Secrets of the Apple Page 21

  Ryoki leaned back in his chair, rubbing his eyes and his forehead as though to erase the vision of Kate struggling in the grip of some greasy brute who slammed her head against a concrete wall so he could stuff her senseless body into his trunk. Macabre image, probably some Las Vegas residue. Still made him want to vomit.

  She needed more than a driver. She needed a trained bodyguard to follow her around the city, a good Japanese man he could trust, someone he’d brought from home.

  He called the house to make arrangements with his security staff and discovered she had already finished reconciling the household books and left home to buy thank you gifts on his behalf. Growling to find her cell switched off, he immediately sent his driver to pick her up at Shopping Iguatemi, then went back to work, dreading the heralding click of her door and the thud of her bag on her desk. She wasn’t going to go for this, he’d bet his hands.

  When Kate finally entered his office, she looked bright-eyed and rested. Maybe good, maybe not. Would tiredness make her more compliant or more stubborn? Not sure.

  “I wasn’t quite finished with my errands,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  Ryoki sat back. “Why don’t you have a seat, Kate,” he said softly. She looked at him suspiciously as she sat, perched on the edge of her chair.

  “I had a visitor this morning. It seems some petty criminal wants to help himself to my bank account.”

  “Okay,” she said uncertainly. “Would you like me to call the bank or…” she trailed off as Ryoki leaned forward.

  “Actually, he’s not that kind of thief. He’s more of a trader.”

  “Traitor?” she asked, looking confused.

  “Tra-der,” he repeated. “He would trade something of mine for something he wants,” Ryoki said obliquely, unwilling to tackle the subject head-on.

  Kate thought about this before narrowing her eyes. “Are you talking about kidnapping? Is this about the man that was at the house this morning? He had credentials and Cecelia said she used to put Band-Aids on his knees and feed him soba noodles.”

  “The danger is not great, but from now on, I want Sano to drive you and accompany you around the city.”

  Kate laughed in a single burst and looked around as if she might be on Candid Camera.

  Ryoki smiled, that is to say, he turned up the corners of his mouth, but said nothing.

  Kate’s lips gradually flattened into a line. “We’re about to have a fight, aren’t we,” she said.

  “Maybe, if you want.” One of the benefits of having been wrong in Las Vegas meant he’d banked a freebie and he intended to cash it now. “I listened to you that night in Las Vegas. I’m hoping you’ll listen to me now.”

  “And I’m thinking that because of Las Vegas, you’re jumping at shadows.”

  “I assure you the gangster is quite real.”

  “But assistants are too easy to replace. It would be like kidnapping a glass of water.”

  There was that “easily replaced” bit again, twice as annoying as last time.

  “Yes, but another glass of water might not fit all those clothes I bought.” Ryoki pulled out the newspaper and laid it flat on his desk. “Any criminal who looks at this could get the wrong idea.”

  Kate glanced at it and looked back at him. He knew she hadn’t really seen, but he was loath to explain. He put his finger on the photo, willing her to take a second look. “You’re in the photo,” she said, “and you drive yourself sometimes. You make a much bigger target than I do.”

  “I’m going to be more careful as well.”

  “But you can’t really think he would come after me.”

  “I never, ever want to find out.”

  “But the risk is so minor and the hindrance is so great. I can’t imagine running all my errands with some impatient man fidgeting around, making me feel like I’m too slow. I can’t concentrate without privacy. I can’t think my own thoughts.”

  Ryoki took hold of the last sentence. “Kate, your cousin Tom once told me that you get your head so high up in the clouds you could be snatched and locked in someone’s trunk before you even knew what hit you.”

  “You’re taking advice from burp-at-the-table Tom?”

  “He’s a good man with an interest in your safety. Now that trust falls to me,” Ryoki said quietly.

  “Just because you’re a man—”

  “Ah, the politically correct argument. If only I was American and cared.”

