Fire & Ice (12 page)

He was tall, like Reno, if you could judge by the people standing next to him in the graduation photo. Short black hair, high cheekbones, narrow, clever face. The same full, luscious mouth that Reno had, the same nose. Was he some kind of cousin? He looked like an ordinary version of the exotic Reno
....

She picked up the photo, staring at it. The stress of the past few days must have been even worse than she realized, to have it take so long to make the connection. The conservative-looking, soberly dressed young gentleman, the brilliant graduate of several universities, Hiromasa Shinoda, didn't just look like Reno. He was Reno.

She hadn't heard the door open. Suddenly he was there, plucking the photo out of her hand and putting it facedown on the low table. “He's not your type,” Reno said.

She stared at him. The red tattooed tears, like drops of blood, on his high cheekbones, the cats-eye contacts that gave him a feral look, the three earrings in one ear and the long, flame-colored braid. “So you've been telling me for the past three days,” she said with utter calm.

She made him blink. It was the strongest response she'd been able to elicit from him in days, and she took her small triumphs where she could. “Did you bring me back some food?”

He glanced over at the tiny kitchen area. “It looks as if you've already devoured everything here. Including the dried octopus. I thought you didn't do tentacles.”

“I couldn't afford to be picky. And I'm still hungry.”

He just looked at her. Her blush was instinctive, uncontrollable. Okay, so he won that round. “I brought back food, since you seem to be obsessed with it.”

He was standing too close to her. She pulled the blue-and-white yukata more closely around her, and the slow smile on his face was just a little too close to a smirk, as if he could read her mind, her skittishness, and found them funny.

She was going to wipe that look off his face. “So, Hiromasa-san,” she said, her voice cool, “why do you keep this apartment?”

The smirk vanished, and his eyes narrowed. “You can call me Reno.”

“Is that what your grandfather calls you?”

“My grandfather calls me a disgrace to his name since I turned my back on the family business. And I don't blame him—if I hadn't left, he wouldn't be in this mess now.”

“What mess? Exactly what's going on with your grandfather besides a little gang warfare?”

“You have no idea,” he said, his voice like ice. “You could tell me.”

For a moment she thought he'd say nothing. “My grandfather is old school. Very old school. And his family follows his code. He won't touch drug dealing, the sex trade, arms trading. He's part of the old Robin Hood ethic. And Hitomi and the men who are listening to him are part of the new wave.”

“If they don't deal drugs or prostitution or weapons, what is it they do? They sound pretty harmless to me.”

“They're bakuto . They mostly deal with gambling, protection, counterfeit luxury goods. Mostly soft crimes that are committed without force. Unfortunately, they don't bring in the kind of money and power that the gurentai could give them.” “Gurentai?”

“More like your American mafia.”

And Hitomi is part of that?”

“It seems like it. And I don't know how far it goes. I never would have thought Kobayashi would turn his back on the old man.” He moved over to the window, looking out into the darkness. “Until I find out, there's nothing I can do but keep you here. No matter how much I want to get rid of you, I can't risk it,” he said, his voice flat. “I've put up with you for too long to fail now.”

“What about my parents? My sister? They don't think I'm dead, do they? I don't want to put them through that kind of grief. And yes, as hard as it is for you to believe, my death will upset my family. Not everyone finds me a royal pain in the ass.” She paused, thinking about it. As a matter of fact, I don't know anyone who considers me a royal pain in the ass except you. Why?”

“They haven't been trapped with you for three days,” he said, turning his back on her and heading into the kitchen area. “Maybe everyone else has only seen your best side. If you've lived your life without annoying anyone, then you must be very boring.”

“You don't find me boring,” she said, watching him.

He didn't turn back, concentrating on opening the carton. “Life would be easier if I did,” he muttered.

Okay, that was interesting. Had she somehow managed to get past his cool, heartless soul? Now he was reminding her of something out of Kingdom Hearts, her favorite video game, though she couldn't remember who.

