Ice Blue (Ice 3)

They were moving up the overgrown walkway, and the darkness would have hidden her expression. She didn’t need a mirror to know her face had turned white, her eyes stricken. At least he couldn’t see.

She handed him the key.

He said nothing, and she wished she knew what he was thinking. Whatever it was, she bet it wasn’t pleasant, for all the austere beauty in his exotic face.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” he said. “And don’t make the mistake of trying to run again.”

And then he moved into the shadowy house, ignoring her.

She fed the cats first, her hands shaking. At least she had her priorities in order, and Phantom, Cello and Pooska showed their appreciation. Takashi was in Micah’s bedroom, searching, but making no noise at all. She knew almost nothing about the man she’d spent the last twenty-four hours with, but she was certain there’d be no sign of his presence in Micah’s house once he finished his business, unlike the time the brethren had tossed her place. She left him to his search, heading into the small bedroom that was hers, grabbing some black jeans and a T-shirt as she went into the bathroom. She could take lightning fast showers, and within three minutes she was toweling off, inspecting the reddened burns on her shins and hands. She hadn’t even noticed when the boiling water had hit her. No wonder—she’d been running for her life.

She pulled on the plain black bra and panties, sat down on the closed toilet and reached for a tube of ointment that was unlikely to do much good, cursing underneath her breath. It hurt like the devil, and blisters were beginning to form. Even her loose jeans were going to rub painfully, but she had no choice.

She didn’t notice when the locked door opened. Didn’t notice anyone standing there, watching her out of dark, unreadable eyes, until he spoke.

“What the hell did you do to yourself?”

8

Summer shrieked, grabbing her discarded towel and wrapping it around her body. “Go away!”

“Don’t be tiresome.” He came into the room, caught the edge of the towel and yanked it from her, tossing it to one side. “How did you get hurt?”

“Give me my clothes—”

“I don’t give a flying fuck what you’re wearing,” he said. “I need to check your injuries to make sure you’re able to keep up with me.”

She’d wrapped her arms around her torso in a futile effort to shield herself from his indifferent gaze. She knew her average-bordering-on-plump body would have held little interest for him. Or that, God forbid, she wanted it to. She just didn’t want those flat, dark eyes seeing her so exposed.

But he was also stronger, more determined and very impatient, and the more she resisted the longer she’d be in this awkward situation. “I was in the kitchen of the noodle shop when the men came after me, and I tipped over a vat of boiling water to stop them. I must have gotten splashed myself, though I didn’t notice at the time.”

“Give me your hands.”

If she did that she could no longer cover herself. Since it wasn’t doing much good anyway, she sucked in her stomach and held out one palm.

“Both of them.”

She stopped fighting him, at least for the moment, holding out her hands. They were mostly steady, a fact she could be proud of, considering she was sitting in her underwear in front of a strange man, a very handsome strange man, and people were trying to kill her.

He took them in his, turning them over to examine the red blotches. And the scars. There was nothing she could do or say—any fool would recognize the marks of a botched suicide attempt. But he made no comment. “When we get to where we’re going I probably have something that will help.”

“Where are we going?”

He ignored her, dropping her hands and squatting down to look at her ankles. It was all Summer could do not to squirm. Having a man on his knees in front of her was bringing all sorts of strange, uncomfortable thoughts—erotic ones—a kind she wasn’t used to having—and she would have given ten years of her life if she just had one more layer of clothes on. She’d managed to live a carefully untouched existence. She knew she could have sex with a man without screaming; her three months with Scott had given her that much, if not an appreciation for the actual event, and she’d spent the last few years safe and uninterested. But for some totally insane reason this man was stirring feelings that were either long dead or had never existed. And she didn?

??t like it.

He didn’t seem to notice or care. “These are slightly worse, but they shouldn’t slow you down.” He looked up into her face, not moving from his position, and his hands still cradled her ankles. And Summer couldn’t let her mind go any further in that direction. “So tell me where the urn really is and we’ll get the hell out of here before anyone shows up.”

“I don’t know.”

His hand shot out, wrapping around her neck, and his strength was unnerving. “I don’t want to hear that again,” he said calmly. “No more lies.”

“It’s not a lie.” Her voice was muffled from the pressure against her throat. “Micah made the copy for me in the first place. I thought he’d put the original back in the house somewhere.”

Taka loosened his grip slightly. “He hasn’t. Trust me, if the urn was here I would have found it. Where else would he have put it?”

“I don’t…” His grip tightened, and she let the words trail off. She swallowed nervously, feeling his palm against her throat. “He could have given it to someone else to hide.”