by Anne Stuart
Micah had bought the old villa for a pittance ten years ago, and in the intervening years he hadn’t manage to make much of a dent in reversing its rapid decay. She knew from experience that the few lights on in the old place were set on timers. Micah hated darkness and the lack of light in the winter months, and when he was living alone he didn’t want to come home to an unlit house. She could see one of his cats prowling around outside—usually he’d be home by now, and the three stray cats who had moved in would be feasting on gourmet cat food.
She was going to have to do something about the cats, she thought. Assuming she got out of this alive.
The man beside her wasn’t going to be distracted. “I have a key,” she volunteered. “I stay here sometimes.”
“Convenient. I don’t need one, but it makes things easier.” He slid out of the car, waiting for her, and for a brief moment she wondered whether she could run for it. She didn’t care if Takashi O’Brien found the urn—she was well rid of it, and as long she was away from him, her family, her sister, would be safe.
It would be the smart thing to do. She had no reason to trust him any more than she trusted the Shirosama, and no desire to find out what he planned to do with her once he had the urn. But when it came right down to it, he bothered her. Disturbed her, in ways she didn’t want to think about. Half of what he’d told her was lies, and he’d told her very little.
“Don’t even think about it.”
He didn’t need to say anything more. He seemed to know what she was thinking before she did, and she was no match for him. Two more reasons he bothered her. If she decided to run away she was going to have to come up with something a little better than a spur-of-the-moment dash.
Summer climbed out of the car, closing the heavy door quietly. She had no idea why she was trying to be surreptitious—if the neighbors were alerted to a possible intruder they’d call the police, and that would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?
Though if they looked out and saw her they’d know it was all right. She’d spent so much time here she even had her own room as well as her own key. And a change of clothes, she realized with belated relief.
“I’m not sure where it is,” she said, truthful for once. “We’ll need to look for it. Any chance I could change into some dry clothes? I keep some in my bedroom here.”
His dark eyes flickered over her dismissingly. “You look like a drowned kitten.”
“And how would you know? Drowned many kittens in your life, have you?”
“Not kittens.”
His flat voice gave her shivers. “Well, at least you’re just as good at saving people from drowning,” she said.
“I have my talents. Go ahead and change, but don’t take too long. Just tell me where to start looking.”
“My best guess is Micah’s studio at the back of the house. Either that, or his bedroom, the big one just off the kitchen. I know it’s not in the room I use.”
“Do you, now? And why do you keep a room here? You and he weren’t lovers—he was gay.”
She really wanted to slap this guy. There was nothing dismissive in his comment, but his cool omniscience was infuriating. “He occasionally slept with women, as well.”
“But not with you.” It wasn’t a question, and it would have been a waste of time to deny it.
“I have…sleep issues. Night terrors, they call them. I love my little house, but there are times when I need to be near someone.”
Taka looked at her for a long moment. “Now what would cause night terrors in such a conventional young woman? Maybe we missed something in your background.”
They were moving up the overgrown walkway, and the darkness would have hidden her expression. She didn’t need a mirror to know her face had turned white, her eyes stricken. At least he couldn’t see.
She handed him the key.
He said nothing, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. Whatever it was, she bet it wasn’t pleasant, for all the austere beauty in his exotic face.
“You’ve got ten minutes,” he said. “And don’t make the mistake of trying to run again.”
And then he moved into the shadowy house, ignoring her.
She fed the cats first, her hands shaking. At least she had her priorities in order, and Phantom, Cello and Pooska showed their appreciation. Takashi was in Micah’s bedroom, searching, but making no noise at all. She knew almost nothing about the man she’d spent the last twenty-four hours with, but she was certain there’d be no sign of his presence in Micah’s house once he finished his business, unlike the time the brethren had tossed her place. She left him to his search, heading into the small bedroom that was hers, grabbing some black jeans and a T-shirt as she went into the bathroom. She could take lightning fast showers, and within three minutes she was toweling off, inspecting the reddened burns on her shins and hands. She hadn’t even noticed when the boiling water had hit her. No wonder—she’d been running for her life.
She pulled on the plain black bra and panties, sat down on the closed toilet and reached for a tube of ointment that was unlikely to do much good, cursing underneath her breath. It hurt like the devil, and blisters were beginning to form. Even her loose jeans were going to rub painfully, but she had no choice.
She didn’t notice when the locked door opened. Didn’t notice anyone standing there, watching her out of dark, unreadable eyes, until he spoke.
“What the hell did you do to yourself?”
8
Summer shrieked, grabbing her discarded towel and wrapping it around her body. “Go away!”
“Don’t be tiresome.” He came into the room, caught the edge of the towel and yanked it from her, tossing it to one side. “How did you get hurt?”
“Give me my clothes—”
“I don’t give a flying fuck what you’re wearing,” he said. “I need to check your injuries to make sure you’re able to keep up with me.”
