imai picked it up off the dresser. “Yes?” he said, reverting to Japanese.

  “I phoned Harada-san, your photographer,” Mrs. Nimura said over the line, sounding puzzled. “He has no appointment scheduled for today.”

  Imai sighed. “That’s because there isn’t one yet.”

  He could practically feel the old housekeeper’s displeasure through the phone. “You and your tricks, Imai-san…”

  “Yeah, yeah.” Imai rolled his eyes. “Call Harada back and make sure he opens an appointment for me in about an hour and a half or so. Even if it’s just for us to get there and have him say he’s too busy to take any photos.” Let Donovan squirm some more.

  Imai had to block the mental picture again, this time feeling the effects right in his groin.

  You’re a nurse, he’s a patient, Kim repeated to herself again and again as she set up the bath chair and unhooked the handheld showerhead so it would be within Mr. Shimizu’s reach.

  This was no different than when she worked with the amputee Mr. Garibaldi. She had to help him in and out of a set up very much like this. It was a piece of cake. All she had to do was help her charge get situated and see that his leg was outside the tub and covered to keep water away from the high cast. This was no different than working with Mr. Garibaldi at all.

  Except maybe that Imai Shimizu was a good thirty years younger and built like a long, lean god.

  She stepped back into the bedroom where Imai was finishing up on the phone. “Are you ready?”

  The man turned up his nose at her and limped into the bathroom. She tried to help him with the crutches, which he was using all wrong. He kept his weight forward on his good leg, instead of balancing it between the two crutches. Imai skewered her with a haughty look and waved off her help.

  “Fine.” She sighed.

  He stepped up to the tub and held the crutches out to her. While he balanced himself against the edge of the porcelain, he started to unbutton his shirt.

  “Right,” Kim said, forcing herself to avert her eyes. She took one of the large, fluffy towels from the rack and moved it to a closer one. “You don’t need me then. I’ll go make up your bed.” She turned and gestured to the outer room. “I’ll be waiting out here if you need me.”

  She’d barely taken two steps when Shimizu’s sonorous voice echoed behind her. “Stop!”

  Kim turned. “Yes?”

  He skewered her with those large, dark eyes of his and that imperious look. “You stay. You wash,” he ordered, gesturing to himself before letting his shirt fall to the shiny, tiled floor. His cotton drawstring pants soon followed, and as they lay pooled at his feet, he gave Kim another withering look. “Help.”

  “Of course.” She slipped up beside him to take his weight as he shifted to his good leg in order to lift the broken one enough for her to crouch down and pull the pants free. “Now be careful,” she said, hoping he understood enough to be able to follow her action. She looked up and patted the hand he had resting heavily on her shoulder. “We’re going to sit you down,” she said indicating the chair.

  With a terse nod of his head he let her ease him to the chair, his cast covered leg resting on the waterproof cushion. She took the plastic covering that had been on the countertop and wrapped the cast, tucking it in oh, so neatly.

  He’d purposely left his black briefs on and smirked when she realized it and stammered, gesturing to them and then to the clothing on the floor. He shook his head, and she gave him a relieved smile he found rather charming.

  She picked up the bottle of shampoo. “Would you like to start with your hair?”

  He nodded and tilted his head back.

  A moment later, her hands started working through his hair, building up a deep lather. He settled back, rather enjoying the gentle massage and the feel of her fingers.

  “Mmm…good,” Imai purred.

  “It is relaxing, isn’t it?” Kim answered. She sounded more relaxed herself, her body not as tense as she leaned close to work the shampoo down the full length of his hair.

  Imai became aware of the warmth of her body. She was careful to touch nothing but his scalp and concentrated on the task at hand. But as she bent over the edge of her tub, her breasts brushed lightly against his shoulder with just enough pressure that he could feel the hint of her nipples behind the material.

  The sensation drove straight down to his balls. His cock stiffened, and he glanced down to find the front of his underwear bulging too prominently for the cause not to be obvious.

  Desperate, he raised his broken leg and pushed the cushion off the tub. His cast plunked down on the edge of the porcelain basin. A sharp, throbbing, all-encompassing pain shot up through his leg and sent a shower of white, sparkling stars in his vision.

  “Fuck!” he yelled.

  Kim gasped, her fingers tightening in his hair. The pain was a bitch and a half, but he was glad for it because that gentle tugging sensation still managed to send a shiver down his spine.

  Suddenly, she let go and moved so that she could see his face. “Take a deep breath and relax. Do you understand?”

  He nodded.

  “Is the pain easing?” she asked next, pointing to his leg then making a lowering motion with her hand. “Hurt less or more?”

  “Less,” he managed to say.

  She gave a quick nod then rushed to the bedroom to get the bottle of pain medication. She gave it to him with a glass of water. “I’m going to rinse the soap from your hair now, okay?”