But he was no Disney-anime cross, and she needed to remember that. He was a man—granted, a hot one—but more trouble than he was worth. Besides, Summer would kill her.

“So you brought me food?” Anything was better than thinking about something she could never, should never, have.

“You're obsessed. The sashimi is for me—I wouldn't want to waste it on an inexperienced gaijin. I brought you oyakudon and Miso soup. The Japanese version of macaroni and cheese and chicken soup.”

“You think I need comfort food?”

He turned his head to look at her. “I'm just trying to keep you quiet and docile while I figure out what to do next.”

“I hate to tell you this, but the price of inner peace comes a little higher than macaroni and cheese.”

“I don't give a shit about your inner peace—it's your silence I'm looking forward to.” He turned back, then jumped a bit, as if he hadn't realized how close she was. He was skittish, and she wasn't sure if that was a good sign or bad. It depended what was making him nervy. The danger? Or her?

She got out of his way, not wanting to risk brushing up against him, not after last night, and he headed to the computer. “Help yourself,” he said. “I need to check a few things.”

“Are you sure that's safe? Someone can hack into your IP address and find where we are if they're good enough.”

“No, they can't. I know my way around computers.” It was a simple statement, one she believed, so she busied herself with the food he'd brought. Enough for both of them. Did he expect her to serve him like a good Japanese hausfrau, or whatever you'd call it in Japan? If so, he was going to wait a long time.

He was right, though. The hot Miso soup was like a mother's calming touch, not that Lianne had been much for nurturing, but the warmth spread through Jilly's body like a shot of whiskey.

The other dish was made of chicken, rice and egg, bland and lovely. She glanced over at him while she shoveled the food into her mouth, but he seemed intent on the screen, totally oblivious to her.

For the first time she could watch him, really watch him. With the studied swagger, the mocking grin vanishing, the glittering eyes focused on something else, she could see glimpses of the somber young man in the photo. The red teardrops still danced across his high cheekbones, and his eyelashes were still absurdly long, but without the protective, outrageous persona he suddenly looked just a little bit like Hiromasa Shinoda.

It should have wiped out any last lingering trace of fantasy. There was no Reno, there was simply a bright young man with a bizarre and compelling protective shell wrapped around him. And she wondered what he would do if she untied the cotton robe.

He swiveled his head to look at her then, and his eyes narrowed. “Seen enough?” he drawled.

She didn't even blink. “Why? Are you planning on showing me more?”

“I'm trying to save your life here. You might at least stop trying to distract me,” he growled, turning back to the computer screen and typing.

Am I distracting you?” she said sweetly. “Tough shit. I don't suppose you have any clean clothes that might fit me.”

“I'm making arrangements.”

“You mean, there's someone we can trust who's not out to kill us?”

“Someone I can trust. I don't think I'd risk leaving you alone with him. Kyo makes me seem like a pussycat.”

“Kyo?”

“Five feet two inches of pure nastiness. Unfortunately he's the only person who's good enough to keep out of the way of Hitomi's spies. I can't guarantee you'll like what he comes up with, but at least you’ll be decently covered.”

“Lovely,” she said, sarcastic. “And in the meantime?”

“In the meantime, try to get some sleep. We're not going anywhere for a while.”

“Sleep where?”

He glanced up at her. The cut on his cheekbone looked nasty, and she wondered if it would leave a scar. It would only make him even hotter, damn it. “You can open the futon. Don't worry, I don't intend to sleep. I'm not going to touch you again.”

The memory of the previous night came flooding back, his hands between her legs, her body arching in spasms of hot, breathless release. “Not if you want to keep your hands,” she said, calm.

He turned away, and she had no idea whether he believed her. In the end it didn't matter. Whether she wanted him to or not, he wasn't going to touch her again. And she was grateful. She didn't want him touching her, didn't want him kissing her, didn't want anything at all from him except to get away.