She’d wrapped her arms around her torso in a futile effort to shield herself from his indifferent gaze. She knew her average-bordering-on-plump body would have held little interest for him. Or that, God forbid, she wanted it to. She just didn’t want those flat, dark eyes seeing her so exposed.
But he was also stronger, more determined and very impatient, and the more she resisted the longer she’d be in this awkward situation. “I was in the kitchen of the noodle shop when the men came after me, and I tipped over a vat of boiling water to stop them. I must have gotten splashed myself, though I didn’t notice at the time.”
“Give me your hands.”
If she did that she could no longer cover herself. Since it wasn’t doing much good anyway, she sucked in her stomach and held out one palm.
“Both of them.”
She stopped fighting him, at least for the moment, holding out her hands. They were mostly steady, a fact she could be proud of, considering she was sitting in her underwear in front of a strange man, a very handsome strange man, and people were trying to kill her.
He took them in his, turning them over to examine the red blotches. And the scars. There was nothing she could do or say—any fool would recognize the marks of a botched suicide attempt. But he made no comment. “When we get to where we’re going I probably have something that will help.”
“Where are we going?”
He ignored her, dropping her hands and squatting down to look at her ankles. It was all Summer could do not to squirm. Having a man on his knees in front of her was bringing all sorts of strange, uncomfortable thoughts—erotic ones—a kind she wasn’t used to having—and she would have given ten years of her life if she just had one more layer of clothes on. She’d managed to live a carefully untouched existence. She knew she could have sex with a man without screaming; her three months with Scott had given her that much, if not an appreciation for the actual event, and she’d spent the last few years safe and uninterested. But for some totally insane reason this man was stirring feelings that were either long dead or had never existed. And she didn�
��t like it.
He didn’t seem to notice or care. “These are slightly worse, but they shouldn’t slow you down.” He looked up into her face, not moving from his position, and his hands still cradled her ankles. And Summer couldn’t let her mind go any further in that direction. “So tell me where the urn really is and we’ll get the hell out of here before anyone shows up.”
“I don’t know.”
His hand shot out, wrapping around her neck, and his strength was unnerving. “I don’t want to hear that again,” he said calmly. “No more lies.”
“It’s not a lie.” Her voice was muffled from the pressure against her throat. “Micah made the copy for me in the first place. I thought he’d put the original back in the house somewhere.”
Taka loosened his grip slightly. “He hasn’t. Trust me, if the urn was here I would have found it. Where else would he have put it?”
“I don’t…” His grip tightened, and she let the words trail off. She swallowed nervously, feeling his palm against her throat. “He could have given it to someone else to hide.”
“He didn’t.”
“I’m having a hard time breathing,” she said tightly.
“Maybe you gave it to your baby sister,” Takashi said. “No one would think you’d put her in danger, but people can surprise you. Maybe you don’t care as much about her as you think, particularly when there’s three hundred thousand dollars on the line.”
“You’re disgusting,” Summer said.
“Then tell me where it is. Or am I going to have to ask your sister?”
Her eyes met his. They were cold, dark, implacable, and she wondered why she’d ever thought he was any kind of savior. If she wasn’t so tired and frightened—if she wasn’t sitting here in her underwear—she might be able to fight him. Right now she was no match, and the most important thing was to keep her sister out of it, at all costs.
And why the hell was she fighting him, anyway? She’d lost, and the stakes were much higher than she thought. This wasn’t just about preserving a simple bowl of almost unearthly beauty that was a gift from the person who’d loved and protected her most, but the safety of her baby sister. A thousand priceless porcelain bowls were nothing compared to something so precious.
“I can find it,” she said in a whisper.
He immediately loosened the pressure on her throat, then dropped his hand. “Do it,” he said.
“Can I get my clothes on first?”
He let his eyes drift down over her body. “If you wish.”
Of course he wasn’t going to leave her while she dressed. He wasn’t going to take those dark, unreadable eyes off her. She reached for her jeans and pulled them on, biting her lip rather than crying out when the soft denim rubbed against her burns. She yanked the T-shirt over her head—it was going to be cold, and she needed something warmer, but one look at his implacable face and she wasn’t going to ask.
He was blocking the doorway into her bedroom. Odd that a man so lean and elegant could take up so much space. “I need to get my shoes,” she said.
“Sneakers. We may have to run. And get a sweater. It’s cold outside.”
He never failed to surprise her. She could still feel his hand on her throat—for a moment she’d thought he could easily strangle her, and would if she’d fought him. And now he was worried about her getting cold.
Takashi moved out of the way, and she nodded, heading for the closet. She knew he’d searched there as well, even if he hadn’t left any sign. She grabbed an old pair of sneakers and a baggy sweater. Vanity, never one of her major character defects, had completely gone out the window. He’d already seen her in practically nothing and been totally unimpressed. Not that she would want to impress him—that was the last thing she needed. But it was disheartening to feel so awkward and plain when confronted with such beauty.