  He nodded and closed his eyes, willing the medication to dissolve and act quickly enough to keep his libido in check. When his hair was free of shampoo and the conditioner she’d used afterward, she tapped him lightly on the shoulder. “Is the pain easing?” When he nodded, she smiled. If anyone had ever given him such a truly heartwarming smile as this one, he couldn’t remember it.

  She took the bar of bath soap and a small cloth and held them up. “Are you ready to bathe now?”

  He wasn’t ‑
‑ certainly not by those hands. They’d be as gentle as her smile, as soft as the touches when she washed his hair. He knew that if she washed him it would take him over the edge, and for the life of him he didn’t know why.

  Kim Donovan was just a brash American woman. Judging by his usual standards, her age and body type wouldn’t normally catch his eye, and yet she was the most fascinating creature he’d ever met, with a beauty that defied all logic in comparison to all the celebrated women he’d been with.

  He shook his head and held out his hands. “I do.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded. She hesitated a moment, then handed over the cloth and soap and set the hand shower within easy reach. “I’ll be in the bedroom. You call for me when you’re through, yes?”

  “Hai. Yes,” he said softly. She smiled again, and he had to fight back the urge to kiss her.

  She left, leaving the door open enough to hear him if there was a problem.

  Kim made the bed and straightened up the bedside tables. She frowned and let out a disappointed sigh when she saw that the bottle of scotch from yesterday had been returned. She couldn’t fault Mrs. Nimura because she was undoubtedly doing only what she was told by bringing it. Hell, Shimizu would probably have gone downstairs and retrieved it himself if she’d refused.

  She moved the bottle across the room to a small table near the windows. Also on the table was a scrapbook featuring a beautiful hand-drawn portrait of Imai on the cover with the words From Your American Fans written beneath it in English. Kim supposed the Japanese writing on the top of the album said the same thing.

  She was never one to pry into other people’s things without permission, yet she couldn’t stop herself from opening the cover and then turning page after page. There were many drawings, some of near professional quality and some not, but it was clear that each one had been crafted with love. There were letters, too, some written in Japanese but most in English, telling Imai how much his band’s music meant to them and how they felt seeing the band live for the first time when they’d done a special concert in California.

  Kim smiled to herself because she remembered how excited Mandy had been when she and a group of friends had scored coveted “pit” tickets to the concert. Another entry in the scrapbook that took up three pages was the most touching, however, and Kim vaguely remembered Mandy mentioning the incident to her.

  A high-school girl had defied her parents’ wishes about traveling from San Diego to Los Angeles to see the band, and the girl and her friend each had pulled the old, “I’m going away for the day with so-and-so’s family” to cover their tracks. The cab the girls took from the bus station was in an accident, and one girl was injured seriously enough to need surgery. Yet her only concern was that she was going to miss the show.

  There was a photo of the girl with Imai’s band in the hospital. Her bed was covered with flowers and small gifts from the band: a teddy bear, autographed CDs, DVDs, and T-shirts. Her leg was lifted high in traction, and though the strain of pain was evident on her face, her eyes held a certain ecstatic sparkle that Imai was perched on the bed beside her with his arm around her shoulders.

  On the last page of the entry were several small photos of the girl learning to walk again in physical therapy, and then finally several of her of her in her graduation cap and gown, rising from a wheelchair to walk up to the stage and accept her diploma unaided.

  It was the longest eighteen months of my life, Imai-san, and I cried so much from the pain. I wanted to give up every day, and a few days I even wanted to die but I made myself go through it all because I didn’t want to disappoint you or Toru or Jun or Kyoru or Koji. You were all so nice to me, and the cards and flowers I got from you during those months made me determined to go on and walk again no matter what. I can never thank you enough. I love you all.

  Kim blinked back the tears and shut the scrapbook.

  “What are you doing?”

  Chapter Four

  Jumping at the unexpected sound of Imai’s voice, Kim spun around. “I’m sorry. I ‑‑” She shook her head. “You should have let me help you out of the bath. You could have been hurt.”

  He scowled at her and limped over, grabbing the scrapbook from the table with a huff. “Not your business,” he snapped, glaring.

  “I’m sorry.” Kim blinked. “The book was right here and ‑‑”

  “No!” Imai yelled sharply, holding up his hand in a gesture for Kim to shut up. She gave him a surprised look, wondering how this could be the same man she’d seen in the album.

  Limping over to the divan on the opposite end of the room, he dropped into the chair and angrily pointed at the clock on the stand next to him. “Late!”

  “Of course. Let’s do your hair then.” She went to the bathroom and got the comb, brush, hairdryer, and some hair gel. She stood behind the divan, which faced the mirrored closet door, and began working on Imai’s long, thick hair. She tried to slip totally into objective hairdresser mode, but she couldn’t help but be entranced by the man’s masculine beauty. He had incredible facial structure, smooth clear skin, and glorious hair that felt like the most expensive silk strands running through her fingers.

