Ice Blue by Anne Stuart

but people can surprise you. Maybe you don't care as much about her as you think, particularly when there's three hundred thousand dollars on the line."
    "You're disgusting," Summer said.
    "Then tell me where it is. Or am I going to have to ask your sister?"
    Her eyes met his. They were cold, dark, implacable, and she wondered why she'd ever thought he was any kind of savior. If she wasn't so tired and frightened—if she wasn't sitting here in her underwear—she might be able to fight him. Right now she was no match, and the most important thing was to keep her sister out of it, at all costs.
    And why the hell was she fighting him, anyway? She'd lost, and the stakes were much higher than she thought. This wasn't just about preserving a simple bowl of almost unearthly beauty that was a gift from the person who'd loved and protected her most, but the safety of her baby sister. A thousand priceless porcelain bowls were nothing compared to something so precious.
    "I can find it," she said in a whisper.
    He immediately loosened the pressure on her throat, then dropped his hand. "Do it," he said.
    "Can I get my clothes on first?"
    He let his eyes drift down over her body. "If you wish."
    Of course he wasn't going to leave her while she dressed. He wasn't going to take those dark, unreadable eyes off her. She reached for her jeans and pulled them on, biting her lip rather than crying out when the soft denim rubbed against her burns. She yanked the T-shirt over her head—it was going to be cold, and she needed something warmer, but one look at his implacable face and she wasn't going to ask.
    He was blocking the doorway into her bedroom. Odd that a man so lean and elegant could take up so much space. "I need to get my shoes," she said.
    "Sneakers. We may have to run. And get a sweater. It's cold outside."
    He never failed to surprise her. She could still feel his hand on her throat—for a moment she'd thought he could easily strangle her, and would if she'd fought him. And now he was worried about her getting cold.
    Takashi moved out of the way, and she nodded, heading for the closet. She knew he'd searched there as well, even if he hadn't left any sign. She grabbed an old pair of sneakers and a baggy sweater. Vanity, never one of her major character defects, had completely gone out the window. He'd already seen her in practically nothing and been totally unimpressed. Not that she would want to impress him—that was the last thing she needed. But it was disheartening to feel so awkward and plain when confronted with such beauty.
    And he was beautiful. She hadn't really had time to dwell on it while she'd been running for her life, but with his silky, straight black hair, his dark, unreadable eyes and full, luscious mouth, he was almost as gorgeous as the porcelain bowl he was so desperate to find. But there was something unsettling about his physical beauty. She'd been around Hollywood-handsome men for a great deal of her life, and good looks were nothing more than legal tender. Scott had been one of the best-looking men she'd ever met, and with her artist's eye she'd chosen him as the logical man to sleep with, to get over her fears.
    That plan had backfired, of course. She'd used him, hoping she could fall in love, and in the end all she'd discovered was that consenting, adult sex was highly overrated, no matter how gentle the partner. She could happily do without.
    So why did she look at Takashi O'Brien's starkly beautiful face and suddenly feel lost? In the end it didn't matter; once he got the bowl he'd leave—with any luck—grateful to be done with her. And she'd forget all about the irrational stirrings that she wouldn't have believed herself capable of.
    She couldn't wait until that happened. "It's not in the house."
    He'd flicked off the lights, plunging them into a darkness lit only by the faint glow from the hallway. "You wouldn't be thinking of a wild-goose chase, would you? It wouldn't be a very wise move on your