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Jilly's, but Reno's sharp words silenced them all.
    She tried to squirm out of his grasp, but he held tight, grabbing her discarded yukata and wrapping it around her like a blanket before he hustled her out of the room, past the dignified gentleman who was looking at her with unabashed enthusiasm.
    Reno was muttering under his breath. He shoved her back in the room, accompanied by a terse “get dressed” and somehow managed to close the sliding paper screen door with the equivalent of a slam.
    She yanked her clothes on quickly, knowing he was just as likely to come back in and watch her. A moment later she slid the door open again, expecting to meet his glowering face.
    The hall was empty when she poked her head out, and she was wondering whether he'd decided to abandon her after all when she heard the voices. Men's voices, speaking lousy Japanese. With a Russian accent.
    And then Reno was there, her shoes in his hand, and she had enough sense to simply go with him, down the hall, away from the voices, as silent as he was.
    The day was winter bright, the sun brilliant overhead as he herded her away from the inn. The motorcycle was nowhere in sight, a small gray sedan sitting in its place.
    He started to hustle her into the driver's seat, but at that point, enough was enough.
    “I'm not driving—”
    He swore again, shoving her in. “We drive on the left,” he said. “Left side of the road, driver's side on the right.” He slammed the door shut behind her and moved around to climb into the driver's seat.
    “Oh, like the English.”
    “The English drive like us,” he snapped, his voice deep and arrogant.
    He looked ridiculous—an exotic bird of paradise in a commuter car. “Fasten your seat belt,” he said, not bothering to do his up.
    “Where is the motorcycle?”
    “I ditched it. Someone will find it sooner or later and return it to the rental company.”
    “Not in the U.S.”
    “We're not in the U.S., in case you haven't noticed. People don't steal lost property, they return it.”
    “How did you get this car?”
    “I stole it.”
    Riding on the back of a motorcycle had been better—even if it was bright daylight, she still would have been able to bury her head against his back and not see a thing. Sitting in the front seat of the cramped little car, she had to watch everything—the horrific traffic, Reno's darting, bobbing driving style, more like a boxer's than a driver's, and to top everything off she was on the wrong side, feeling as if she were responsible for the car.
    She tried closing her eyes, but that only made it worse. There was an annoying jingle sound behind her, like Santa's reindeer gone berserk, and her eyes flashed open again.
    “What the hell is that noise?” she demanded.
    “Look behind you.”
    She had expected to see a Japanese Good Humor Man on steroids, only to see a tiny object suction-cupped to the back window. It looked like a miniature portable shrine, accompanied by bells and a scrap of writing, and she unfastened her seat belt to snatch it off the window.
    “It's a safe driving talisman,” Reno said, just before she grabbed it, and made a sudden sharp right turn in front of ten cars coming directly at him. She fell against him, his hard, strong body, and she swiftly pushed away from him, sitting back in her seat and refastening the seat belt with shaking hands. With Reno's driving and Tokyo traffic they were going to need all the luck they could get.
    “Where are we going?”
    “I'm taking you to Osaka. Kansai airport should be safer, and the sooner you get the hell out of Japan, the better. The Russians clearly haven't gotten wrord that their services are no longer required, and it's too much of a pain in the ass to keep you away from them.”
    “Why do they even want me?”
    “They don't,” he said in a flat tone. “You're just a means to an end. If they have you, Taka will have to come out of hiding. You're not important at all except for your