Kitabı oku: «Ice Blue»

Praise for New York Times bestselling author

ANNE STUART

“A consummate mistress of her craft, Stuart crafts a sophisticated romance that mirrors the rigours of the era and adds her own punch of passion and adventure so that her characters can have the time of their lives. It is pure pleasure to indulge in this part-lighthearted, part-deeply emotional and all-glorious story.”

—RT Book Reviews on The Devil’s Waltz

“This taut romantic suspense novel from RITA^® Award winner Stuart delivers deliciously evil baddies and the type of disturbing male protagonist that only she can transform into a convincing love interest … Brilliant characterisations and a suitably moody ambience drive this dark tale of unlikely love.” —Publishers Weekly on Black Ice

“[A] sexy, edgy, exceptionally well-plotted tale.”

—Library Journal on Into the Fire

“Before I read … [a] Stuart book I make sure my

day is free … Once I start, she has me hooked.”

—New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber

“A master at creating chilling atmosphere

with a modern touch.”

—Library Journal

Author’s Note

The True Realization Fellowship and its leader, the Shirosama, is very loosely inspired by the Aum Shinrikyo cult in Japan and their charismatic leader, Shoko Asahara. Most people remember the sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subways twelve years ago, when terrorist attacks were less common, and there’s something about cults, Jonestown and the like, that are macabre and fascinating. Believe it or not, the real characters were just as badly behaved as my fictional ones—sometimes more so. I simply used Aum as a jumping-off point to create my own delusional madman.

For those who want to explore the story further, there are a number of excellent books, including Destroying the World to Save It by Robert Jay Lifton, A Poisonous Cocktail? by Ian Reader and Underground: The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche by Haruki Murakami.

Ice Blue

Anne Stuart

www.mirabooks.co.uk

For the three great natural beauties of Japan—Etushi Toyokawa, Yoshiki Hayashi and Gackt Camui.

With thanks to Karen Harbaugh for technical advice, my daughter for the inspiration, and my sister Taffy Todd, who complains that I never dedicate a book to her. Here you go, Taffy.

1

Summer Hawthorne wasn’t having a particularly good night, though she smiled and said all the right things to all the right people. Someone was watching her. She’d been feeling it all evening long, but she had absolutely no idea who it was. Or why.

The opening reception at the elegant Sansone Museum was small and exclusive—only the very rich and very powerful were invited to the tiny museum in the Santa Monica Mountains to view the collection of exquisite Japanese ceramics. And even if she wasn’t particularly fond of one of those guests, he’d have no reason to watch her.

Her assistant, Micah Jones, resplendent in deep purple, sidled up to her. “I’m leaving you, my darling. This is winding down, and no one will miss me. I’m assuming everything’s going well, and I’ve got an offer I can’t refuse.” He grinned.

Summer jumped, startled. “Evil man,” she said lightly. “Abandoning me in my time of need. Go ahead. I’ve got everything under control. Even his holiness.”

Micah glanced at their guest of honor and shuddered dramatically. “I can stay and shield you …”

“Not on your life! The True Realization Fellowship and their slimy leader are just a bunch of harmless crackpots. Hollywood’s religion du jour. Besides, you’ve been celibate for too long, or so you’ve been complaining.”

“If you’d wear anything but black you might get lucky, too,” Micah said, candid as ever. “Even so, you look marvelous.”

“You lie,” she said, ignoring her uneasiness. “But I love you, anyway. Despite the fact that you’re ditching the reception early.”

Micah smiled his dazzling smile. “True love waits for no man.” He leaned down and gave her an exuberant kiss. “You know your room’s ready for you if you need it. Just ignore any whoops of pleasure coming from my bedroom.”

“You’re a very bad man,” she said affectionately. “I’m fine, I promise you. You can enjoy yourself in private.”

He blew her a kiss, sauntering off through the crowd, and she watched him go, ignoring her sudden, irrational pang of unease. Feeling the eyes digging into her back once more.

She was half tempted to call Micah back, ask him to wait. The reception would be over in another half hour, and then she could follow him down from the museum, and this odd, tense feeling would vanish.

