Fire and Ice - Anne Stuart [38]
“Where are we?” she mouthed in a trace above a whisper.
She was half expecting him to slam his hand across her mouth, but instead he answered. “Janitor’s closet,” he whispered. “I don’t think he saw us go in.”
“Who?”
“Hitomi-san. Why the hell was he trying to kill you? Not that I blame him—you’re enough to drive anyone to murder, but he must have had a reason.”
“He killed someone. Or somebody did. I walked in on it.”
“Holy motherfucker,” Reno said. “You have great timing. Did you see the man who did it?”
“I didn’t see anything,” she said irritably. “And this is a gangster hideout, for God’s sake. Don’t people kill one another all the time?”
“No.”
There was no noise from beyond the door, and now she could smell cleaning supplies. “It’s a good thing I’m not claustrophobic,” she whispered. “I could be having hysterics right now.”
“No, you couldn’t.” Even in a whisper his flat statement was chilling. “I need to get you out of here.”
Relief flooded her. “Yes, you do.”
“Stay put.” He released her, but the space was so small she was still crammed up against him. “I don’t know how long this will take me. Whatever you do, don’t move, don’t make a sound.”
She would have liked to protest. She would have liked to wrap her arms around him and haul him back. He was the only safety she knew, and he was abandoning her.
“Sure,” she said, her whisper the epitome of calm while her mind was screaming. “Take your time.”
She couldn’t see him in the darkness. But somehow she knew he smiled. Not the smirk that he usually offered, but a real smile. “I won’t abandon you, Ji-chan,” he said. And a moment later he was gone, the momentary sliver of light from the darkened corridor blinding her as he slipped out of the tiny closet.
Ji-chan? He called her Ji-chan? That was an affectionate term, and as far as she could tell he found her nothing more than terminally annoying. Why had he said that?
She was shaking, she realized belatedly. Her legs were trembling, her heart was racing, and she leaned against the door, pressing her forehead against the cool metal, forcing herself to take slow, deep breaths. He’d come back for her. Whether he wanted to or not. It had nothing to do with her, or any feelings he might have for her. He’d taken her on as his responsibility and he wouldn’t abandon her. But why in the world had he called her Ji-chan?
It was cold in the closet. It was midwinter, and she hadn’t bothered with a sweatshirt when she’d left her room. Clearly the Japanese were not strong proponents of central heating, at least not in their gangland warehouses. The ice was seeping into her bones, making it even harder for her to stay calm. If she wasn’t shaking apart from fear, she was trembling from the cold, and either way she was going to start knocking things over if she didn’t pull herself together. Serves me right for growing up in Southern California, she told herself. She’d never complain about the heat again.
She lost track of time. Maybe Reno had dumped her after all. Gangland-style killings couldn’t be that unusual—this was the yakuza, for God’s sake. She was hardly naive when it came to organized crime. After all, she’d watched The Sopranos. Maybe she’d overreacted.
But then, why had someone, presumably the mysterious Hitomi-san, chased her, shot at her? And why bother? She hadn’t seen the shooter—it wasn’t as if she could identify anyone.
There wasn’t enough room to sit—when she tried to push back from the door the wall was right behind her. Reno was just lucky the two of them had managed to squeeze in there when he’d yanked her into the tiny space. And it had only worked with her body absolutely plastered up against him, every inch of her pressed against his hard, hard body.
At least that thought was making her hot. All she had to do was keep remembering embarrassing moments and she’d keep from freezing to death. Fortunately or unfortunately she had a dozen of them, the worst being in the capsule with his cool, impersonal