Ice Blue. Anne Stuart
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look like a hit man—that is, what she imagined one would look like.
“Are you all right?” He might as well be asking if she wanted sugar in her coffee. She tried to say something, but words failed her, and she simply stared up at him silently. “Get in the car,” he said.
That was enough to stir her out of her momentary shock. She wasn’t getting in anyone’s car. “No.”
“It’s your choice. I can leave you here, but there’s no guarantee who will find you first. If you don’t show up at the Shirosama’s headquarters, someone will come looking.”
“Is that who tried to kidnap me?”
“Unless you have any other dire enemies, which I doubt. Get in the car.”
It wasn’t much of a choice, and she climbed the bank toward the waiting car, limping slightly. She stopped, turning back to glance at the vehicle she’d been trapped in. It was tilted on its side, and someone was slumped over the steering wheel. Someone in a white robe, with red staining the pristine cloth.
“Shouldn’t we see if he’s all right?” she said, hesitating.
“Do you care?”
“Of course I care. He may have wanted to hurt me, but he’s a human being and—”
“He’s dead.”
“Oh.”
She was very cold. It was a warm L.A. night and she was freezing. “Get in the car,” the man said again, opening the passenger door like the perfect chauffeur.
She got in. The seats were leather, comfortable, and it took her a long time to get the seat belt fastened. Her hands were shaking, and she couldn’t seem to make them stop. She ought to pay more attention to her surroundings, she told herself, so she could give a full report to the police, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She didn’t know what kind of car this was, though she’d recognized the other vehicle as one of the Shirosama’s well-known white limos.
“Was the driver the only one in the car?” she found herself asking in a quiet voice when the man got in beside her and started the engine. A low, sexy rumble … it must be some kind of sports car. She didn’t notice any insignia inside, which didn’t help. She was going to be a piss-poor witness when the police questioned her. Assuming she got to the police.
He put the car in reverse, backed up and then took off into the night, moving so fast the road was a blur, the crash site vanishing into the darkness. “You don’t really want to know that,” he said.
Maybe he was right. She leaned her head back against the cushioned seat and closed her eyes, feeling dizzy. “Where are we going? Are you taking me to the police?”
“Now why would I do that?”
She turned horrified eyes on him. “To make a report. Some men tried to kidnap me. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”
“Actually, they didn’t just try, they succeeded. And they didn’t get away with it.”
Immediately, she pictured the man slumped over the steering wheel, the bright red blood against the white linen. Calm, she told herself. Deep, calming breaths. Think about more important things.
“Did you shoot them? I heard gunshots.” The question seemed almost surreal, but he simply shook his head.
“They were the ones shooting. They didn’t like being run off the road.”
She could have asked him about the blood, but suddenly she didn’t want to know.
Fighting her panic, she forced herself to look at the driver’s impassive profile. “And who exactly are you? Don’t try to tell me you’re a random passerby—I won’t believe you.”
“If I were a random passerby I wouldn’t know about the Shirosama, would I?” he replied in a reasonable tone.
“You were at the reception. I saw you there.”
“I was.”
“Where’s your girlfriend?”
“What girlfriend?”
“The blonde with the boobs. It was obvious you couldn’t keep your eyes off her cleavage … except it was you watching me, wasn’t it? I could feel someone staring at me, but every time I turned around I couldn’t find anyone. It was you, right? Why?”
“Let’s just say I expected something like this to go down. The Shirosama and his bunch were practically drooling over the Hayashi Urn, and you were keeping it from them. I’m guessing once his holiness was through with you they thought they could get you to open up the museum for them.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The Hayashi Urn? Do you mean my ceramic bowl?”
He shot a glance at her in the darkened interior of the car. He seemed perfectly comfortable at the immense speeds he was traveling. His hands were draped loosely on the steering wheel. Beautiful hands, with long, elegant fingers. All of them intact, which ruled out her sudden suspicion that he might be a member of the Japanese crime syndicate, the Yakuza. Most members of that organization were missing at least part of their fingers, a sign of atonement for mistakes made. Unless her rescuer never made mistakes.
“You have no idea what you have?” he asked. “Where it comes from, its history?”
“I know it’s something that other people want and that I’m not about to give up. What’s the Hayashi Urn?”
“A part of Japanese history that wouldn’t matter to you.”
“Since the bowl is mine, then it matters to me. I’d like to know why someone tried to kidnap me in order to get his hands on it.”
“It doesn’t make any difference—the urn won’t be yours for much longer. And you needn’t pretend you’re surprised—you put it in the exhibit just to keep it out of reach of the Shirosama. You decided it was best to hide it in plain sight. Unfortunately, you underestimated your enemy. The Shirosama isn’t quite the philanthropic spiritual leader he presents to the world. He has no problem killing for what he wants.”
“Neither do you.” She wasn’t quite sure why she said it.
“When necessary,” he said, unmoved by her accusation.
“So where are you taking me?”
His eyes were on the road. “I haven’t decided yet.”
There was something about the flat, emotionless tone that made her stomach knot even more intensely. “Just tell me one thing,” she said. “Am I better off with you than I was with those men?”
For a moment he didn’t answer, and she wondered whether he would. Finally he spoke, not even looking at her. “That’s up to you.”
And for the first time in that shocking, crazy night, Summer began to feel afraid.
Taka could see her hunch lower into the seat, and he couldn’t blame her. He wasn’t going to lie to her, not if he could help it. She’d somehow managed to get through being kidnapped and tossed in the trunk of a limo with nothing more than a few bruises. He’d thought he was going to have to deal with tears and hysterics. Instead she was shaken but calm enough, making things easier. Maybe.
She was a liability, and he’d learned long ago that you couldn’t get sentimental over individual life when the stakes were so high. There was an old Zen koan—the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few—and if he had to choose between mass destruction and the life of one spoiled California blonde, then he wouldn’t hesitate.
Except she wasn’t what he would have expected. He’d skimmed the intel he’d gotten on her—daughter of a Hollywood trophy wife, product of Eastern boarding schools and college, advanced degree in Asian art, with no scandals attached to her name. She’d lived a quiet enough life—maybe too quiet.