  “Hair’s all done. We can worry about any needed makeup when we get to the studio.” She gestured to her face as she spoke and was answered with a quick nod of understanding. This was so unnerving because she had no idea exactly how much English he understood as opposed to how much he could comfortably speak.

  Kim’s thoughts screeched to a halt when she realized that Imai was giving her a rather nasty look via their reflections. “Did you say something?”

  “Dress now,” he barked, pointing to the closet.

  “Okay.” Kim clenched her jaw. God! One moment Imai’s beauty held her in fascination, the next he opened his mouth and ruined all her fantasies.

  Fantasies?

  Ducking into the closet before he could notice her wide-eyed expression, Kim busied herself rummaging for some clothes. While fixing his hair, she could only imagine what being surrounded by those long, silken strands would feel like…and how pleasurable being kissed by those soft, full lips would be.

  “Hurry!” Imai barked.

  Kim shook her head, tried to clear those thoughts from her mind. She couldn’t deny the physical attraction she felt. It was a pity his personality couldn’t be equally attractive.

  Brushing that aside, Kim wondered what this photo session was for ‑‑ conservative publicity photos or something more edgy and rock star-ish? She didn’t think their current way of communicating would be of much use, and she didn’t want to bother Mrs. Nimura to act as translator so she began looking through the huge walk-in.

  Damn, but Imai Shimizu had some great clothes. Top designers all, from the elegant, classic lines of Hugo Boss to the hip look of Vivienne Westwood. She studied the suits and jackets and pants and shirts and came upon two possible combinations then took them and set them on the wide bed.

  “All right, how about these choices?

  Imai had to admit Kim Donovan had excellent taste. The first outfit sported a more classic look, with black, low-riding boot cut jeans and a red button down shirt. Her other choice included a leather jacket with a white, high-collared turtleneck. His gaze returned to the pants, and he scowled.

  “Is something wrong?” Kim bit her lip.

  Imai narrowed his eyes at her and she shifted her weight from one foot to the other uncomfortably. When he looked down at the cast on his leg, she followed his gaze and made a choked little sound in the back of her throat.

  “The cast,” Kim groaned. “I’m sorry; I was so…I forgot.”

  Imai stood up with a dramatic sigh and hobbled over to the closet.

  “No, no, let me,” she started, but he waved her off with an irritated sigh. Imai pulled out a pair of leather pants that he’d had a tailor split the leg seams on to accommodate the cast.

  “This.” He held the pants out to her with another scowl before limping
out of the closet and tossing them on the bed with the other clothes.

  “I’m so sorry. I guess the jet-lag is still making me a bit foggy,” she said quietly.

  She took the red shirt and turtleneck back and returned with an off-white silk shirt with French cuffs that he’d bought in Paris just before his accident.

  “How about this?”

  He gave her an indifferent sniff in reply then pointed to his wrist then the shirt cuffs. “Links.” He hobbled over to the mirrored dresser then used the tip of his crutch to indicate the proper drawer. “Red box.”

  “Sure.” Kim managed a smile, but frankly, things weren’t going too well at all. Without a doubt, Imai Shimizu was going down in her book as the toughest client she’d had to date. The fact he was so damned attractive wasn’t helping anything either.

  She opened the dresser drawer and forced herself to keep her eyes on the contents inside when she heard Imai start to slip into his clothes behind her. The temptation to watch him in the mirror was almost too hard to resist, but having him catch her ogling would probably be the last straw for both of them.

  It might have been better if she had watched him dress instead of paying such close attention to the drawer. Hunting for the red box inside, she came across several pairs of ladies’ underwear and bras ‑‑ all different sizes. They had to belong to some of Imai’s “guests” before his broken leg slowed down his nightlife. Of course someone like him would have a number of female admirers, the kind of fans with hot enough bodies to earn a night in that king-sized bed of his.

  Despite the singer’s sex appeal, Kim was rather glad she was anything but his type. Good heavens, this lingerie looked like it would fit a fashion doll, not a grown woman, and the fact that he had this dubious collection only pointed up the fact that the man was a master of one-night stands. Why else hadn’t these things been returned?

  “Late!” Imai barked behind her.

  Kim jumped. “Okay!” She took the red leather box to the bed and set it down, trying desperately not to look at how sexy Imai was in the leather and silk. She forgot about his looks when he commanded, “Boot!” He gestured to the closet and she went to scan his show collection. Obviously the man had taken a dip in Imelda Marcos’s gene pool. And what shoes they were. For the most part, these weren’t of the ready-made variety. They were definitely handmade and form sculpted to fit his feet. Of course it made sense, considering the amount of time he spent on his feet while singing and practicing. Of course there was also the dancing on stage she’d witnessed on the DVD.