Ice Blue

by Anne Stuart

  “Don’t count on it,” he muttered. “I’m keeping you stashed at my uncle’s while I dump the urn, and then you’re heading straight back to L.A. No one will want you then.”

  Bad choice of words. “I don’t think anyone wants me now,” she said in a breezy tone. She glanced down at the body. “How many people have you killed since you met me?”

  “He’s not dead.”

  The relief that washed through her was irrational and undeniable. The man had been about to blow a hole through her skull—he deserved to die. But not at Taka’s already bloody hands. “Good,” she said. She pushed her hair back from her face, knowing she looked like hell, knowing she needed a bathroom, knowing none of that mattered to Takashi O’Brien. “Then let’s go.”

  He’d stopped shaking. He couldn’t remember ever shaking in his life, but in his rush to get to Summer, with the adrenaline spiking through his body, he’d been positively quaking by the time he saw them disappearing down the rampway. Quaking both with relief and fury.

  It had been a close thing. If he’d been clumsy, or too fast, the man would have shot instinctively, and there would be two bodies lying on the ground in that deserted corridor. If Taka had been too slow it would have been too late, as well. As it was, he picked his moment perfectly, and the Brother had gone limp as the bullet nicked his spine.

  He’d probably die, a fact that bothered Taka not one bit, but he’d lied to Summer, anyway. She’d had just about more than she could take, and another corpse might send her into hysterics, when he had to get her onto the plane as calmly and discreetly as possible.

  So much for his idea of a shower and clean clothes. They were going to be stuck on a jet for thirteen hours smelling like smoke and chemicals, and there wasn’t anything he could do about it.

  For once Summer was silent and obedient, keeping up with his long strides as he headed for the Oceana Air terminal. He didn’t even blink when Ella bumped into him, passing him the new papers before moving on, trundling her little suitcase behind her. Good thing Ella liked to fly; her current cover as a flight attendant was extremely useful.

  “This way,” he said when Summer started to veer toward security. She followed him to the private elevator, and he pushed the button to close the doors before anyone could get on, then stopped it between floors, using one of the buttons programmed into his mobile unit. Very useful little gadget, and no one would notice the lift was out of commission for an hour, longer than he needed.

  “What are you doing?” she demanded. She was as far away from him in the tiny elevator as possible, which wasn’t far at all.

  “Checking the papers,” he said calmly.

  “Where did you get them?”

  “Trade secret.”

  He pulled out the pack of documents Ella had given him and opened it up. Two passports, one Japanese, one American.

  He looked at his likeness in the Japanese one. Hitoshi Komoru, age thirty-two. Complete with business cards from the Santoru Corporation—someone’s idea of a joke. Santoru’s was owned by his grandfather, who considered him a mongrel stain on the family honor. Takashi wasn’t amused.

  He opened the American passport, trying not to show his dismay. They’d made it for Susan Elizabeth Komoru, his twenty-six-year-old wife, and in the photo Summer was smiling. He stared at it a moment, distracted. He hadn’t seen her smile the entire time they’d been together. Not surprising—he hadn’t given her much to smile about.

  “What’s wrong?”

  He handed her the passport. She stared down at it. “How’d they get that picture?” she said finally.

  “I never ask. Does it matter?”

  She said nothing for a moment. “Who’s Susan Komoru?”

  “My wife.”

  She looked as if she’d been punched in the stomach. “You’re married?”

  An odd reaction for someone who hated him. “I mean you’re posing as my wife. I’m Hitoshi Komoru, you’re my American wife.”

  She just stared at him, as if all this was too much too assimilate. He turned his attention back to the papers as he stuffed them back in the envelope, so she wouldn’t see his eyes. Not that she’d be able to read them—she seemed completely clueless as far as he was concerned.

  He wanted to cross the tiny elevator and pull her into his arms, press her head against his shoulder and tell her it would be all right. He wanted to comfort her, when she was trying so hard to pretend that she didn’t need comfort.

