doorknob and pulled herself to her feet, steeling herself to ignore the faint tremor in her legs. She peered out the window, but there was no sign of the sleek, low-slung sports car and her nameless rescuer. He was gone. If only she could rid herself of the almost physical feel of his eyes on her, still watching her.
She switched on a light and winced in the blinding brightness. She’d be happier in shadows right now, but shadows could hide scary things, and she had no intention of being scared anymore. She’d fought that battle once before, and she wasn’t going to let herself be vulnerable again.
Her feet hurt, and she realized belatedly that sometime during the night she’d lost her shoes. They were expensive, but uncomfortable, and good riddance. She was going to strip off her clothes and throw them out, too, get rid of anything that reminded her of this hideous night. But first she was going to eat something, anything, have a glass of wine and try to rid herself of the lingering touch of his eyes, watching her.
The Ben & Jerry’s had ice crystals, the raspberry yogurt was past its due date, the cheese had mold. She couldn’t find the wine opener, and the only beer she had in the fridge was Sapporo—no thank you. She didn’t want to think about anything Japanese and she walked through her living room with eyes averted, pushing the shoji screen aside. There was nothing she wanted more than to strip off her clothes and climb into the hot tub, but Hana-san had trained her well. Summer’s feet were grass-stained and bloody, and she wanted to get the feel of the night off her before she settled into the blessed warmth of the water. She showered quickly, then climbed into the big cedar tub just outside her bedroom.
It was a blessing. She closed her eyes and let the warm, healing water flow around her. For a few minutes she didn’t have to think, didn’t have to worry. For a few blessed moments of peace she could just be.
And try to rid herself of the irrational feeling that somewhere out there he was still watching her.
For a smart woman, Summer Hawthorne was annoyingly brainless, Taka thought as he skirted the back of her bungalow. He’d already checked it out several days ago and knew just how pathetic her security was. Her house had been broken into recently, and yet she’d taken no measures to fortify the place. All three locks on the back door were easy to pick, the chain would break with one good shove and she had no outdoor security, no sensors or alarms. He could slip behind the house, disappear into the overgrown shrubbery and no one would even notice.
Her curtains were pathetic, as well. The faux-Asian synthetic rice paper shades were practically useless. She’d left the lights on in her living room and kitchen when she’d disappeared into the bathroom, and she was soaking wet and naked when she reemerged and climbed into the wooden tub, closing her eyes in obvious bliss.
So he could safely assume that she hadn’t been lying—the Hayashi Urn was nowhere near her. He’d done a fairly thorough search the last time he’d been there, though far more discreetly than the Shirosama’s goons, and he doubted he’d have missed it, though at that point he hadn’t been specifically looking for it. He’d thought it was already at the museum.
He’d been looking for any kind of clue that would lead him to the shrine. If they found it before the Shirosama managed to discover it, the Committee could stop the cult leader’s plans cold. The Shirosama needed the sacred location for his crackpot rituals, and without it he and his followers would be too superstitious to move ahead with their plans. It was only a few days till the Lunar New Year, the date the Shirosama had decreed was the most auspicious for his mysterious ritual, and at least for this year his time was running out. If they could just stall long enough, keep Summer Hawthorne and the Hayashi Urn away from him for the next few days, they’d have an entire year to figure out how to stop him.
And then there would be no need to silence her before she spoke the truth she didn’t know she had.
The urn in the museum was an excellent forgery—Taka had enough of a gift at ceramics to recognize the hand of a master. It had been an error on his part not to recognize that the ice blue glaze had been a little too uniform, but then, he’d been concentrating on other things.
Too bad he couldn’t just let it go at this point. The Shirosama would steal the fake from the museum, never knowing the difference, but he still needed Summer Hawthorne. In truth, she might be the more valuable part of the equation, and Taka knew what his orders were. If necessary, he was to destroy a priceless piece of Japanese art, culture and history, and execute the woman who held the key to where it belonged. And he wasn’t supposed to think twice about it.
It was the “if necessary” part that was the problem. The Committee, and the ruthlessly practical Madame Lambert, trusted him to make that judgment call. But he wasn’t quite sure he could trust himself at this point.
Because he didn’t want to kill Summer Hawthorne.
If she was found floating in her hot tub, the Shirosama would know there was nothing he could do, and he’d be stopped cold.
It was simple. Practical. Necessary. Except that this scenario meant the Hayashi Urn would stay lost.
The bowl would stay in one piece, however. And sooner or later, maybe decades from now, maybe after they were all long dead, it would reappear. That knowledge should be enough to satisfy the committee.
Taka took less than thirty seconds to pick the locks. He moved through the house in complete silence—he could come up on her, push her under the water, and she’d never have a chance.
Drowning wasn’t a good choice. He wouldn’t be able to make it look like an accident, it took too damn long and she’d be frightened. He didn’t want to scare her if he could help it. He just wanted it over, if that’s what had to be.
She was sitting in the tub, her back to him, her long hair loose, dark with water. She was humming, some tuneless little song that was making this whole fucking thing even harder, but he couldn’t let himself hesitate. He moved so fast she didn’t have time to turn around, to know he was there, sliding his hand under her thick veil of hair, finding the right spot and pressing, hard. She was unconscious in a matter of seconds, and he pushed her down on her back in the water, holding her there.
She lay still beneath his hands, her hair fanning out around her, her face still and peaceful and eerily beautiful; he knew she couldn’t feel a thing.
But he couldn’t do it.
He hauled her out of the tub, a naked, dripping deadweight, and threw her over his shoulder. He didn’t know how much water she’d swallowed, only that it wasn’t enough to kill her. He tossed her on the bed, rifled through her drawers and grabbed whatever clothes seemed suitable. All black—she didn’t seem to own anything in color, including her underwear. He was about to dress her when he heard the noise outside. The Shirosama already knew he’d lost his quarry, and he’d sent new stooges after her.
Taka wrapped Summer’s unconscious body in the bedspread, tossing the dark clothes into the cocoon before he lifted her again. She was damn heavy; American women, no matter how thin, always seemed to weigh more than other women. Maybe they simply had bigger bones. Not that Summer Hawthorne was a delicate flower. He’d been working, but an important part of his job was observation, and Summer Hawthorne naked had a soft, curvy body, not his usual type of woman.
He shifted the weight, tossing her over his shoulder again, and a moment later he was gone into the night, as the white-robed brethren broke in the front door.
Summer was cold, wet, miserable and totally disoriented. She was immobilized, moving fast and she felt like she was choking, coughing up water. When she could finally catch her breath she
