Ice Blue - Anne Stuart [90]
“To Reno’s. Safest place I can think of,” he said in a low voice.
“That’s not saying much. He doesn’t like me.”
He shrugged. “I told you, he doesn’t like Americans. He’ll put us up. His place his small, though. We’ll share a futon.”
Her face froze. “No, we won’t.”
Taka leaned across the table. “Just because you joined the mile high club doesn’t mean I can’t keep my hands off you. I’m not going to fuck you with my cousin five feet away.” His voice was little more than a whisper, and the color in her face flamed.
“You’re not going to fuck me at all,” she snapped. “Ever again. I’ll kill you if you try.”
He laughed softly, even though he knew it would outrage her. She was stronger when she was mad, and he needed her strong. “I’m a hard man to kill,” he said. “And, by the way, I didn’t hear you saying no on the plane.”
It was a good thing she had chopsticks instead of a fork—she probably would have stabbed his hand. As it was she withdrew into herself, the dignified Dr. Hawthorne, her silence making her disdain clear.
“Good,” he said, clearing the dishes. “Next time, if you don’t want it, say no.”
Her face was perfectly composed when they stepped out onto the crowded streets. It was getting dark already, and he’d put his hand on her arm, to steer her out of the way of a salaryman on an early drunk when she stumbled against him and her spiked heel dug into his instep.
He jumped, cursing at the unexpected pain, only to meet her smug smile. “Sumimasen,” she said with exaggerated sweetness. “I can be so clumsy.”
He stared at her in shock. No one had managed to catch him off guard, inflict pain on him, in a long, long time. More proof that he needed to get the hell away from Summer Hawthorne. She made him dangerously vulnerable, and he couldn’t afford that, for her sake as well as his own.
She wouldn’t be used to the high heels or the time difference, so he walked her the long way to Reno’s place, crossing and recrossing the pedestrian bridges that stretched over the busy streets. He was waiting for her to complain, but she didn’t, not even when they passed Tokyo Tower for the second time. His cousin lived in the Roppongi district, among the high-rise hotels and the strip clubs, the better to oversee his grandfather’s many and varied financial interests. Even now he was probably out prowling in some pachinko parlor, but it didn’t matter if he wasn’t home; Reno didn’t need to lock his doors. No one would be fool enough to mess with the Oyabun’s grandson.
She made it up the three flights of stairs without complaint—she’d probably cut out her tongue before she’d admit weakness. Taka pushed open the door, waiting for her to precede him, watching as she automatically slipped off her shoes before stepping inside. She was really beginning to piss him off. He didn’t want her to be comfortable in his world. He wanted her to be an interloper, a gaijin, and he wanted her gone.
The golf case was there, open and empty, leaning up against one corner in the crammed apartment. Reno had draped the heavy antique kimono across the table with consummate care, and he’d pulled out the spare futon, leaving the rest of the treasure, including the urn and the cheap modern kimono, on top. He must have known they’d be coming, which was both annoying and reassuring.
Summer’s outrage was enough to get her talking again. “He just left it here? After all we’ve been through, he just put the urn on the mattress and walked away without locking the doors?”
“No one would dare come in.”
“The Shirosama and his zombies would dare anything.”
“Yes, but they don’t know we’re here. Yet.”
“Yet,” she echoed. She sank down on the mattress next to the urn, staring at it, and he could see the exhaustion in her face. Yet he wanted nothing more than to kick the priceless treasure out of the way and cover her body with his. Strip off the expensive clothes that made her look like