  She paused and then spoke slowly, enunciating her words carefully. “I lived here for years without trouble. I know which areas to avoid. I’m not stupid, Ryoki. I don’t go looking for trouble.”

  “But because of me it might come looking for you. As a teenager you could fly under the radar. Now your picture is on the front page of the newspaper.” He tapped the paper, pushing it closer, hoping she would take a closer look and understand. Whether she understood or not, she refused the bait. “In bringing you into my life, I didn’t consider that you’d also take on some of my risks. I’ll understand if you’d prefer to go home.” His voice thinned on the last word and his lunch went for a sail around and around and around. He laid an arm over his belly to discreetly relieve the pressure. Wordlessly Kate pulled a roll of antacid out of a small hidden drawer on her side of his desk. He took two, but it was more the homely gesture that soothed him.

  She softened her voice, trying reason rather than indignation. “But it’s still my decision to make.”

  “It is…” Ryoki paused mid-sentence before getting up and walking around his desk. “Stand up, please,” he said quietly.

  Kate stood, watching him nervously. He faced her and backed up to the middle of the room, beckoning her to move toward him until she was about six feet away where he motioned her to stop.

  “Now, I’m a friendly attacker—”

  Kate sighed and started to return to her seat, but he called her back.

  “As I said, I am a friendly attacker. I’ll give you fair warning and I promise not to hurt you.”

  “Why am I doing this?”

  “You have this whole room to work with. Climb on anything. Throw anything. If you can get to the door, I’ll apologize and won’t say another word about any of this.” He nearly offered to kiss the bottoms of her shoes if he lost, but thought she might smell a rat, so he’d downgraded.

  “So, all I have to do is get to the door and you won’t say another word.” She had the conflicted look of a gambler suspicious of an irresistible jackpot. “Just get to the door and I’m free.” She chewed her lip, narrowing her eyes. “There’s a catch.”

  Ryoki smiled, holding up his hands palms out to appear as non-threatening as possible, betting she’d grown up watching enough American TV to quasi-believe that a woman in teetering heels could theoretically plow barehanded through a whole gang of bad guys. “You can see all there is to see. Take your time. Figure out what you want to do. I’ll wait.”

  Kate pursed her lips, looked around the room, the cogs turning almost visibly as she formulated her plan of attack. Finally she kicked off her shoes and crouched to spring, her eyes telegraphing Left Left Left. He tried not to laugh. She breathed in.

  “Go!”

  “Uhmph.”

  Thump

  Exhale

  “That’s the catch,” she croaked, pinned solidly to the floor, avoiding his eye.

  “I’ll give you another chance. If you can get away, I’ll drop it.”

  Keenly aware that he held a small woman in a short skirt, Ryoki pinned only her arms and legs, careful to avoid any contact that might be construed as lewd and leaving her at least five possible escapes. But none of these appeared to occur to Kate, who yanked and struggled until she was red and panting, apparently believing that just one more jerk would wrench her free. Ryoki watched, coolly amused by her efforts until she finally stopped, laying limp on the floor, her head turned away, thinking—which, had she but known it, was always when he found her the most dangerous. “Have you had enough?” he
asked kindly. He needed her to say it; no letting her off on a technicality.

  She nodded, breathing a “yes” almost beneath hearing. He stood in one graceful motion, putting out a hand to help her up. Neither spoke as they moved to the sofa. She sat at the far end, keeping a chilly distance.

  “I could sue you for sexual harassment.”

  “Attackers are terrified of lawsuits.”

  Kate shot him a spiky look and turned away again.

  “You agreed to wrestle a Japanese man in the middle of South America. Sue away. You would be a lone feminist voice in a sexist wilderness. You might even win and get on the news.”

  “What’s your point, Ryoki?”

  “Biology. I’m bigger, stronger, and faster than you.”

  “And?” Annoyed, she finally faced him.