But she hadn’t gotten this far in her life by giving in to irrational fears. It simply had to be because of their esteemed guest of honor, his holiness the Shirosama. He had a reason to watch her out of his colorless eyes—she was standing between him and the prize Summer’s foolish mother, Lianne, had promised him. And the Shirosama had not gotten to where he was, as head of a worldwide spiritual movement, without knowing how to get what he wanted.

He wanted her Japanese bowl, probably as much as she didn’t want him to have it—the bowl her Japanese nanny had given to her a short while before she’d been killed in a car accident. It was one more betrayal from her self-absorbed mother, something she was used to by now. Summer had loaned it to the exclusive museum where she worked, just to keep it away from the religious charlatan for as long as she could. But sooner or later the creepy, charming Shirosama was going to get it, and there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it. At least she’d put it off for the time being.

But it wasn’t the Shirosama who was watching her, or any of his white-robed minions—not as far as she could tell. She could feel the eyes boring into her back, and she turned, trying to catch whoever it was. Certainly not the elderly Asian couple by the fourteenth century incense burners. Not the tall, slender man with the sunglasses, who seemed much more interested in the impressive cleavage of the blonde he was talking to than in the exhibit. Maybe she was imagining it.

She recognized only half of the elegantly dressed guests who filled the gallery for this private opening, and none would have any reason to be interested in the lowly junior curator at the Sansone Museum. Her connection to Lianne and Ralph Lovitz and their Hollywood lifestyle was generally unknown, and by southern California standards she was totally ordinary looking, something she did her best to cultivate.

“His holiness wishes to speak with you.”

She was very good at hiding her emotions, and she turned to face the monk, if that’s what he was. For a group of ascetics, the followers of the True Realization Fellowship tended to be particularly well fed, and the plump young man in front of her was no different. He had the same round face, shaved head and faintly sanctimonious look they all did, and it made her want to stomp on his sandaled feet.

She was being childish and she knew it. She could come up with an excuse, but the reception was drawing to a close, the trustees were seeing to the departing guests and she had no real reason to avoid their guest of honor.

“Of course,” she said, trying to add a note of warmth to her voice. Someone had trashed her house three nights ago, taking nothing, but she’d known instinctively what they’d been looking for. The Japanese bowl they coveted was right in front of them now, guarded by an excellent security system.

She crossed the room, feeling like a prisoner on her way to execution. She could still feel those eyes boring into her back, but all the Shirosama’s posse, including the man himself, were in front of her. She glanced behind, but there was no one except the blonde and her date. Summer decided she must be paranoid, looking behind her for trouble when it was right in front of her.

“Dr. Hawthorne,” his holiness greeted her in his soft voice. “You do me honor.”

It was the softest of barbs—he knew very well that he was the one conferring honor on the place, at least by conventional wisdom. The Shirosama was highly sought after; obtaining his presence at a social event was a great coup.

Unlike his followers, he hadn’t shaved his head—his pure white hair was long and flowing to his shoulders, a perfect match to his paper-white skin and pale, pink eyes. His white robes draped his rounded body, and his hands were soft and plump. Charismatic to those easily swayed, like her ditzy mother. Harmless. Unless he was thwarted, and Summer was thwarting him.

But she knew how to play the game. “You honor us, your holiness.” She didn’t even trip over the words.

“And this is the bowl your mother spoke of?” he said softly. “I wonder that it has no provenance, and yet you still put it in the exhibit.”

He knew as well as she did that she’d put it on display to keep it out of his hands. “We’re researching its background, your holiness,” she said, the absolute truth. “In the meantime a piece of such singular beauty deserves to be seen, and we were ready to open an exhibit of Japanese ceramics. It seemed only logical to show it.”

“Only logical,” he echoed. “I would be very interested in anything you might discover about the piece. I am somewhat an expert in ceramics, and I’ve never seen anything that particular shade of blue. Perhaps you might let me borrow it, examine it more closely, and I could help you with your research.”

“You’re very kind,” she murmured. “But I’m certain the piece has little monetary worth—it was simply a gift from my nanny, and for that reason I cherish it. If in fact it does have considerable intrinsic value, then I would return it to the Japanese government.”

