“That you’re a gangster. A member of the Yakuza.”
“Yakuza.” He corrected her pronunciation. “You’ve seen too many movies.”
“Maybe. But in the last twenty-four hours I’ve seen dead people, been kidnapped, run for my life, had a good friend killed…sounds like organized crime to me, even if you do have all your fingers.”
“Movies again,” he said lightly. “Does it matter who I am, as long as I’m keeping you alive?”
“That depends.”
“On what?”
“On how long you’re planning to do that.”
He was still touching her, his hand a manacle around her wrist so she couldn’t run. Not that she would—if she had to take her chances between getting electrocuted and staying with this man, the choice was clear.
“At least long enough for you to tell me where the real urn is. Micah made more than one, didn’t he?”
Damn. Maybe he really was with the Ministry of Antiquities—that forgery was top-notch. “And then you’ll let me die? Not much incentive.”
He released her wrist, and she wrapped her own fingers around the place he’d held her, absently rubbing, trying to erase the feel of him. “The doors and windows are armed, and if you try to get out without knowing the codes you’ll die. Keep that in mind while I finish getting dressed.”
She said nothing, trying to move as far from him as she could.
“On second thought, maybe you’d better come with me. I don’t trust you.”
“I don’t—” He took her arm and hauled her back up the stairs with him, giving her a perfect view of his back as they headed toward the bedroom he’d used.
The design was complex and beautiful—an Asian dragon, long and lean, curled protectively around something small and vulnerable, with angel’s wings etched on his shoulder blades. The tattoos went down the outside of his arms, down his back beyond the waist of his low-slung jeans, and she wondered where they stopped. And then she jerked her eyes above his waist, immediately feeling heat flood her face.
She must have stalled, because he yanked her forward, pushing her ahead of him into his bedroom and onto the bed. She sprang up immediately but he simply pushed her back down again.
“Don’t jump to any conclusions,” he said. “I just don’t want to be running after you.”
She said nothing, though her mind was going a mile a minute. Either he hadn’t slept or he’d made the bed—the pillows and covers seemed untouched. He reached for a long-sleeved shirt and pulled it on, covering up the intricate tattoos that marked his body—him—as dangerous.
“I don’t know why you’re so shocked,” he said, shoving a hand through his damp black hair. “Who did you think you were dealing with? Have I ever given you the impression that I wasn’t a dangerous man?”
“No,” she said in a small voice.
He hadn’t buttoned his shirt, but he grabbed a dark jacket that was lying on a chair and pulled it on. Black leather, and beautifully tailored. So well-tailored that it had to have been made just for him, and once more she wondered where the hell they were and who was supplying them. She’d found a duplicate of her favorite pair of black khakis, same size, same brand, plus matching or similar shirts. And they’d even brought the same three sizes of black jeans she kept.
At this rate she’d be back into the skinny ones soon enough; she couldn’t remember when she’d last had a decent meal. And right now her stomach was churning too badly to even think about it.
“Look at it this way,” he said, leaning against the dresser and watching her out of dark, impenetrable eyes. “If I have any connection to organized crime it can only work to your benefit. I don’t need to worry about trifles like legalities if I want to keep you safe.”
“And do you? Want to keep me safe, that is?”
She expected a fast answer, something noncommittal, but for a moment he said nothing. “I want the urn,” he said finally. “I want to know where it came from in the first place. That’s why the Shirosama is so determined to get his hands on you. If all he wanted was the urn he would have killed you and taken it from the museum. You’re the only one who knows where the original shrine is.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t know anything at all about a shrine, or even much about the urn. I used it to hold cookies, for God’s sake. And why should the Shirosama care where some mythical shrine is? He wants the urn because my mother promised it to him and it’s worth a lot of money and I don’t want him to have it. I’m just the means to an end. I know how ruthless he can be, and I figured I’d have copies made to confuse him. But I don’t matter to him.”
“You know more than you think. Hana Hayashi wouldn’t have died without trying to pass on that information. And you’re the only one she could turn to.”
“She couldn’t have known she’d be killed by a hit-and-run driver,” Summer protested.
“A very conveniently timed hit-and-run driver. She knew.” Taka pushed away from the dresser. “Where’s the urn?”
“I don’t—”