And the sooner she believed that, the better off she'd be.

Reno pushed away from the computer, beyond frustrated. He had a headache—he'd taken out his contact lenses hours ago, but even that didn't help. Hours on the computer with little or no sleep wasn't doing him any good, and it wasn't bringing him any closer to the answers he was seeking. Who the hell was Hitomi-san? Was he from another gang, like the all-powerful Yamaguchi-gumi family, or was he working on his own, trying to take control of an already established family? There was no record of him to be found, even through the various side alleyways of the Internet that he knew so well.

He looked over at the futon. She was asleep, her short streaky hair tumbled around her face, and he leaned back in the chair, watching her while she slept.

She wasn't his type—apart from the fact that every female under the age of fifty was his type. She was gaijin, she was American, she was as tall as he was and she was trouble. He had very few rules in his life, but one was never to sleep with anyone who came with strings attached. Ji-chan was so tied up in his family she was practically an exercise in bondage.

And that was not what he wanted to be thinking of right now, when he was trying to keep his mind off his dick. She looked almost innocent as she slept, not the sharp-tongued pain in the ass he knew her to be. But then, he wouldn't be as drawn to someone so vulnerable. He kept away from the innocent and the needy at all times. It only led to trouble.

And that was exactly what Ji-chan was. Nothing but trouble of the most basic sort. He'd done his best to make sure he'd rid her of any lingering, childish fantasies about him. It was a lot better, safer, that way.

But now that she was over him he had to work on getting over her. Which might be even harder to do.

He was tired, so bone-tired he could fall asleep in the chair. Which is just what he needed to do. It didn't matter that she looked like she belonged on his futon. It didn't matter that there was plenty of room for him, too, if he slept close to her. She'd used his almond-scented soap, and the smell of it on her skin was making him crazy. If it weren't dead winter, he'd open a window.

A cold shower might help. Then he could stretch out on the kitchen floor, far enough away from her to be safe. He'd slept in worse places, and being uncomfortable would be good for him. He could look at her, a few feet away, and resent her.

The problem was, he realized half an hour later as he tried to get comfortable on the tatami mat, that now he smelled like almond soap, as well. And just to make his torture complete, this was the night she decided to toss about in her sleep, her long, bare legs kicking out from his plain cotton robe, the neckline pulling away, showing too much of the soft curve of her breast. And when she turned her back it was even worse. The nape of her neck had to be the hottest thing he'd ever seen, vulnerable, the spiky blond hair curling slightly above it. There was a reason geisha wore their kimono pulled down slightly in the back. The delicate nape of a neck could be a more powerful turn-on than a spread shot in Penthouse, or so his grandfather had always told him. And damn if the old man wasn't right.

He rolled over on his side, turning away from her, but the scent of almonds on his own skin was almost enough to get him to go shower again, this time with dish soap. But he didn't need to. The day that he couldn't control his need for sex was the day he was in big trouble. He could lie a few feet from Ji-chan and forget all about her. Or die trying.

She was never going
to get used to sleeping on a futon, Jilly decided as she slowly opened her eyes to the shadowy apartment. Her entire body hurt, though part of that might be from the endless sprint away from the yakuza compound. She pushed up from the mattress, then realized her robe had come apart, revealing far too much of her breasts. She yanked it together quickly, peering around the darkened apartment for signs of life. Had Reno left her once more?

And then she saw the shape lying on the tiny patch of floor in the kitchen area. His back was to her, but there was no mistaking the bright hair, and the thin blanket draped over his long, lean body. He was lying on the floor, which had to be even worse than a futon. He'd probably rather lie on a bed of nails than have to be close to her, she thought glumly. She should be grateful, not miffed.

“Go back to sleep.” His deep, sleepy voice came from the kitchen, even though he hadn't moved. “I can’t.”

He turned, lifting his head. “I don't think you want me to come over there and help you out again, do you?”

