amn urn was, and he’d let her get away with too many lies.
He could tell her the Shirosama had kidnapped her sister, but that would only send her into a panic, and women in a panic were unpredictable. On the other hand, Summer was already enough of an anomaly—she managed to keep her head in circumstances that would have most women weeping. He needed something failsafe.
Sex. He hadn’t used sex with her, and he didn’t know why he was so squeamish in this particular case. Why was he hesitating? He could picture her, pale and defiant, and thought about that plain black underwear beneath the baggy clothes. These would be duplicates from her closet, so clearly she never wore anything that showed her body—nothing fitted, nothing with any color, and he once again wondered why. She had a good body. He’d seen her naked in the tub, and his powers of observation were top-notch.
She had nothing to be ashamed of, no reason to cover her figure in wads of dark clothing. Her hips and butt were maybe too generous, and her flesh was soft, rather than the tightly muscled buffness so in vogue nowadays. She had a woman’s body—round, soft, comforting. The kind a man stayed with.
He’d seen that uneasy expression in her eyes when she thought he wouldn’t notice. She watched him, and she was fascinated. Frightened. Attracted. And she didn’t want to be. If Taka’s instincts were correct, it would take very little to get her on her back. Very little to get between her legs and find out what he needed to know.
He had hoped he could do it some other way. If he did end up having to hurt her it would be betrayal enough. He didn’t want to have to fuck the information out of her.
But he’d run out of options, and there was nowhere else to go. He thought about her, pale and defiant, and he released the tight hold he’d had over his body. Looked at her and began to get hard.
What would she respond to? Strength? Being mastered? Some women were turned on by that, and he had no doubt that part of her fascination with him was because he was like nothing else she’d ever known. Hell, he was like nothing else most people had ever known.
Or would she respond better to softness? Gentleness, even a touch of uncertainty to give her the illusion of control? He could make her think she was doing this for him, nobly sacrificing her body for his pleasure, and she wouldn’t know otherwise until he had her shivering and climaxing beneath him.
Or maybe a combination of the two. She was smart—that was part of the problem. Too damn smart. She would see through any half-assed attempt at seduction. He had to pull out all the stops to get her where he wanted her.
And in the end, she probably would have preferred he’d just killed her.
It was no one’s fault but her own. He’d tried everything, but she’d kept her secrets, and too many lives depended on finding out what those secrets were.
Perhaps her ability to bury secrets explained why the rest of her was much too easy to read. She was afraid of sex, totally turned off to it, and yet she couldn’t stop looking at him. She probably didn’t even know she wanted him. She’d be horrified if he told her, if he made a move.
He could have her eating out of his hand. He could have her down on her knees in front of him, doing anything he told her to, and she had no idea how vulnerable she really was. He could feel it, see it, sense it.
He was accustomed to women wanting him. What shocked him was the simple fact that he wanted her.
Not hot, energetic sex. Not a blow job from a novice. He wanted her with a perplexing intensity he hadn’t felt in years. He was the King of Death, and she was his consort.
And no amount of common sense could distract him.
There was limitless hot water, and he stood in the shower a long time, letting it stream over his body. He wanted a traditional Japanese bath—to sit in the still, hot water and let everything fade away—but he wasn’t going to have that indulgence until he got back to Japan, and that return would come with its own set of problems.
He toweled off, ignoring his reflection in the mirror. He was used to it—the combination of his mother’s exquisite, Asian beauty mixed with his father’s appeal. His mother had valued beauty above all things, and certainly would have chosen someone of comparable beauty to marry. Not that Takashi knew—he’d never even seen a photograph of his dead father. All he knew of the man was his last name and what was reflected in Taka’s own face. That, and the fact that his grandfather had had him murdered.
Ancient history. Taka pulled on the jeans they’d left him, at his request, zipping but not buttoning them, and then looked up again. To see Summer Hawthorne’s horrified reflection in the bathroom mirror as she stared at his back.
He whirled around, but it was too late. “How long have you…?” he began, but she’d already taken off.
He caught her before she reached the front door. His hand clamped down on her shoulder when she hit the landing, and she came flying backward, falling against him so that they were both on the stairs, his arms wrapped around her, imprisoning her struggling body.
She kicked at him, but she was barefoot and her efforts were a waste of time. His arms were like iron bands around her, and for all her struggles there was nothing she could do. After a moment she stilled, the tension draining from her body, but he didn’t release her.
“There are a thousand watts of electricity going through the front door,” he said in her ear. “If you’d passed through you’d be dead.”
She shivered, and a moment later his arms loosened. He stood, pulling her upright, and she stared at him in the early morning light.
He was shirtless, wearing only a pair of jeans, and once more her stomach knotted. How could someone so dangerous be so enticing? He was thin, strong, with smooth, golden skin stretched tautly over bone and muscle. Leaving no clue to what was on his back.
“I saw your tattoos,” she said.
“I know you did. So?”
“So I know what they mean.”
“That I’m a Japanese biker?”