Ice Blue (25 page)

"You can stop playing the virgin sacrifice now. He's not going to kill you."

Her eyes flew open to find Taka in the darkened hallway. She glanced down at the body sprawled at her feet—she hadn't even felt him fall—then back up at Taka's calm face.

"What took you so long?" Her voice didn't even shake.

"I was in such a hurry to get rid of you I wasn't paying close enough attention," he said, his voice cool and emotionless. "I guess you're stuck with me for a bit longer."

For a moment she couldn't move. She was afraid that if she did, she'd throw herself into his arms and start crying.
Can't do that
, she reminded herself.

"I thought you'd resigned as my guardian angel?"

"And I thought I'd told you I never was that?"

So he had. He'd told her a great many things that weren't true. He'd certainly been there to snatch her from the jaws of death again and again. She just hadn't thought he'd really get here this time, and she needed the wall behind her to keep her up.

"He said they killed my sister."

"They didn't. I checked my messages while I was heading back here. Your sister's fine, but they're flying straight to England. Without you."

"You were coming back to rescue me from the killer you accidentally dumped me with, and you took time to read your messages?" Blood was beginning to flow through her body again, hot and furious.

"I can do more than one thing at a time. Are you ready to let go of that wall or do you need me to carry you?"

She jerked her head up, then pushed away from the wall. "You put one hand on me and you're toast."

"Then start moving. Our plane leaves in less than an hour and a half."

"What plane? I'm not going anywhere with you."

"I'm going to Japan, and obviously you aren't safe left behind," he said wearily. "Let's go."

"You're going to get me a fake passport and a ticket in that amount of time? And what happened to the urn?"

"The urn is already on the plane. The papers will be at the Oceana Air desk when we get there."

"That fast?"

"That fast. They'll probably be there before we are. Are you ready?"

She wasn't going to fall down, nor was she going to give him an excuse to touch her when that was probably the last thing he wanted to do. She stiffened her spine, lifting her head regally. "I've always wanted to see Japan," she said, stepping over the body at her feet.

"Don't count on it," he muttered. "I'm keeping you stashed at my uncle's while I dump the urn, and then you're heading straight back to L.A. No one will want you then."

Bad choice of words. "I don't think anyone wants me now," she said in a breezy tone. She glanced down at the body. "How many people have you killed since you met me?"

"He's not dead."

The relief that washed through her was irrational and undeniable. The man had been about to blow a hole through her skull—he deserved to die. But not at Taka's already bloody hands. "Good," she said. She pushed her hair back from her face, knowing she looked like hell, knowing she needed a bathroom, knowing none of that mattered to Takashi O'Brien. "Then let's go."

He'd stopped shaking. He couldn't remember ever shaking in his life, but in his rush to get to Summer, with the adrenaline spiking through his body, he'd been positively quaking by the time he saw them disappearing down the rampway. Quaking both with relief and fury.

It had been a close thing. If he'd been clumsy, or too fast, the man would have shot instinctively, and there would be two bodies lying on the ground in that deserted corridor. If Taka had been too slow it would have been too late, as well. As it was, he picked his moment perfectly, and the Brother had gone limp as the bullet nicked his spine.

He'd probably die, a fact that bothered Taka not one bit, but he'd lied to Summer, anyway. She'd had just about more than she could take, and another corpse might send her into hysterics, when he had to get her onto the plane as calmly and discreetly as possible.

So much for his idea of a shower and clean clothes. They were going to be stuck on a jet for thirteen hours smelling like smoke and chemicals, and there wasn't anything he could do about it.

For once Summer was silent and obedient, keeping up with his long strides as he headed for the Oceana Air terminal. He didn't even blink when Ella bumped into him, passing him the new papers before moving on, trundling her little suitcase behind her. Good thing Ella liked to fly; her current cover as a flight attendant was extremely useful.

"This way," he said when Summer started to veer toward security. She followed him to the private elevator, and he pushed the button to close the doors before anyone could get on, then stopped it between floors, using one of the buttons programmed into his mobile unit. Very useful little gadget, and no one would notice the lift was out of commission for an hour, longer than he needed.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. She was as far away from him in the tiny elevator as possible, which wasn't far at all.

"Checking the papers," he said calmly.

"Where did you get them?"

"Trade secret."

He pulled out the pack of documents Ella had given him and opened it up. Two passports, one Japanese, one American.

He looked at his likeness in the Japanese one. Hitoshi Komoru, age thirty-two. Complete with business cards from the Santoru Corporation—someone's idea of a joke. Santoru's was owned by his grandfather, who considered him a mongrel stain on the family honor. Takashi wasn't amused.

He opened the American passport, trying not to show his dismay. They'd made it for Susan Elizabeth Komoru, his twenty-six-year-old wife, and in the photo Summer was smiling. He stared at it a moment, distracted. He hadn't seen her smile the entire time they'd been together. Not surprising—he hadn't given her much to smile about.

"What's wrong?"

He handed her the passport. She stared down at it. "How'd they get that picture?" she said finally.

"I never ask. Does it matter?"

She said nothing for a moment. "Who's Susan Komoru?"

"My wife."

She looked as if she'd been punched in the stomach. "You're married?"

An odd reaction for someone who hated him. "I mean you're posing as my wife. I'm Hitoshi Komoru, you're my American wife."

She just stared at him, as if all this was too much too assimilate. He turned his attention back to the papers as he stuffed them back in the envelope, so she wouldn't see his eyes. Not that she'd be able to read them—she seemed completely clueless as far as he was concerned.

