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“You wouldn’t understand,” she said, lowering her eyes.
He couldn’t stop himself; he caught her chin and tilted her face back up to his. “All right, so your house is destroyed, your best friend killed and you’ve lost a sentimental cookie jar and an antique kimono. But you’re alive, your sister’s alive and you’re both going to stay that way. Plus, I’m out of here. You’re going to England, I’m going to Japan, and if you ask, Madame Lambert will make sure you forget you ever met me. Even if you don’t ask she’ll probably see to it. So you only have a little while longer to hate me.”
“I don’t hate you.”
Oh, Christ. He looked down into her blue eyes, those eyes that never cried, and he could see tears there. Impossible, but there was no mistaking the lost, broken expression. “Stop it,” he said roughly.
“Stop what?”
“Stop looking at me like that, or I’ll…”
“Or you’ll what?”
He really didn’t know what he’d do. Kiss her. Shoot her. She was making him crazy, and he couldn’t afford to let that happen. “What do you want from me?” he demanded in a harsh undertone. Crosby would be listening to every word, probably taping it.
She didn’t answer, and Taka didn’t expect her to. She didn’t know what she wanted, and right then she was just too worn-out and confused to even begin to guess. He was the only constant in her life right now, and she was afraid to let him go. He could understand that. It had nothing to do with him, more a case of better the devil you know than the devil you don’t. So he said nothing more than “Goodbye,” and walked away without a backward glance, nodding at Crosby as he went.
Takashi moved through the crowds swiftly, heading back toward the car. His contact, Ella Fancher, was waiting, dressed as a flight attendant, and he handed her the keys. “Pack everything and get it on my plane,” he muttered. “I don’t know what’s important and what’s not.”
She nodded, handing him the packet of materials he’d requested. New passport, e-ticket to Narita Airport, new credit cards. “Where’d you leave the girl?”
“What makes you think I didn’t finish her?”
He’d known Ella for a good five years—they’d even been lovers for a short time, and they’d remained friends. “Because I know you, Taka. It would take more than Isobel Lambert’s orders to make you kill an innocent. She knows that, as well. That’s why she chose you for this particular assignment.”
“She chose me because of my background,” he replied. “And ‘the girl’is sitting up at the gate, waiting for Lambert to pick her up. Crosby’s keeping an eye on her to make sure no one bothers her.”
“Crosby?” Ella’s face turned pale. “Crosby’s dead.”
He could feel the blood freeze in his veins. “What do you mean?”
“Crosby was killed in that shootout up at Lake Arrowhead. Who told you Crosby was going to be there?”
“Text message from Madame Lambert,” he said tersely, shoving the papers in his pocket.
“Not from Lambert,” Ella said grimly. “You’d better go…”
He was already gone. Racing back through the empty halls, his heart slamming against his chest. He’d left her, so determined to escape that he hadn’t taken the time to make sure the situation was secure. Summer was going to die because of his own stupid weakness. He’d been afraid he wouldn’t be able to leave her at all, so he’d abandoned her.
And because of that, she was going to die. And he wasn’t sure he could live with that.
Summer sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair, watching the nearly empty terminal. The man who was guarding her seemed busy washing the floors, ignoring her as he moved closer. It should have been a relief—someone else to keep her safe, someone ordinary. Not an exotic, beautiful, cruel creature like Taka.
How the hell had she gotten to this point? She’d looked up at him when he left her, and it was all she could do not to beg him to take her with him. Why? He was going to Japan, and yes, she’d always wanted to go there—ever since Han
a-san had told her the stories of her childhood—but not at the side of a Yakuza hit man in the midst of some world-saving quest.
And since when was organized crime interested in saving the world? Shouldn’t he be more concerned with selling the urn to the highest bidder, not returning it to the Japanese government?
For that matter, who said he was a Yakuza hit man? She’d jumped to the very logical conclusion that Taka was a gangster by the number of people he’d killed since he’d pulled her out of the trunk of the limousine, and by the tattoos that covered his back. But in fact, he’d only killed to protect her.
Who and what was the committee he’d mentioned in passing? And who was this Madame Lambert she was supposed to meet, the one who was taking both her and Jilly to England?
Summer needed to be with her sister, someplace safe, far away from the Shirosama and his goons. Right now her longing to run back to Taka was just a case of temporary insanity. Of wanting to see how it ended between them. Idiot, she thought. It—they—had already ended.
But there was no reason to feel like crying. Because once she started crying she’d never stop, and she couldn’t afford to risk that. Not until she was safely out of here.
She glanced over at her guardian angel, but he was nowhere in sight. His cart, however, was still parked against one of the walls. A sudden icy panic began to spike through her, until she heard his voice directly behind her.
