Fire & Ice (13 page)

She resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest. “Would you stop comparing me to Japanese women? I've spent my life towering over most people my age—I don't need to be reminded what an oversize freak I am.”

He turned away from the screen for a moment, and his eyes narrowed. Reno was back. “Get over it.”

“You know, sometimes I think your mastery of American idioms is a little too good,” she said, scooping up the mounds of lace and fabric and heading for the bathroom.

But he was already staring at the computer screen again, dismissing her as easily as if she'd been a one-night stand.

Of which he probably had many, she thought. And she wasn't going to be one of them. She wasn't into masochism, and a night in bed with Reno wouldn't be something she could just shrug off. Not to mention the family repercussions.

He was a snake. And she wasn't getting anywhere near him again if she could help it. He could save her life, though why he felt it was his responsibility was beyond her, and then she wouldn't have to see him again. Or at least, not until Summer and Taka had babies, and even then she could probably avoid him, given his dislike of American women.

The outfit was even worse than she'd imagined. First, a black lace thong that she was tempted to ignore. White, lace-trimmed bloomers. Fishnet stockings with a black lace garter belt. Billowing black skirts trimmed with lace, a corset and fingerless black lace gloves, charmingly accented with a little apron and a bonnet. She looked like a deranged French maid crossed with Morticia Addams. The shoes were the final touch.

“I'm not wearing them,” she said, storming out of the bathroom in her new rig, still in bare feet.

He didn't bother to turn around. “They're the only clothes Kyo could come up with. Don't tell me they don't fit.”

“The clothes fit. So do the shoes, but

I'm not wearing them. They're four-inch platform heels—if I don't fall over and kill myself, I'll still look like a basketball player.”

He turned then, his eyes drifting down over her absurd body. There was way too much leg showing, with the garters and the fishnet and the bloomers peeking out from beneath the ruffles, and the corset made her boobs look distressingly prominent. She stuck out her chin, just daring him to laugh.

He was wise enough not to. The comer of his mouth jerked for a second, in the faintest beginning of a smile, but he managed to look somber. “Maybe I can find some sandals,” he said. “Won't go with the outfit, though.”

“I'm not that interested in accessorizing right now. I just need something I can walk in. And how the hell did your friend find shoes like that in my size? I have big feet.”

“Where I found the clothes. In a shop made for josohumisha .”

“What?” she echoed.

“Cross-dressers,” he said. “I thought if we put enough makeup on you, you could pass for a man.”

She threw the shoes at him. He caught one before it hit his head, the other knocked his picture off the shelf. He rose, slowly, moving toward her with sinuous menace, and if Jilly had been any kind of coward, she would have backed up.

“I told you not to hit me again,” he said in a low, dangerous voice.

She wasn't going to react. “I didn't hit you. You caught it.”

“The intent was there.”

Okay, so she took a step back. A couple, as a matter of fact. But he just kept on coming, and the studio apartment was very small, and he was very big and there was nowhere to run.

She ended up against the wall, trapped, and he put his hands on either side of her, keeping her there. “Don't tempt me,” he said in a low growl.

But she was tired of being bullied. “Go ahead and strangle me if you want to so damned badly.”

There was an odd light in his eyes as they looked into hers, and she realized he'd taken out his contacts. She was looking into dark brown eyes, with no artifice between them. “That's not what you're tempting me to do, Ji-chan,” he said.

He brought his body up against hers, hip to hip, belly to belly, his hard chest against her corseted torso, and it was like a strange, hot embrace, with his hands still against the wall, trapping her there. She looked into his eyes, hoping he thought she was fearless, but she could feel her mouth tremble slightly, and she couldn't keep it still.

Her heart was pounding, as well, hard and fast. And she could feel his heart, hard and fast, too, and she wondered what the hell was going on.

And then he kissed her.

It wasn't the kind of kiss she'd expected.

For two years she'd thought about what it would be like to kiss Reno, for two years she'd imagined something out of a romance novel.

The reality was a shock. His open mouth covered hers, and he slowly, deliberately, ground his pelvis against her.

They were the same height. She could feel the explicit bulge of him through his pants, through the layers of her petticoats, and his mouth was hard, almost brutal. He was kissing her as if he hated her, and she put up her hands and shoved, hard.

He was immovable. He lifted his head, though, and her mouth felt bruised, swollen.

“Why are you kissing me?” Her voice was husky, and she could feel inexplicable tears form in her eyes. She blinked them away, angry.

“I don't know.” He hadn't moved—his hips were still pinning hers to the wall. “Do you want to fuck?”

She tried to kick him then, but he must have sensed her movement, and he wrapped one leg around hers, further imprisoning her. “No,” she said, furious.

“Don't pretend, Ji-chan. You've got a crush on me. I'm about to fulfill your dreams.” His voice was breathless, mocking.

“You're about to get kneed in the balls, and then you won't be fulfilling anyone's dreams, not even your own,” she snapped.

“You know I'm not going to let you do that. You know you can't do anything unless I let you. I'll ask you again—do you want to fuck?”

“I don't know why you're asking me,” she said bitterly. “We've already established the fact that you're not interested, and—”

“Does this feel like I'm not interested?” he said, pushing against her.

