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He nodded toward the old kimono on the bed beside her, the one in which Taka had wrapped the urn. “Wear that. At least it’s yours. Or hell, put the antique kimono on—I don’t give a damn.”
“It doesn’t fit me. I tried when I was younger. It’s made for a midget.”
“Japanese women tend to be very small.”
“And I’m not,” she said.
He shouldn’t have let her see his amusement. She was so sensitive about her body, her soft, erotic curves. She didn’t believe the affect she had on him, and he was just as glad she didn’t. He was already having enough trouble around her. The moment they found the site of the old temple and the Shirosama was stopped, Taka was sending her straight to London, to Isobel Lambert’s tender mercies and the troublesome baby sister.
Then he could concentrate on doing what his grandfather wanted. This was first and only time the old man had ever asked anything of his despised grandchild. He’d provided the perfect Japanese bride; it was up to Taka to fulfill the bargain.
“I’ll lock the door. Don’t let anyone in.”
“You really think I’m stupid, don’t you?”
No, he thought she was too smart, except when it came to him and his sudden weakness for soft American women. One woman in particular, who was making him crazy and stupid.
He didn’t answer. “The bathroom’s behind you. Don’t let the toilet scare you.”
“Reno’s got a scary toilet?”
“Reno’s got the most pimped-out toilet known to man. You’re not used to Japanese ingenuity in the bathroom.”
“I wouldn’t say that,” she muttered under her breath. The silence that stretched between them was deafening. And then he was gone, locking the door behind him, taking the stairs two at a time. Fast. So he wouldn’t be tempted to go back.
“Bastard,” Summer said out loud, liking the sound of it. “Pimping rat pig bastard.” Somehow it didn’t have quite the lilt she would have liked, but she’d work on it. She was alone, completely alone, for the first time that she could remember. For the first time since she’d run away from the hotel in Little Tokyo, straight into the Shirosama’s arms.
She wasn’t going to run again, even though she was tempted. She’d just say no. Over and over again. “No,” she said out loud, savoring the word. It certainly sounded believable. She thought of Taka’s hands on her, his beautiful mouth on her skin. “No,” she said again, but her voice sounded less convincing.
“Rat pig bastard,” she muttered, scrambling to her feet to make her way to Reno’s frightening bathroom. Taka was right—the toilet could do everything, probably make toast as well as sing an aria, but she used it anyway, stripping off her clothes and folding them neatly before pulling on the kimono Hanasan had made for her.
It was worthless, Hana-san had told her, but made with love. She’d hand-painted the scene on the back in the traditional manner. The jagged peaks of the mountain to one side, the white crane flying low. Summer let soft silk settle around her skin, and she suddenly felt stronger, safer. This was who she was, not the frightened woman on the run, not the sophisticated creature who dazzled Taka. This was Summer, or what was left of her.
She took the pins out of her hair, shaking it loose over her shoulders and washed the makeup off. It was cold in the apartment, and she shivered as she wandered back into the main room, looking for some kind of blanket to wrap around herself.
The place was crammed with things, including a Harley motorcycle taking up far too much room. There were books everywhere, manga, of course, and thicker, more scholarly looking ones, piled on every surface. Ancient swords hung on the wall, their value considerable, and Reno had an original Hokusai woodblock. Not to mention a stack of porn magazines.
She picked one up, staring at it. Bondage and butt-sex, from the looks of the cover. An improbably endowed Asian girl was tied up and being serviced by a bad-tempered looking man. Summer glanced through the pages, wondering if anything more pleasant was going to happen to the poor girl, when she suddenly realized she wasn’t alone.
Reno was standing not two feet away from her. She hadn’t heard him come in—he’d taken off his boots, of course, and he just stood looking at her with that thinly veiled hostility.
All of her Japanese disappeared. There were any number of ways to apologize—was sumimasen the “I’m sorry I spilled sake on the floor” or the “I’m sorry I killed your mother” one?
“Sorry,” would have to do, as she held out the magazine to him.
He moved closer, taking it from her hand. He looked down at the picture, then at her for a long, considering moment. Then back at the picture, as if to judge her worthiness for such kinky activities. She felt a knot form in the pit of her stomach. Taka had warned her, and now he’d left her alone with his cousin.
He glanced back up at her, then shrugged, tossing the magazine back on the table before he headed into the corner of the room that served as a kitchen. The refrigerator was tiny, and he grabbed a bottle of beer and a glass before settling in a chair
opposite her, watching her.
She could have done with a drink herself—he was making her nervous. She sat down on the futon, holding the kimono around her, and was rewarded with a derisive snort, as if he was asking why she should bother? Baby rat pig bastard, she thought.
“Taka?” His voice startled her. It was the first thing he’d addressed to her.
“He went looking for you.”
His smile was slow and evil. He had to be in his mid-twenties—younger than she was. Too young to be so scary. “I’m not going to touch you.”
