Ice Blue

by Anne Stuart

He was driving so fast. If they had any kind of accident they’d be dead, instantly. She didn’t care. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know he was watching her. She knew that feeling far too well. It was what had started the entire nightmare—his watching her at the museum reception. At this point all she wanted to do was make her mind a blank. What had he told her before—think about the ocean? The blue-green ocean rolling in waves onto the shore, even, steady, throughout eternity, never changing, the sound a rushing whisper of comfort in her ear.

  The siren startled her out of her trance, and her eyes flew open. Taka’s face was starkly beautiful in the reflection of the flashing lights, but there was no emotion as he pulled the SUV to the side of the road and cut the engine.

  He kept his hands in sight on the steering wheel, clearly used to dealing with cops, and remained very still as two of L.A.’s finest loomed in front of the window.

  “License and registration. Slowly.”

  He leaned over, past her, towards the glove compartment, and for a moment she was terrified that he was going to pull out a pistol. But there was nothing inside the space but papers, and he drew them out, handing them to the cop, who flashed a bright flashlight into the interior of the car, illuminating her face.

  She must have looked like a deer caught in the headlights, she thought, trying to gather her scattered thoughts. Here was rescue, safety, and she opened her mouth to speak.

  Takashi took her hand in his, in a gesture that would have looked reassuring to the police. Only she knew the warning implicit in his touch.

  “You all right, miss?” one of them asked, as the other went to call in the license and registration. “You look upset.”

  Taka couldn’t stop her from saying something, couldn’t stop them from helping her if she asked for it. She shouldn’t hesitate—she knew nothing about the man beside her except that he was very dangerous.

  She opened her mouth. “I’m…I’m fine,” she said, stumbling a bit beneath the warning pressure of his hand on hers. “My boyfriend was just taking me out for a drive and he goes a little too fast.”

  Jesus Fucking Christ, why had she said that? Why in God’s name had she called him her boyfriend, of all things, as if they were high school students? Why had she claimed any kind of relationship with him at all? She looked at Taka, but his expression was still determinedly neutral, and then the other cop was back.

  “He’s clean,” he told his partner, ignoring them. “Diplomatic immunity. Cut ’em loose. We gotta get up to the Sansone Museum—there’s been a break-in and a couple of guards have been killed.”

  They’d taken the flashlight off her face, so they didn’t see her jerk in shock, didn’t hear the noise of protest that escaped her before Taka’s hand tightened again on hers.

  “Drive slower, Mr. Ortiz,” one of the officers said sternly. “You’re a guest in this country, and you wouldn’t want to wear out your welcome.”

  “I’ll do my best. Thank you, Officer.” His voice was smooth, liquid, tinged with a Spanish accent, and in the light Taka almost looked Hispanic. She stared at him in shock as the blue and red lights flashed across his face, then vanished as the police car pulled out into the road, lights still pulsing as it headed up toward the hills.

  He released her hand, and she flexed her fingers instinctively. “Why didn’t you ask them for help?”

  “You didn’t want me to, did you? I thought that death grip on my hand was telling me to keep quiet.”

  “I didn’t necessarily think that would stop you.”

  “It wouldn’t have.” She wasn’t quite sure why she said that. “Mr. Ortiz?”

  “People see what they want to see,” he replied. “Your boyfriend?”

  She wasn’t cold anymore, she was hot, embarrassed, which seemed a ridiculously banal emotion, given the last twenty-four hours. “I just said the first thing that came into my mind. What was that they said about the museum?”

  “It’s been broken into,” Taka said. “I got word earlier.”

  “Do you know what they took?” The forged bowl was the least of her worries. The exquisite treasures that filled the halls of the Sansone were almost like her children; if anything happened to them she’d be heartbroken.

  “Nothing.”

  “But…”

  “The forged urn was smashed on the floor. Clearly that was all they were after, since the rest of the collection was untouched.”

  “Thank God,” she breathed. “Then that must mean they’ve given up. They dropped the bowl and now they’ll have to forget about it.”

  “Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe they realized it was a fake the moment they got their hands on it. Which would make them more determined than ever to get their hands on you or anyone who could make you give them what you want.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  He glanced over at her. “Never underestimate a religious fanatic.” And he pulled back onto the rain-wet street before she could say another word.

  10

  The hours passed in a blur as he drove north out of the city. She paid little attention to the road signs, little attention to anything. The warmth from the heater was sinking into her bones, the hum of the tires, the soft purr of the powerful engine all combined to lull her into a state of half-sleep. Anything was better than the sense of complete powerlessness that came with total waking. She had nothing but the clothes she was wearing—no cell phone, no money, no driver’s license or credit cards. Even if she could get away from the man beside her, who could she call? Micah had already paid the price of being her friend, and now two guards were dead at the museum. Because of her? She knew most of the guards; they were good men, with families. Which of them had been murdered by this group of fanatics in search of some stupid piece of ceramic art?

