Ice Blue

  And then she’d behave herself, because despite what his nameless uncle had said, there was nothing in the way Taka looked at her that meant anything at all.

  The old man had been far too right about her. She looked at Taka and felt rage, frustration, fear and a weird kind of gratitude. And something else, something overpowering, which she flatly refused to put a name to. Lust, maybe. Insanity. It didn’t matter. She’d eat, she’d feel better and they’d move on.

  In the meantime she could feel his heart beat through the exquisite suit as he led her down the street. She let go of all the tension of the last few days, and curved her lips in a smile.

  21

  His holiness the blessed Shirosama was in a state of rare excitation. Other people might call it rage, but such karmic emotions were long gone from his cleansed soul. He felt no lust when he trained the young renunciants who joined the Fellowship, he felt no vengeance when those who were out to harm him were sent to their next stage. He felt no anger when his plans were contravened, or when a stranger infiltrated the very heart of his religion in the western world and snatched an important convert from under the eyes of his most diligent followers. That those directly responsible for that monumental blunder had moved on to the joy of their karmic destiny gave him no satisfaction. Harm was done, and the Lunar New Year, his ancestor’s preordained time of ascension, was fast approaching. If he couldn’t find the Hayashi Urn he would simply have to figure something else out.

  Brother Sammo had been too precipitate in smashing the fake when they’d broken into the museum, but then, that particular disciple hadn’t yet risen above his emotions, which had been running high after he’d eliminated the two guards. The forgery had been good enough to fool the Shirosama himself at the museum reception, it could fool everyone else. After all, he had kept the bones and ashes of his ancestor safe—was the original urn all that important? Could he not ascend just as well with a reasonable facsimile?

  It would work, as it was meant to happen, except for two annoying people: Takashi O’Brien and his aunt’s surrogate daughter, who had the urn.

  If he could get his hands on her, the girl could lead the Shirosama to the ruins of the ancient temple, the site of his ascension. As soon as he found out where it was, his followers were poised to transport his stockpile of biological and chemical weapons to the ruins, the perfect place to unleash them on the world and bring about the destruction that would generate new life.

  O’Brien had too many friends, however—the shadow organization he worked for, the Yakuza, the Japanese government. Alone, none was any match for the Shirosama’s vision and the devotion of his followers. Combined, they could prove to be a problem.

  Takashi had taken her to Japan, not a good sign, but they were in Tokyo, so for now things were safe. Two more days to the Lunar New Year and all would reveal itself as it was meant to be.

  And Takashi O’Brien and his American whore would no longer pose a threat.

  Takashi sat and watched as the exquisite stranger opposite him tucked into her oyakudon with a deftness that was both unexpected and unnerving. He’d steered her toward a little street corner restaurant, planning on giving her a simplistic explanation of the vending machine, but Summer had gone straight for the chicken and egg dish and the miso soup. It should have come as no surprise—with Hana Hayashi as her nanny, miso soup would be as common as chicken soup, and oyakudon was the Japanese equivalent of comfort food. Still, it made him uneasy, particularly when she thanked the cook with just the right intonation of “arigato gozaimasu.” The cook had beamed at her, and Taka had glowered at him.

  Her color was better. For a moment there on the street he’d been afraid she was going to pass out, not a good way to avoid unwanted attention. They had two days until the Lunar New Year, and the Shirosama’s noose was drawing tighter. Taka didn’t have time to spend scooping her up off the sidewalk or explaining to helpful policemen what was wrong with his American wife.

  He shouldn’t have brought her to Japan—he knew that now. He could have found someplace safe to stash her if he’d just tried a little harder. He was making mistakes right and left, a dangerous thing for someone in his position. At any other time he never would have trusted the man he thought was Crosby—all his instincts would have been alerted.

  But Summer Hawthorne had managed to block his radar, and he’d abandoned her without the necessary precautions. And she’d almost died because of it.

  He’d been so damn crazy with fear that he hadn’t stopped to consider other choices; he’d just dragged her onto the plane with him, figuring he’d find somewhere to stash her once he got home.