There was no shadow in the Shirosama’s benevolent smile. “You are as generous and honorable as your mother.”

Summer resisted a snort. It wasn’t enough that Lianne was funneling huge sums of money into the True Realization Fellowship, which seemed to have an insatiable need for cash. They weren’t getting Summer’s Japanese bowl, no matter how much they seemed to want it. She knew why Lianne wanted to get rid of it. Ralph had told her it was valuable, and Lianne had always been jealous of Summer’s nanny. Hana-san had been the mother Lianne had never had time to be, loving Summer, protecting her, teaching her what she needed to know and listening to her. The bowl had been one of the keepsakes she’d given Summer when Lianne had finally managed to fire her and send Summer off to boarding school, and Summer had promised that she’d keep it safe until Hana came for it. But Hana had died, unexpectedly.

And shallow, beautiful Lianne wanted to hand it over to her current guru. Over Summer’s dead body.

“Your mother has expressed great sorrow that you haven’t been to see her recently,” he added in his soft, rolling voice. “She wishes to make peace with you.”

“How very kind,” Summer murmured. Lianne Lovitz preferred her daughter to be as far away as possible—it was damn hard to convince the world you were in your early forties if you had a daughter in her late twenties hanging around. If the Shirosama wanted her to say anything more, she wasn’t going to; her relationship with her mother was none of his business.

He turned to glance back at the ceramic bowl. “You know that she promised this to me?”

Nothing like coming straight to the point. “And you know it was not hers to promise, your holiness,” Summer said with exquisite politeness.

“I see,” the Shirosama murmured, though Summer had no doubt her mother had filled him in on all this. “But do you not think it should be returned to its rightful place in Japan? To the shrine where it belongs?”

“Almost everything in this room should be back in Japan,” she said. Including you, she added silently. “Perhaps I should be in touch with the Ministry of Fine Arts and see if they’re interested.”

It was rare to see someone with no pigmentation in their skin turn paler still. “I doubt that’s necessary. I will be returning to Japan in a short while—I can make inquiries for you if you wish.”

She bowed as Hana had taught her. “That would be very kind of you,” she replied with exquisite courtesy. She’d heard rumors that the Shirosama and his Fellowship were not particularly well thought of in Japan—probably a result of the distrust built up after the sarin-gas poisonings on the Tokyo subways more than a decade ago, perpetrated by a fringe cult of doomsday fanatics. The Japanese government tended to look on alternative religions with a wary eye, even one steeped in sugary goodwill like the True Realization Fellowship. But the Shirosama was good at what he did, and he could probably count government ministers among his deluded disciples. If she turned the bowl over it might very well just land back in his hands.

He gazed at the bowl, sitting in innocent beauty beneath the bright lights. “I promised your mother that we would bring you by this evening, after the reception,” he said, changing the subject. “She is most eager to see you and to clear up any possible misunderstandings.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Summer said. “I’m much too busy tonight. I’ll give her a call and see if we can meet for lunch in a few days.”

“She wants to see you tonight. I cannot ignore my duty in reuniting an estranged mother and daughter.” There was only the hint of an edge beneath his rich, sonorous voice. It was no wonder he managed to mesmerize thousands. But Summer Hawthorne was not easily mesmerized by slimy old men.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m busy.” And before he could say another word she turned away, heading toward the dubious safety of the caterers, hiding behind them as the Shirosama made his slow, gliding way toward the exit, surrounded by his entourage.

She was tempted to start scooping up champagne glasses and taking them out to the kitchen area, anything to keep busy, but they had an army of waiters to handle that, and it would have looked odd. The museum guests had gone, including the tall man and his bimbo, and Summer no longer had that peculiar feeling in the middle of her shoulder blades. Now it was in the pit of her stomach, and she knew exactly who had been watching her with thinly veiled animosity. The Shirosama.

