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A cold sweat broke out. Did he really know everything, including the sordid details of her childhood? Was he privy to secrets buried so deeply that even she had managed to suppress them?
“I’m not innocent,” she said in a tight voice.
Thank God he didn’t look at her. “Maybe not. But you’ve lived a rarified life, safe in academia and then locked away in a museum, untouchable. And one short-term affair doesn’t make for a raft of sexual experience.”
Her sense of panic was growing worse and worse, and she knew she should change the subject, because if he knew, she wouldn’t be able to bear it. But she couldn’t stop. “Maybe I’m not looking for sexual experience,” she said. “Maybe I’m looking for love.”
His laugh was quick and sharp. “I don’t think you believe in love. Your history doesn’t suggest you’ve made any effort to find it.”
What history? she thought, anguished. “I love my baby sister. I loved Hana.”
“But we’re not talking about that kind of love, are we? We’re talking true love, sexual love, happy ever after.”
“Happy ever after?” she echoed. “No, I don’t believe in that.” What else? she thought. What else do you know?
He stopped the car, and she was shocked to realize they were already there. Micah’s tumbled-down villa was miles from Ralph Lovitz’s Hollywood mansion. But the ride had been ridiculously short. Her companion’s breakneck driving style could account for part of it. His ability to distract her with devastating questions took care of the rest.
Micah had bought the old villa for a pittance ten years ago, and in the intervening years he hadn’t manage to make much of a dent in reversing its rapid decay. She knew from experience that the few lights on in the old place were set on timers. Micah hated darkness and the lack of light in the winter months, and when he was living alone he didn’t want to come home to an unlit house. She could see one of his cats prowling around outside—usually he’d be home by now, and the three stray cats who had moved in would be feasting on gourmet cat food.
She was going to have to do something about the cats, she thought. Assuming she got out of this alive.
The man beside her wasn’t going to be distracted. “I have a key,” she volunteered. “I stay here sometimes.”
“Convenient. I don’t need one, but it makes things easier.” He slid out of the car, waiting for her, and for a brief moment she wondered whether she could run for it. She didn’t care if Takashi O’Brien found the urn—she was well rid of it, and as long she was away from him, her family, her sister, would be safe.
It would be the smart thing to do. She had no reason to trust him any more than she trusted the Shirosama, and no desire to find out what he planned to do with her once he had the urn. But when it came right down to it, he bothered her. Disturbed her, in ways she didn’t want to think about. Half of what he’d told her was lies, and he’d told her very little.
“Don’t even think about it.”
He didn’t need to say anything more. He seemed to know what she was thinking before she did, and she was no match for him. Two more reasons he bothered her. If she decided to run away she was going to have to come up with something a little better than a spur-of-the-moment dash.
Summer climbed out of the car, closing the heavy door quietly. She had no idea why she was trying to be surreptitious—if the neighbors were alerted to a possible intruder they’d call the police, and that would be a good thing, wouldn’t it?
Though if they looked out and saw her they’d know it was all right. She’d spent so much time here she even had her own room as well as her own key. And a change of clothes, she realized with belated relief.
“I’m not sure where it is,” she said, truthful for once. “We’ll need to look for it. Any chance I could change into some dry clothes? I keep some in my bedroom here.”
His dark eyes flickered over her dismissingly. “You look like a drowned kitten.”
“And how would you know? Drowned many kittens in your life, have you?”
“Not kittens.”
His flat voice gave her shivers. “Well, at least you’re just as good at saving people from drowning,” she said.
“I have my talents. Go ahead and change, but don’t take too long. Just tell me where to start looking.”
“My best guess is Micah’s studio at the back of the house. Either that, or his bedroom, the big one just off the kitchen. I know it’s not in the room I use.”
“Do you, now? And why do you keep a room here? You and he weren’t lovers—he was gay.”
She really wanted to slap this guy. There was nothing dismissive in his comment, but his cool omniscience was infuriating. “He occasionally slept with women, as well.”
“But not with you.” It wasn’t a question, and it would have been a waste of time to deny it.
“I have…sleep issues. Night terrors, they call them. I love my little house, but there are times when I need to be near someone.”
Taka looked at her for a long moment. “Now what would cause night terrors in such a conventional young woman? Maybe we missed something in your background.”
