Ice Blue - Anne Stuart [63]
Oh, shit. She had a German accent and was almost a parody of a Nazi torturer from an old black-and-white movie. Jilly sat up, scooting back on the narrow cot.
“I don’t need reintegration, thank you very much.”
The woman snapped open her bag, drawing out a small pouch and setting it on the metal table beside the bed. It clanked ominously. “We are clouded by the mists of our past lives and our earthly desires,” she said. “I can help you to free yourself from all that. If you let me.”
For a moment Jilly wondered if there was something beneath the woman’s chillingly benign words. Freedom was exactly what she wanted, but she didn’t think she was going to get it at the white gloved hands of the Shirosama’s enforcer.
“No, thank you.”
The woman opened the little satchel, and Jilly braced herself, expecting a scalpel. She wasn’t afraid of pain—she had a fairly high tolerance for it, as she’d discovered when she’d broken her leg a few years ago. And she wasn’t afraid of scarring, Ralph could hire the best plastic surgeons in the world if they cut her. She wasn’t afraid of anything.
Except the hypodermic needle the woman pulled out.
“Oh, shit,” Jilly said weakly. And that was the last thing she said for a very long time.
15
Taka hit the light switch, but nothing happened. “The breaker’s turned off,” Summer said. “I can show you where—”
“Never mind. We’re better off in the dark.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out something the size of a small pencil, knocked it against the door and was immediately rewarded with a bright beam of light.
“Who the hell are you, James Bond?” she demanded, staring at the little thing in fascination.
“Not quite.”
“Why shouldn’t we turn on the lights?”
He didn’t say anything, and the answer came to her with uncomfortable accuracy. “You think someone might be watching?”
“I think it seldom hurts to be careful,” he said. “Where did you hide the urn?”
“So much for small talk,” she muttered. “I already told you. It’s in the closet in my bedroom.”
“And you’re going to take me there.”
She didn’t like the ramifications of that simple statement, but she knew she was being ridiculous. He had no interest in her and bedrooms—he’d already taken care of that. She still wasn’t sure why she’d awoken to find him holding her in the plane, but she wasn’t about to ask. He’d have some coolly deflating response, and besides, she hadn’t wanted him to hold her, to touch her. The moment she’d come to she’d moved away. She didn’t want him anywhere near her.
The old cottage had been built in the early part of the last century, along Mission lines, and once she grew used to the damp odor she could smell the comforting, familiar scents of cedar siding and lemon polish as well, mixed with the lingering tang of the ocean. The wonderful smells of her childhood summers spent there with Hana-san for company. Summer had had friends there, too; other families with children her age lived nearby. The Bainbridge house had always been such a safe, welcoming place, and she hated that Takashi O’Brien had invaded it, hated that even worse threats might be lurking outside.
“This way,” she said, moving down the narrow, wood-paneled hall to her bedroom. She knew her way in the dark, but the bright light behind her illuminated the space. Her bedroom door was ajar and she pushed it open, not wanting to step inside. Not with him.
“Here you go. The urn is in a small trunk on the top shelf of the closet.”
He pushed her inside, blocking her exit. So much for her preferences. He flashed the light around the room, and she tried to look at the place through his eyes.
She was uncomfortably aware of the bed. It was a large one, genuine Stickley, and she’d never shared it with anyone. Then again, she’d never done much bed sharing at all.
But of course he wasn’t interested in the bed. The flashlight passed it, over the walls, and paused at the antique kimono hanging there.
The garment was a work of art—hand-painted and embroidered, from