Ice Blue - Anne Stuart [5]
Not by the police—there were no sirens blaring, just the roar of a vehicle far too near for her peace of mind.
The loud cracking noise was unmistakable, and she rolled facedown in the trunk, covering her head with her hands. Someone was shooting, and she sincerely doubted it was some white knight coming to her rescue. No one had been around to see her being hustled into the trunk of the car, and if anyone was trying to save her, he’d hardly be firing a gun and putting her in even greater danger.
She felt a jolt as the vehicle behind them smacked the rear of her prison, then everything happened at once. Time seemed suspended. The sound of gunfire, the crunch of metal on metal, the screech of tires as the driver fought to maintain control and the car began to slide to one side.
“Shit shit shit shit,” Summer muttered under her breath, a prayer or an incantation, as she felt her entire world spin out. The car was tumbling down an embankment, finally coming to a stop against something immovable, throwing her against the front of the trunk, knocking the wind out of her. She lay there in stunned disbelief as all went very quiet around her, except for the sound of the engine. The car was probably going to burst into flames and explode, with her in it, but at the moment she didn’t care. She just lay still, trying to catch her breath, waiting for the explosion.
Instead the engine died, and the sudden silence was shocking. There were no voices, but, more unnerving, she could hear footsteps outside the car.
She tried to sit up, to reach for the tire iron, which had been rolling around in the trunk. The car was partially on its side, and she felt as if she’d spent the last half hour in a blender—she was a mass of pain and bruises, and she wasn’t safe yet. Whoever was prowling around the car had a gun, and there was no reason to think he wouldn’t use it on her.
She groped about, still searching for the tire iron, and found it under her back just as the trunk popped open.
She couldn’t see a thing. Someone was standing there, but they seemed to be on a deserted road, and the lights from the car that had pulled up behind them threw everything into stark shadows. She wouldn’t have thought there were any roads this empty so close to L.A., but the driver had somehow managed to find one. Unable to get the tire iron out from under her, she simply squeezed her eyes tightly shut and waited for the bullet.
Instead she felt hands hauling her out of the cavernous trunk into the cool night air, setting her on unsteady feet, holding on to her until the trembling stopped.
It was the man from the gallery, the tall man with the sunglasses. He wasn’t wearing them anymore, and her panic increased as she realized he was at least part Asian, like her nemesis the Shirosama. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?
Even in the shadows she could see that he was exquisitely beautiful with high, perfect cheekbones; exotic eyes of an indeterminate shade; narrow face and rich, full mouth…His hair was long and silky, black, and he towered over her. Another of the Shirosama’s hit men? Because he did look like a hit man—that is, what she imagined one would look like.
“Are you all right?” He might as well be asking if she wanted sugar in her coffee. She tried to say something, but words failed her, and she simply stared up at him silently. “Get in the car,” he said.
That was enough to stir her out of her momentary shock. She wasn’t getting in anyone’s car. “No.”
“It’s your choice. I can leave you here, but there’s no guarantee who will find you first. If you don’t show up at the Shirosama’s headquarters, someone will come looking.”
“Is that who tried to kidnap me?”
“Unless you have any other dire enemies, which I doubt. Get