Ice Blue (10 page)

"A religion that condones murder?"

"Most of them do, as long as they believe their cause is just. And they all believe that." Takashi started to open the car door, and she put her hand on his arm to stop him. It was a strange sensation—he'd touched her any number of times as he'd snatched her out of danger, but she couldn't remember ever reaching out to him.

His arm was hard and strong beneath his jacket, and he could pull away easily, but he stopped, looking at her in the darkened car.

"Please," she said in a low voice. "It's not my mother I'm worried about."

"Your little sister is gone."

Relief flooded Summer for a moment, then suspicion followed. "How did you know about my sister?"

"I know everything about you. Your sister is visiting friends in the country, and she won't be coming back anytime soon. At least, not until this is settled. We've made sure she can't be found easily, and she has no idea what's going on. You don't need to worry about her."

Summer stared at him. '"We made sure'?" she echoed. "Who the hell are you?"

He didn't answer, and she no longer expected him to. The only thing she knew for sure was that he was no Japanese bureaucrat.

And he was about to break into her stepfather's mansion, an act that would only bring unwanted attention to her baby sister. Protecting Jilly was the one thing even more important than Summer's promise to Hana, and she wasn't going to screw that up.

"It's at Micah's house," she blurted out.

Taka didn't seem particularly gratified by her sudden surge of honesty. "And why would it be there?"

"Because Micah was the one who made the… copy." Her hesitation was so slight he couldn't have noticed. The last thing he needed to know was that there was more than one forgery floating around.

"All right," he said, starting the car once more.

"We can't go there. Don't you think the police will be all over the place because of Micah's death? They're not going to let us waltz in and search for it. And his friends will probably be there as well—" Her voice broke. Not in tears, never in tears. But simply raw pain.

"His body hasn't been identified yet. When it is, someone will see to it that the police don't make it public until I give the word. No one will bother us." He pulled out into the street, heading west, toward Micah's run-down Spanish-style villa, with unerring certainty.

It took Summer a moment to gather her wits. "What do you mean, he hasn't been identified yet? You told me…"

"My people know. A lesson for you, Dr. Hawthorne. My people know everything."

"And your people have the power to control the LAPD?"

His half smile was the epitome of cynicism. "A lot of people do. How could you have lived twenty-eight years and still be so innocent?"

She was past being surprised that he knew her age—he was heading directly for Micah's house. What else did he know?

A cold sweat broke out. Did he really know everything, including the sordid details of her childhood? Was he privy to secrets buried so deeply that even she had managed to suppress them?

"I'm not innocent," she said in a tight voice.

Thank God he didn't look at her. "Maybe not. But you've lived a rarified life, safe in academia and then locked away in a museum, untouchable. And one short-term affair doesn't make for a raft of sexual experience."

Her sense of panic was growing worse and worse, and she knew she should change the subject, because if he knew, she wouldn't be able to bear it. But she couldn't stop. "Maybe I'm not looking for sexual experience," she said. "Maybe I'm looking for love."

His laugh was quick and sharp. "I don't think you believe in love. Your history doesn't suggest you've made any effort to find it."

What history
? she thought, anguished. "I love my baby sister. I loved Hana."

"But we're not talking about that kind of love, are we? We're talking true love, sexual love, happy ever after."

"Happy ever after?" she echoed. "No, I don't believe in that."
What else
? she thought.
What else do you know
?

He stopped the car, and she was shocked to realize they were already there. Micah's tumbled-down villa was miles from Ralph Lovitz's Hollywood mansion. But the ride had been ridiculously short. Her companion's breakneck driving style could account for part of it. His ability to distract her with devastating questions took care of the rest.

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?"

«
^
»

S
ummer 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."