  Wrong. His uncle’s place was out, his own apartment was far too dangerous to go near, and there were members of the Fellowship working at all the major hotels.

  Takashi had known the moment she’d bolted out of her seat on the plane in the middle of the night that his reasons for bringing her had nothing to do with necessity and more to do with choice. He had known that when he got up and followed her into the first class lavatory, shutting the door behind them.

  He knew when he fucked her into compliance—telling himself it was to calm her, screw her into oblivion—that it was his own oblivion he craved.

  He had two choices—a ryokan or Reno’s place. Reno’s was probably the best choice, though the hostility was coming off his little cousin in waves. It wasn’t Taka’s place to tell Summer why Reno hated Americans—she could just assume it was casual racism. A ryokan was probably a bad idea; the traditional inns were one of the last remnants of the old Japan that the Shirosama was so eager to bring back and he’d likely have moles strategically placed.

  Taka was going to have to wait a little longer for his bath. In the meantime Reno’s place would have to do. And he was going to have to ignore the fact that it was the height of Tokyo luxury—two very tiny rooms crammed with things, including Reno’s beloved Harley.

  “You ready?”

  Summer was chasing the last grain of rice with her chopsticks, and doing it with surprising deftness. She probably knew how to pour sake and arrange ikebana, he thought sourly.

  The food had made her feistier. Her deep blue eyes were flinty as she looked at him across the table. She hadn’t forgotten what had happened in the bathroom—even if she wished she could. “Where are we going?”

  “To Reno’s. Safest place I can think of,” he said in a low voice.

  “That’s not saying much. He doesn’t like me.”

  He shrugged. “I told you, he doesn’t like Americans. He’ll put us up. His place his small, though. We’ll share a futon.”

  Her face froze. “No, we won’t.”

  Taka leaned across the table. “Just because you joined the mile high club doesn’t mean I can’t keep my hands off you. I’m not going to fuck you with my cousin five feet away.” His voice was little more than a whisper, and the color in her face flamed.

  “You’re not going to fuck me at all,” she snapped. “Ever again. I’ll kill you if you try.”

  He laughed softly, even though he knew it would outrage her. She was stronger when she was mad, and he needed her strong. “I’m a hard man to kill,” he said. “And, by the way, I didn’t hear you saying no on the plane.”

  It was a good thing she had chopsticks instead of a fork—she probably would have stabbed his hand. As it was she withdrew into herself, the dignified Dr. Hawthorne, her silence making her disdain clear.

  “Good,” he said, clearing the dishes. “Next time, if you don’t want it, say no.”

  Her face was perfectly composed when they stepped out onto the crowded streets. It was getting dark already, and he’d put his hand on her arm, to steer her out of the way of a salaryman on an early drunk when she stumbled against him and her spiked heel dug into his instep.

  He jumped, cursing at the unexpected pain, only to meet her smug smile. “Sumimasen,” she said with exaggerated sweetness. “I can be so clumsy.”

  He stared at her in shock
. No one had managed to catch him off guard, inflict pain on him, in a long, long time. More proof that he needed to get the hell away from Summer Hawthorne. She made him dangerously vulnerable, and he couldn’t afford that, for her sake as well as his own.

  She wouldn’t be used to the high heels or the time difference, so he walked her the long way to Reno’s place, crossing and recrossing the pedestrian bridges that stretched over the busy streets. He was waiting for her to complain, but she didn’t, not even when they passed Tokyo Tower for the second time. His cousin lived in the Roppongi district, among the high-rise hotels and the strip clubs, the better to oversee his grandfather’s many and varied financial interests. Even now he was probably out prowling in some pachinko parlor, but it didn’t matter if he wasn’t home; Reno didn’t need to lock his doors. No one would be fool enough to mess with the Oyabun’s grandson.

