Warning: Not NxM chapter..
Hope you still like it :)
Yuka Sakura's step daughter was attractive, but she, the mother, was beautiful – and she always had been. As he sipped his espresso and watched her coming up the cobblestone Paris Street, Shiki Masachika remembered the day he met her more than twenty years ago, when they were both freshmen at Tokyo University. She was beautiful, shy and nervous, although the campus was less than ten miles from her home.
It was all such a lifetime ago.
She was pale now, clutching her red leather hand bag a she threaded her way among the scatter of tables at the street side café. She'd tied a red silk scarf over her hair and secured it with a knot to one side of her throat, and she wore black pants and a light-weight black-and-white sweater.
Every man in the university had wanted her. Shiki had been just one among many. They'd never dated, had only attended a few classes together before he'd had to leave in the middle of his sophomore year. Family problems, he'd told people, but that wasn't the reason. Money was. Always money.
When he'd transferred, everyone still assumed that Yuka Azumi would end up marrying handsome, likable Narumi Anju, who wasn't the best student or the worst but was, by far, the most ambitious. Instead, a month after graduation, Yuka married brilliant and eccentric Izumi Sakura a child of one who is twelve years her senior.
She inhaled sharply when she saw Shiki and almost stumbled backward. He had deliberately chosen her favorite café not far from the hotel she and her husband had shared since agreeing to participate in a special commission at the International Court of Justice at The Hague.
For a moment, Shiki thought Yuka would run in the opposite direction, but she regained her composure and proceeded to his table.
She sat across from him and looked at him as if she might have just found a disagreeable insect on her table. But he could see the fear in her brown eyes, the strain of the past twenty four hours. Paris was twelve hours and thirty-six minutes ahead of Tokyo – it was late afternoon now. This time yesterday, she would have been just getting the news of shooting in the Central Park.
"Did you have anything to do with what happened to my son?" she asked, her voice low, intense, accusatory.
"Yuka. How could you think –"
She didn't back off. "Did you?"
Shiki sipped his espresso and took a small bite of the cookie that came with it. It was cool, windy afternoon. The café was un-crowded, although bicycles and people moved about in the streets. He was dressed casually in brown silk sweater and trousers, trying not to call attention to himself, although he doubted a federal agent would jump out of an alley and kidnap him back to Japan. They had bigger fish to fry. Or so they believed.
People often underestimate Yuka Sakura. Because she'd married a man so much older, because she devoted herself raising her children. An educated housewife, an amateur art historian. The condescension had to be hard for her to take at times. But Shiki had known her at sixteen, and he had never underestimated her – her intelligence, her determination, her grit. It was her steady devotion to her aging husband that had taken him by surprise. He'd seen it when he'd first contacted her last fall – another "chance" meeting – with the hope of maneuvering himself into her circle, the dream, even, of having an affair.
He remembered how much he'd wanted her at sixteen.
"I had nothing to do with the shooting." He kept his tone mild. "I've made my share of mistakes, but I'm not a violent man. You're upset. I understand."
"Don't patronize me. Don't." She didn't yell, but she was tight with anger an easier emotion for her, he thought, than fear. "You should turn in to Japanese authorities and go home to stand trial. You're a fugitive, Shiki. I don't want anything to do with you."
"My status is complicated legal matter."
"It's not complicated. You're charged with felony tax evasion. You were supposed appear for a trial in Japan court of law. Instead you fled." She looked away from him, her lower lip quivering, and a weakness she wouldn't want him to see. "You slipped out of the country to Switzerland –"
"I have a home there."
"You knew it would be difficult if not impossible for you to be extradited for tax evasion. I don't know about the France." She shifted her brown eyes on him. "Is it safe for you here?"
"Don't get carried away. It's trying legal matter. Nothing more."
"Did Ruka see you at the Musée du Louvre last month?" She kept her voice low, but her sarcasm was knifelike. "Did he recognize you? Did you have him shot because of it?"
Musée du Louvre. Shiki recognize now that intercepting her at the renowned Paris museum had been bad timing. He hadn't realized her son the Alice agent was in town. A critical oversight. But he'd only dared surface in France for a short time – he wanted to strengthen the bond between them now that he'd reestablished contact with her. It had been a long, trying winter. Seeing her had renewed his sense of hope.
