Ice Blue - Anne Stuart [22]
She hadn’t spent much time in Little Tokyo, but if it was anything like Chinatown it would be relatively safe, well-lit and well-preserved. Unfortunately, the True Realization Fellowship had their headquarters somewhere within this relatively small neighborhood, and the last thing she wanted was to run into one of them.
But she couldn’t stay here and do nothing. The more she thought about it the less likely her rescuer’s story seemed. How had he found her in the first place? How had he managed to save her without being seen by the Shirosama’s men? And why in the world would anybody want to harm her? While Lianne and Ralph Lovitz were about as powerful and wealthy as anyone in L.A. society, most people had no idea of her connection to them. She herself had nothing of value—apart from an obscure Japanese bowl that was now ostensibly out of her reach.
No, scratch that. She’d foolishly told her rescuer that it wasn’t the real one. Which meant he needed her to find it, and chances were he could be just as lethal as her mother’s guru. More so, in fact. The True Realization Fellowship simply wanted her; as far as she knew they didn’t actually want to harm her. But her companion had killed. And he sounded as if he had no objection to killing again if need be.
She couldn’t afford to hesitate. She took off down the winding drive, keeping as close to the carefully planted vegetation as she could, skirting the other bungalows until she made it to the front entrance, guarded by the bright red Japanese torii gate. The city traffic was heavy, as always, but she crossed at the first intersection, heading toward the row of tiny shops and restaurants. Someone would either let her use the house phone or tell her where a pay phone was.
The one asset she still had with her was her brain—she’d memorized her phone card numbers. She could call Micah at the museum—he was probably wondering where the hell she was—and get him to pick her up, bring her passport and even front her some money and drive her car over. She had a second set of keys in her desk, and with any luck the Volvo was still sitting in the parking lot up in the Santa Monica Mountains.
She had no luck until the third restaurant, a tiny noodle shop, and by that time she was thoroughly soaked. The woman at the counter didn’t understand much English, but with a combination of pantomime and pleading Summer got what she wanted—a pay phone at the back of restaurant, just off the kitchen.
She was ready to faint with hunger—the smells were making her crazy—but she had no money. She’d simply have to wait. At least Micah answered his private phone line immediately, and after a few panicked questions he settled down to write a list, and promised to meet her as soon as he could get there, probably an hour, given that it was raining and rush hour. She had to be satisfied with that.
She didn’t think she was going to be able to explain to the proprietor that in an hour she’d have more than enough money to buy everything on the menu; their initial exchange had been difficult enough and the old lady had been reluctant. Summer ducked back behind the wall, into the shadows. People were coming in and out of the shop, the flow of Japanese and English incomprehensible from her spot, the smell of the food a torment that she had no choice but to endure till rescue came. She was so busy concentrating on the front of the shop that she didn’t hear the kitchen door open, and then it was too late.
“What’s up?” The cook was no more than a teenager, with several piercings, bleached hair and a friendly expression on his face. He sounded as if he’d grown up in the Valley, so at