by Anne Stuart
“You’d be better off worrying about yourself,” Taka said.
It was a Duesenberg, circa 1935, perfectly preserved, the chrome shining, the body a dark, rich blue, the seats a matching leather. “Does it run?”
She opened the side door, not looking back at him. “Does it matter? We’re not about to drive it, anyway. It probably goes fifty miles an hour if we’re lucky.” She disappeared into the back seat, her legs still sticking out, and he could see her butt wiggling as she searched around for something. And for some damn reason he got hard.
He leaned back against the wall behind him, waiting. It was a waste of time being angry with himself—he had a healthy appreciation of female flesh, and while he’d never considered himself much of a connoisseur of women’s butts, there was no denying that hers was delectable, trapped in that pair of faded black jeans.
But getting hot for someone he was about to kill was someplace he didn’t want to go. He’d known men, and women as well, who enjoyed sex and death, who got turned on by the thought of killing someone and would combine both acts. That kind of thinking, and reacting, was the first step toward a sickness of the soul that was terminal. Summer Hawthorne was a job, off-limits, and if she emerged from that behemoth of a car with the Hayashi Urn in her hand then she would then become a casualty of war.
And he could go out and see if he could find a deceptively fragile, blond gaijin with pale skin, freckles and a delectable butt, and get his rocks off that way. Saner, healthier, straightforward. He was, after all, a practical man.
She slid farther inside the car, thankfully, so he no longer had to watch her wiggling ass, and a moment later flipped over so that she was sitting on the floor inside. “Got it,” she said.
He was not a happy man. They could have searched all night and he would have been content. They could have driven south and tracked down her sister. But push had come to shove, and he had no more reason for delaying. He had orders, a job to do, and he was going to do it.
He pushed away from the wall of the garage and approached the Duesenberg, filling the doorway, blocking out the light from outside. He could see two things inside the huge old car. She’d placed the long-lost Hayashi Urn on the leather seat beside her, and even in shadow it was beautiful. And then he looked at her, forgetting all about the ancient ceramic he’d been tracking for months, and other people had been tracking for centuries.
She had blue eyes, not quite the intense shade of the urn, but bright blue nevertheless, and her wet hair was beginning to dry. She sat there on the floor of the car, unmoving, as if she knew what was coming now that she’d finally given him what he wanted.
He had no choice. He climbed into the car as she tried to back up against the far door, and there was no missing the panic in her eyes. She knew.
And he couldn’t let that stop him.
Jillian Marie Lovitz, only child of Raphael and Lianne Lovitz, stuck out her thumb. Her big sister would be horrified at the thought of Jilly hitchhiking, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, and at the moment Jilly was most definitely a beggar, with exactly thirty-seven cents in her pocket.
Why anyone ever thought she’d just go off with the Petersens was something she couldn’t quite fathom. Whoever came up with this little idea knew absolutely nothing about her.
Few people did know her, with the exception of her half sister, Summer. Her parents were blindly adoring, and she was very fond of them in a maternal way. Her mother had the intellect of a toaster oven, her father could only concentrate on making money, and both of them thought their little darling was an innocent princess.
Jilly hadn’t been innocent since she was twelve years old and walked in on her mother doing the gardener. While her father watched.
Neither of them had seen her, thank heavens. And she’d reacted like a child, running away to stay with Summer until she could begin to see things clearly.
Summer had always been more like a mother to her, even though she was only twelve years older. Lianne tended to see her older daughter as a liability, disputing her own claims of youth, and her younger daughter as a fashion accessory. Ralph didn’t pay much attention at all, except to give Jilly money.
Which was fine; they trusted her implicitly and gave her no trouble. She had her life carefully arranged. She was one of those freakishly smart kids, starting her second year of college at age sixteen, and she had every intention of moving into her own apartment in the next few months. Her only problem was getting her graduate student lab partner to seduce her, but she was working on that.
In the meantime she’d been pulled out of classes and sent south on the flimsiest of excuses. The Petersens were friends of her father’s, though she couldn’t remember ever meeting them before, and they were the least likely of people to show up to whisk her out of harm’s way, particularly when that harm was a nebulous threat from some deranged stalker she’d never even heard of.
They hadn’t given her much of a chance to protest, and they watched her like hawks once they got to the remote cabin out in the desert. She’d had to wait two days until they’d finally relaxed enough to think she believed them.
It had been tricky getting past the locked doors and the dogs without causing too much noise, hence she hadn’t been able to rifle through Mildred’s purse for some much-needed cash. Jilly’s main goal was to get the hell out of there, back to L.A.
She figured as soon as she could get to a pay phone she could call her parents to find out what was happening. Even better, she could call Summer, who’d jump in her Volvo and come and get her, no questions asked. The Petersens only had cell phones, which they kept with them at all times, giving her no chance to call out. When she’d asked, they’d simply said “too dangerous” and offered her more chocolate.