And he was beautiful. She hadn’t really had time to dwell on it while she’d been running for her life, but with his silky, straight black hair, his dark, unreadable eyes and full, luscious mouth, he was almost as gorgeous as the porcelain bowl he was so desperate to find. But there was something unsettling about his physical beauty. She’d been around Hollywood-handsome men for a great deal of her life, and good looks were nothing more than legal tender. Scott had been one of the best-looking men she’d ever met, and with her artist’s eye she’d chosen him as the logical man to sleep with, to get over her fears.
That plan had backfired, of course. She’d used him, hoping she could fall in love, and in the end all she’d discovered was that consenting, adult sex was highly overrated, no matter how gentle the partner. She could happily do without.
So why did she look at Takashi O’Brien’s starkly beautiful face and suddenly feel lost? In the end it didn’t matter; once he got the bowl he’d leave—with any luck—grateful to be done with her. And she’d forget all about the irrational stirrings that she wouldn’t have believed herself capable of.
She couldn’t wait until that happened. “It’s not in the house.”
He’d flicked off the lights, plunging them into a darkness lit only by the faint glow from the hallway. “You wouldn’t be thinking of a wild-goose chase, would you? It wouldn’t be a very wise move on your part.”
“I don’t know how wise I am. What are you going to do when I find the bowl for you?”
“I told you, take it to Japan.”
“And what are you going to do with me? Are you going to kill me?”
She’d managed to startle him. “Haven’t I been doing my best to keep you alive for the last twenty-four hours? Despite your best efforts to get yourself killed?”
She couldn’t argue with that. “I’m ready,” she said.
“Let’s go get your goddamn urn.”
He was going to have to kill her, of course. He’d known it all along, but he didn’t like the fact that she seemed to know it, too. He’d come close a couple of times, changing his mind at the last minute, but once he had his hands on the urn the safest thing to do would be to finish her. Quickly, painlessly, before she even knew what was happening.
Unfortunately, she already suspected him. Would she fight when the time came? He hoped not. Fighting would make it harder for her. She’d be better off just letting go. He could overpower her very easily—she was soft while he was hard and strong. He’d let himself get distracted in the bathroom for a moment, and he’d been a bit too rough because of it. He hadn’t needed to grip her throat that tightly.
His powers of observation were well out of the ordinary, and he’d taken in every inch of her exposed skin in the brief glance he’d allowed himself. The scars on her wrists were no surprise—he knew she’d attempted suicide when she was a teenager, soon after Hana Hayashi was killed. He was more distracted by Summer’s pale, creamy skin, smooth and soft. She had a mole above her left breast, and damn if he couldn’t see part of a tattoo peeking up from beneath the black cotton underwear that covered her hips. He never would have thought she was the type for a tattoo, and he found himself wondering what it was. He could look, of course. After she was dead.
The thought made him feel slightly queasy, uncharacteristically so. He could blame the last mission for the fact that he was having a hard time making his move. Maybe coming so close to death himself had given him a new respect for it, a new fear of it.
No, that wasn’t entirely true. He’d already killed four men in the last twenty-four hours, and they’d barely registered on what was left of his soul. He hadn’t suddenly grown a conscience; they were dangerous animals who’d needed to die.
Summer Hawthorne was a different matter. She was dangerous, all right, but she had no notion why. No idea of the secret locked inside her head that could bring about the deaths of thousands of people. No idea that he simply couldn’t afford to let her live.
He followed her through the house, turning off lights as they went, the shadows growing behind them.
It was after midnight. If she took him straight to the urn he could finish
everything and be out on the first plane in the morning, making sure the Shirosama knew what Takashi was taking with him, and what he’d disposed of. Until this afternoon they would have had no idea who was helping their quarry, but now Heinrich Muehler would be able to describe him, and there were enough powerful people in the True Realization Fellowship to be able to put two and two together. There’d be people looking for him, even when he was traveling alone, and while he could easily transform himself into one of his alter egos, he’d still need to be very careful.
No, he couldn’t afford to be sentimental over a soft little gaijin with more brains than common sense.
It was chilly in the night air, and Summer shivered when they stepped outside. He resisted the impulse to give her his jacket—he couldn’t afford to risk getting blood on it. He asked no questions as she led him around the side of the house. With anyone else, he might wonder if he were being drawn into a trap, but with Summer he had no such fears. He was the danger in their relationship, not her.
Technically, they had no relationship, other than hunter and prey. Captor and quarry. Perp and vic, as they said on cop shows. Murderer and corpse.
They reached Micah’s old garage, its tile roof partially gone. Whatever was inside would be exposed to the elements. Was she lying again?
There was only one car inside the structure, a large, anonymous shape covered by a tarp and a pile of dead leaves.
She headed straight for the hidden car and pulled the tarp off. For a moment he stood in awe. He had no particular reverence for cars, having always been more interested in performance than beauty, but he would have had to be a fool not to recognize the beast in front of him.
“This was here when Micah bought the house. It was just a pile of rust, but Micah worked on it for the past five years.” Her voice cracked for a moment, but there were no tears. Only pain. “Poor Micah,” she said in a whisper.