The apartment was cold, but heat ran through her body. She didn't want to think whether it was from embarrassment or something else. She lay back down on the futon, shifting uncomfortably, the robe held tight around her, and closed her eyes, trying to regulate her breathing.

Clearly Reno, or Hiromasa Shinoda, didn't believe in central heating, either. She could see her breath in the darkened room, and the thin cotton wasn't much help. She could always put on her clothes again, and she would if she had to, but she'd run from the compound in nothing but a thin T-shirt that had been soaked with sweat by the time they'd gotten into the taxi. She'd been wearing the same pair of jeans since she left L.A., and her clean underwear was somewhere back at the compound with her backpack. She wanted clean clothes, she wanted a soft bed, she wanted Summer. And she wasn't going to get any of those things, so she might as well get over it and—

“Enough,” Reno said, sitting up and throwing off the thin blanket. It pooled at his waist, and he was naked from the waist up. Jilly knew she was in even deeper shit than she'd thought.

He was freaking gorgeous. His chest was smooth, lean and muscled, his stomach flat, and if she had even half her mother's gifts, she'd crawl over there and lick him.

Another flash of heat. Maybe if she just kept thinking random, embarrassing thoughts she'd keep from freezing to death.

“Stop it!”

“Stop what?” she protested. “I can't help it if I can't sleep.”

“Don't look at me like that.”

She could have been foolish enough to ask him what he meant, but she didn't. Looking at him as if he were a rare steak and she was starving. Looking at him as if he were a box of Godiva and she was a chocoholic. As if she were a drunk confronting a bottle of ancient Scotch. Like a stupid, semivirgin in love with the worst choice she could have made.

It wasn't as if she'd had any choice in the matter. If she had, she wouldn't think twice about him. But some things weren't up to her. She'd taken one look at him, years ago in Genevieve Madsen's garden in Wiltshire, and she'd been a goner. Familiarity, while it was breeding contempt, wasn't helping much with the lust part.

Which was actually rather reassuring. She'd been so disinterested in most of the men and boys she'd seen that she'd wondered if she were frigid or simply asexual. The moment she saw Reno again she knew that wasn't her particular problem.

Her problem was Reno, pure and simple. Though there was nothing pure and simple about him.

He shoved the blanket away and stood up, and Jilly let out a shriek. He was practically naked, all long, lean, gorgeous six feet of him, except for a strip of cloth wrapped strategically around his hips. It was the sort of thing she'd seen on sumo wrestlers. It looked a hell of a lot better on him.

“Close your eyes if you're embarrassed,” he said, picking up the discarded blanket and tossing it to her. She resisted the temptation to pull it over her head. Except that she couldn't look away.

He looked alien, golden and savage, and the tattooed dragon snaking down one arm simply added to the effect, running from his shoulder down to his wrist, in vivid colors of red and gold. He strode past her, magnificent, and while she shouldn't have done it, she couldn't help but look as he walked past. He had to have the most gorgeous butt in the world.

She let out a quiet moan and buried her face in the blanket he'd tossed at her. And then quickly lifted her head. It smelled like the almond soap she'd used in his bathroom. And it smelled like his skin, something indefinable and unquestionably erotic. And at this point she'd be better off walking straight into a trap of yakuza thugs than spend another minute fantasizing about her unwilling protector.

When he came out of the bathroom, he was dressed again, in black pants and a loose white shirt and black jacket. She couldn't stop from wondering if he was still wearing that strip of cloth under the clothes or whether he'd gone to more traditional boxers. He didn't strike her as the tighty-whitie kind of man. Or maybe he wasn't wearing anything at all.

“It's called a fundoshi” he said as he headed back into the tiny kitchen alcove.

“What is?”

“The piece of cloth you couldn't keep your eyes off. Ill tell you what—we get out of this alive and I'll let you take it off me. With your teeth.”