  He never should have kissed her on the island. It had thrown him off his game, when his resolve had already been wavering. He could have gotten the information out of her in other, more unpleasant ways, and while he might be inconvenienced by guilt, it would be nothing worse than the guilt he was already feeling.

  Particularly when it had turned out that he wasn’t pretending at all.

  He switched the elevator on again, and it began to move upward with a little jerk. Getting her on the plane would be simple, and once they were in the air he could finally relax. For twelve hours he wouldn’t have to think about who he was or what he was doing. For twelve hours she’d be completely safe. For twelve hours he could sleep.

  First class on Oceana Air was about as good as it got. Free-flowing booze, seats that turned into beds, in-flight massage therapists. He got Summer planted in her seat, a glass of Scotch in her hand, and stood over her until she drank it all and accepted a second, grimacing as she did. He didn’t want to drug her with an audience around them, even though the flight attendants were the epitome of discretion.

  Besides, he’d miscalculated the last time, when they’d flown to Bainbridge, leaving him stuck with her in his arms for long hours until she came to. Long hours as the plane rocked on the water and he held her close. Hours to think, when that was always a danger. He didn’t want to take that risk again. When they landed at Narita they needed to be ready to move. The Shirosama had more followers in Japan than anywhere else, and they’d all be looking for them.

  No, he just wanted her calm and docile for the flight across the Pacific. And maybe he could let himself sleep, as well.

  She was trying to stay calm, but even with the whiskey in her belly he could see that her fear of flying was kicking in.

  It made no sense—she’d faced death countless times in the last few days, and flying in a well-maintained jet in calm weather should have been the least of her worries.

  But he’d already figured out that Summer Hawthorne wasn’t the most logical creature. She’d watched her world shatter around her, he’d invaded her soul and her body, and he’d seen the look in her eyes as he’d walked away from her.

  Crazy woman.

  She was getting confused as to who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. No wonder. Sometimes he wasn’t sure there was any difference at all. He might be keeping her alive, but apart from that he was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. And the only thing he could do was move straight ahead with the mission with single-minded purpose, bringing it to a safe conclusion. He’d do his best to make sure she survived along the way—he’d reluctantly accepted that much.

  He strapped in beside her, trying to ignore her, trying to shut her out of his mind. He glanced over at her as they began taxiing down the runway, and found her eyes shut, her face pale, her hands were clenched tightly in her lap as she endured her fear. She was good at that. No matter what he or life threw at her, she endured.

  Taka reached over and put his hand on hers as the plane began to climb. She didn’t look his way, didn’t open her eyes, but her hand turned beneath his and caught his fingers, entwining them with hers. Until they were high in the sky over the Pacific and she fell asleep and her hand loosened in his.

  And still he held it. Until he, too, fell asleep, for the first time in seventy-two hours.

  The darkness was like a velvet shroud, pressing down around her. Summer woke with a start, blinking to try and orient herself. She felt strange, disconnected, floating, and then she realized to her hor
ror that she literally was floating. She was trapped in a jet plane somewhere over the Pacific Ocean.

  She couldn’t breathe. A demon was sitting on her chest, pressing the air out of her lungs, and there were shadows all around. She could barely make out shapes in the dim light. Even the perky flight attendants seemed to have disappeared, and all around her people were sleeping like corpses, including Taka. And she still couldn’t breathe.

  Summer unfastened her seat belt, trying to be silent, but her hands were shaking so hard she rattled the buckle anyway. Taka stirred beside her, stretched out in his reclining chair, but then slept on as she scrambled from her own skyborne prison.

  There was a bathroom directly behind their seats, unoccupied, and she fled toward it, trying to catch her breath. She shoved the door closed and held on to the sink, staring at the crazy woman in the mirror, the one who couldn’t breathe.

