Ice Blue (19 page)

Except when he'd made her come.

He'd made her cry, too, which was cruel and self-indulgent of him. He'd done it because he'd wanted to, even though he'd already found out just what he needed to know.

"I'm not getting in that plane," she said, staring at the small seaplane he was heading for. It wasn't the most impressive looking aircraft, but he knew that, mechanically, it was perfect. He never took chances he didn't have to.

"You don't have any say in the matter," he said over his shoulder, wondering if she'd be fool enough to make a run for it. It was a hot day, even for January, and he wasn't in the mood to run after her.

She halted where she was, ten feet away from the plane. "Do you even have a license?"

"I'm not flying the plane. I'm sitting in the back with you. But yes, I have a license."

"You don't need to keep me company," she said with false sweetness. "In fact, I'd prefer to be alone."

"I'm sure you would," he stated. "But the unfortunate thing is I don't trust you."

She didn't move. "There aren't any seats."

"It's a cargo plane."

She didn't say a word, and he wondered whether he was going to have to put his hands on her. Force her in. He didn't want to. He'd tried not to hurt her more than he had to, but time was running out, and if he had no other choice he could hurt her very badly indeed.

She must have known that. After a moment she climbed into the back of the plane, moving as far away as she could from him, up against the bracing on the side. There were straps hanging from the bars, and he caught one, wrapping it around her wrists and then fastening it to the side of the plane. "I'm not likely to jump," she said.

"It's more in lieu of a seat belt." He sat opposite her, winding the straps around his own wrists and hooking them. A moment later the pilot climbed into the front of the plane. "Sorry about the accommodations," he called back. "Are you both strapped in?"

"Yes," Taka replied.

Summer was looking at him, an odd expression on her face, and he realized their conversation had been in Russian. And then she glanced away, and there was no need to explain.

And no reason why he should want to.

Clinging to the straps, she closed her eyes as they taxied down the rough field. It would have been better if he'd strapped himself in beside her—he could cushion some of the shocks. Distract her. Because it was becoming rapidly clear that Summer Hawthorne was almost as terrified of flying as she was of sex.

Her skin was deathly white, and she was holding on to the ropes so tightly her hands had to be cramping. "Maybe I'd rather jump out, after all," she said in a whisper, and he wondered if she was going to pass out from the fear. Fainting would have been a mercy, but she stayed rigid, clinging to the straps as the plane took off into the sky. He waited to see how long it took her to relax.

He didn't have that much time. Her body was so tense she was shaking, and it was making him nervous. He had to do something for his own sake, not hers. He unclipped the straps that held him and slid across the floor of the plane. She was too panicked to even react to his sudden closeness.

"Is it just small planes?" he asked, half expecting her to ignore him.

But she was past any petty issues like pride or fury. "Any plane." She practically ground out the words from between clenched teeth.

He'd already slid one hand into his pocket as he'd moved across the bucking plane, and the small needle was hidden between his fingers. He reached up and pricked her neck with it, and she had only a moment to try to jerk away before the tranquilizer hit her full force, and she collapsed on the floor.

He caught another of the hanging straps, which he wrapped around his waist, tethering his body to the side of the plane as it bounced ever higher into the windy California sky. And then he pulled Summer's limp form against him, settling her between his outstretched legs, and held her.

He had no choice in the matter, if he left her hanging by the straps she'd end up being banged against the side of the aircraft. Not good for her, not good for the plane's stability. You always fastened down a cargo, you didn't leave it loose in the back of a plane.

That was all he was doing, he told himself putting his arms around her to hold her limp body still, letting her head loll back against his shoulder. Keeping the cargo secure.

It was his own damn fault he was getting hard again.

Summer was being rocked. So gently, wrapped in loving arms, rocking slowly in the velvety darkness. She was dazed and dreaming, in some magic world where there were no battles, no fear, just warmth and love and comfort. Rocking softly, gently, and she wanted to stay in that safe cocoon forever.

She'd been dreaming, a long series of strange, interconnected dreams. Some were terrifying—she kept running to find her sister, but everywhere she looked the spooky brethren turned up in their flowing white robes. She ran some more, and she was crying, crying in her dreams as she never did in real life.

But she had cried, hadn't she? The final betrayal. She felt a hand on the side of her face, brushing away her tears, and she turned into that hand, pressing her lips against it, and the dream became erotic, full of red silk and wicked touches and smooth, golden skin hot beneath her flesh. It frightened her as much as her earlier dream.

But now she was at peace, wrapped in warm, strong arms, safer than she'd ever been in her life. Home, when she'd always felt like a stranger wherever she was. She could rest, and listen to the quiet beat of his heart, feel his breath in her hair, stirring it slightly, feel the plane rock beneath her…

Her eyes flew open, her body suddenly rigid, and for a moment his arms tightened around her before he let her go.

She couldn't go far—her wrists were still wrapped with the strapping—and she fell across his outstretched legs, her face in his lap. She scrambled away, desperate, thankful for the murky darkness that surrounded them. She could get just far enough away not to be touching him, a small blessing.

At least they were no longer in the air. She could feel the plane rocking beneath her, hear the slap of water against the sides, and she suddenly realized things could be a lot worse.

"Did we crash?" Her voice sounded groggy to her own ears. "Are we in the middle of the ocean?"

"We didn't crash, we landed. Several hours ago. This is a seaplane, remember? I've just been waiting for you to wake up."

