Ice Blue - Anne Stuart [41]
“People see what they want to see,” he replied. “Your boyfriend?”
She wasn’t cold anymore, she was hot, embarrassed, which seemed a ridiculously banal emotion, given the last twenty-four hours. “I just said the first thing that came into my mind. What was that they said about the museum?”
“It’s been broken into,” Taka said. “I got word earlier.”
“Do you know what they took?” The forged bowl was the least of her worries. The exquisite treasures that filled the halls of the Sansone were almost like her children; if anything happened to them she’d be heartbroken.
“Nothing.”
“But…”
“The forged urn was smashed on the floor. Clearly that was all they were after, since the rest of the collection was untouched.”
“Thank God,” she breathed. “Then that must mean they’ve given up. They dropped the bowl and now they’ll have to forget about it.”
“Maybe,” he said. “Or maybe they realized it was a fake the moment they got their hands on it. Which would make them more determined than ever to get their hands on you or anyone who could make you give them what you want.”
“What do you mean by that?”
He glanced over at her. “Never underestimate a religious fanatic.” And he pulled back onto the rain-wet street before she could say another word.
10
The hours passed in a blur as he drove north out of the city. She paid little attention to the road signs, little attention to anything. The warmth from the heater was sinking into her bones, the hum of the tires, the soft purr of the powerful engine all combined to lull her into a state of half-sleep. Anything was better than the sense of complete powerlessness that came with total waking. She had nothing but the clothes she was wearing—no cell phone, no money, no driver’s license or credit cards. Even if she could get away from the man beside her, who could she call? Micah had already paid the price of being her friend, and now two guards were dead at the museum. Because of her? She knew most of the guards; they were good men, with families. Which of them had been murdered by this group of fanatics in search of some stupid piece of ceramic art?
The urn had been so important to her, a piece of her childhood and Hana-san, and now it seemed pointless. If Summer had just handed it over to her clueless mother, none of this would ever have happened. Micah would be alive, and Summer would be safely home in her own bed, feeling nothing more than the casual resentment she felt when her mother used her. She’d promised Hana she’d keep the urn safe, to never part with it until she herself asked for it back. But then, Hana hadn’t expected to die. And she wouldn’t have wanted anyone to be hurt.
Summer had held on to it, and her world had turned upside down, and she was adrift, with no anchor but the dangerous man beside her.
Except adrift was too casual a word for hurtling into the night at ninety miles an hour. “You’re going to get a ticket if you get stopped again.” Her voice was quiet in the darkened car.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“No.”
He glanced at her, his dark eyes flitting over her face. “I have diplomatic immunity.”
“You’re a diplomat?”
“No.”
“Does Japan have some kind of secret service? Or are you even Japanese, Mr. Ortiz?”
“Half-gaijin,” he said, and she thought she heard a faint note of contempt in his voice. “And most countries have some kind of covert operatives. However, I’m not one of them.”
“Then what are you?”
“Your best chance at this point. That’s all you need to know.”
“My best chance at what?”
“Staying alive.”
She remembered the feel of his hands stroking her throat, the touch of his mouth against hers, the weight of his body, pressing down, and she wasn’t sure if she believed him.
“Where are we going?” She must have asked him this question a dozen times since she’d known Takashi O’Brien, and didn’t necessarily expect an answer to this one, either. But he surprised her.
“Belmont Creek.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s a tiny town in central California. We’ll be safe there.”
“You just plucked it out of the air?”
“It