Ice Blue - Anne Stuart [67]
“I love this house,” she said, in a quiet voice.
Her words surprised him. She hadn’t volunteered much in the way of conversation since they’d left the bedroom in that suburban house.
“It’s very beautiful. Very peaceful.” He wasn’t wearing gloves, but it didn’t matter. His fingerprints weren’t on file anywhere, and he wasn’t going to leave the house standing. He’d already activated the device that he’d taken from the car, so there’d be no trace of anything once it went off. They might not even be able to identify her body.
He’d be on his way to Japan by then—probably even before the smoke cleared. And he wouldn’t look back.
Summer wouldn’t feel a thing. He had no more excuses, no more reason to delay, and she hadn’t moved, leaving him no choice. If he left her alive the brethren could get to her, find out what she knew. Once they did, the Committee would have no way of stopping them. The Shirosama had stockpiles of chemical weapons—enough sarin gas to spread through the subway systems of every major metropolitan transit systems. Biological weapons to take care of the countryside, including trucks that could spread it into the air. They’d done test runs in Nigeria, the Chiba Prefecture of Japan, one of the small Hawaiian islands and the American Southwest. No one had caught on, because of the variety—plague spores in Arizona, hemorrhagic virus in Nigeria, a virulent, fast-moving strain of TB in Hawaii. Only the best scientists worked for the Shirosama, and their results were deadly masterpieces. One small woman was not that great a price to pay to keep the world safe from that kind of disaster.
He came up behind her, putting his hands on her shoulders. He would knock her out before he broke her neck—she would never know what happened—and she’d be in her peaceful, beautiful house on the island. It wasn’t her fault that she was in the wrong place at the wrong time. That she’d kept Hana Hayashi’s secrets too well.
Summer jumped slightly when his hands touched her, and then she stilled. She was wearing that same baggy black sweatshirt, and he wanted to touch her skin. He wanted to see her in colors, something other than funereal black. But that was the last thing he needed. He could feel the tension shimmering through her, her blood racing.
And then she leaned back. She let her back rest against his legs as he stood behind her, her head against his stomach, releasing all the tension in her body as she sank back against his. She turned her head to look up at him, and in the reemerging moonlight he could see her eyes clearly. Fearless, accepting.
The feel of her body against his shook him to the core. He stared down at her, his hands on her neck, and he did the unthinkable. He leaned down and put his mouth against hers.
He felt her shock vibrate through her, but she didn’t pull away. She closed her eyes and let him kiss her, passive, accepting, and he realized in the short, endless time he’d known her he’d never really kissed her. Never more than the brief touch of his mouth against hers.
And suddenly that wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. He stopped thinking, pulling her up from the bench and turning her in his arms. He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, full and open-mouthed, and her response was instant, powerful, the compliant woman vanishing. She put her arms around his neck, pulled him down to her and made a low sound of need as his tongue touched hers.
He picked her up, wrapping her arms and legs around him as he carried her across the darkened living room to her bedroom, setting her down on the stripped bed and covering her body with his.
Then he realized what he was doing. He started to pull