Yet when they'd stood together three weeks ago in front of Paolo Veronese's, famous painting, The Wedding Feast at Cana, Yuka had told him – again – that she wanted nothing to do with him.
"Yuka. Please. I'm not here to argue with you were a familiar face, an old friend." That was the truth, as far as it went. Shiki smiled tenderly. "We had a pleasant visit when I was here last in November. A cup of coffee. A nice chat about old times. It was a chance encounter –"
"It wasn't chance. You arranged it. You manipulated me so that I'd run into you. I wasn't aware of your legal status, but I am now." She didn't soften. "And we were never friends."
He attributed her coldness and sarcasm to her desperate fear for her son. He let his gaze drift to the swell of her breasts, the soft shape of her hands. He'd accepted the chance of an affair was remote, at least while her husband was still alive. Shiki was a vital man, wealthy and his body taut, well conditioned. Izumi Sakura was old. Just plain old. He was in his fifties, but still force in diplomatic circles, an expert - a visionary – in international conflict resolution. A realist, not a romantic. A pragmatist, not ideologue. And a good man. He had humility, and he was kind. He'd endure terrible losses, a father dead in a longing accident at thirty-two a brother killed on the beaches of Okinawa, a wife he'd watched slowly waste away from cancer.
Yuka would never leave him. But he wouldn't live forever, either.
Right now, Shiki needed to play on her emotions – her sympathy for him as a former classmate, for the struggling sixteen years old she must remember. He was self-made man. He'd worked hard. He had so much to offer the world. But he couldn't contribute if he was behind the bars.
The Sakuras were known for their compassion.
And they had the ear of the new prime minister of Japan.
Yuka was right. It wasn't just friendship that had drawn him to her. Shiki wanted to convince her to tell her friend, Narumi Anju, that their old classmate deserved a break. He'd paid a price for his mistakes. He would use his wealth for good.
He wanted her to get him a presidential pardon. It would stop the legal proceedings against him dead on their tracks. A pardon wouldn't exonerate him, but it would keep him out of prison and buy time to distance himself from his other activities before they, too, caught up with him. Time to take his profits and move on.
"How's Ruka?" Shiki asked quietly.
Her eyes glistened with sudden tears – a mother's tears. They made her seem vulnerable, even more beautiful. He'd wanted Yuka Azumi for a long time. He had wanted that she'd been at sixteen, and had wanted what she could do for him now, as woman, as a friend and confidante of Prime Minister Narumi Anju.
"Oh, Shiki. Damn. I must be out of my mind. I don't approve of what you've done, but tax evasion-" She collapsed back against her chair. "It's not a violent crime."
"You're upset because of Ruka. I understand."
Even in her early forties, her skin was translucent, smooth and barely lined, her delicate bone structure the stuff of a man's dreams. Shiki wanted to take her hand and comfort her, but he knew better, resisted the instinctive reaction to her tears. A mother's grief. She gulped in a breath. "He's holding his own. I want to be there now –" She broke off, biting back a sob.
"When will you go?"
"As soon as we can. I told Mikan - " She stopped herself, as if she realized she was venturing into territory that was none of his business. "Travel isn't as easy as before, and he's in middle of critical meetings. If Ruka was in danger – we'd be there now."
"Of course you would."
"But his doctors tell us that each – day – each hour – that passes without complications is a good sign. They expected him to make a full recovery." She held her purse close to her chest and got to her feet. "Mikan's in Tokyo. My Step-daughter. She was at the Musée du Louvre too."
Shiki had seen her. Pretty, smart. One of his men had delayed her to give him time to speak to her mother – who'd promptly told him she didn't want him to contact her again.
"I hope Mikan didn't see you," Yuka said. "I hope no one saw you."
He leaned back, studying her as he had when he'd sat behind her in a dull philosophy class.
He sighed, pushing his coffee aside. "Yuka, please believe that I had nothing to do with the shooting yesterday."
"I wish we'd never run into each other." She seemed tired now, spent. "Call the Japanese embassy. Turn yourself in. If you're innocent, trust the judicial system -"
"My attorneys - "
"I don't want to hear about your damn lawyers!"
