Ice Blue by Anne Stuart Page A

part."
    "I don't know how wise I am. What are you going to do when I find the bowl for you?"
    "I told you, take it to Japan."
    "And what are you going to do with me? Are you going to kill me?"
    She'd managed to startle him. "Haven't I been doing my best to keep you alive for the last twenty-four hours? Despite your best efforts to get yourself killed?"
    She couldn't argue with that. "I'm ready," she said.
    "Let's go get your goddamn urn."
     
    He was going to have to kill her, of course. He'd known it all along, but he didn't like the fact that she seemed to know it, too. He'd come close a couple of times, changing his mind at the last minute, but once he had his hands on the urn the safest thing to do would be to finish her. Quickly, painlessly, before she even knew what was happening.
    Unfortunately, she already suspected him. Would she fight when the time came? He hoped not. Fighting would make it harder for her. She'd be better off just letting go. He could overpower her very easily—she was soft while he was hard and strong. He'd let himself get distracted in the bathroom for a moment, and he'd been a bit too rough because of it. He hadn't needed to grip her throat that tightly.
    His powers of observation were well out of the ordinary, and he'd taken in every inch of her exposed skin in the brief glance he'd allowed himself. The scars on her wrists were no surprise—he knew she'd attempted suicide when she was a teenager, soon after Hana Hayashi was killed. He was more distracted by Summer's pale, creamy skin, smooth and soft. She had a mole above her left breast, and damn if he couldn't see part of a tattoo peeking up from beneath the black cotton underwear that covered her hips. He never would have thought she was the type for a tattoo, and he found himself wondering what it was. He could look, of course. After she was dead.
    The thought made him feel slightly queasy, uncharacteristically so. He could blame the last mission for the fact that he was having a hard time making his move. Maybe coming so close to death himself had given him a new respect for it, a new fear of it.
    No, that wasn't entirely true. He'd already killed four men in the last twenty-four hours, and they'd barely registered on what was left of his soul. He hadn't suddenly grown a conscience; they were dangerous animals who'd needed to die.
    Summer Hawthorne was a different matter. She was dangerous, all right, but she had no notion why. No idea of the secret locked inside her head that could bring about the deaths of thousands of people. No idea that he simply couldn't afford to let her live.
    He followed her through the house, turning off lights as they went, the shadows growing behind them.
    It was after midnight. If she took him straight to the urn he could finish everything and be out on the first plane in the morning, making sure the Shirosama knew what Takashi was taking with him, and what he'd disposed of. Until this afternoon they would have had no idea who was helping their quarry, but now Heinrich Muehler would be able to describe him, and there were enough powerful people in the True Realization Fellowship to be able to put two and two together. There'd be people looking for him, even when he was traveling alone, and while he could easily transform himself into one of his alter egos, he'd still need to be very careful.
    No, he couldn't afford to be sentimental over a soft little gaijin with more brains than common sense.
    It was chilly in the night air, and Summer shivered when they stepped outside. He resisted the impulse to give her his jacket—he couldn't afford to risk getting blood on it. He asked no questions as she led him around the side of the house. With anyone else, he might wonder if he were being drawn into a trap, but with Summer he had no such fears. He was the danger in their relationship, not her.
    Technically, they had no relationship, other than hunter and prey. Captor and quarry. Perp and vic, as they said on cop