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Hell and damnation, Isobel Lambert thought. This was turning into one royal fuck-up, despite the Committee’s best efforts. The Sansone Museum had been broken into, all right, but two guards had died in the process, and the faux urn had been smashed on the marble floor. There was no telling whether it had been a casualty of the botched robbery—nothing had been taken from the place—or whether it had been recognized as the forgery it was. If the latter was the case they were in very deep shit indeed.
She had to hand it to the Hawthorne woman—substituting a believable copy was a stroke of sheer genius. Maybe a bit too much for an innocent. If she truly had no notion of the urn’s value, why would she have gone to so much trouble to safeguard it? A sentimental attachment to her nanny would take her only so far.
Originally, it hadn’t mattered. Taka had orders to take her out before the True Realization Fellowship could get their hands on her, and what she did or didn’t know would then become moot.
But he hadn’t followed orders. There was no one Isobel could send after him right now, and he was one of the best she had. It was going to be up to him to sort this current mess out.
One innocent life, Summer Hawthorne’s, was an acceptable loss, particularly when the knowledge she had concealed in her memory was so very dangerous. The loss of her friend and coworker was simply a reminder of the havoc that could follow if Summer was allowed to survive and the Shirosama got his hands on her.
But the sixteen-year-old girl was another matter entirely. There was only so much loss of life that Isobel could tolerate, and a young girl put that quota over the top. They needed to get her out, and fast, before the brethren could try any of their inventive brainwashing tricks that could leave her a broken shell. And if her sister knew she was being held hostage, she’d give everything she had to get her back.
Life would be so much simpler if Summer Hawthorne was already dead. The Shirosama would have to find the site of the ancient shrine on his own, something he’d tried and failed to do for more than ten years. If she were dead, then using Jilly Lovitz as a hostage would be worthless. Her mother was already willing to give the Shirosama anything he wanted, and her husband indulged her, no questions asked.
If Taka had only followed orders this would all be over, at least for this year. But right now the cult held a very dangerous bargaining chip, and they couldn’t be allowed to get away with it.
Madame Lambert leaned back in her chair, closing her eyes. This was a hideous game of chess, using real people as pawns. It was bad enough when they were simply soldiers, killers, conscienceless warriors on the right and the left. Every now and then a pawn would have to be sacrificed, and she made those decisions with equanimity. But as she got older those choices were becoming harder.
There had to be someone she could send. Someone to back Takashi up, someone who could do what needed to be done if for some reason he wouldn’t. She couldn’t send Bastien—he’d been brought in once to help Peter Madsen, but he had a new life now, with a wife and children and a peaceful existence in the middle of nowhere. He’d done more than he should ever have had to do; it was time to let him be.
And Peter couldn’t go—he was still using a cane, and he’d made promises to his wife and to himself. He was deskbound now, her second in command, more than capable of dealing with the hard decisions she made on a daily basis.
The others were scattered all over the world, most of them under deep cover. Which left only one person.
She shoved her perfectly manicured hands through her perfectly arranged hair. Shit. She hated to fly.
She hated the long hours craving a cigarette. She hated the closed-in air. But most of all she hated having someone else be in complete control of her life and her safety.
There was no choice. The girl would be one loss too many. Someone needed to get Jilly Lovitz away from the Shirosama before she was broken, before they could hurt her. Before Summer Hawthorne gave him everything he wanted for the onset of Armageddon.
And Isobel was the only one left.
She was so cold. Takashi O’Brien was holding her hand like a vise, taking her back to the huge black SUV he’d gotten from somewhere, and the tightness of his grip kept the shivers from washing over her body. He opened the passenger door for her, a perfect gentleman, and she wanted to laugh. But if she did she might start crying, and she couldn’t remember the last time she’d cried. Years and years and years ago. Tears were not an option.
He went around to the back of the vehicle, carrying her bowl with extreme care, placing it on the back seat before he climbed in. He didn’t look at her. “Fasten your seat belt,” he said, turning the key. “We’ll be driving fast.”
“As opposed to the sedate speeds you were driving earlier?” Her voice was raw, but at least it worked, a miracle to her own ears.
He didn’t answer, which was just as well. She didn’t want to start a conversation with him. Not until she came to terms with what had just happened in the old touring car.
S
he had to be out of her mind. The man had shown up time and time again, snatching her from danger and death. She had no idea why, but he’d appointed himself her personal savior, and the fact that she was still in one piece was proof.
So what had happened on the floor of the car? His body had covered hers, hard and strong, half pinning her, and his beautiful hands had stroked her face, and she hadn’t screamed, hadn’t cried, hadn’t frozen. Instead she’d looked into his dark, merciless eyes and known she was going to die. And she hadn’t cared. She hadn’t wanted to move, to run. She’d felt no fear. Only the pressure of his body against hers.
And then he’d kissed her. Just the soft pressure of his beautiful mouth against hers, not much more than a brush of his lips, and then it was over. Once he’d pulled away she’d started shaking, and she wasn’t quite sure she could stop.
At least he hadn’t noticed. He probably would have thought she was crazy. Hell, she was crazy, and no wonder. Kidnappings and death were not a normal part of her everyday world, and while he hadn’t specifically said so, she knew she was on the run for her life, and he was the only thing that stood between her and oblivion.
He had the bowl, and he still had her with him. That must mean something, though she wasn’t sure what. She had to be insane to think he wanted to hurt her.
He’d turned on the heat full blast as he pulled into the street. She allowed herself a brief glance at him. He’d left his jacket wrapped around the bowl, and was wearing only a thin dark shirt. He must be even colder than she was, though he seemed oblivious to it, while she was doing her best to control the tremors that were washing through her.
She closed her eyes. She was holding herself in so tightly that her skin ached, and she slowly, cautiously began to relax. The tremors had finally stopped, leaving only a stray shiver dancing across her back, and after a moment she let out her breath, leaning back against the leather seat as he sped through the night.
He was driving so fast. If they had any kind of accident they’d be dead, instantly. She didn’t care. She didn’t need to open her eyes to know he was watching her. She knew that feeling far too well. It was what had started the entire nightmare—his watching her at the museum reception. At this point all she wanted to do was make her mind a blank. What had he told her before—think about the ocean? The blue-green ocean rolling in waves onto the shore, even, steady, throughout eternity, never changing, the sound a rushing whisper of comfort in her ear.
The siren startled her out of her trance, and her eyes flew open. Taka’s face was starkly beautiful in the reflection of the flashing lights, but there was no emotion as he pulled the SUV to the side of the road and cut the engine.
