He rinsed off the soap and shampooed his hair. It was getting too long. He rarely bothered to have it cut by a professional. He just had Emme chop it off for him. It grew thick and wild, and when it annoyed him, he handed her the scissors. She always shook her head, but she did as he asked and cut it for him.

He pulled on loose-fitting pants, tightened the drawstring, pulled on a tight T-shirt and walked barefoot down the hall into the training room. The moment he set foot inside, he allowed himself to acknowledge his state of mind. This edginess wasn’t all about the memories so close, although that was a good part of it. He had lost her – Mariko. And what kind of fate had dictated that the little girl he’d saved would be sent to kill him and he’d fall like a ton of bricks for her.

He pulled on thin leather workout gloves while he contemplated the irony of his fate. He wasn’t a man who felt sorry for himself. He got angry, but he didn’t wallow in misery. He lived his life in the fast lane to escape the ever-present rage and fear that his family would become a target. He had considered returning to Tokyo and getting rid of the threat, but he knew that would bring disgrace to his family.

Stefano had ways of dealing with threats, and more than once, especially lately, Ricco had contemplated telling him the entire mess. He wasn’t all that sorry that Mariko had provided him with the catalyst to do so.

He settled into a rhythm, pounding the bag, moving around it while he jabbed and punched. The sound of his fists hitting the heavy bag along with the jolt of pain as his knuckles slammed over and over into the bag. After a while his thoughts faded from his mind, allowing the craziness to disappear for a short while. He ignored his body’s protest. Sometimes the pain in his body was worth the way his mind quieted.

CHAPTER NINE

Mariko cried through her shower and the entire time she was in the soaking tub. The water was cold by the time she could stem the torrent of emotion pouring out of her. She cried for the little three-year-old girl who was told she’d gotten into a car, put it in gear and run over her baby brother. She cried for her brother who went back and forth, along with her, believing and then not believing. She cried for her lost family. She cried to know she wasn’t an abandoned orphan no one wanted but a Tanaka, of the legendary riders. Mostly she cried for the fourteen-year-old boy who had killed three boys and permanently paralyzed another to save her, and had been made to suffer a lifetime for his courageous actions.

She understood Osamu’s madness just a little better. Her sons had been murderers. They were responsible for several deaths and contributed to the loss of the Tanaka riders. No one would want the stigma and shame of that hanging over them. Osamu and her husband, Dai, were both proud people. The thought that Ricco could at any moment change their lives would eat away at both of them.

Osamu went back and forth between loving Ryuu and hating him. She would, by turns, treat him as the son she had lost and then as the reminder of that loss. She kept him off-balance and always seeking love from her. Mariko she punished for being alive when her sons were not. She would have a hatred for Ricco like no other. He had killed her sons, regardless of the circumstances.

Over the years, Dai and Osamu had grown apart, as her madness had progressed. Dai had retreated, leaving for long periods of time to his apartment in the country, but he always came back. Could Osamu have orchestrated the attempt on Ricco’s life? The answer was yes. Certainly. She would have seen justice in using Mariko to kill him. That would explain the note delivered to her room rather than through the mail. But would she involve Ryuu? Risk his life by letting her accomplices kidnap him?

Mariko shivered as she wrapped a towel around her. Ryuu wouldn’t conspire against his sister. She was certain of that. He might have swung back and forth between following Osamu’s example of ridiculing her and being affectionate, but he would never agree to force her to kill another human being. Ryuu might try to do so himself for Osamu, but he wouldn’t use Mariko.

She let her hair down, pulling out the pins so that it tumbled to her shoulders. She should try to sleep, but she wasn’t tired. She could hear the echo of a fast-paced rhythm, thuds hitting repeatedly like the beat of a drum. She knew that sound. She knew Ricco must be hitting the heavy bag in the training room. She winced, thinking about the amount of time she’d been noting the noise – certainly the entire time she’d been in the soaking tub. Maybe longer. It was a punishing rhythm, and he hadn’t let up for a moment.

She went to the cedar drawers where lingerie had been placed. A red lacy bra and matching panties lay on top. She smoothed her hand over them. She’d always worn plain underwear. Nothing to make her think she was a woman – especially a sexy one. Ricco made her feel beautiful and sensual every time he looked at her. He had a way of focusing on her that made her feel as if she were the only woman he saw. She knew that wasn’t true, because she read the tabloids, but still, for the first time in her life, she felt beautiful. More, she felt as if Ricco Ferraro saw only her.

She pulled on the bra and panties, sliding them over her pale skin – skin she’d always hated. Now it felt warm and soft. Sensual. Because she was thinking of him. She hadn’t known life could be different. At home, there was always back-breaking, unappreciated work that was never ending. She loved training, but she couldn’t train forever. Osamu was always waiting to hand her a list of chores. Even coming off missions, she wouldn’t have so much as a night’s sleep.

She looked around the room. Comfortable. Beautiful. Spacious. She’d never had anything like that room. Her own bathroom. Drawers and a closet filled with clothes. She pulled a silk kimono from the closet. Blossoming cherry trees ran up the material in soft pinks and browns. It was gorgeous. She wrapped herself up in the long robe and ran her hands down it. The silk felt sensual against her skin, and glancing at herself in the mirror, she was shocked at how she looked.

She studied the makeup in the light-up vanity. She knew enough to make her eyes smolder, but she had never used a red lipstick. Osamu would have been furious and called her all kinds of names. She could barely believe she was so daring as to choose the ruby red. She nearly wiped it off, but then she squared her shoulders.

Ricco Ferraro was a good man. A worthy man. By every account he was considered one of the best shadow riders. If she had a small amount of time left, she wanted it to be spent with him. She wanted to feel like a beautiful woman. She had gone over and over where her brother could possibly be, but she had no clues. No information. Nowhere to start. She could only hope that if Osamu was in on the conspiracy to kill Ricco, after Mariko’s death she would have Ryuu released unharmed. In the meantime, Mariko was going to spend as much time as possible with Ricco. She’d continue to try to find her brother, but she knew the odds were stacked against her.

She took one last look in the mirror at the woman she didn’t really know and resolutely turned toward the sound of that heavy bag and the pounding rhythm that hadn’t once paused. Heart pounding, she continued at the same pace, not fast, not slow, but graceful, silent, moving in the silk of the kimono, feeling it against her bare skin. She had never been more certain, or more nervous, about a decision.