  The urn had been so important to her, a piece of her childhood and Hana-san, and now it seemed pointless. If Summer had just handed it over to her clueless mother, none of this would ever have happened. Micah would be alive, and Summer would be safely home in her own bed, feeling nothing more than the casual resentment she felt when her mother used her. She’d promised Hana she’d keep the urn safe, to never part with it until she herself asked for it back. But then, Hana hadn’t expected to die. And she wouldn’t have wanted anyone to be hurt.

  Summer had held on to it, and her world had turned upside down, and she was adrift, with no anchor but the dangerous man beside her.

  Except adrift was too casual a word for hurtling into the night at ninety miles an hour. “You’re going to get a ticket if you get stopped again.” Her voice was quiet in the darkened car.

  “I thought you were asleep.”

  “No.”

  He glanced at her, his dark eyes flitting over her face. “I have diplomatic immunity.”

  “You’re a diplomat?”

  “No.”

  “Does Japan have some kind of secret service? Or are you even Japanese, Mr. Ortiz?”

  “Half-gaijin,” he said, and she thought she heard a faint note of contempt in his voice. “And most countries have some kind of covert operatives. However, I’m not one of them.”

  “Then what are you?”

  “Your best chance at this point. That’s all you need to know.”

  “My best chance at what?”

  “Staying alive.”

  She remembered the feel of his hands stroking her throat, the touch of his mouth against hers, the weight of his body, pressing down, and she wasn’t sure if she believed him.

  “Where are we going?” She must have asked him this question a dozen times since she’d known Takashi O’Brien, and didn’t necessarily expect an answer to this one, either. But he surprised her.

  “Belmont Creek.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a tiny town in central California. We’ll be safe there.”

  “You just plucked it out of the air?”

  “It’s a safe house.”

  “A safe house for whom? Are you t
he police?”

  “Hardly.”

  She sank back in the seat, closing her eyes. He wasn’t going to answer her questions, and she was going to stop asking. At least for now.

  Summer awoke with a start, squinting at the digital clock on the dashboard. Three-thirteen. He’d pulled into the driveway of a house, and even in the darkness she could see the outlines of a prototypical suburban dwelling, where one had two point three children and fought with the neighbors about the state of the lawn. There were no neighbors close by—she could see identical houses farther down the road, lit by streetlamps, but this one was at the end of a cul-de-sac, far enough away to avoid prying eyes. It was surrounded by more houses in various stages of construction, all identical, huge and far too close together, but for now they would be alone, unobserved. And she wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing.

  She watched as Taka pointed his cell phone at the garage door, and it lifted silently. He drove inside and the door slid down behind them. The overhead light had come on automatically, and it looked like any residential garage, with a riding mower, storage boxes, garden implements. Even a chest freezer. Was he going to dump her in there?

  “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  “The garage door opened, didn’t it?” he responded, climbing out of the car and going around the back. She thought he’d stop and get the bowl, but instead he came to her side of the car and opened the door. “Can you walk?”

  Stupid question. Even if her knees were weak she wasn’t about to let him see, and she braced herself on the car door as she got out, shooting him a rebellious look. He took a step back, letting her wobble on her own. He aimed the phone at the door to the house, and it clicked open, plunging the garage into darkness as the lights went on inside.

  “What the hell kind of phone is that?”

  “Multitasking,” he said shortly, waiting for her.

  There were a few steps up into the house, and she stumbled slightly, but he was smart enough not to try to steady her. Maybe he knew she was at the very edge of self-control and if he touched her she might start screaming. Something she hadn’t done in a very long time.

  He followed her in, closing the door behind them. “There’s food if you’re hungry,” he said. “The house is kept completely stocked.”

  She looked around her. The scene before her looked like the set of a perfect television show, with everything safe and ordinary and in its place. Normal, and yet absolutely artificial.

  “Where is the Brady Bunch?” she muttered.

  “Who?”

  She glanced at him. For once he was totally clueless—hardly a cause for rejoicing when the only thing she had over him was knowledge of odd TV shows. “Never mind,” she said. “Where do I sleep?”

  “Any bedroom you want. Check the closets until you find clothes in your size. There should be a suitcase as well—pack enough clothes for a week.”

  “A week? We aren’t staying here?”

  “We aren’t staying anyplace for long.”

  “Are you going to tell me where we’re going?”

  “Away.”

  She wanted to throw something at him. “And I’m just supposed to trust you?”

  “You don’t have much choice.”

  He was right about that. She didn’t want to stay with him another hour, let alone a week. He confused and frightened and upset her. Not for the obvious reasons. Given the circumstances, it made perfect sense that she would be a basket case.

  No, it was more than just the patently insane situation she’d found herself in. It was the man himself, dark, disturbing, eerily beautiful. Her stomach knotted every time he came near her. She’d never reacted to anyone as she reacted to Taka O’Brien, and her response was even more unsettling than the total upheaval of her life.

  She didn’t think she could survive another week.

  “Why are you doing this?” she finally asked. “Why have you made it your mission to save my life?”

  “I haven’t. You’re an assignment.”

  It was like a slap in the face, but she recovered quickly. “An assignment from whom?”

  He hesitated a moment, the first time he’d ever seemed uncertain. “The Committee.”

  “What committee?”

