Ice Blue (15 page)

He could tell her the Shirosama had kidnapped her sister, but that would only send her into a panic, and women in a panic were unpredictable. On the other hand, Summer was already enough of an anomaly—she managed to keep her head in circumstances that would have most women weeping. He needed something failsafe.

Sex. He hadn't used sex with her, and he didn't know why he was so squeamish in this particular case. Why was he hesitating? He could picture her, pale and defiant, and thought about that plain black underwear beneath the baggy clothes. These would be duplicates from her closet, so clearly she never wore anything that showed her body—nothing fitted, nothing with any color, and he once again wondered why. She had a good body. He'd seen her naked in the tub, and his powers of observation were top-notch.

She had nothing to be ashamed of, no reason to cover her figure in wads of dark clothing. Her hips and butt were maybe too generous, and her flesh was soft, rather than the tightly muscled buffness so in vogue nowadays. She had a woman's body—round, soft, comforting. The kind a man stayed with.

He'd seen that uneasy expression in her eyes when she thought he wouldn't notice. She watched him, and she was fascinated. Frightened. Attracted. And she didn't want to be. If Taka's instincts were correct, it would take very little to get her on her back. Very little to get between her legs and find out what he needed to know.

He had hoped he could do it some other way. If he did end up having to hurt her it would be betrayal enough. He didn't want to have to fuck the information out of her.

But he'd run out of options, and there was nowhere else to go. He thought about her, pale and defiant, and he released the tight hold he'd had over his body. Looked at her and began to get hard.

What would she respond to? Strength? Being mastered? Some women were turned on by that, and he had no doubt that part of her fascination with him was because he was like nothing else she'd ever known. Hell, he was like nothing else most people had ever known.

Or would she respond better to softness? Gentleness, even a touch of uncertainty to give her the illusion of control? He could make her think she was doing this for him, nobly sacrificing her body for his pleasure, and she wouldn't know otherwise until he had her shivering and climaxing beneath him.

Or maybe a combination of the two. She was smart—that was part of the problem. Too damn smart. She would see through any half-assed attempt at seduction. He had to pull out all the stops to get her where he wanted her.

And in the end, she probably would have preferred he'd just killed her.

It was no one's fault but her own. He'd tried everything, but she'd kept her secrets, and too many lives depended on finding out what those secrets were.

Perhaps her ability to bury secrets explained why the rest of her was much too easy to read. She was afraid of sex, totally turned off to it, and yet she couldn't stop looking at him. She probably didn't even know she wanted him. She'd be horrified if he told her, if he made a move.

He could have her eating out of his hand. He could have her down on her knees in front of him, doing anything he told her to, and she had no idea how vulnerable she really was. He could feel it, see it, sense it.

He was accustomed to women wanting him. What shocked him was the simple fact that he wanted her.

Not hot, energetic sex. Not a blow job from a novice. He wanted her with a perplexing intensity he hadn't felt in years. He was the King of Death, and she was his consort.

And no amount of common sense could distract him.

There was limitless hot water, and he stood in the shower a long time, letting it stream over his body. He wanted a traditional Japanese bath—to sit in the still, hot water and let everything fade away—but he wasn't going to have that indulgence until he got back to Japan, and that return would come with its own set of problems.

He toweled off, ignoring his reflection in the mirror. He was used to it—the combination of his mother's exquisite, Asian beauty mixed with his father's appeal. His mother had valued beauty above all things, and certainly would have chosen someone of comparable beauty to marry. Not that Takashi knew—he'd never even seen a photograph of his dead father. All he knew of the man was his last name and what was reflected in Taka's own face. That, and the fact that his grandfather had had him murdered.

Ancient history. Taka pulled on the jeans they'd left him, at his request, zipping but not buttoning them, and then looked up again. To see Summer Hawthorne's horrified reflection in the bathroom mirror as she stared at his back.

He whirled around, but it was too late. "How long have you…?" he began, but she'd already taken off.

He caught her before she reached the front door. His hand clamped down on her shoulder when she hit the landing, and she came flying backward, falling against him so that they were both on the stairs, his arms wrapped around her, imprisoning her struggling body.

She kicked at him, but she was barefoot and her efforts were a waste of time. His arms were like iron bands around her, and for all her struggles there was nothing she could do. After a moment she stilled, the tension draining from her body, but he didn't release her.

"There are a thousand watts of electricity going through the front door," he said in her ear. "If you'd passed through you'd be dead."

She shivered, and a moment later his arms loosened. He stood, pulling her upright, and she stared at him in the early morning light.

He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of jeans, and once more her stomach knotted. How could someone so dangerous be so enticing? He was thin, strong, with smooth, golden skin stretched tautly over bone and muscle. Leaving no clue to what was on his back.

"I saw your tattoos," she said.

"I know you did. So?"

"So I know what they mean."

"That I'm a Japanese biker?"

"That you're a gangster. A member of the Yakuza."

"Yakuza." He corrected her pronunciation. "You've seen too many movies."

"Maybe. But in the last twenty-four hours I've seen dead people, been kidnapped, run for my life, had a good friend killed…sounds like organized crime to me, even if you do have all your fingers."

"Movies again," he said lightly. "Does it matter who I am, as long as I'm keeping you alive?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"On how long you're planning to do that."

He was still touching her, his hand a manacle around her wrist so she couldn't run. Not that she would—if she had to take her chances between getting electrocuted and staying with this man, the choice was clear.

"At least long enough for you to tell me where the real urn is. Micah made more than one, didn't he?"

