but at the moment she didn’t care. She just lay still, trying to catch her breath, waiting for the explosion.
Instead the engine died, and the sudden silence was shocking. There were no voices, but, more unnerving, she could hear footsteps outside the car.
She tried to sit up, to reach for the tire iron, which had been rolling around in the trunk. The car was partially on its side, and she felt as if she’d spent the last half hour in a blender—she was a mass of pain and bruises, and she wasn’t safe yet. Whoever was prowling around the car had a gun, and there was no reason to think he wouldn’t use it on her.
She groped about, still searching for the tire iron, and found it under her back just as the trunk popped open.
She couldn’t see a thing. Someone was standing there, but they seemed to be on a deserted road, and the lights from the car that had pulled up behind them threw everything into stark shadows. She wouldn’t have thought there were any roads this empty so close to L.A., but the driver had somehow managed to find one. Unable to get the tire iron out from under her, she simply squeezed her eyes tightly shut and waited for the bullet.
Instead she felt hands hauling her out of the cavernous trunk into the cool night air, setting her on unsteady feet, holding on to her until the trembling stopped.
It was the man from the gallery, the tall man with the sunglasses. He wasn’t wearing them anymore, and her panic increased as she realized he was at least part Asian, like her nemesis the Shirosama. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?
Even in the shadows she could see that he was exquisitely beautiful with high, perfect cheekbones; exotic eyes of an indeterminate shade; narrow face and rich, full mouth … His hair was long and silky, black, and he towered over her. Another of the Shirosama’s hit men? Because he did 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