  “At a certain basic level, your independence depends on my being civilized, Kate. But there’s an uncivilized man out there who could snatch you up for ransom and once he had you in one of those favelas—” He swallowed before going on. “It wouldn’t take long to do a lot of damage, Kate. Men like that, you’d be nothing but property.”

  He considered the issue settled by combat, but her mouth had that twisty, thinking look, like she was still trying to get past him.

  “That’s a very old argument, Ryoki. Controlling women for fear of what other men might do. I’m just not convinced the threat is real.”

  “Maybe at some historical moments, when the world was less civilized, it was necessary and the practice became corrupted,” he suggested.

  She opened her mouth to retort, but stopped and looked at him, or maybe through him, as though his comment had sparked a synaptic connection to some other thought and she needed a moment to file it all away.

  “I’m calling it in, Kate. I listened to you in Las Vegas—”

  “You sulked in the bathroom.”

  “—I listened to you in Las Vegas, and if I hadn’t, I’d be dead. Now I’m asking you to listen to me. I’ll follow you around myself if I have to.”

  That last bit may have gone too far because her mouth curved in disbelief. He meant it, though; follow her around or send her home. He could see no way around it.

  “Why do you feel so strongly about this?” she asked, blowing out a breath and slumping her shoulders, her first signs of weakening.

  “Why did you make a fool of yourself in Las Vegas? I mean, storming into my suite and ordering Ruiz out, then parking yourself at the door so I wouldn’t go after her. At the time it made you look crazy. I thought you were crazy.”

  “I felt responsible,” she said slowly, “to your parents and Brian, and Grace and Tom and—”

  “It was my choice.”

  Kate said nothing, just chewed her lip as she thought.

  “Come on Kate, I’ve known your family my whole life. What would I say to them if anything happened to you? My father is in business with Brian. How would he face him?”

  “It wouldn’t be your fault.”

  “Grief doesn’t know about fault, it knows about biology. I’m bigger and stronger and faster. I brought you here, I put you at risk. So why didn’t I protect you?”

  She studied her hands, examining her pale nail polish. “Isn’t it enough that I practically live on your doorstep and wear your clothes and eat your food? I need room to breathe.”

  “Uh,” he stammered, brought up short. That expression had never made sense to him. Everybody breathes all the time—in out in out—until they’re dead.

  “I understand that my life is maybe a little overwhelming,” he faltered.

  “Do you understand?” she asked. “I’m not sure you really do, because of ‘biology.’”

  “You have the option to quit. I’ll still give you a good recommendation.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees to ease the returning queasiness. They sat in silence, both keeping their faces blank.

  “This makes you look paranoid, and kind of crazy,” she said. “Not just to me, to anybody who finds out. It might cause gossip. You understand that?”

  “Don’t care.” It surprised him to realize he truly didn’t.

  She gave him a hard look, the one that made him wonder if she could see through to the other side. Finally she nodded and stood to leave the room. “All right, you win. I give my permission.”

  She left his office looking an inch shorter, and he would have felt guilty if the worry hadn’t weighed so much. Kate said no more about it, so technically that should have been the end. But over the next few days her comments continued to roll around his mind, especially the part about not being able to breathe. Why couldn’t she breathe? Did he smother women until they would rather run off with penniless lovers or take chances with gangsters, than live under his umbrella? The following night he caught her checking her watch as they read aloud together. Abruptly he closed the book in the middle of a suspenseful scene and forced a yawn, though he didn’t feel the least tired. Maybe she felt she had to humor the big baby, at least until December. What if she was miserable and stayed solely out of honor, because she had made a commitment? Honor and commitment, those were excellent qualities in an employee, he reminded himself. Much sought after. That was enough, should be enough—mostly—maybe.

  On Friday evening Kate and Ryoki went to dinner at the penthouse apartment of Mokoto Arima and his wife Sakura. Sakura Arima sorely missed her London friends and, having heard so much about Tanaka-san’s unusual assistant, threatened to come to the office and discover for herself whether Porter-san was actually friend material. In mock horror her husband threw up his hands and invited them both on short notice. Ryoki, hoping to make up for the bodyguard business, accepted at once, not remembering Kate’s aversion to seafood, one of Sakura’s specialties.