  She made it up the three flights of stairs without complaint—she’d probably cut out her tongue before she’d admit weakness. Taka pushed open the door, waiting for her to precede him, watching as she automatically slipped off her shoes before stepping inside. She was really beginning to piss him off. He didn’t want her to be comfortable in his world. He wanted her to be an interloper, a gaijin, and he wanted her gone.

  The golf case was there, open and empty, leaning up against one corner in the crammed apartment. Reno had draped the heavy antique kimono across the table with consummate care, and he’d pulled out the spare futon, leaving the rest of the treasure, including the urn and the cheap modern kimono, on top. He must have known they’d be coming, which was both annoying and reassuring.

  Summer’s outrage was enough to get her talking again. “He just left it here? After all we’ve been through, he just put the urn on the mattress and walked away without locking the doors?”

  “No one would dare come in.”

  “The Shirosama and his zombies would dare anything.”

  “Yes, but they don’t know we’re here. Yet.”

  “Yet,” she echoed. She sank down on the mattress next to the urn, staring at it, and he could see the exhaustion in her face. Yet he wanted nothing more than to kick the priceless treasure out of the way and cover her body with his. Strip off the expensive clothes that made her look like a beautiful stranger, strip everything away from her.

  Yeah, and have Reno walk in on them while he was doing it? Not likely.

  Nor could Taka stay here with her, watching her temptingly yawn and stretch like a sleepy kitten. “I’m going to find Reno,” he said abruptly. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do next. Why don’t you change out of those clothes and try to get some sleep? I don’t know when we’ll be back, or where we’re going when we do.”

  “Change into what? I don’t think Reno’s clothes would suit me and there wasn’t much besides underwear in the suitcase someone packed for me. The Japanese end of your little organization wasn’t nearly as efficient as the one in California.”

  He nodded toward the old kimono on the bed beside her, the one in which Taka had wrapped the urn. “Wear that. At least it’s yours. Or hell, put the antique kimono on—I don’t give a damn.”

  “It doesn’t fit me. I tried when I was younger. It’s made for a midget.”

  “Japanese women tend to be very small.”

  “And I’m not,” she said.

  He shouldn’t have let her see his amusement. She was so sensitive about her body, her soft, erotic curves. She didn’t believe the affect she had on him, and he was just as glad she didn’t. He was already having enough trouble around her. The moment they found the site of the old temple and the Shirosama was stopped, Taka was sending her straight to London, to Isobel Lambert’s tender mercies and the troublesome baby sister.

  Then he could concentrate on doing what his grandfather wanted. This was first and only time the old man had ever asked anything of his despised grandchild. He’d provided the perfect Japanese bride; it was up to Taka to fulfill the bargain.

  “I’ll lock the door. Don’t let anyone in.”

  “You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?”

  No, he thought she was too smart, except when it came to him and his sudden weakness for soft American women. One woman in particular, who was making him crazy and stupid.

  He didn’t answer. “The bathroom’s behind you. Don’t let the toilet scare you.”

  “Reno’s got a scary toilet?”

  “Reno’s got the most pimped-out toilet known to man. You’re not used to Japanese ingenuity in the bathroom.”

  “I wouldn’t say that,” she muttered under her breath. The silence that stretched between them was deafening. And then he was gone, locking the door behind him, taking the stairs two at a time. Fast. So he wouldn’t be tempted to go back.

  “Bastard,” Summer said out loud, liking the sound of it. “Pimping rat pig bastard.” Somehow it didn’t have quite the lilt she would have liked, but she’d work on it. She was alone, completely alone, for the first time that she could remember. For the first time since she’d run away from the hotel in Little Tokyo, straight into the Shirosama’s arms.

  She wasn’t going to run again, even though she was tempted. She’d just say no. Over and over again. “No,” she said out loud, savoring the word. It certainly sounded believable. She thought of Taka’s hands on her, his beautiful mouth on her skin. “No,” she said again, but her voice sounded less convincing.