Damn. Maybe he really was with the Ministry of Antiquities—that forgery was top-notch. "And then you'll let me die? Not much incentive."

He released her wrist, and she wrapped her own fingers around the place he'd held her, absently rubbing, trying to erase the feel of him. "The doors and windows are armed, and if you try to get out without knowing the codes you'll die. Keep that in mind while I finish getting dressed."

She said nothing, trying to move as far from him as she could.

"On second thought, maybe you'd better come with me. I don't trust you."

"I don't—" He took her arm and hauled her back up the stairs with him, giving her a perfect view of his back as they headed toward the bedroom he'd used.

The design was complex and beautiful—an Asian dragon, long and lean, curled protectively around something small and vulnerable, with angel's wings etched on his shoulder blades. The tattoos went down the outside of his arms, down his back beyond the waist of his low-slung jeans, and she wondered where they stopped. And then she jerked her eyes above his waist, immediately feeling heat flood her face.

She must have stalled, because he yanked her forward, pushing her ahead of him into his bedroom and onto the bed. She sprang up immediately but he simply pushed her back down again.

"Don't jump to any conclusions," he said. "I just don't want to be running after you."

She said nothing, though her mind was going a mile a minute. Either he hadn't slept or he'd made the bed—the pillows and covers seemed untouched. He reached for a long-sleeved shirt and pulled it on, covering up the intricate tattoos that marked his body—him—as dangerous.

"I don't know why you're so shocked," he said, shoving a hand through his damp black hair. "Who did you think you were dealing with? Have I ever given you the impression that I wasn't a dangerous man?"

"No," she said in a small voice.

He hadn't buttoned his shirt, but he grabbed a dark jacket that was lying on a chair and pulled it on. Black leather, and beautifully tailored. So well-tailored that it had to have been made just for him, and once more she wondered where the hell they were and who was supplying them. She'd found a duplicate of her favorite pair of black khakis, same size, same brand, plus matching or similar shirts. And they'd even brought the same three sizes of black jeans she kept.

At this rate she'd be back into the skinny ones soon enough; she couldn't remember when she'd last had a decent meal. And right now her stomach was churning too badly to even think about it.

"Look at it this way," he said, leaning against the dresser and watching her out of dark, impenetrable eyes. "If I have any connection to organized crime it can only work to your benefit. I don't need to worry about trifles like legalities if I want to keep you safe."

"And do you? Want to keep me safe, that is?"

She expected a fast answer, something noncommittal, but for a moment he said nothing. "I want the urn," he said finally. "I want to know where it came from in the first place. That's why the Shirosama is so determined to get his hands on you. If all he wanted was the urn he would have killed you and taken it from the museum. You're the only one who knows where the original shrine is."

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't know anything at all about a shrine, or even much about the urn. I used it to hold cookies, for God's sake. And why should the Shirosama care where some mythical shrine is? He wants the urn because my mother promised it to him and it's worth a lot of money and I don't want him to have it. I'm just the means to an end. I know how ruthless he can be, and I figured I'd have copies made to confuse him. But I don't matter to him."

"You know more than you think. Hana Hayashi wouldn't have died without trying to pass on that information. And you're the only one she could turn to."

"She couldn't have known she'd be killed by a hit-and-run driver," Summer protested.

"A very conveniently timed hit-and-run driver. She knew." Taka pushed away from the dresser. "Where's the urn?"

"I don't—"

He moved so fast she had no time to brace herself. He slammed her down on the bed, leaning over her, vibrating with rage. "Don't say it," he warned her, his voice low and dangerous. "I'm not playing this game anymore. Tell me where the fucking urn is, or you're not going to like the way I make you."

His hands were on her shoulders, pinning her to the bed, and she felt panic rise inside her. It was nothing like before, so long ago—then it was sugary sweetness and presents and touches that hurt.

"Let go of me." She spoke in a whisper so quiet she thought he wouldn't hear. But he did. He stared down at her for a long, thoughtful moment.

And then he pulled back, moving away from her, turning his back. She was shaking. Too hard, and she couldn't stop. It wasn't the same, it wasn't…

"What happened to you?"

His voice broke though her terrified mantra, startling her. He'd turned again, and in the early glow of daylight suddenly she was even more frightened.

But he wasn't the one who frightened her. What terrified her was her own incomprehensible longings.

"Answer me." His voice was short, sharp. "What happened to you? Did your lover rape you?"

"No!" she protested. "He loved me. He would never have hurt me."

"Then who did this to you?"

She didn't want to understand his question. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you ever tell the truth?" He sounded both annoyed and weary. "Someone hurt you."

"That was a long time ago. I don't even think about it anymore."

"Sure you do. Whether you know it or not, it's part of your life. Every day. Didn't Hana Hayashi protect you?"

"Of course she did!" Summer's defense was an immediate response. "It happened before…" The words trailed off.

"You were six years old when Hana started taking care of you."

"Yes." Summer waited for the pity and disgust to fill his face. She went on before he could say anything. "It's no great tragedy—young girls are molested all the time. I'm over it. And Hana made sure it never happened again."

"Who?"

She shook her head. "I don't even know. A friend of my mother's. I was supposed to call him Uncle Mark. He was old and hairy and smelled like cigar smoke. I don't like cigars." Her voice was almost eerily calm. She couldn't remember the last time she'd talked about this. Scott had never known the details, just that he needed to be very very gentle with her. Lianne didn't want to hear, despite her brave attempts to explain what happened in the best way a six-year-old could.