  “That’s it. All you need to know. More than you need to know.”

  “Then why did you tell me?”

  He had no answer.

  She needed food even more than she needed the answers he refused to give her. She went straight to the refrigerator, opening the freezer compartment. “Ben & Jerry’s ice cream,” she breathed, leaning against the open door. “I may cry.”

  “You’d cry over ice cream and not over a friend being killed?”

  He sounded no more than casually curious, and she shouldn’t have felt the need to defend herself. “Tears don’t help,” she said tightly.

  “True enough.”

  “Ice cream, on the other hand, does wonders.” She reached for the container, pulled off the top and went searching for a spoon. Mission accomplished, she started to eat straight out of the container. She glanced up at him. “I’m not sharing,” she said, sitting down at the perfect little table in the perfect little breakfast nook.

  “I didn’t think you were.” He went over to the fridge, and emerged with a Sapporo beer and a small black platter. He sat down opposite her, like the perfect husband in the perfect house.

  The black platter had sushi and a pair of chopsticks. She raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you think you’re taking a chance with raw fish? Who knows how long that’s been in there.”

  “Less than six hours,” he replied. “I’d offer you some but it doesn’t go well with ice cream.”

  She wasn’t about to tell him that she had an indecent craving for good sashimi, and she almost would have given up the ice cream for it. She didn’t need anything that would bring her closer to him. “I don’t suppose there’s any Diet Coke in the fridge.”

  “Diet Coke with ice cream?”

  She could be enigmatic as well. “Yes.”

  To her surprise he rose, went back to the refrigerator and emerged with a fuchsia-colored can. “No Diet Coke, but this looks close.”

  She dropped her spoon. Tab was almost impossible to find in southern California—she only knew of one place to buy her supply, and she was used to accepting Diet Coke as a substitute. On rare occasions she’d even tolerate Diet Pepsi.

  No one could have gotten Tab by accident. Whoever had stocked this house knew exactly what she liked, down to something as minor as her favorite kind of ice cream and her preferred soft drink. She had no doubt at all there’d be a complete wardrobe in her size, all in black and white and gray, probably from the same stores she patronized. They seemed to know everything about her, whereas she didn’t even know who “they” were.

  Just the man sitting across from her, eating his nigiri with calm dedication, his distant, elegant face giving nothing away. She could thank him for the food and the clothes she knew she’d find. He would have told them.

  She pushed back from the table, suddenly sick. “I’m going to bed,” she said, putting the lid back on the half-eaten quart of ice cream.

  “Aren’t you going to eat anything else?”

  She didn’t want to ask what else there was. There would be her favorite foods, the kind of yogurt she liked, her favorite wine, all the arcane little peculiarities she’d developed over the years. She didn’t want to see. They knew too much about her.

  “I’m not hungry,” she said, only half a lie. She wasn’t too shaken to leave the Tab behind—right now she needed all the comfort and normalcy she could get. “Any bedroom?”

  “Take your pick. Just don’t lock the door.”

  “The doors have locks? I’m amazed. Are you planning on making a surprise visit?” She could have kicked herself. Why did she keep bringing up sex when that was the last thing she wanted to think about.

  He just looked at her. “I’m trying to protect y
ou,” he said. “Not that you’re making it any easier. Leave the door unlocked in case we have to get out of here quickly.”

  She was too exhausted to argue. She found the room with the right clothes, including duplicates of things she’d had in her own closet. The sky was starting to lighten, and she pulled the miniblinds, shutting out the deceptive ordinary world of the suburbs, stripped off her clothes, down to her underwear, and crawled into bed. She wasn’t going to sleep in constricting clothes. There was also no way she could fall asleep naked—there probably wasn’t any way she could fall asleep at all, and taking a gulp of cold, caffeinated soda wouldn’t make the slightest bit of difference. She’d closed and locked the bedroom door, despite his warning. She knew he wasn’t about to come into her room while she slept; despite the odd kiss, she knew he had absolutely no interest in her apart from keeping her alive.

  The house was completely silent. No traffic noise, not even the sound of birds disturbed the stillness. Another day was dawning in this strange, nightmare world she’d stumbled into. And she closed her eyes, rather than face it.

  “The child is unhappy, your holiness.” Brother Kenno’s soft voice was hesitant.

  The Shirosama opened his eyes, blinking rapidly. It was past time to change his contact lenses. Each time he remembered to change the extended-wear contact lenses, he expected his eyes to have changed as well. It was always a shock when his own brown ones looked back at him, bloodshot and bleary.

  It was happening, he knew it was. His vision was getting milkier and harder to focus—it was all part of the preordained change that was coming. By the time of his ascension he would be complete: Shirosama in body, mind and spirit.

  “Are not all children unhappy?” he replied. “Are not all people unhappy? It is the way of karma. Her soul is at war, and the more she fights the more unhappy she is. Have you done nothing for her?”

  “Your holiness, she refuses. She kicked Brother Sammo, and she refuses to wear our robes or listen to your holy word. I’ve told her that the gift we offer her is invaluable, but she is stubborn. Should we have Brother Heinrich deal with her?”