“So you're perverted enough to get turned on by women dressing in little girls' clothes. It has nothing to do with me.

“So take them off and we'll see if I'm still turned on,” he suggested reasonably.

She looked into his eyes, at the tattooed tears beneath them. “Reno,” she said in a calm voice, “if you're so bored, then go out and get laid. I'm sure you'll find someone who's interested.”

“You're interested/' he said. And then he released her just as suddenly as he had caught her, and he grinned. “No, you're right. You're not my type. Besides, I have a healthy respect for Taka, and he'd kill me if I fucked you.”

“Would you stop with all the “fuck” talk!” she said, exasperated. “It's called making love.”

“Jilly, I don't make love. I fuck.”

“Not me.”

He tilted his head to one side, watching her. “Want to bet?” And pulling her back into his arms, he put his mouth on hers once more.

It wasn't as if she hadn't been kissed before. When she was seventeen, she'd decided, in the spirit of scientific discovery, to explore making out, and she'd found her Advanced Physics tutor to be up to the task. She'd learned to use her tongue, her teeth, how to tease, how to demand, how to suck gently, and while the whole experiment had been rather wet and sloppy, it left her with a better understanding of what people were doing when they were grinding their faces together.

Wrong. Reno didn't kiss the way Jeffrey did, or anything like the rudimentary kisses Duke had given her during their miserable, botched coupling. He kissed her like an angel, sweet and sad and so wonderful that her body seemed to lift into his, trying to get closer. He kissed her like the devil, hot and hard and deep, and she closed her eyes and wanted to sink, skin to skin, into some dark whirling place where there was nothing but heat and sex. He kissed her mouth, using his tongue, he kissed her eyelids, which had fluttered shut, he kissed her jaw and her temple and then her mouth once again, and she simply leaned against the wall, stunned, unable to move, unable to do anything but let him kiss her.

He moved his mouth down the side of her neck, nipping slightly, and his breath was warm on her skin, his hands were moving up her thighs, slowly, his fingers threading through the long lace garters, and she moaned quietly, a soft, impossible sound of surrender.

“Shit.” The word muttered against the delicate skin of her neck was enough to throw her right out of the moment. Her eyes flashed open, and she looked into his, momentarily dazed.

She opened her mouth to say something, but he shook his head, silencing her, and the hot, stolen moments might never have happened. He was still pressed up against her, pinning her to the wall, but there was no sex in the air. There was violence.

“They're here,” he mouthed.

“Shit,” she said, just a breath of sound.

His eyes met hers, for a long, silent moment, and she had the sudden, terrible feeling that he was saying goodbye. And then he grabbed her shoulders and shoved her, hard, practically throwing her across the room, so that she slammed against the computer chair, knocking over the small table and landing hard on the floor.

She scrambled as far back as she could into the comer, trying to stay out of the way of the melee. It seemed as if an army had invaded, and it took her a moment to realize there were only three of them, in their fancy suits and their pomaded hair, closing in on Reno.

He wasn't going down without a fight. He was a blur of motion, leaping in the air and kicking one man in the throat, and the man went down, choking, as Reno spun around. He slammed his fist into the second man's belly, then brought them down on his neck, knocking the man flat.

But the third man was on him, bigger, catching him around the neck and pulling his head back. Reno kicked out, struggling, but the man was too strong, and he was being pulled backward as he struggled, clawing at his captor's hands.

He was going to die. The man would either choke him to death or break his neck, and then he'd turn to her. And she didn't have any choice.

The gun had fallen on the floor when she'd knocked over the table, and she picked it up, cold, deadly metal, as Reno and his opponent flailed around the apartment. Reno was strong, knocking the man holding him back against the wall, but the man didn't break his grip. She could hear Reno choking, and his struggles were getting frantic.

She should have said something. A warning, anything. She didn't. The man smashed Reno down on the floor, and for a moment Reno lay still, dazed, staring up at him as the larger man loomed over him, and Jilly could see the gun in his hand, and there wasn't any time.

She wouldn't have thought it would be so easy. She pointed the gun and pulled the trigger, and the kickback knocked her hand up, the sound deafening in the tiny apartment. She squeezed her eyes shut, horrified.

She heard the thud of a body falling, but then nothing but someone's labored breathing. Her own?

She knew someone was moving toward her, and she didn't care who it was. She must be in shock, she thought dazedly. Any of those men could have gotten up and come after her, and it wouldn't matter. If Reno was dead, then nothing mattered.

Someone squatted down in front of her, and she felt a hand touch her face. She flinched, but the hand was gentle, brushing the hair out of her face, and she recognized his touch, the scent of almond soap on his skin, and she knew she should open her eyes, just to make certain he was still alive, but she couldn't do it. She couldn't move.

And then he leaned over and kissed her, the soft, light brushing of his lips against her closed eyelids. He took the gun from her limp hand. “We need to get out of here,” he said, his voice oddly gentle. “Someone will have heard the gunshot. We need to leave before the police get here.”

She opened her eyes. He was all she could see; he was blocking her view of the trashed apartment.

