Ice Blue (30 page)

"I'll be in there." He jerked his head in the direction of Reno's tiny bedroom. "Call me if you need anything. I've got work to do."

"I won't."

No, she wouldn't. There were no doors between the rooms, but the futon was out of sight, at least. Reno's large American bed filled the room, and the walls held a peculiar melange of posters from gory movies, animated porn and classic woodblocks, and even one of the video game villain Reno had taken his name from. He had a blow-up doll in one corner that he tended to tie up in strange positions, to his own amusement, but Reno's strange tastes were probably a bit much for someone already suffering severe emotional overload.

Taka was going to get her out of here as fast as he could. There had to be some way to keep her safe until they trapped the Shirosama. Some way to get her away from him before he screwed things up any more.

He stripped off his clothes, climbing into the pristine bed. He'd been teasing Summer earlier; in fact, Reno was fastidiously clean. Taka just hadn't wanted her in his cousin's clothes.

He wanted her in Reno's bed, now, beneath him, but that was an impossibility. Things had gone too far. He could have verbally calmed and soothed her in the bathroom on the plane. Instead he'd acted on instinct, and those actions had silenced her, stopped her before her hysterics could alert the entire plane. Very noble of him. He wasn't going to make that move again. Unless he could come up with any lame excuse.

His mobile unit was beginning to run low on juice, despite its state-of-the-art battery, and he hadn't been able to recharge it on the airplane. He had just enough power to text Madame Lambert, but her reply was cut off midsentence, and he had no idea how much had gotten through. He could rummage around the apartment, find any of a number of cell phones Reno kept around, but Taka would have a hard time getting access to the Committee's network, and his attempts could be easily intercepted by anyone with the proper skills. And the Shirosama had an army of people with the proper skills.

Taka would simply have to hope for the best, and assume that completing the mission was up to him, and him alone.

The Shirosama was back in the country, following a little close on their heels for Taka's comfort. He'd only glanced at the newspaper on his hunt for Reno, but it appeared that his holiness was planning a major celebration for the Lunar New Year, combined with a great announcement. Taka could just imagine.

Now that he knew where they were going he had a pretty good idea what would happen. In ancient times, the Lunar New Year celebration had begun on the second new moon after Winter Solstice and ended fifteen days later, when the moon was full. Time enough for Hayashi to send his cache of weapons to the far corners of the earth with his faithful followers. Time enough for Armageddon.

Taka set the dead mobile unit on the table, leaning back to stare at the poster on the wall.
Battle Royale
—dead teenagers and a bloodbath. Just Reno's style.

Taka turned off the light. There was enough neon in the streets outside to fill the room with an unearthly glow through the slatted shutters, but he could make himself sleep in any situation, and his instincts told him a few hours rest was acceptable right now. Not actual sleep, but he could close his eyes.

And open them again, as he heard her move in the next room. She was restless and he knew why.

Summer had never done anything so insane in her entire, careful life. She had spent years avoiding pain, avoiding betrayal, avoiding everything that could rip her soul apart.

And she had been wise. At the age of twenty-one she'd chosen the safest, most gentle, least threatening lover, to prove to herself that there were no lingering shadows. She had three months of gentle lovemaking, all of it pleasant, all of it forgettable. And when Scott had left, knowing she could never love him, she'd had no interest in repeating the experience. It was enough to know that she could.

Instead, she'd filled her life with friends who wanted nothing from her and kept a watchful eye on her alarmingly bright little sister.

But Summer's careful life had been shattered, invaded, body and soul, by the mesmerizing man who lay asleep in the next room. The man who'd showed her what her body was capable of, when she'd been better off not knowing. The man who'd saved her, threatened her, destroyed what she loved and taken the rest. The man who thought of her as a mission and nothing more, who used sex as a weapon, who killed without remorse. The man who would send her away tomorrow and never think of her again.

If she let him. It was the fastest, surest way back to some semblance of her safe life. She would never work at the museum again. She couldn't leave L.A. as long as Jilly was there, but she could find something, anything else—some way to earn a living.

She could be a coward, and who would blame her? She'd faced death half a dozen times in the last few crazy days—surely she had the right to take the easy way out and just hide in her safe little world. She would know whether he'd managed to stop the Shirosama; either the world would descend into chaos or the cult would quietly disappear.

Takashi O'Brien might die and she'd never be told. He lived a dangerous life, and he had no regard for his own safety. He could die, and the only way she'd know would be from the hollow, aching wound inside her that never healed.

Maybe she'd lost her mind. Jet lag, lack of sleep, the stress of having people try to kill her had all combined to make her snap.

Except she didn't feel weak or lost, but stronger and more sure of herself than she ever had.

She rose from the mattress on the floor, knotting the belt of the silk gown around her waist. The final message, from Hana-san's hands. Would her beloved nanny have left it, and the urn, if she'd known the kind of trouble it would bring? The danger that would follow?

Summer knew the answer. Hana had protected her as a child and would have given her life for her. But she'd also made Summer the strong woman she was. Hana Hayashi had protected her heritage; she would have expected Summer to do the same, with no excuses.

What would she have thought of the man lying in that bed? Would she have approved? Approved of the crazy, inescapable fact that Summer had fallen stupidly in love with a man who could kill her? Or would Hana have given her a sharp pinch and told her to stop fussing? That was more like Hana-san—never one for sentiment when common sense would do. Never one for hiding from unfortunate truths.

And the unfortunate truth was that Summer had fallen in love with the wrong man. Not the tender, almost worshipful Scott, the man with the cruel hands and the mouth of an angel. And Summer couldn't run from that truth any longer. Hana-san had raised her better than that.