  No, she had to be breathing—she could hear the sound of her tight, rapid gasps as she struggled. She splashed water on her face from the tiny sink, but it changed nothing. She could feel the walls closing in, and knew she was going to either pass out or start screaming, and didn’t know what was worse. Or whether she’d have any say in the matter.

  No screaming. Screaming would bring Taka, and would endanger both of them. She shoved her fist in her mouth, trying to silence her struggles for air, but that only made things worse. She could hear the tiny whimpers that were beginning to escape from her mouth.

  Usually she could control her panic attacks. She’d spent a great deal of time and money working on curing her phobia, and she knew how to go to her peaceful place in her head, to breathe in the serenity around her. But her peaceful place had disappeared in an explosion hours ago.

  She had no idea what time it was, and she was past caring. If she could just breathe she’d be all right, but her throat had closed up and the panic was clawing at her.

  And someone was pushing at the door, trying to get in.

  Her brain wasn’t working any better than her lungs. “Occupado,” she said, using the first language she could come up with. She’d latched the door, hadn’t she? She didn’t want anyone seeing her like this—she was barely keeping it together, and in another moment she was going to start screaming…

  She’d forgotten that locked doors were nothing to her companion. The bathroom was tiny, though compared to the usual cubicles in coach class it was practically palatial, and he pushed his way in, locking the door behind him and putting his hands on her.

  “I can’t…” she gasped, hiccupping. “I can’t breathe….”

  He pulled her into his arms, slapping his hand over her mouth, and she wanted to tell him that wasn’t helping matters, but couldn’t manage to do so. She could feel the scream of panic bubbling up in her throat. They were going to crash, and the two of them would be locked together in this tiny little space, incinerated, the fire eating her lungs and—

  Without a word he picked her up and set her on the shallow edge of the sink, shocking her into silence. With one hand he yanked off her pants and underwear, and she heard the rasp of his zipper, and then he was inside her, pushing against her so hard that her back slammed up against the mirror.

  He looked almost brutal in the dim light, and when he took his hand from her mouth, he kissed her, breathing into her. Moving, pushing deep inside her, and her response shocking, immediate.

  Instinctively, she grasped the edge of the tiny sink to brace herself when he pulled her legs up around his hips. But then she let go, holding on to him instead, letting him fuck her, not caring, taking in deep, sweet gasps of air as her lungs opened and the hammering of her heart beat in time with the hammering of his cock.

  He pulled almost all the way out, and she whimpered, reaching for his hips, trying to pull him back inside her, more, now. She needed the full thrust of him, needed the oblivion, needed not to think, just to feel him, throbbing, pushing, and her legs tightened around him.

  “Don’t scream,” he said in her ear, a hot, hungry whisper. He said other things, words she didn’t understand, but she only climbed higher. “Don’t make a sound.”

  He lifted her off the sink, pulling her down onto him, and she felt her body explode, every muscle and cell expanding into fiery pleasure. She opened her mouth and made no sound at all as she came, just an endless, arching silence, until he followed, spilling inside her, and only then a faint whimper escaped from her throat.

  He pulled out of her, setting her down on the tiny patch of flooring, and she trembled, feeling the dampness on her thighs. She didn’t want to look at him, but if she turned away she’d have to see herself in the mirror, and that was even worse. She leaned against the bulkhead and closed her eyes, shivering.

  She expected him to leave her. She heard the zip of his pants, and expected him to step away from her, leave her alone in the bathroom to pull herself together. Instead, his hands were very gentle as he moved her out of the way, running water into the tiny sink.

  And then his hands were between her legs, and he was washing her, and she was too shocked to do anything more than let him. He tossed the paper towels, then took her discarded clothes from the floor and put them on her, waiting patiently as she lifted one foot, then the other. She was trembling, weak, totally compliant, and when he finished he wet another paper towel and washed her face with it, gently, like a lover.

  She stared up at him, her eyes numb in disbelief. “We’re landing in two more hours,” he said. “Come back to your seat and try to sleep.”