  “Rat pig bastard,” she muttered, scrambling to her feet to make her way to Reno’s frightening bathroom. Taka was right—the toilet could do everything, probably make toast as well as sing an aria, but she used it anyway, stripping off her clothes and folding them neatly before pulling on the kimono Hanasan had made for her.

  It was worthless, Hana-san had told her, but made with love. She’d hand-painted the scene on the back in the traditional manner. The jagged peaks of the mountain to one side, the white crane flying low. Summer let soft silk settle around her skin, and she suddenly felt stronger, safer. This was who she was, not the frightened woman on the run, not the sophisticated creature who dazzled Taka. This was Summer, or what was left of her.

  She took the pins out of her hair, shaking it loose over her shoulders and washed the makeup off. It was cold in the apartment, and she shivered as she wandered back into the main room, looking for some kind of blanket to wrap around herself.

  The place was crammed with things, including a Harley motorcycle taking up far too much room. There were books everywhere, manga, of course, and thicker, more scholarly looking ones, piled on every surface. Ancient swords hung on the wall, their value considerable, and Reno had an original Hokusai woodblock. Not to mention a stack of porn magazines.

  She picked one up, staring at it. Bondage and butt-sex, from the looks of the cover. An improbably endowed Asian girl was tied up and being serviced by a bad-tempered looking man. Summer glanced through the pages, wondering if anything more pleasant was going to happen to the poor girl, when she suddenly realized she wasn’t alone.

  Reno was standing not two feet away from her. She hadn’t heard him come in—he’d taken off his boots, of course, and he just stood looking at her with that thinly veiled hostility.

  All of her Japanese disappeared. There were any number of ways to apologize—was sumimasen the “I’m sorry I spilled sake on the floor” or the “I’m sorry I killed your mother” one?

  “Sorry,” would have to do, as she held out the magazine to him.

  He moved closer, taking it from her hand. He looked down at the picture, then at her for a long, considering moment. Then back at the picture, as if to judge her worthiness for such kinky activities. She felt a knot form in the pit of her stomach. Taka had warned her, and now he’d left her alone with his cousin.

  He glanced back up at her, then shrugged, tossing the magazine back on the table before he headed into the corner of the room that served as a kitchen. The refrigerator was tiny, and he grabbed a bottle of beer and a glass before settling in a chair
opposite her, watching her.

  She could have done with a drink herself—he was making her nervous. She sat down on the futon, holding the kimono around her, and was rewarded with a derisive snort, as if he was asking why she should bother? Baby rat pig bastard, she thought.

  “Taka?” His voice startled her. It was the first thing he’d addressed to her.

  “He went looking for you.”

  His smile was slow and evil. He had to be in his mid-twenties—younger than she was. Too young to be so scary. “I’m not going to touch you.”

  She jumped. “You speak English?”

  “When I’m in the mood.” He took off his sunglasses and set them on the table beside him, next to the porn. His eyes were extraordinary, the red tattooed teardrops accentuating them. And she realized with a shock that his eyes were a clear, brilliant green, an almost unearthly color.

  “Contact lenses,” he said, unnerving her even more.

  “You read minds like your cousin?”

  “You’re…what’s the word? Transparent. Why did Taka bring you here?”

  “He thought we’d be safe here.”

  “No, I mean why did he bring you to Japan? His grandfather isn’t going to be happy about it. Neither is his wife.”

  Why did Summer feel as if she’d been kicked in the stomach? Lying about being married was hardly the worst of his crimes.

  “His wife has nothing to worry about.”

  Reno tilted his head sideways. “True enough, but I’m not sure she’ll see it that way. My grandfather had a hard enough time arranging the marriage, and she’d probably use any excuse not to go through with it. Taka’s got tainted blood.”

  “I thought you said she was his wife?”

  “Sooner or later. As long as Taka does what his grandfather asks him to. And in the meantime you’re in the way. So why don’t you tell me where the temple ruins are and I’ll get you on a plane back to your own country?”

  “I told you, I have no idea where the temple is. Hana-san used to tell me stories about northern Honshu. Have you thought to look there?”