“You need to come with me.” He was still being oddly gentle with her, and she wondered why. “Give me your hand.”

She put her hand in his, the hand that had pulled the trigger, that still tingled from the feel of the gun, and let him draw her to her feet. “Don't look,” he said.

But she did. The man she shot lay facedown on the floor in a pool of blood. Half of his head was blown away.

She started to gag, but Reno caught her, holding her. “Take deep breaths,” he whispered. “Don't think about it, don't look. Just look straight ahead and come with me.

She had no choice. She stumbled forward, and then realized she was still wearing only fishnet stockings on her feet. She started to turn back to look for the platform shoes, but he wouldn't let her, pulling her away from the horrifying scene. He put her into the hallway, and she leaned back against the wall, trying to breathe, while he disappeared into the apartment for a moment. Then he was back, with her sneakers and his boots. And the gun, the gun that she'd used, was tucked in the waist of his dark pants, almost hidden by his black jacket.

She stood patiently while he put the sneakers on her feet, and then she followed him, down the three flights of stairs, out into the bright winter daylight of a Tokyo morning.

Reno wasn't used
to feeling powerless. He didn't believe in coddling himself or others; he did what he needed to do without hesitation, and expected others to do the same.

But he hadn't expected Jilly Lovitz to blow someone's head off to save his life. And he wasn't sure how to make it better.

She was in shock, which he supposed was a good thing. She hadn't said a word since she'd fired the gun, and she'd done everything he'd told her to do, an obedient robot, silent and lost. Things would have been easier if she'd been this way from the start—he wouldn't have had to explain, to fight her, to fight himself. If she'd been like this he would have taken care of her, put her someplace safe and forgotten all about her. This ghost woman made him think of the grave, not a bed.

He needed her to wake up, but he wasn't sure how to do it. And maybe it was better this way, letting her retreat into a safe place of shock and denial. He didn't make the mistake of thinking killing was easy. It never was, no matter how well trained you were, no matter how many times you had to do it. For Jilly it would be devastating.

The people of Tokyo were too polite to stare as he led her through the subway system, still holding her hand. When they emerged at Harajuku she didn't even look up at the brightly dressed cosplayers parading around in the chilly air. She was lost.

And he was taking her to the only place he could think of that would be quiet and soothing. The Meiji Shrine was a huge park in the middle of the Harajuku district, but a world and a century removed from the shopping and dress-up. He drew her through the huge cypress torii entrance, down the winding path. There was no one else in the gardens that early in the day—the place was deserted, away from prying eyes, away from men with guns. Even the notorious Yamaguchi-gumi, the worst gurentai gang in history, wouldn't defile a sacred place with gunfire. They would be safe in the gardens, at least until they chose to leave.

She looked cold in the tight-fitting corset and the short, frilly skirt, but he couldn't give her his coat. There was blood on his shirt, and he needed to keep it hidden from her until she managed to pull herself out of this wounded daze.

He pulled her arm through his, still holding her hand, and he knew they looked like two cosplaying lovers who'd wandered in from the street. But no one would mind—the Meiji Shrine was a calming, welcoming place for whoever chose to come there. He drew her closer to him, trying to share some of his body heat, and she let him, not putting up any kind of fight. She was even colder than she should be, and she felt light, almost weightless.

“I'll find you some food,” he said, trying to sound casual. “They've got a cafeteria here. More Miso soup will do the trick.”

She said nothing. Her face was expressionless, eerily so, as she let him guide her along the pebbled path. Why the fuck did he ever think he wanted her to be docile? She was annoying as hell when she was talking back to him, but anything was better than this passive, lifeless doll.

He circled the shrine itself—there were people there, and he'd failed to bring anything to cover his telltale hair. He was an idiot to keep it. The first thing he was going to do when they got someplace safe was cut it off and dye it black. He was like a walking neon sign—in the past his notoriety and that of his grandfather's had kept him safe. Now it was drawing the enemy closer to him like a beacon of light.

He bought her a can of coffee from one of the vending machines, and he made her sit while she drank it. She swallowed Miso soup and picked at the bento box from the cafeteria—another sign of hope. As long as she could eat, she'd be all right. He'd never known anyone so intent on food, which would have been annoying if it didn't turn him on.

Right now, on this rare occasion, sex was the last thing on his mind. He had to keep her safe and hidden until she snapped out of this, and wandering down the hidden pathways of the park could only take so long. Besides, she looked as if she was freezing in her skimpy, undeniably erotic get-up.

Okay, he wasn't going to think about sex. He'd keep his eyes straight ahead, remember she was in shock, and forget about the glimpse of black lace garter he could see if he stepped back. Besides, she needed him beside her, not lusting after her.

It was late afternoon by the time they left the massive gardens and she still hadn't said a word. Businesses were spilling out onto the brightly lit streets, and in Harajuku it was easy enough to blend in, even with a giant female gaijin. He managed to cram her onto one of the trains, shielding her with his body from curious looks or the roaming hands of salarymen. He switched them over to the Marounouchi Line, which circled around the center of the city, put her into a seat and guarded her. They could ride for hours while he figured out what the hell he was going to do with her.