The caterers were damnably efficient, whisking everything away in record time, leaving Summer alone in the building a good half hour before the night security force was due to arrive. The reception had ended early, but the alarm system at the Sansone was excellent, and Summer had no concern for the safety of the priceless works of art. No concern for the ceramic jar that Hana-san had left in her care. The Shirosama knew where it was, and no one was going to be breaking into her house again and bothering her when they knew the bowl wasn’t there. It had been a preemptive strike, putting the treasure on display, and a good one.

She switched off the last of the lights, turning on the alarm system with its infrared beams and heat sensors. Then kicking off the high heels she’d forced herself to wear, she padded barefoot through the vast, marble hallway of the faux Grecian villa that encompassed the front entryway. The moon was out, a thick crescent hanging over the mountains, and even with the light from the endless city around them it shone clear and bright. She stared up at it for a moment, breathing in the serene beauty. The day had been long and stressful, but it was almost over. All she had to do was climb into her old Volvo station wagon and drive home, where she could strip off her clothes, drink a glass of wine and soak in the wooden tub that had been her one extravagance.

Suddenly she wasn’t alone. She could feel the eyes on her again, watching her, the intensity like a physical pull. She glanced around, as casually as she could, but there was no one in sight. The landscaping at the Sansone provided ample places to hide and watch—someone could be in the eighteenth century gazebo in the midst of the formal gardens on the right, or hiding behind the shrubbery on the left. She’d parked her car at the far end of the lot to leave room for the guests, and it was hidden in the shadows of overhanging trees. For a brief, cowardly moment she considered heading back into the museum, waiting until the security guards arrived.

But she was worn-out, and decided her imagination must be playing tricks on her. She’d been sleeping at Micah’s since her house had been broken into, but the last thing she wanted to do was intrude on her best friend’s newly resurrected love life. Besides, she missed her own bed.

The guards would be there soon enough, and if an army of cat burglars decided to show up there wasn’t much she could do about it. If she waited that long she’d probably fall asleep at the wheel. No, she was being absurd, paranoid. No one was out to get her, not even the greedy Shirosama. He didn’t want her. He wanted the bowl, though she had no idea why.

She started walking down the drive, the tiny white bits of gravel sharp under her bare soles, and she cursed beneath her breath. Nothing would make her cram her feet back into the high heels, but maybe she’d see if she could talk the board of directors into paving the parking lot instead of littering it with decorative little shards of stone.

Her car was too old to be equipped with power locks, and she’d shoved her key in the door to open it when she heard a noise, so small that she might have imagined it. She jerked her head up, peering into the darkness around her—she could feel those eyes again—when suddenly the door of her Volvo slammed open and someone leapt out at her, knocking her to the ground, the tiny stones digging into her back as cloth covered her face and she felt the smothering darkness close in.

2

She wasn’t going down without a fight. She kicked out, hard, but bare feet weren’t much of a defense, and whoever had been hiding in her car was strong, wrapping burly arms around her over the shroud and dragging her across the pebbles. She began to scream, loud cries for help, and something cuffed the side of her head. She could hear voices, low and muffled, and a moment later the unpleasant sound of a car trunk opening. She fought back, but another pair of hands joined in, and she was dumped into the trunk, the lid slamming down on her before she could stop them.

She shoved the thin blanket away from her and began kicking and pounding on the lid of the trunk. She was in some kind of luxury car—the space was huge and carpeted—and she had a pretty good idea who had done this. The True Realization Fellowship had a reputation for getting what it wanted, and no one wanted anything from her but the Shirosama. She kicked again, screaming at her captors, until someone pounded back on the trunk, a loud thwack that would have dented the metal of a cheaper car.

And then a moment later the vehicle was moving, tearing down the long, curving driveway that led from the Sansone, moving at dangerous speeds, tossing her about in the trunk like a sack of potatoes. Summer’s head slammed against the metal side and she braced herself, holding on. Screaming was a waste of time—no one would hear her over the noise of the road or through the soundproofing. She needed to save her energy to escape.