It hadn’t taken her long to realize the candy was drugged. The Petersens knew she had a weakness for Rollos, and she’d spent the first two days in a daze, waking long enough to eat more chocolate before her paranoia kicked in. Jilly had made a lot of sacrifices in her life, but spitting out the chocolate when they weren’t looking had to be the hardest. When she got back, away from them, she was going to eat Rollos until she was sick, and then eat more.
But right now she was on a stretch of deserted highway in the middle of nowhere, freezing cold, hungry and pissed off. She refused to let herself be frightened; she didn’t frighten easily, and if, when she finally got a ride out of this nowhere place, her driver had other ideas, she knew how to handle that. Summer had had self-defense training, though she’d never said why. It had something to do with Summer’s childhood, Jilly expected, and her big sister would tell her when the time was right. In the meantime Jilly had learned from Summer—learned to disable a two hundred and fifty pound man in a matter of seconds.
There were headlights in the distance, coming down the straight, empty highway, and Jilly felt a wave of relief. Rescue was at hand, even if she ended up fighting for it. As the car drove closer her relief grew, and she dropped her thumb and waited until the white limo pulled up beside her, the driver lowered his window and his shaved head poked out. “His holiness has come for you, little one.”
Jilly despised being called “little one,” particularly since she was almost five-eleven, and she found the pasty white Shirosama revolting. But as she’d already decided, beggars could not be choosers.
“Thank God,” she said. And she climbed into the back of the limo.
9
The interior of the old car was very dark as Taka crawled inside it. Summer tried to scoot away from him, but even in a huge touring car there was only so much room, and he caught her easily, pulling her under him, trapping her beneath his body.
She didn’t fight him. Even in the shadows he could see her eyes, a clear blue, staring up at him, and he could see the fear she was trying to hide. The longer he drew this out the harder it would be for her, and he cradled her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against her jaw, her throat, stroking, knowing he was going to have to exert
pressure.
She was so soft beneath him. He liked hard bodies, slight women, thin and muscled. She was like nothing he’d ever looked at twice, and she was so deliciously soft.
He wanted to kiss her mouth, just to see if it was as soft as the rest of her. He could kiss her, and she wouldn’t even know she was dying as he did it.
She knew what was coming, she had to, and she closed her eyes, shutting him out, lost, resigned, and he moved closer, resting his forehead against hers, breathing slowly. His fingers were cradling her neck, his thumbs stroking her throat. He thought about the scars on her wrists, the darkness in her eyes. Maybe he was giving her what she really wanted, maybe not. He only knew he had no choice. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, but that was absurd, when he’d never been sorry before.
She was utterly still beneath him, though he could feel the panicked fluttering of her heart, which would soon be stilled.
He’d touched her lips with his, a benediction and a farewell, his thumbs beginning to press, when the mobile in his pocket began to vibrate.
He pulled away from her quickly, as if her skin burned him, and climbed out of the car, flipping open the mobile phone that was like no ordinary communicator.
He had his back to her, and he half expected her to make a run for it. He didn’t want to have to chase her down—it would only make things harder—but he needed to concentrate on the message. And maybe, just maybe he could let her go….
But then someone else would get her, hurt her a great deal more than he ever would, just to find the hidden shrine. She might not even know where it was located, and she would die in excruciating pain. Or she would tell them, the pain would be the same, even more people would die and all hell could break loose. Now wasn’t the time for mercy—look where it had gotten him the last time.
Once he retrieved the message, he severed the connection, then turned back to the car. Summer was sitting in the open doorway, but in the shadows he couldn’t read her face. Just as well. He didn’t have time to consider what she was thinking, what she was feeling.
“Time to go,” he said.
She stood up, bracing herself on the side of the car for a moment, then took a step forward. She was shaken, but still strong. At least she wouldn’t hold him up.
He went to pick up the urn, and she moved out of his way, so he wouldn’t brush against her. He grabbed the bowl and brought it out into the marginally better light.
He yanked off his jacket and wrapped it carefully round the bowl. Summer had made no effort to run, but stood waiting for him. He led her out of the garage, shutting the door behind them and listening to the locks reengage. Then he took her hand.
It was cold, she was cold, and she wouldn’t look at him. It didn’t matter, as long as she didn’t resist. But of course she wouldn’t. He was death and he suspected she’d been seeking him on and off for most of her life.
“Let’s get the hell out of here,” he said. And she let him lead her back to the car in silence.
Hell and damnation, Isobel Lambert thought. This was turning into one royal fuck-up, despite the Committee’s best efforts. The Sansone Museum had been broken into, all right, but two guards had died in the process, and the faux urn had been smashed on the marble floor. There was no telling whether it had been a casualty of the botched robbery—nothing had been taken from the place—or whether it had been recognized as the forgery it was. If the latter was the case they were in very deep shit indeed.
She had to hand it to the Hawthorne woman—substituting a believable copy was a stroke of sheer genius. Maybe a bit too much for an innocent. If she truly had no notion of the urn’s value, why would she have gone to so much trouble to safeguard it? A sentimental attachment to her nanny would take her only so far.
Originally, it hadn’t mattered. Taka had orders to take her out before the True Realization Fellowship could get their hands on her, and what she did or didn’t know would then become moot.