Her temperature went up another five degrees. “You are such a jerk,” she said. “Use your own teeth.” It came out sounding ridiculous, of course.

He just laughed. “Behave yourself and I'll make coffee.”

Okay, all was forgiven. She'd rip the freaking fundoshi off him with her teeth in return for a strong hit of caffeine. “I don't suppose you did anything about getting me some clothes.”

He looked at her over his shoulder, and there was a surprisingly wicked light in his eyes. “I wouldn't mind showing you how to wrap a fundoshi” he offered.

“Dream on.” She rose, clutching the yukata around her in a vain attempt at dignity. “I'm going to take another shower.

“You're going to get waterlogged at this rate, Ji-chan.”

“Why are you calling me 'Ji-chan’? I know enough Japanese to know that's a term of affection.”

His cool laugh wasn't reassuring. “Your name has too many fucking L's in it. Trust me, it's nothing personal. And you won't be able to wash it away.”

“What?”

“Me.”

If she had something to throw she would have. But in the spare, Zen-like apartment there was nothing to toss at him. “I like my coffee with cream and sugar,” she announced, heading for the bathroom. She was expecting him to come out with another smutty comment, but for once he was blissfully silent.

She considered not using the almond soap—he was right, she'd washed enough in the past twenty-four hours, but at the last minute she steeled herself and used it. She refused to think of Reno using it, rubbing it on his body, over his chest, between his...

“What's wrong?” Reno's voice came from just outside the bathroom door.

“Nothing,” she said. “I just banged my elbow.” Shit, shit, shit. She was going stark, staring mad. She turned on the cold water full blast to cool herself off, letting out another shriek, and forced herself to stand under it, no matter how cold the apartment was, just letting the icy pellets of water sting her skin into submission. When she couldn't stand it anymore, she climbed out, wrapping a towel around her. She reached for the yukata, then stopped as she heard the sound of voices in the room beyond. Two men, one of them Reno.

She put the seat down on the toilet and sat down, waiting. Parading in front of Reno was bad enough—she didn't want any more of an audience.

She waited until she heard the outer door shut, and then silence. With any luck Reno would be gone, too, and she could have her coffee in peace. She pushed open the door to the bathroom, but Reno was back at the computer. And there was a gun on the table beside him.

“Was someone here?”

He didn't bother to turn around. A friend of mine. I figured a gun would be a good idea.”

“You didn't have one?” She looked at the cold, black, deadly piece of metal and shivered. All she could see was the man on the floor of the compound, the bullet between his eyes, the blood
....

“I prefer not to use them if I can help it. There are other ways to face danger, quieter ways. Don't worry about it, Ji-chan. I promise not to shoot you unless you really annoy me.”

She just looked at him. “People are dead. You've killed people. How can you joke about it?”

“Who says I'm joking?” he said in a cool voice. “When it comes down to a choice between me and them, I don't have any problem doing what needs to be done. And if I have to shoot someone to keep you alive, I'll do it, and I won't waste time making a fuss about it. Don't worry—you're not going to have to touch it. And Kyo brought you some clothes, as well as bringing me the gun. You aren't going to like them.”

She looked away from the gun, simply because she had to. “Why am I not surprised?”

“Finding clothes in Japan for someone your size isn't easy. If I could find jeans that were long enough, they'd never fit around your hips.”

“There's nothing wrong with my hips.”

“By Japanese standards you're a walking sex bomb. This was the best he could do.”

She looked over by the door to the mound of black-and-white fabric, and a sudden feeling of horror swept over her. “Oh, no,” she said. “You're not dressing me up like one of those baby dolls.”

“Gothic Lolita,” he corrected.

“You couldn't find a simple T-shirt and some baggy pants?” She kept the plaintive note out of her voice.

“The “I-shirts in your size are for tourists and they're very thin cotton. And while you 're almost as flat-chested as most Japanese women, the bras would still never fit you and your breasts would cause far too much attention.”