by Anne Stuart
The Shirosama shook his head, the white hair settling around his shoulders. “Not until she is ready to receive the gift of moving past her karma. For now simply keep her contained and quiet. She’s still in the induction room?”
“Yes, your holiness. She tried to block the speakers but she was unable to reach them.”
“Good. Sooner or later my words will penetrate her stubborn mind, moving past the veil of illusion that rules humankind. When she is ready she will listen.”
Brother Kenno bowed. The Shirosama couldn’t see his expression, but it didn’t matter. Kenno had been with him for the last five years, and his devotion was absolute. “And then she will be blessed?”
“Then she will join her sister on the next level, and all her worldly cares will be done with. They will have ascended before Armageddon—a gift indeed.”
“Indeed,” Brother Kenno echoed solemnly. He backed out of the room, leaving the Shirosama to contemplate the bloody, glorious, necessary future.
And whether Jilly Lovitz would need to learn personal instruction from the Shirosama himself, before she accepted her preordained fate.
She wasn’t quite a child, but she was young enough. She wouldn’t fight, not once Brother Sammo made certain she ingested the proper combination of medicines necessary for true enlightenment.
The Shirosama couldn’t afford to indulge the child’s needs right now, not until he found out where her sister was, and let the woman know that Jilly was under his protection.
The news would finish any resistance, and Summer would come to him herself, bringing the bowl.
He would also mine the stories his aunt Hana had filled her head with. Before he’d killed her.
Part of his karma was to live with that miscalculation. He had let frustration and anger get the better of him thirteen years ago, and he had acted rashly. In truth there were no mistakes—everything happened as it was meant to happen, and he was preordained to kill that infuriating old woman who had stood between him and his destiny.
Just as it was his fate to labor onward, gathering the pieces of the puzzle, the pieces he needed in order for his ascension to become complete. In the past thirteen years he had amassed followers and wealth, power that should have been his by birth. They followed his vision—thousands of them, hundreds of thousands of them. His role was a gift and a burden he accepted gladly.
Now it was all coming to fruition. The New Year was at hand. He knew what he needed, and he had the bargaining chip to bring her to him.
The Shirosama closed his eyes once more in blissful meditation, the gilded future bright and terrible.
11
Summer had locked the door, of course. She had no idea how predictable she was, at least in certain matters. Taka picked the lock in silence, opening the door and looking in on her. She was sound asleep, her long hair loose around her head, the covers tossed off. He wasn’t surprised to see she was sleeping in the underwear she’d been wearing earlier, though if she’d looked closer among the clothes she probably would have found a reasonable facsimile of what she usually slept in. The Committee was good about things like that.
He never would have thought black underwear could be so utilitarian. She wore a plain bra, no lace, and panties covered her generous butt and then some. He leaned against the doorway, picturing her in sexy underwear and a thong, and then pushed the thought away, disgusted with himself.
He closed the door silently. He could give her another few hours, though he didn’t dare sleep himself. He didn’t trust her not to take off, and she seemed stubbornly unaware of just how dangerous a situation she was in.
He could go days without sleep—a real benefit at times such as this. They were in a holding pattern. Summer had received a last minute reprieve, for the kidnapping of her sister changed everything. He wasn’t quite sure why…. In the old days Harry Thomason wouldn’t have hesitated; any complication was dealt with quickly and ruthlessly. Back then, Thomason would have had him taken out, as well, for not getting the job done in a timely fashion.
Complications aside, Taka knew that the sister posed no particular danger. Summer didn’t even understand the knowledge she possessed, so could have hardly passed it on to anyone. Jilly Lovitz could harm no one—her only value was as a hostage. They could leave her in the Shirosama’s pudgy white hands. Hell, it would serve their ditzy mother right. As long as Summer didn’t try to go after her.
He glanced at his mobile unit again. No message since the last, when Madame Lambert had instructed him to go to Belmont Creek and stay put.
She was a different kind of boss altogether. She liked alternatives. Death wasn’t always the answer, and when it appeared as if that was the only choice for Summer Hawthorne, she hadn’t liked it any more than Taka had. But she’d ordered it.
And now she’d told him to wait. Fine with him. Only the longer he kept Summer alive, kept her with him, the harder it would be to kill her. It made no sense that he was having second thoughts about Summer Hawthorne, and had been since he’d first hauled her out of that trunk.
God, he’d kissed her. For no other reason than he’d wanted to. He’d never gotten that close to someone he’d had to kill. He knew he could do it if he got the word—he was a machine, the King of Death. He just wasn’t sure if this time he could live with himself.
He needed a shower and a change of clothes if he wasn’t going to allow himself any sleep. They’d be off again in another four hours, heading God knew where.
But first he needed to make sure the bowl was securely packed. His orders were to leave it behind, and someone would pick it up—presumably the same person who’d brought the Sapporo and sashimi and his favorite dark roast Ethiopian coffee. He wasn’t particularly happy about leaving the urn; he’d gone to so much trouble to find it that letting go wasn’t easy, but so long as they had it the Shirosama could do nothing.
And then Taka took a good close look at the urn.
Most people wouldn’t have known it was another fake, but most people didn’t have his knowledge of ancient Japanese ceramics. He shouldn’t have been surprised, he thought, setting it on the kitchen counter in the bright artificial light. If she’d managed to get one fake, she could easily procure two. This was a beautiful copy, but the glaze was just a bit too uniform, the lines too smooth, the deep blue color muddied.
Taka couldn’t help himself—he laughed. She was a resourceful woman, and it was a good thing he hadn’t followed orders, or right now they’d be up shit’s creek without a paddle, especially with the Shirosama in possession of Summer’s closest relative. To find the urn, they would cut her into little pieces if that were necessary.
He made himself a cup of coffee, using the grinder and the coffee press provided, as he considered the fake bowl. He decided to do as he’d been ordered, wrapping it as carefully as if it were the real thing. He needed to keep the Committee off his back for a few days, long enough to figure out what the hell he was going to do next. Long enough to get Summer Hawthorne to tell him where the true urn really was.
He’d always been able to compartmentalize his life and his work. Sex was an everyday part of his job, one he did with his usual skill. It was said he could seduce a seventy-year-old lesbian and make her like it, and he didn’t doubt it for one moment. Everyone had skills. Peter was a sniper, a born assassin. Bastien Toussaint could be anyone he wanted, and he was lethal with a knife.
Taka knew how to fuck. He could get what he wanted from any woman, no matter what age or sexual orientation. He had skills that would have made Casanova blush. His body was his best weapon—he killed by hand, seduced and destroyed with merciless determination.
Summer Hawthorne would be child’s play compared to some. He wasn’t going to have any choice, and he accepted that fact with equanimity. Betrayal was the name of the game—to get what he’d have to use every weapon in his arsenal. She hadn’t responded to threats, to last-minute rescues, to danger, and time was running out. He needed to find out where the godd
amn urn was, and he’d let her get away with too many lies.
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.”