She took a breath, her tears are gone now. "You should have told me right from the start you were on the lam. I shouldn't have had to find out on my own."
He narrowed his gaze on her. "How did you find out?"
She averted her eyes. "That doesn't matter."
But it did. Misaki Andou had told her. Yuka had to wonder why an army stationed in Germany had contacted her to discuss her relationship with him.
Did Yuka know that Misaki was murdered in Paris, two days after the meeting about him?
"Stay away from me," Yuka whispered tightly. "Stay away from my family."
With a spurt of energy, she jumped up, almost turning over a chair as she made her way back out to the narrow cobblestone street, then quickly disappeared past a cheese-and-bread shop. She was smartly dressed, but she wore shoes that could handle Paris' many brick and cobblestone and streets, reminding him that she wasn't sixteen anymore.
A large group of Japanese tourists started rearranging tables, calling loudly, cheerfully, to each other about who would sit where.
A street musician fired up his accordion and moved in, playing a cheer tune. The tourist laughed, loving it.
Shiki paid for his coffee and walked down the street to a small Mercedes that awaited him. The back door opened, and he slid onto the cool leather seat next to Mochu, his most experienced bodyguard.
"She won't say anything," Shiki said. "She hasn't told anyone that we've met. She's not going to now that her son's been shot. It would only complicate the situation for everyone – her, her husband, her son. The Minister."
"Is she afraid?"
"Terrified."
He sighed, his pulse quickening. Yes, terrified. And yet all beautiful Yuka Azumi Sakura knew was that her old acquaintance from college was a convicted tax evader.
"Did she believe you?"
"About her son? I don't know." That troubled him, because he told her the truth. He'd had nothing to do with the shooting. "Have you heard from our man in Tokyo? Does he have any idea what the hell's going on there?"
Mochu shook his head. He was dark haired man, angular, good-looking and lethal. Thrown out of the Japanese army. A mercenary, plain and simple. "Nothing."
"Be prepared. You might have to go there."
Mochu smiled. "All of my passports are in order."
Shiki knew not to ask how many passports, how many identities, Mochu – if that was his real name – had at his disposal. Even if Mochu would tell him, which he wouldn't, there was always, for Shiki, the question of plausible deniability. Something better of not knowing. His people knew it and sometimes didn't trouble him with details.
Could his man in Tokyo have taken it upon himself try to kill Ruka Sakura?
If so, he should have finished the job – done it right and killed both agents. Now it could look like a botched job, which, if his friends or enemies thought he was behind it, would only make Shiki appear more weak.
The Mercedes pulled out into Paris tangle of impossibly narrow streets, many indistinguishable from the sidewalks and ubiquitous bike paths. Shiki settled back in his seat and shut his eyes, picturing himself bike riding in the hills of Osaka as a boy picking wild strawberries on a warm spring day, driving north to Kyoto with his father and walking up little round top as his father regaled him with details of the World War II. It had all sound romantic. To Father, the soldiers on sides exemplified duty, honor, integrity and courage. They were men who'd never give up.
Shiki imagined the federal agents hunting him were much the same. He had no illusions they'd forgotten about him. "Failure to appear" was not a good thing. If convicted of the tax charges, he faced a maximum sentence of five years in federal prison – why would taking off Switzerland before his trail tack onto his sentence?
Going to trial was not an option.
Prison wasn't an option.
But he could never go home.
That was what he hadn't realized, on a soul-deep level, when he'd fled.
He did now.
He opened his eyes; saw a Dutch couple riding bicycles with their blond toddlers in little seats on the handlebars. Everything seemed so foreign to him. He felt familiar lump in his throat. He was, he thought, so far from home.
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BTW. I sincerely I apologize for the wrong grammars and spellings for the past chapters, But I promise I'll definitely try my best to improve my writing...
Sneak peak for the next chapter:
There beer arrived, and Natsume took a sip of his, eyeing her. "There's nothing else?"
She didn't touch her beer. "What do you mean?"
"There's no other reason for Ruka to be worried about you?"
"No of course not. Is this a friendly drink or an interrogation?"
His smile caught her completely off guard. "Neither."
She felt the heat rush to her cheeks.
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