But he hadn’t followed orders. There was no one Isobel could send after him right now, and he was one of the best she had. It was going to be up to him to sort this current mess out.
One innocent life, Summer Hawthorne’s, was an acceptable loss, particularly when the knowledge she had concealed in her memory was so very dangerous. The loss of her friend and coworker was simply a reminder of the havoc that could follow if Summer was allowed to survive and the Shirosama got his hands on her.
But the sixteen-year-old girl was another matter entirely. There was only so much loss of life that Isobel could tolerate, and a young girl put that quota over the top. They needed to get her out, and fast, before the brethren could try any of their inventive brainwashing tricks that could leave her a broken shell. And if her sister knew she was being held hostage, she’d give everything she had to get her back.
Life would be so much simpler if Summer Hawthorne was already dead. The Shirosama would have to find the site of the ancient shrine on his own, something he’d tried and failed to do for more than ten years. If she were dead, then using Jilly Lovitz as a hostage would be worthless. Her mother was already willing to give the Shirosama anything he wanted, and her husband indulged her, no questions asked.
If Taka had only followed orders this would all be over, at least for this year. But right now the cult held a very dangerous bargaining chip, and they couldn’t be allowed to get away with it.
Madame Lambert leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. This was a hideous game of chess, using real people as pawns. It was bad enough when they were simply soldiers, killers, conscienceless warriors on the right and the left. Every now and then a pawn would have to be sacrificed, and she made those decisions with equanimity. But as she got older those choices were becoming harder.
There had to be someone she could send. Someone to back Takashi up, someone who could do what needed to be done if for some reason he wouldn’t. She couldn’t send Bastien—he’d been brought in once to help Peter Madsen, but he had a new life now, with a wife and children and a peaceful existence in the middle of nowhere. He’d done more than he should ever have had to do; it was time to let him be.
And Peter couldn’t go—he was still using a cane, and he’d made promises to his wife and to himself. He was deskbound now, her second in command, more than capable of dealing with the hard decisions she made on a daily basis.
The others were scattered all over the world, most of them under deep cover. Which left only one person.
She shoved her perfectly manicured hands through her perfectly arranged hair. Shit. She hated to fly.
She hated the long hours craving a cigarette. She hated the closed-in air. But most of all she hated having someone else be in complete control of her life and her safety.
There was no choice. The girl would be one loss too many. Someone needed to get Jilly Lovitz away from the Shirosama before she was broken, before they could hurt her. Before Summer Hawthorne gave him everything he wanted for the onset of Armageddon.
And Isobel was the only one left.
She was so cold. Takashi O’Brien was holding her hand like a vise, taking her back to the huge black SUV he’d gotten from somewhere, and the tightness of his grip kept the shivers from washing over her body. He opened the passenger door for her, a perfect gentleman, and she wanted to laugh. But if she did she might start crying, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. Years and years and years ago. Tears were not an option.
He went around to the back of the vehicle, carrying her bowl with extreme care, placing it on the back seat before he climbed in. He didn’t look at her. “Fasten your seat belt,” he said, turning the key. “We’ll be driving fast.”
“As opposed to the sedate speeds you were driving earlier?” Her voice was raw, but at least it worked, a miracle to her own ears.
He didn’t answer, which was just as well. She didn’t want to start a conversation with him. Not until she came to terms with what had just happened in the old touring car.
S
he had to be out of her mind. The man had shown up time and time again, snatching her from danger and death. She had no idea why, but he’d appointed himself her personal savior, and the fact that she was still in one piece was proof.
So what had happened on the floor of the car? His body had covered hers, hard and strong, half pinning her, and his beautiful hands had stroked her face, and she hadn’t screamed, hadn’t cried, hadn’t frozen. Instead she’d looked into his dark, merciless eyes and known she was going to die. And she hadn’t cared. She hadn’t wanted to move, to run. She’d felt no fear. Only the pressure of his body against hers.
And then he’d kissed her. Just the soft pressure of his beautiful mouth against hers, not much more than a brush of his lips, and then it was over. Once he’d pulled away she’d started shaking, and she wasn’t quite sure she could stop.
At least he hadn’t noticed. He probably would have thought she was crazy. Hell, she was crazy, and no wonder. Kidnappings and death were not a normal part of her everyday world, and while he hadn’t specifically said so, she knew she was on the run for her life, and he was the only thing that stood between her and oblivion.
He had the bowl, and he still had her with him. That must mean something, though she wasn’t sure what. She had to be insane to think he wanted to hurt her.
He’d turned on the heat full blast as he pulled into the street. She allowed herself a brief glance at him. He’d left his jacket wrapped around the bowl, and was wearing only a thin dark shirt. He must be even colder than she was, though he seemed oblivious to it, while she was doing her best to control the tremors that were washing through her.
She closed her eyes. She was holding herself in so tightly that her skin ached, and she slowly, cautiously began to relax. The tremors had finally stopped, leaving only a stray shiver dancing across her back, and after a moment she let out her breath, leaning back against the leather seat as he sped through the night.