Praise for New York Times bestselling author
ANNE STUART
“A consummate mistress of her craft, Stuart crafts a sophisticated romance that mirrors the rigours of the era and adds her own punch of passion and adventure so that her characters can have the time of their lives. It is pure pleasure to indulge in this part-lighthearted, part-deeply emotional and all-glorious story.”
—RT Book Reviews on The Devil’s Waltz
“This taut romantic suspense novel from RITA® Award winner Stuart delivers deliciously evil baddies and the type of disturbing male protagonist that only she can transform into a convincing love interest … Brilliant characterisations and a suitably moody ambience drive this dark tale of unlikely love.” —Publishers Weekly on Black Ice
“[A] sexy, edgy, exceptionally well-plotted tale.”
—Library Journal on Into the Fire
“Before I read … [a] Stuart book I make sure my
day is free … Once I start, she has me hooked.”
—New York Times bestselling author Debbie Macomber
“A master at creating chilling atmosphere
with a modern touch.”
—Library Journal
Author’s Note
The True Realization Fellowship and its leader, the Shirosama, is very loosely inspired by the Aum Shinrikyo cult in Japan and their charismatic leader, Shoko Asahara. Most people remember the sarin gas attack on the Tokyo subways twelve years ago, when terrorist attacks were less common, and there’s something about cults, Jonestown and the like, that are macabre and fascinating. Believe it or not, the real characters were just as badly behaved as my fictional ones—sometimes more so. I simply used Aum as a jumping-off point to create my own delusional madman.
For those who want to explore the story further, there are a number of excellent books, including Destroying the World to Save It by Robert Jay Lifton, A Poisonous Cocktail? by Ian Reader and Underground: The Tokyo Gas Attack and the Japanese Psyche by Haruki Murakami.
Ice Blue
Anne Stuart
For the three great natural beauties of Japan—Etushi Toyokawa, Yoshiki Hayashi and Gackt Camui.
With thanks to Karen Harbaugh for technical advice, my daughter for the inspiration, and my sister Taffy Todd, who complains that I never dedicate a book to her. Here you go, Taffy.
1
Summer Hawthorne wasn’t having a particularly good night, though she smiled and said all the right things to all the right people. Someone was watching her. She’d been feeling it all evening long, but she had absolutely no idea who it was. Or why.
The opening reception at the elegant Sansone Museum was small and exclusive—only the very rich and very powerful were invited to the tiny museum in the Santa Monica Mountains to view the collection of exquisite Japanese ceramics. And even if she wasn’t particularly fond of one of those guests, he’d have no reason to watch her.
Her assistant, Micah Jones, resplendent in deep purple, sidled up to her. “I’m leaving you, my darling. This is winding down, and no one will miss me. I’m assuming everything’s going well, and I’ve got an offer I can’t refuse.” He grinned.
Summer jumped, startled. “Evil man,” she said lightly. “Abandoning me in my time of need. Go ahead. I’ve got everything under control. Even his holiness.”
Micah glanced at their guest of honor and shuddered dramatically. “I can stay and shield you …”
“Not on your life! The True Realization Fellowship and their slimy leader are just a bunch of harmless crackpots. Hollywood’s religion du jour. Besides, you’ve been celibate for too long, or so you’ve been complaining.”
“If you’d wear anything but black you might get lucky, too,” Micah said, candid as ever. “Even so, you look marvelous.”
“You lie,” she said, ignoring her uneasiness. “But I love you, anyway. Despite the fact that you’re ditching the reception early.”
Micah smiled his dazzling smile. “True love waits for no man.” He leaned down and gave her an exuberant kiss. “You know your room’s ready for you if you need it. Just ignore any whoops of pleasure coming from my bedroom.”
“You’re a very bad man,” she said affectionately. “I’m fine, I promise you. You can enjoy yourself in private.”
He blew her a kiss, sauntering off through the crowd, and she watched him go, ignoring her sudden, irrational pang of unease. Feeling the eyes digging into her back once more.
She was half tempted to call Micah back, ask him to wait. The reception would be over in another half hour, and then she could follow him down from the museum, and this odd, tense feeling would vanish.
But she hadn’t gotten this far in her life by giving in to irrational fears. It simply had to be because of their esteemed guest of honor, his holiness the Shirosama. He had a reason to watch her out of his colorless eyes—she was standing between him and the prize Summer’s foolish mother, Lianne, had promised him. And the Shirosama had not gotten to where he was, as head of a worldwide spiritual movement, without knowing how to get what he wanted.
He wanted her Japanese bowl, probably as much as she didn’t want him to have it—the bowl her Japanese nanny had given to her a short while before she’d been killed in a car accident. It was one more betrayal from her self-absorbed mother, something she was used to by now. Summer had loaned it to the exclusive museum where she worked, just to keep it away from the religious charlatan for as long as she could. But sooner or later the creepy, charming Shirosama was going to get it, and there wasn’t a whole lot she could do about it. At least she’d put it off for the time being.
But it wasn’t the Shirosama who was watching her, or any of his white-robed minions—not as far as she could tell. She could feel the eyes boring into her back, and she turned, trying to catch whoever it was. Certainly not the elderly Asian couple by the fourteenth century incense burners. Not the tall, slender man with the sunglasses, who seemed much more interested in the impressive cleavage of the blonde he was talking to than in the exhibit. Maybe she was imagining it.
She recognized only half of the elegantly dressed guests who filled the gallery for this private opening, and none would have any reason to be interested in the lowly junior curator at the Sansone Museum. Her connection to Lianne and Ralph Lovitz and their Hollywood lifestyle was generally unknown, and by southern California standards she was totally ordinary looking, something she did her best to cultivate.
“His holiness wishes to speak with you.”
She 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