  At first the dinner did not appear to be a success. Kate, self-conscious of her chopsticks, ate barely twenty grains of rice and bit into a tempura shrimp with the rigidity of a woman consuming dirt at a state dinner. The two women were so intensely polite that Ryoki and Arima watched them warily, wondering when the real Kate and Sakura were going to leap out and flatten everybody. The evening might have ended early and stiff, except Arima, gesturing expansively to make a point, upended the centerpiece, flooding the table and ruining the main course. For half a second everyone looked stunned, until Sakura erupted in a ripe and rich belly laugh that startled Kate. “Peanut butter and jam?” Sakura asked, looking around the table for any takers. The men declined, but Kate confessed to loving peanut butter. “Good,” Sakura said, pulling Kate to her feet. “You help me.”

  “You did that on purpose,” Ryoki said, once the women were gone. Arima busied himself blotting the worst of the spill with his napkin before declaring the table a total loss and leaving it for the skittery young maid who had most certainly sneaked off to watch her favorite telenovela. Not willing to prod the maid from her hole, he ushered Tanaka to the den and went off by himself in search of scotch. On the way he heard the closing credits of his daughters’ movie and glimpsed two ruffled nightgowns streaking toward the kitchen for snacks. If Porter-san passed muster in the kitchen, very likely Sakura would press her into service helping to read stories and put the girls to bed. She set great store on how her friends interacted with children. She and Porter-san would be good for each other, Arima was sure of this.

  Left by himself in the den, Ryoki took in the room’s decor, a professional job meant as a gift to Sakura, for allowing her husband to accept this transfer. Arima could have taken a job anywhere and Ryoki knew she didn’t want to leave London. The room looked very nice, magazine nice, but it lacked the warmth of their place in Mayfair, nothing he could point to exactly, just a feeling. Of course, they’d lived in London for several years and Sakura had had sovereign control of their home.

  He had believed he was being thoughtful in hiring a decorator, creating an insta-home to ease their transition. Now he wasn’t so sure. This place reminded him of his grandmother’s apartments in their rambling old house in Tokyo, a
lways a little too perfect, like there should be gold ropes across the chairs.

  When he was nine he remembered sitting by his grandmother as she met with a man wearing a pink silk shirt and a glittery gold pocket watch, who kept repeating that a woman’s rooms should reflect the woman. Later Ryoki had watched at the door as workmen and artisans flashed thrilling drills, hammers and screwdrivers, adding moldings, painting murals, and hanging chandeliers until it felt like Versailles. He’d been dragged there a year earlier and considered it the last word gaudy and exhausting. Months later he’d stood in the same doorway looking at his grandmother seated in a chair as she read, her sleek modern dress and glossy novel curiously out of sync with so much swirling gilt. She’d glanced up, closing her book, but keeping it in her lap, as though unwilling to let stray props spoil the set, even for a moment.

  Five years later a man with a single diamond earring designed his grandmother a Mediterranean hideaway. Five years after that, a woman clad in black produced a Queen Anne retreat. So on and so on. When he was twenty-nine, his grandmother brought in a new designer who insisted they strip all the bumpy, hand-painted wallpaper, and all the layers underneath, and create a clean, fresh, Japanese style, someplace where she could breathe. But the workmen had discovered old water damage that was slowly eating through the walls, leaving them weakened and pitted behind their layers of paint and fabulous wallpapers. Those walls too damaged to salvage had been torn away and partially replaced, but then his grandparents’ plane had crashed and the work stopped. In December during his last quick visit at home, Ryoki had walked through her rooms, torn bits of wallpaper fluttering as he opened the doors, wires hanging like spilled guts where fixtures had been removed.