She could feel the car turning onto the main road—the vehicle leveled out, and whoever was driving was keeping a more sedate pace, clearly not wanting to draw any unwanted attention with a woman in the trunk. Summer tried to listen, to learn anything that would help her figure out what they wanted from her, where they were taking her, but there was absolute silence from the front of the car. She didn’t even know for certain whether there was one or more of them. Two people had tossed her into the trunk, but that didn’t mean both had gotten into the vehicle. If she had to deal with only one man, and she was prepared, then maybe she stood a fighting chance whenever he decided to stop and—

The car sped up suddenly, tossing her against the rear of the compartment, slamming her knee against the locking mechanism. She cried out, but the sound was muffled in the carpeted trunk.

“Calm down,” she said out loud, her voice soft and eerie in the darkness. She took a deep, steady breath, and then another. She couldn’t just let herself be tossed around indefinitely—she had to think of a way out.

Wouldn’t they have a jack and tire iron in the trunk? Under the thick carpeting? She slid her fingers beneath the edge, to a latch, but when she tried to pull it up the weight of her body was in the way. She scrunched over to one side as far as she could go, managing to get the lid up far enough to reach under it, into the well of the car. There was a tire there, all right, and she could feel the scissor jack. There had to be a tire iron as well.

She almost missed the small leather bag of tools. Inside was a nice iron rod that could manage to break a few bones if properly applied. The very thought was nauseating, but not as bad as being kidnapped in the middle of the night. She dropped the lid back down, rolling over on it, and tucked the foot-long iron bar into her long, flowing sleeve. She could even jab someone in the eye with it, if necessary.

They were going faster now, faster than when they’d sped down the road from the museum, so fast that she could barely maintain her balance in the huge trunk. She felt the car skid as the driver took a corner too quickly, and when he straightened out he sped up even more. It wasn’t until Summer heard the sound of another engine, much too close behind them, that she realized they were being chased.

Not by the police—there were no sirens blaring, just the roar of a vehicle far too near for her peace of mind.

The loud cracking noise was unmistakable, and she rolled facedown in the trunk, covering her head with her hands. Someone was shooting, and she sincerely doubted it was some white knight coming to her rescue. No one had been around to see her being hustled into the trunk of the car, and if anyone was trying to save her, he’d hardly be firing a gun and putting her in even greater danger.

She felt a jolt as the vehicle behind them smacked the rear of her prison, then everything happened at once. Time seemed suspended. The sound of gunfire, the crunch of metal on metal, the screech of tires as the driver fought to maintain control and the car began to slide to one side.

“Shit shit shit shit,” Summer muttered under her breath, a prayer or an incantation, as she felt her entire world spin out. The car was tumbling down an embankment, finally coming to a stop against something immovable, throwing her against the front of the trunk, knocking the wind out of her. She lay there in stunned disbelief as all went very quiet around her, except for the sound of the engine. The car was probably going to burst into flames and explode, with her in it, but at the moment she didn’t care. She just lay still, trying to catch her breath, waiting for the explosion.

Instead the engine died, and the sudden silence was shocking. There were no voices, but, more unnerving, she could hear footsteps outside the car.

She tried to sit up, to reach for the tire iron, which had been rolling around in the trunk. The car was partially on its side, and she felt as if she’d spent the last half hour in a blender—she was a mass of pain and bruises, and she wasn’t safe yet. Whoever was prowling around the car had a gun, and there was no reason to think he wouldn’t use it on her.

She groped about, still searching for the tire iron, and found it under her back just as the trunk popped open.

She couldn’t see a thing. Someone was standing there, but they seemed to be on a deserted road, and the lights from the car that had pulled up behind them threw everything into stark shadows. She wouldn’t have thought there were any roads this empty so close to L.A., but the driver had somehow managed to find one. Unable to get the tire iron out from under her, she simply squeezed her eyes tightly shut and waited for the bullet.

Instead she felt hands hauling her out of the cavernous trunk into the cool night air, setting her on unsteady feet, holding on to her until the trembling stopped.

It was the man from the gallery, the tall man with the sunglasses. He wasn’t wearing them anymore, and her panic increased as she realized he was at least part Asian, like her nemesis the Shirosama. It couldn’t be a coincidence, could it?

Even in the shadows she could see that he was exquisitely beautiful with high, perfect cheekbones; exotic eyes of an indeterminate shade; narrow face and rich, full mouth … His hair was long and silky, black, and he towered over her. Another of the Shirosama’s hit men? Because he did look like a hit man—that is, what she imagined one would look like.

