Ice Blue. Anne Stuart

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СКАЧАТЬ was very good at hiding her emotions, and she turned to face the monk, if that’s what he was. For a group of ascetics, the followers of the True Realization Fellowship tended to be particularly well fed, and the plump young man in front of her was no different. He had the same round face, shaved head and faintly sanctimonious look they all did, and it made her want to stomp on his sandaled feet.

      She was being childish and she knew it. She could come up with an excuse, but the reception was drawing to a close, the trustees were seeing to the departing guests and she had no real reason to avoid their guest of honor.

      “Of course,” she said, trying to add a note of warmth to her voice. Someone had trashed her house three nights ago, taking nothing, but she’d known instinctively what they’d been looking for. The Japanese bowl they coveted was right in front of them now, guarded by an excellent security system.

      She crossed the room, feeling like a prisoner on her way to execution. She could still feel those eyes boring into her back, but all the Shirosama’s posse, including the man himself, were in front of her. She glanced behind, but there was no one except the blonde and her date. Summer decided she must be paranoid, looking behind her for trouble when it was right in front of her.

      “Dr. Hawthorne,” his holiness greeted her in his soft voice. “You do me honor.”

      It was the softest of barbs—he knew very well that he was the one conferring honor on the place, at least by conventional wisdom. The Shirosama was highly sought after; obtaining his presence at a social event was a great coup.

      Unlike his followers, he hadn’t shaved his head—his pure white hair was long and flowing to his shoulders, a perfect match to his paper-white skin and pale, pink eyes. His white robes draped his rounded body, and his hands were soft and plump. Charismatic to those easily swayed, like her ditzy mother. Harmless. Unless he was thwarted, and Summer was thwarting him.

      But she knew how to play the game. “You honor us, your holiness.” She didn’t even trip over the words.

      “And this is the bowl your mother spoke of?” he said softly. “I wonder that it has no provenance, and yet you still put it in the exhibit.”

      He knew as well as she did that she’d put it on display to keep it out of his hands. “We’re researching its background, your holiness,” she said, the absolute truth. “In the meantime a piece of such singular beauty deserves to be seen, and we were ready to open an exhibit of Japanese ceramics. It seemed only logical to show it.”

      “Only logical,” he echoed. “I would be very interested in anything you might discover about the piece. I am somewhat an expert in ceramics, and I’ve never seen anything that particular shade of blue. Perhaps you might let me borrow it, examine it more closely, and I could help you with your research.”

      “You’re very kind,” she murmured. “But I’m certain the piece has little monetary worth—it was simply a gift from my nanny, and for that reason I cherish it. If in fact it does have considerable intrinsic value, then I would return it to the Japanese government.”

      There was no shadow in the Shirosama’s benevolent smile. “You are as generous and honorable as your mother.”

      Summer resisted a snort. It wasn’t enough that Lianne was funneling huge sums of money into the True Realization Fellowship, which seemed to have an insatiable need for cash. They weren’t getting Summer’s Japanese bowl, no matter how much they seemed to want it. She knew why Lianne wanted to get rid of it. Ralph had told her it was valuable, and Lianne had always been jealous of Summer’s nanny. Hana-san had been the mother Lianne had never had time to be, loving Summer, protecting her, teaching her what she needed to know and listening to her. The bowl had been one of the keepsakes she’d given Summer when Lianne had finally managed to fire her and send Summer off to boarding school, and Summer had promised that she’d keep it safe until Hana came for it. But Hana had died, unexpectedly.

      And shallow, beautiful Lianne wanted to hand it over to her current guru. Over Summer’s dead body.

      “Your mother has expressed great sorrow that you haven’t been to see her recently,” he added in his soft, rolling voice. “She wishes to make peace with you.”

      “How very kind,” Summer murmured. Lianne Lovitz preferred her daughter to be as far away as possible—it was damn hard to convince the world you were in your early forties if you had a daughter in her late twenties hanging around. If the Shirosama wanted her to say anything more, she wasn’t going to; her relationship with her mother was none of his business.

      He turned to glance back at the ceramic bowl. “You know that she promised this to me?”

      Nothing like coming straight to the point. “And you know it was not hers to promise, your holiness,” Summer said with exquisite politeness.

      “I see,” the Shirosama murmured, though Summer had no doubt her mother had filled him in on all this. “But do you not think it should be returned to its rightful place in Japan? To the shrine where it belongs?”

      “Almost everything in this room should be back in Japan,” she said. Including you, she added silently. “Perhaps I should be in touch with the Ministry of Fine Arts and see if they’re interested.”

      It was rare to see someone with no pigmentation in their skin turn paler still. “I doubt that’s necessary. I will be returning to Japan in a short while—I can make inquiries for you if you wish.”

      She bowed as Hana had taught her. “That would be very kind of you,” she replied with exquisite courtesy. She’d heard rumors that the Shirosama and his Fellowship were not particularly well thought of in Japan—probably a result of the distrust built up after the sarin-gas poisonings on the Tokyo subways more than a decade ago, perpetrated by a fringe cult of doomsday fanatics. The Japanese government tended to look on alternative religions with a wary eye, even one steeped in sugary goodwill like the True Realization Fellowship. But the Shirosama was good at what he did, and he could probably count government ministers among his deluded disciples. If she turned the bowl over it might very well just land back in his hands.

      He gazed at the bowl, sitting in innocent beauty beneath the bright lights. “I promised your mother that we would bring you by this evening, after the reception,” he said, changing the subject. “She is most eager to see you and to clear up any possible misunderstandings.”

      “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Summer said. “I’m much too busy tonight. I’ll give her a call and see if we can meet for lunch in a few days.”

      “She wants to see you tonight. I cannot ignore my duty in reuniting an estranged mother and daughter.” There was only the hint of an edge beneath his rich, sonorous voice. It was no wonder he managed to mesmerize thousands. But Summer Hawthorne was not easily mesmerized by slimy old men.

      “I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m busy.” And before he could say another word she turned away, heading toward the dubious safety of the caterers, hiding behind them as the Shirosama made his slow, gliding way toward the exit, surrounded by his entourage.

      She was tempted to start scooping up champagne glasses and taking them out to the kitchen area, anything to keep busy, but they had an army of waiters to handle that, and it would have looked odd. The museum guests had gone, including the tall man and his bimbo, and Summer no longer had that peculiar feeling in the middle of her shoulder blades. Now it was in the pit of her stomach, and she knew exactly who had been watching her with thinly veiled animosity. The Shirosama.

      The СКАЧАТЬ