The apartment was dark, lit only by the neon that filtered through the shuttered windows, and she moved carefully, avoiding the piles of stuff that littered the place.

Striations of purple, red and yellow danced across the figure in the bed, courtesy of the bright neon signs outside. He lay on his back, unmoving, and for a moment she thought he was asleep. That she could just watch him for a moment and then slink back to her hard mattress on the floor.

Then she saw his eyes were open, watching her with utter stillness. And it wasn't going to be that easy.

"Come here," he said.

Maybe it was going to be easy, after all. She opened her mouth to say something, to argue, but he stopped her. "Come here," he said again, patiently. "You know what you want. All you have to do is say it."

And that was the one thing she couldn't do. She moved closer, because she couldn't resist, but the words seemed to jam in her throat.

He was naked in the bed; he had the sheet pulled up to his waist, but she knew he was wearing nothing underneath. If he would just reach out his hand, pull her onto the bed, cover her mouth with his, then she wouldn't have to say anything at all.

But he didn't move. His hair was loose around his elegant, beautiful face, his skin was like molten gold, and she realized she'd never touched him, never put her mouth on him. And she was afraid.

"You have to tell me," he said, his voice soft and enticing, so deep it reached into her body and pooled between her legs. "I can't give you what you want if you don't tell me."

She could turn and leave. Walk out of the room, away from him, and tomorrow someone would put her on a jet back to the U.S. It was the easy way, the safe way, and he wouldn't stop her.

"What do you want, Summer?" His eyes were dark, clear, steady in the flickering light.

"I want you."

He closed his eyes for a moment, in what almost seemed like relief. But he still wasn't done. "What do you want me to do to you? Do you want me to hold you while you sleep? Do you want me to make you come while you pretend I don't even exist? Do you want to get in my bed and let me show you things you haven't even dreamed of?"

"Yes. No…"

"Which is it? Be brave. Just tell me. I'll do what you want."

No, he wouldn't. He couldn't. He couldn't love her, give her the kind of crazy happy ever after she didn't even believe in.

But he could give her the night. An endless night, blind and forbidden. All she had to do was ask.

She held out her hand. It was trembling, and there was no way she could disguise the fact. "Maybe I'm not so brave, after all," she said in a shaky voice.

"Bravery is being afraid and then doing it anyway." He took her hand and his warmth flowed into her. "Tell me."

The bed was big and high. She climbed up onto it, letting the silk kimono settle around her as she knelt. He didn't move to make room, just watched her, waiting.

Pulling her hand free, she reached down and untied the sash of the robe, letting it fall open. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and she was vulnerable, totally open to him.

"I want to put my mouth on you," she said, her voice little more than a whisper. "Everywhere. I want to touch you, learn your body, find out what you like, what you need. I want to make you as crazy with wanting as I am. I want you, everything you can give me, everything I can give you, and I want the night to last forever. Can you give me that?"

"Yes," he said. He reached up and pushed the robe from her shoulders so that she was naked. "As for what I want, what I need, it's very simple. It's you."

She wanted to cry, but she didn't. "Then let me learn you," she said. She put her hands on his chest and found his skin smooth, hot to the touch. She ran her fingers over his body, over his flat, dark nipples, the bone and muscle and sinew of him, and he tilted his head back, closing his eyes, letting her.

He had scars. Some of them barely healed, some of them old and faded. He was deceptively lean—she knew how strong he really was. But she didn't know what he tasted like.

She leaned down, her long hair brushing his face, and put her mouth against the side of his neck, letting her teeth rest against the fierce pulse that beat there. It was his life vibrating against her mouth, and she wanted more.

The base of his throat was soft, vulnerable, and she ran her tongue across it, then felt the shiver that ran through his body. She moved down, over the elegantly defined muscle, to one dark nipple, and without thinking she drew it in, sucking it.

He made a muffled sound, and the nub hardened against her tongue, but he didn't touch her. He lay back on the bed, arms at his sides, letting her discover him.

His skin was alive beneath her mouth. He had no hair on his chest, but was sleek, and so exquisitely beautiful she wondered what she was doing in bed with him. Because she was. In bed with him. By her own choice.

Summer nudged the sheet out of the way. A thin line of dark hair dusted his flat belly, arrowing down, and she tasted that, too, letting her tongue play with the silken curls.

His hands were clenched now, she realized with distant satisfaction. He was burning, he was hard, and she pulled the rest of the sheet off him.

He was bigger than she expected, and she felt a moment's doubt, one she ignored. She already knew the parts fit. Now was her time to experiment.

She touched him, her hand cool on his heated cock, and he seemed to grow harder, bigger beneath her delicate grasp. Such a pretty thing, she thought, wondering what she had ever been afraid of. It was for her, the blood pulsing through the thick shaft, the heat and size and power of him. It was for her, and she took it, her tongue tracing the marbled veins, dancing on his skin, touching, tasting, until she wanted more, and she closed her lips over the head of his cock, drawing it into her mouth.

His entire body arched off the bed, and she could feel the sheet beneath her being torn away in his fists.

She should have taken pity on him, but this was too wonderful, the fierce power of having him a slave to her hungry mouth. She wanted more. She could taste the sweetness against her tongue, and she tried to take more of him into her mouth, needing everything he was willing to give her.

And then he let go of the bed, his hands cradling her head, his fingers threading through her hair, and a spasm of delight hit her, strong enough to startle her.

Before she realized what he was doing he'd pulled her away, flipping her over so that she was on her back, a frenzied protest on her lips, a protest he silenced with his mouth, his tongue where his cock had been, and she took the substitute with heady delight.