  She couldn’t say a word. She wanted to scream at him. Why had he done that? Why had she let him? In truth, she hadn’t been in any shape to stop him, and now she could breathe again.

  She just wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  Everyone was still asleep when he opened the bathroom door, and though she had to hold on to the wall to keep from falling, she made it back into her own seat in one piece. And then she couldn’t move. She did nothing when he leaned over and fastened her seat belt. Did nothing when he kissed her, a deep, drugging, openmouthed kiss. “It was just a fuck, Summer,” he whispered. “To take your mind off things.”

  She stared up into his dark, merciless eyes, and for a moment she thought she saw something else in their black depths. Something human.

  But that was impossible. And even more impossible, she closed her eyes and slept.

  20

  When Summer opened her eyes again the plane was already on the ground. She hadn’t worn a watch in days, and she felt as if her brain was stuffed with cotton candy—sticky and impenetrable. Maybe the stress of the last few days had caught up with her; maybe it was just the worst case of jet lag known to man. Her eyes focused on Taka, who was holding her hand, looking calm and beautiful, despite the fact that he needed a shave. As if nothing had happened in the bathroom. Had she dreamed it?

  She jerked her hand away, and he let it go easily enough, turning to look at her. “You’re awake,” he said, the faintest hint of a smile on his face. “You slept well, after all.”

  She didn’t want to think about why. “What time is it?” Her voice was stiff.

  “Does it matter? Local time is two in the afternoon. You slept almost ten hours altogether. You were having nightmares, so I held your hand until you calmed down.”

  Was he going to pretend they hadn’t had sex? And why was he making excuses about holding her hand? Had she really just dreamed it? “Did you sleep?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then maybe you’ll be less likely to kill someone,” she managed to mutter.

  A faint shadow crossed his face. “Some people do speak English here,” he murmured. “You need to watch what you say.”

  “They won’t think I’m serious,” she said. And then she looked at him. He was still and beautiful in the artificial light of the jet as it taxied toward the terminal, but there was an almost predatory air about him. Many people might think he was harmless. They would be wrong. She’d seen his face in the dim light of the tiny bat
hroom, seen the darkness in his eyes. She could still feel him between her legs, proof that she hadn’t been dreaming. But if he wanted to pretend it never happened, that would make life easier for her, as well. She was adept at playing games—she was Lianne’s daughter, after all.

  “What next?” She changed the subject.

  If he was surprised she was just letting it go, he didn’t show it. “Next we go through customs and you keep your mouth shut, nice obedient wife that you are. Then we’ll pick up our luggage—”

  “What luggage?” she interrupted. “You mean the—?” She stopped before the words came out, startled by the blaze in his dark eyes. “Sorry,” she muttered.

  “Maybe I’d just better talk and you listen,” he said. “It’s safer that way. We’ll pick up the luggage, which includes your suitcase, mine and my golf clubs, which will be packed very carefully because they’re extremely valuable. From there we’ll go to the Oceana Air first class lounge and shower and change before my cousin Reno arrives to take us into Tokyo. Understood?”

  “Yes,” she said with unexpected meekness. “I’ll behave myself.”

  His faint snort was oddly elegant. “Just do what I tell you, keep your face down and your mouth shut, and we’ll be fine.”

  She could hear the liquid flow of Japanese around her, and she felt a sudden wave of such intense, nostalgic longing that she felt a burning in her eyes. Hana used to speak to her Japanese, sing her songs, comfort her when she’d hurt herself. Such an odd language, able to sound so harsh and angry and so soft and lyrical. Words were coming back to her, words she’d forgotten she knew.

  “Hai,” she said. “Wakarimasu. I understand.”

  He stared at her in complete horror. “You speak Japanese?”

  She shook her head. “No. Only a little from when Hana lived with us.”

  “And you just decided to tell me that now?”