“Are you all right?” He might as well be asking if she wanted sugar in her coffee. She tried to say something, but words failed her, and she simply stared up at him silently. “Get in the car,” he said.

That was enough to stir her out of her momentary shock. She wasn’t getting in anyone’s car. “No.”

“It’s your choice. I can leave you here, but there’s no guarantee who will find you first. If you don’t show up at the Shirosama’s headquarters, someone will come looking.”

“Is that who tried to kidnap me?”

“Unless you have any other dire enemies, which I doubt. Get in the car.”

It wasn’t much of a choice, and she climbed the bank toward the waiting car, limping slightly. She stopped, turning back to glance at the vehicle she’d been trapped in. It was tilted on its side, and someone was slumped over the steering wheel. Someone in a white robe, with red staining the pristine cloth.

“Shouldn’t we see if he’s all right?” she said, hesitating.

“Do you care?”

“Of course I care. He may have wanted to hurt me, but he’s a human being and—”

“He’s dead.”

“Oh.”

She was very cold. It was a warm L.A. night and she was freezing. “Get in the car,” the man said again, opening the passenger door like the perfect chauffeur.

She got in. The seats were leather, comfortable, and it took her a long time to get the seat belt fastened. Her hands were shaking, and she couldn’t seem to make them stop. She ought to pay more attention to her surroundings, she told herself, so she could give a full report to the police, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. She didn’t know what kind of car this was, though she’d recognized the other vehicle as one of the Shirosama’s well-known white limos.

“Was the driver the only one in the car?” she found herself asking in a quiet voice when the man got in beside her and started the engine. A low, sexy rumble … it must be some kind of sports car. She didn’t notice any insignia inside, which didn’t help. She was going to be a piss-poor witness when the police questioned her. Assuming she got to the police.

He put the car in reverse, backed up and then took off into the night, moving so fast the road was a blur, the crash site vanishing into the darkness. “You don’t really want to know that,” he said.

Maybe he was right. She leaned her head back against the cushioned seat and closed her eyes, feeling dizzy. “Where are we going? Are you taking me to the police?”

“Now why would I do that?”

She turned horrified eyes on him. “To make a report. Some men tried to kidnap me. They shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it.”

“Actually, they didn’t just try, they succeeded. And they didn’t get away with it.”

Immediately, she pictured the man slumped over the steering wheel, the bright red blood against the white linen. Calm, she told herself. Deep, calming breaths. Think about more important things.

“Did you shoot them? I heard gunshots.” The question seemed almost surreal, but he simply shook his head.

“They were the ones shooting. They didn’t like being run off the road.”

She could have asked him about the blood, but suddenly she didn’t want to know.

Fighting her panic, she forced herself to look at the driver’s impassive profile. “And who exactly are you? Don’t try to tell me you’re a random passerby—I won’t believe you.”

“If I were a random passerby I wouldn’t know about the Shirosama, would I?” he replied in a reasonable tone.

“You were at the reception. I saw you there.”

“I was.”

“Where’s your girlfriend?”

“What girlfriend?”

“The blonde with the boobs. It was obvious you couldn’t keep your eyes off her cleavage … except it was you watching me, wasn’t it? I could feel someone staring at me, but every time I turned around I couldn’t find anyone. It was you, right? Why?”

“Let’s just say I expected something like this to go down. The Shirosama and his bunch were practically drooling over the Hayashi Urn, and you were keeping it from them. I’m guessing once his holiness was through with you they thought they could get you to open up the museum for them.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. The Hayashi Urn? Do you mean my ceramic bowl?”

He shot a glance at her in the darkened interior of the car. He seemed perfectly comfortable at the immense speeds he was traveling. His hands were draped loosely on the steering wheel. Beautiful hands, with long, elegant fingers. All of them intact, which ruled out her sudden suspicion that he might be a member of the Japanese crime syndicate, the Yakuza. Most members of that organization were missing at least part of their fingers, a sign of atonement for mistakes made. Unless her rescuer never made mistakes.