"Thoughtful of you," she said, rubbing her neck. Something had stung her. She couldn't remember when, but her neck still hurt.

"Not really. You were out cold. You must have needed the rest."

"I didn't get much sleep last night." The moment the words were out of her mouth she choked, and if she could she would have slapped her hands over her betraying lips. But trying would only bring her closer to him, and she wanted to keep as far away as possible.

"No, you didn't," he said in a neutral voice that was almost worse than a leer. "Are you ready to go?"

"So polite. What if I said I wasn't?"

He was reaching for the straps that bound her. "I would do my best to persuade you otherwise. Come here."

She wasn't moving any closer to him, not if she could help it. "No."

"I can't untie your wrists unless you do."

"I can manage…" She was already trying to work her fingers into the knot when he muttered a curse beneath his breath and she felt the straps begin to pull. It was a simple enough matter to drag her next to him—there wasn't that much play in the rope.

"Stop fighting me," he said, undoing the knot with insulting ease.

"Yeah, like that's going to happen anytime soon," she retorted.

"You weren't fighting this morning."

Silence filled the darkened belly of the plane as it rocked gently on the water. "Everyone makes mistakes," she said finally.

"Yes," he said. "They do." He moved past her, pushing open the door. It was dark outside, and the smell of the sea was strong. Could she shove him out the door and slam it shut, like Hansel and Gretel tossing the wicked witch into the furnace? He wasn't likely to end up being gingerbread.

"Are we going to swim for it?"

"We're tied up at a dock—you won't even get your feet wet. Come on."

"Lucky me," she muttered, trying to stand. There was just enough room do so, but her knees were wobbly, and there was nothing to hold on to as she felt herself falling.

Nothing but the arm that caught her, wrapped hard around her waist, bringing back the memory of that morning with shocking swiftness. She could even hear his words in her head—soft, seductive words.

"I'd rather you didn't drown," he said, lifting her over the threshold of the plane and setting her on the broad dock. He followed after her before she even had time to consider running.

"That's right, you've already saved me from a watery grave, haven't you?" she said, pulling herself together. "Why?"

"To find the urn."

Ask a stupid question, get the wrong answer. He was still holding her, and if she thought she had a chance in hell of shoving him into the icy-cold waters of Puget Sound she would have tried.

"How far do we have to walk?"

"I have a car."

"Of course you do. Where's the pilot? Did you cut his throat and dump him in the sound?"

"I'd have a hard time finding pilots if I made a practice of doing that."

"Maybe you were just taking out your frustrations on him, since you can't kill me."

Silence, deep and dark like the Pacific night stretched between them, and a light mist began to fall. "I can kill you, Summer. If I have to."

She could see him now. There were no houses around to provide light, an oddity in itself. She would have thought every single inch of waterfront on Bainbridge would have been developed. But a slender quarter moon was out, and she could see his face, as expressionless as his voice. And she had no doubt at all he could do just as he said.

He took her arm, and she didn't bother trying to free herself. He led her up the steep incline to the road, not much more than a narrow dirt track, and she barely looked at the car he bundled her into. The numbness was slowly beginning to recede, the numbness that had taken over her body from the moment he'd let her go in the bedroom, the numbness that had shut her down completely on the small plane. Anger was spiking through, shards of fury splintering the dazed calm. He'd lied about everything: why shouldn't he be lying about her sister, as well? Maybe Jilly was still stuck in the Shirosama's pudgy white claws, and maybe Summer would have to take desperate steps to save her. Steps that would doubtless involve getting on another airplane of her own free will.

She could do it for Jilly. She could do anything for Jilly. Including smashing the son of a bitch beside her unconscious while she ran.

He drove too fast, as always, but by now she was getting used to it. She had no intention of giving him directions to the well-hidden family house, but of course he didn't need any. With calm resignation she watched him turn up their long, overgrown driveway.

No one had been in the house for months. Lianne had forgotten it existed, and Summer was the one who owned it, loved it, cared for it. Even if she hadn't made it back since the fall.

It would serve Taka O'Brien right if someone had broken in and taken the urn and everything else of value. Serve him right if the Shirosama had somehow managed to find this place first.

Her father had died long ago, and even his meager family was gone. But Summer did have the house, even though it was in the name of the trust Summer's grandmother had set up for her before he died. Summer never touched the money, any more than she accepted handouts from her stepfather. But she had taken the house.

Taka pulled the car in front of the old place, hidden by the tall grass and overhanging cedars, and she climbed out, not waiting for him this time. Rain was coming down more heavily now, but she didn't care. She couldn't rid herself of the feeling that she was coming home, despite the upheavals of the last God knew how many hours or days.

She trailed after him up the wide front porch. Leaves were scattered across it, along with some broken twigs, and the curtains were pulled tight. No one had been there looking for a lost Japanese artifact. No one had been there at all.

"Are you going to smash a window or break the lock?" she asked idly.

"I have a key."

She didn't bother asking how—he had an answer for everything. He unlocked the heavy front door and pushed it open, and she froze.

She didn't want to go inside with him. She wasn't afraid of him—she was past such idiocy. He'd already done his worst and she'd survived. But this place was her sanctuary, her haven, even if she got here far too infrequently. And if she went inside with Takashi O'Brien, her home would be permanently tainted.

"I'll just wait here—"

He pushed her into the house, slamming the door behind them, plunging them into darkness. The place smelled like a closed-up house—mothballs and dampness. Someone came in once a month to air the place out, and must be due for a visit, because the air was thick and dusty.