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He folded his hands over his belly, let his eyes drift closed, and meditated happily. All would be as it was written.
If only he could find the rest of the text.
The woman moved through the Spartan halls of the True Realization Fellowship with purposeful strides. She had been brought in from Germany, an acknowledged expert in the gift of eliciting information, with or without pain, and she’d been summoned to Los Angeles at great expense. She carried her Hermes bag with her, the silk-wrapped pouch of tools in the bottom.
The brethren ignored her, as they’d been trained, their belief in the Shirosama’s will absolute. Most female followers were devout and plainly dressed, their heads shaved. This one was wearing the requisite white, but if anyone had looked they would have known it was a designer suit, and the sleek chignon of dark hair, the perfectly made-up face, were an affront to their ways.
Even her shoes were an insult—the sharp tap of high heels on tile floors seemed to mock the barefoot followers. She was there for a reason, however, and she must follow the Shirosama’s teachings despite her flagrant disregard of modesty.
The brethren turned their heads away, moving on as the woman stopped by the cell that held the noisy girl. They knew better than to linger—his holiness tolerated no questions, and the girl might cry out. Some of the followers were weak in their resolve, and might instinctively respond to a cry for help. Better that they not be tested.
By the time the woman reached the cell the hallway was deserted. She reached down and unlocked the door. And then she stepped through, her purse at her side, and all was silent in the south wing of the True Realization headquarters.
14
Takashi O’Brien was having to put too much energy into not thinking about his companion. Summer Hawthorne was certainly a minor transgression compared to some of the things he’d done. He’d given her the best partial sex of her life. So why was it eating away at him?
Probably because he was stuck with her. Normally he’d be able to dump people once he’d finished with them, but until he got to her family’s house on Bainbridge Island they were shackled together.
It should help that she was ignoring him, clearly pissed as hell. She wasn’t as edgy, nervy, frightened as she had been. Maybe she mistakenly thought he’d done everything he wanted to do with her. She was wrong.
Her very control was impressive—Committee-level impressive. Every now and then he felt a stray suspicion that she wasn’t quite the innocent bystander she was presumed to be, but then he dismissed it. His life would be a lot easier if she were some hard-core danger, a closet follower of the Shirosama, stringing him along. Then he wouldn’t have to feel even the slightest bit of this unfamiliar guilt.
But she wasn’t. She was exactly who and what she seemed to be. An ordinary woman in her late twenties, with average looks, an average body, too much education and far too much self-control.
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 mat
ter,” 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.
