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“He didn’t.”
“I’m having a hard time breathing,” she said tightly.
“Maybe you gave it to your baby sister,” Takashi said. “No one would think you’d put her in danger, but people can surprise you. Maybe you don’t care as much about her as you think, particularly when there’s three hundred thousand dollars on the line.”
“You’re disgusting,” Summer said.
“Then tell me where it is. Or am I going to have to ask your sister?”
Her eyes met his. They were cold, dark, implacable, and she wondered why she’d ever thought he was any kind of savior. If she wasn’t so tired and frightened—if she wasn’t sitting here in her underwear—she might be able to fight him. Right now she was no match, and the most important thing was to keep her sister out of it, at all costs.
And why the hell was she fighting him, anyway? She’d lost, and the stakes were much higher than she thought. This wasn’t just about preserving a simple bowl of almost unearthly beauty that was a gift from the person who’d loved and protected her most, but the safety of her baby sister. A thousand priceless porcelain bowls were nothing compared to something so precious.
“I can find it,” she said in a whisper.
He immediately loosened the pressure on her throat, then dropped his hand. “Do it,” he said.
“Can I get my clothes on first?”
He let his eyes drift down over her body. “If you wish.”
Of course he wasn’t going to leave her while she dressed. He wasn’t going to take those dark, unreadable eyes off her. She reached for her jeans and pulled them on, biting her lip rather than crying out when the soft denim rubbed against her burns. She yanked the T-shirt over her head—it was going to be cold, and she needed something warmer, but one look at his implacable face and she wasn’t going to ask.
He was blocking the doorway into her bedroom. Odd that a man so lean and elegant could take up so much space. “I need to get my shoes,” she said.
“Sneakers. We may have to run. And get a sweater. It’s cold outside.”
He never failed to surprise her. She could still feel his hand on her throat—for a moment she’d thought he could easily strangle her, and would if she’d fought him. And now he was worried about her getting cold.
Takashi moved out of the way, and she nodded, heading for the closet. She knew he’d searched there as well, even if he hadn’t left any sign. She grabbed an old pair of sneakers and a baggy sweater. Vanity, never one of her major character defects, had completely gone out the window. He’d already seen her in practically nothing and been totally unimpressed. Not that she would want to impress him—that was the last thing she needed. But it was disheartening to feel so awkward and plain when confronted with such beauty.
And he was beautiful. She hadn’t really had time to dwell on it while she’d been running for her life, but with his silky, straight black hair, his dark, unreadable eyes and full, luscious mouth, he was almost as gorgeous as the porcelain bowl he was so desperate to find. But there was something unsettling about his physical beauty. She’d been around Hollywood-handsome men for a great deal of her life, and good looks were nothing more than legal tender. Scott had been one of the best-looking men she’d ever met, and with her artist’s eye she’d chosen him as the logical man to sleep with, to get over her fears.
That plan had backfired, of course. She’d used him, hoping she could fall in love, and in the end all she’d discovered was that consenting, adult sex was highly overrated, no matter how gentle the partner. She could happily do without.
So why did she look at Takashi O’Brien’s starkly beautiful face and suddenly feel lost? In the end it didn’t matter; once he got the bowl he’d leave—with any luck—grateful to be done with her. And she’d forget all about the irrational stirrings that she wouldn’t have believed herself capable of.
She couldn’t wait until that happened. “It’s not in the house.”
He’d flicked off the lights, plunging them into a darkness lit only by the faint glow from the hallway. “You wouldn’t be thinking of a wild-goose chase, would you? It wouldn’t be a very wise move on your part.”
“I don’t know how wise I am. What are you going to do when I find the bowl for you?”
“I told you, take it to Japan.”
“And what are you going to do with me? Are you going to kill me?”
She’d managed to startle him. “Haven’t I been doing my best to keep you alive for the last twenty-four hours? Despite your best efforts to get yourself killed?”
She couldn’t argue with that. “I’m ready,” she said.
“Let’s go get your goddamn urn.”
He was going to have to kill her, of course. He’d known it all along, but he didn’t like the fact that she seemed to know it, too. He’d come close a couple of times, changing his mind at the last minute, but once he had his hands on the urn the safest thing to do would be to finish her. Quickly, painlessly, before she even knew what was happening.
Unfortunately, she already suspected him. Would she fight when the time came? He hoped not. Fighting would make it harder for her. She’d be better off just letting go. He could overpower her very easily—she was soft while he was hard and strong. He’d let himself get distracted in the bathroom for a moment, and he’d been a bit too rough because of it. He hadn’t needed to grip her throat that tightly.
His powers of observation were well out of the ordinary, and he’d taken in every inch of her exposed skin in the brief glance he’d allowed himself. The scars on her wrists were no surprise—he knew she’d attempted suicide when she was a teenager, soon after Hana Hayashi was killed. He was more distracted by Summer’s pale, creamy skin, smooth and soft. She had a mole above her left breast, and damn if he couldn’t see part of a tattoo peeking up from beneath the black cotton underwear that covered her hips. He never would have thought she was the type for a tattoo, and he found himself wondering what it was. He could look, of course. After she was dead.
