Ice Blue - Anne Stuart [45]
Now it was all coming to fruition. The New Year was at hand. He knew what he needed, and he had the bargaining chip to bring her to him.
The Shirosama closed his eyes once more in blissful meditation, the gilded future bright and terrible.
11
Summer had locked the door, of course. She had no idea how predictable she was, at least in certain matters. Taka picked the lock in silence, opening the door and looking in on her. She was sound asleep, her long hair loose around her head, the covers tossed off. He wasn’t surprised to see she was sleeping in the underwear she’d been wearing earlier, though if she’d looked closer among the clothes she probably would have found a reasonable facsimile of what she usually slept in. The Committee was good about things like that.
He never would have thought black underwear could be so utilitarian. She wore a plain bra, no lace, and panties covered her generous butt and then some. He leaned against the doorway, picturing her in sexy underwear and a thong, and then pushed the thought away, disgusted with himself.
He closed the door silently. He could give her another few hours, though he didn’t dare sleep himself. He didn’t trust her not to take off, and she seemed stubbornly unaware of just how dangerous a situation she was in.
He could go days without sleep—a real benefit at times such as this. They were in a holding pattern. Summer had received a last minute reprieve, for the kidnapping of her sister changed everything. He wasn’t quite sure why…. In the old days Harry Thomason wouldn’t have hesitated; any complication was dealt with quickly and ruthlessly. Back then, Thomason would have had him taken out, as well, for not getting the job done in a timely fashion.
Complications aside, Taka knew that the sister posed no particular danger. Summer didn’t even understand the knowledge she possessed, so could have hardly passed it on to anyone. Jilly Lovitz could harm no one—her only value was as a hostage. They could leave her in the Shirosama’s pudgy white hands. Hell, it would serve their ditzy mother right. As long as Summer didn’t try to go after her.
He glanced at his mobile unit again. No message since the last, when Madame Lambert had instructed him to go to Belmont Creek and stay put.
She was a different kind of boss altogether. She liked alternatives. Death wasn’t always the answer, and when it appeared as if that was the only choice for Summer Hawthorne, she hadn’t liked it any more than Taka had. But she’d ordered it.
And now she’d told him to wait. Fine with him. Only the longer he kept Summer alive, kept her with him, the harder it would be to kill her. It made no sense that he was having second thoughts about Summer Hawthorne, and had been since he’d first hauled her out of that trunk.
God, he’d kissed her. For no other reason than he’d wanted to. He’d never gotten that close to someone he’d had to kill. He knew he could do it if he got the word—he was a machine, the King of Death. He just wasn’t sure if this time he could live with himself.
He needed a shower and a change of clothes if he wasn’t going to allow himself any sleep. They’d be off again in another four hours, heading God knew where.
But first he needed to make sure the bowl was securely packed. His orders were to leave it behind, and someone would pick it up—presumably the same person who’d brought the Sapporo and sashimi and his favorite dark roast Ethiopian coffee. He wasn’t particularly happy about leaving the urn; he’d gone to so much trouble to find it that letting go wasn’t easy, but so long as they had it the Shirosama could do nothing.
And then Taka took a good close look at the urn.
Most people wouldn’t have known it was another fake, but most people didn’t have his knowledge of ancient Japanese ceramics. He shouldn’t have been surprised, he thought, setting it on the kitchen counter in the bright artificial light. If she’d managed to get one fake, she could easily procure two. This was a beautiful copy, but the glaze was just