He knew when he fucked her into compliance—telling himself it was to calm her, screw her into oblivion—that it was his own oblivion he craved.
He had two choices—a ryokan or Reno’s place. Reno’s was probably the best choice, though the hostility was coming off his little cousin in waves. It wasn’t Taka’s place to tell Summer why Reno hated Americans—she could just assume it was casual racism. A ryokan was probably a bad idea; the traditional inns were one of the last remnants of the old Japan that the Shirosama was so eager to bring back and he’d likely have moles strategically placed.
Taka was going to have to wait a little longer for his bath. In the meantime Reno’s place would have to do. And he was going to have to ignore the fact that it was the height of Tokyo luxury—two very tiny rooms crammed with things, including Reno’s beloved Harley.
“You ready?”
Summer was chasing the last grain of rice with her chopsticks, and doing it with surprising deftness. She probably knew how to pour sake and arrange ikebana, he thought sourly.
The food had made her feistier. Her deep blue eyes were flinty as she looked at him across the table. She hadn’t forgotten what had happened in the bathroom—even if she wished she could. “Where are we going?”
“To Reno’s. Safest place I can think of,” he said in a low voice.
“That’s not saying much. He doesn’t like me.”
He shrugged. “I told you, he doesn’t like Americans. He’ll put us up. His place his small, though. We’ll share a futon.”
Her face froze. “No, we won’t.”
Taka leaned across the table. “Just because you joined the mile high club doesn’t mean I can’t keep my hands off you. I’m not going to fuck you with my cousin five feet away.” His voice was little more than a whisper, and the color in her face flamed.
“You’re not going to fuck me at all,” she snapped. “Ever again. I’ll kill you if you try.”
He laughed softly, even though he knew it would outrage her. She was stronger when she was mad, and he needed her strong. “I’m a hard man to kill,” he said. “And, by the way, I didn’t hear you saying no on the plane.”
It was a good thing she had chopsticks instead of a fork—she probably would have stabbed his hand. As it was she withdrew into herself, the dignified Dr. Hawthorne, her silence making her disdain clear.
“Good,” he said, clearing the dishes. “Next time, if you don’t want it, say no.”
Her face was perfectly composed when they stepped out onto the crowded streets. It was getting dark already, and he’d put his hand on her arm, to steer her out of the way of a salaryman on an early drunk when she stumbled against him and her spiked heel dug into his instep.
He jumped, cursing at the unexpected pain, only to meet her smug smile. “Sumimasen,” she said with exaggerated sweetness. “I can be so clumsy.”
He stared at her in shock
. No one had managed to catch him off guard, inflict pain on him, in a long, long time. More proof that he needed to get the hell away from Summer Hawthorne. She made him dangerously vulnerable, and he couldn’t afford that, for her sake as well as his own.
She wouldn’t be used to the high heels or the time difference, so he walked her the long way to Reno’s place, crossing and recrossing the pedestrian bridges that stretched over the busy streets. He was waiting for her to complain, but she didn’t, not even when they passed Tokyo Tower for the second time. His cousin lived in the Roppongi district, among the high-rise hotels and the strip clubs, the better to oversee his grandfather’s many and varied financial interests. Even now he was probably out prowling in some pachinko parlor, but it didn’t matter if he wasn’t home; Reno didn’t need to lock his doors. No one would be fool enough to mess with the Oyabun’s grandson.
She made it up the three flights of stairs without complaint—she’d probably cut out her tongue before she’d admit weakness. Taka pushed open the door, waiting for her to precede him, watching as she automatically slipped off her shoes before stepping inside. She was really beginning to piss him off. He didn’t want her to be comfortable in his world. He wanted her to be an interloper, a gaijin, and he wanted her gone.
The golf case was there, open and empty, leaning up against one corner in the crammed apartment. Reno had draped the heavy antique kimono across the table with consummate care, and he’d pulled out the spare futon, leaving the rest of the treasure, including the urn and the cheap modern kimono, on top. He must have known they’d be coming, which was both annoying and reassuring.
Summer’s outrage was enough to get her talking again. “He just left it here? After all we’ve been through, he just put the urn on the mattress and walked away without locking the doors?”
“No one would dare come in.”
“The Shirosama and his zombies would dare anything.”
“Yes, but they don’t know we’re here. Yet.”
“Yet,” she echoed. She sank down on the mattress next to the urn, staring at it, and he could see the exhaustion in her face. Yet he wanted nothing more than to kick the priceless treasure out of the way and cover her body with his. Strip off the expensive clothes that made her look like a beautiful stranger, strip everything away from her.
Yeah, and have Reno walk in on them while he was doing it? Not likely.
Nor could Taka stay here with her, watching her temptingly yawn and stretch like a sleepy kitten. “I’m going to find Reno,” he said abruptly. “We need to figure out what we’re going to do next. Why don’t you change out of those clothes and try to get some sleep? I don’t know when we’ll be back, or where we’re going when we do.”
“Change into what? I don’t think Reno’s clothes would suit me and there wasn’t much besides underwear in the suitcase someone packed for me. The Japanese end of your little organization wasn’t nearly as efficient as the one in California.”