He wanted to cross the tiny elevator and pull her into his arms, press her head against his shoulder and tell her it would be all right. He wanted to comfort her, when she was trying so hard to pretend that she didn't need comfort.

He never should have kissed her on the island. It had thrown him off his game, when his resolve had already been wavering. He could have gotten the information out of her in other, more unpleasant ways, and while he might be inconvenienced by guilt, it would be nothing worse than the guilt he was already feeling.

Particularly when it had turned out that he wasn't pretending at all.

He switched the elevator on again, and it began to move upward with a little jerk. Getting her on the plane would be simple, and once they were in the air he could finally relax. For twelve hours he wouldn't have to think about who he was or what he was doing. For twelve hours she'd be completely safe. For twelve hours he could sleep.

First class on Oceana Air was about as good as it got. Free-flowing booze, seats that turned into beds, in-flight massage therapists. He got Summer planted in her seat, a glass of Scotch in her hand, and stood over her until she drank it all and accepted a second, grimacing as she did. He didn't want to drug her with an audience around them, even though the flight attendants were the epitome of discretion.

Besides, he'd miscalculated the last time, when they'd flown to Bainbridge, leaving him stuck with her in his arms for long hours until she came to. Long hours as the plane rocked on the water and he held her close. Hours to think, when that was always a danger. He didn't want to take that risk again. When they landed at Narita they needed to be ready to move. The Shirosama had more followers in Japan than anywhere else, and they'd all be looking for them.

No, he just wanted her calm and docile for the flight across the Pacific. And maybe he could let himself sleep, as well.

She was trying to stay calm, but even with the whiskey in her belly he could see that her fear of flying was kicking in.

It made no sense—she'd faced death countless times in the last few days, and flying in a well-maintained jet in calm weather should have been the least of her worries.

But he'd already figured out that Summer Hawthorne wasn't the most logical creature. She'd watched her world shatter around her, he'd invaded her soul and her body, and he'd seen the look in her eyes as he'd walked away from her.

Crazy woman.

She was getting confused as to who were the good guys and who were the bad guys. No wonder. Sometimes he wasn't sure there was any difference at all. He might be keeping her alive, but apart from that he was the worst thing that had ever happened to her. And the only thing he could do was move straight ahead with the mission with single-minded purpose, bringing it to a safe conclusion. He'd do his best to make sure she survived along the way—he'd reluctantly accepted that much.

He strapped in beside her, trying to ignore her, trying to shut her out of his mind. He glanced over at her as they began taxiing down the runway, and found her eyes shut, her face pale, her hands were clenched tightly in her lap as she endured her fear. She was good at that. No matter what he or life threw at her, she endured.

Taka reached over and put his hand on hers as the plane began to climb. She didn't look his way, didn't open her eyes, but her hand turned beneath his and caught his fingers, entwining them with hers. Until they were high in the sky over the Pacific and she fell asleep and her hand loosened in his.

And still he held it. Until he, too, fell asleep, for the first time in seventy-two hours.

The darkness was like a velvet shroud, pressing down around her. Summer woke with a start, blinking to try and orient herself. She felt strange, disconnected, floating, and then she realized to her horror that she literally was floating. She
was
trapped in a jet plane somewhere over the Pacific Ocean.

She couldn't breathe. A demon was sitting on her chest, pressing the air out of her lungs, and there were shadows all around. She could barely make out shapes in the dim light. Even the perky flight attendants seemed to have disappeared, and all around her people were sleeping like corpses, including Taka. And she still couldn't breathe.

Summer unfastened her seat belt, trying to be silent, but her hands were shaking so hard she rattled the buckle anyway. Taka stirred beside her, stretched out in his reclining chair, but then slept on as she scrambled from her own skyborne prison.

There was a bathroom directly behind their seats, unoccupied, and she fled toward it, trying to catch her breath. She shoved the door closed and held on to the sink, staring at the crazy woman in the mirror, the one who couldn't breathe.

No, she had to be breathing—she could hear the sound of her tight, rapid gasps as she struggled. She splashed water on her face from the tiny sink, but it changed nothing. She could feel the walls closing in, and knew she was going to either pass out or start screaming, and didn't know what was worse. Or whether she'd have any say in the matter.

No screaming. Screaming would bring Taka, and would endanger both of them. She shoved her fist in her mouth, trying to silence her struggles for air, but that only made things worse. She could hear the tiny whimpers that were beginning to escape from her mouth.

Usually she could control her panic attacks. She'd spent a great deal of time and money working on curing her phobia, and she knew how to go to her peaceful place in her head, to breathe in the serenity around her. But her peaceful place had disappeared in an explosion hours ago.

She had no idea what time it was, and she was past caring. If she could just breathe she'd be all right, but her throat had closed up and the panic was clawing at her.

And someone was pushing at the door, trying to get in.

Her brain wasn't working any better than her lungs. "
Occupado"
she said, using the first language she could come up with. She'd latched the door, hadn't she? She didn't want anyone seeing her like this—she was barely keeping it together, and in another moment she was going to start screaming…

She'd forgotten that locked doors were nothing to her companion. The bathroom was tiny, though compared to the usual cubicles in coach class it was practically palatial, and he pushed his way in, locking the door behind him and putting his hands on her.

"I can't…" she gasped, hiccupping. "I can't breathe…"

He pulled her into his arms, slapping his hand over her mouth, and she wanted to tell him that wasn't helping matters, but couldn't manage to do so. She could feel the scream of panic bubbling up in her throat. They were going to crash, and the two of them would be locked together in this tiny little space, incinerated, the fire eating her lungs and—