The Givenchy Code (25 page)

L
ynx pulled the taxi up near Peter Trent’s grave, slammed the car into park and got out. He still couldn’t believe the asshole cabdriver had let them get away. A Buick that couldn’t catch a Ford Aspire? What a load of crap.

He fingered his gun and aimed a wry look at the trunk. Well, that was one mistake that driver wouldn’t make again. He just hoped the mistake hadn’t been too costly. He could have had her. She’d been right there, so close—and so had his money.

But she’d slipped through his fingers, and now here he was, resorting to tracking her down. The woman at the main office had been quite agreeable, pointing out which grave Mel and Stryker had visited, and circling the spot on the map. Now Lynx was here. Figuring out another goddamn clue so he could find his quarry before she solved the next one.

He shivered slightly, unable to shake the feeling that time was running out.

He pushed the feeling aside. He wasn’t inclined to morbidity, and he certainly wasn’t inclined to self-doubt. He’d win. Of course he would. He always won. Always had, always would. There simply was no question. It was only a matter of how and when.

The when, he hoped, would be soon.

He walked around the grave, careful not to mar the footprints already on the soft ground. The tombstone was loose, and he said a silent curse. If there’d been something hidden under there…

No.
The clue was still here. It had to be. Anything else was unacceptable.

But where?

He fingered the lighter in his pocket, turning its smooth casing over in his hand before pulling it out and lighting a cigarette. He took a step back and examined the ground. His grandfather had taught him about the hunt, and what Pa hadn’t taught, Lynx had picked up on his own. Tracking was a skill he’d honed, and he put it to good use now, finding and following their footsteps. Across the path and to the grave immediately opposite.

Thomas Reardon.

The name meant nothing to Lynx, but he noted that they’d spent some time there, moving about but not leaving. When they had left, they’d gotten back in their car.

Thomas Reardon.

Somehow that name was important. The next clue? Someone to see? To meet?

He pulled out his PDA and logged onto the Internet, going immediately to a search engine. The browser closed, however, leaving a flashing email indicator.

Lynx frowned. He’d very specifically input the settings on his Internet options. When he was in another program, the only email that should take precedence was an email from the target in an active PSW game.

And the only currently active game was…

He opened the email. And read the message that wasn’t from Melanie Prescott but was instead generated by the game itself. It was a message he hadn’t expected to see.

No.

No. He shook his head.

No. It couldn’t be.

NO.
He hauled back and almost let his PDA go flying, but he caught himself just in time.

This was wrong.
Wrong.
He always won.

And this game really was no different at all.

H
ad I not actually experienced it, I don’t think that I’d believe that it is really possible to spend three entire days in bed doing absolutely nothing but having sex and eating.

I can honestly report, however, that it is. Completely possible and totally yummy. And let me just add that if you’re going to survive a wild chase with a crazed assassin on your tail, celebrating victory afterwards with a totally hot Marine really is the only way to go.

Really.

At least until the buzz wears off and you start to fall into that girly-girl state: How do you tell if he’s really into you? Is it just sex? Does he really care? Or is this all just a by-product of adrenaline and the ultraclose quarters you’d spent time in over the course of the aforementioned wild chase?

And that pretty much sums up my mental state when Stryker got out of bed and started pulling on a pair of sweatpants we’d bought in the little gift shop located in the Plaza’s lower level.

“So, um, you’re really heading out?” He’d told me he’d need to leave soon to check on his house, find his way back into his life. The whole postadventure routine, I guessed.

He moved back to the bed and planted a bone-melting kiss on me. “You okay with that?”

“Sure.” I waved the question away even as I pulled the sheet up higher around my chest. “Of course I am. I mean, you have a life, right?”

He gave me that typically male look, like he really didn’t know what to say to me. Like I’d turned into a She-Beast and he had to handle me with care.

I sighed. I
was
being a She-Beast. We’d had a lovely time, but it wasn’t like we had any sort of commitment.

Talk about a bummer.

His eyes narrowed. “I can stay. Or you can come with me. Or I can drop you at your apartment. You probably have things to take care of, too.”

“No, no. I’m fine. Really.”

“You’re sure?”

“Oh, please…” I worked hard to keep my tone light and perky. “I’m alive. I’m sexually sated and physically rested. I’m at the Plaza. And I’m about to head out on the shopping excursion to end all shopping excursions.”

He laughed. “I’m flattered you haven’t gone shopping already.”

I felt my cheeks warm. “What can I say? You hold more appeal.”

“I’m not sure I believe that, but I’m flattered.”

I grinned. “Really, Stryker. Life is good.”

“But you’re not going home?”

“Why should I? No one’s home.” I’d called Jenn to hear her voice and check on the baby. She’d sounded so happy that I hadn’t had the heart to dump all over her. After she got back, we’d have drinks and I’d tell her one hell of a story.

“Besides,” I continued, “it’s not like I can’t afford to stay here for a week or two. In case you forgot, I’m rich now.” Twenty million rich, less the million I’d transferred to Stryker’s account. Can you believe he only got an extra hundred grand for protecting me? A measly hundred! I was willing to split the twenty with him down the middle, but he wouldn’t hear of it.

He took my hand. “If you get nervous—”

“I’m
fine.
Nothing’s happened in days. The game’s over. Lynx has probably skipped the country. Or else he’s moved on to some other target.” The idea made me queasy. I wanted to use my winnings to find and help other girls like me, but so far I hadn’t figured out how. I was certain that other girls—possibly guys, too—were being forced to play this game, though. Somehow, I was going to figure out a way to find them and help them.

“The cops will find him,” Stryker said. “And they’ll nail Reardon, too.”

I made a face, not nearly as certain. Neither of us had believed Reardon, but Stryker hadn’t called him on it in the office because he figured it made more sense to lay low. We’d talked to a friend of his right after we’d left Reardon’s office, stopping at the local FBI field office on our way to check me in to the Plaza. Stryker’s theory was that somehow Archibald Grimaldi had set the whole thing up with Reardon. No one had expected he’d die, and now Reardon was running the PSW end with who knows how much help from the inside. It was a theory that made sense, especially since Jamie Tate had been sucked into the game well before Grimaldi had died.

The agent, Devlin Brady, had promised to investigate and keep the matter quiet. He and Stryker had talked about using the cyber unit and putting some surveillance on Reardon. Surprising to me, the FBI hadn’t tried to seize the money. The way Devlin had explained it, there wasn’t enough evidence to tie a bad guy to the transfer of funds. Reardon wasn’t under arrest, Grimaldi was dead, and the money hadn’t come from Lynx. Plus, he’d added confidentially, since the money was in an offshore account, it would be near impossible for the government to get it from me.

Fine with me. I figured I earned it.

Stryker planted a warm kiss on my lips. “If you need anything, you have my number. I’ll call you later and see how you’re doing.”

“You don’t have to,” I said. “Really.” It’s not like we’d made any promises, and it
was
time to get back to our lives. I was feeling very mature. We’d had a lovely time. I’d wanted him, he’d wanted me, and we’d gotten our fill. And, yes, I
still
wanted him. But only if I was sure it was more than just a post-trauma relationship. I didn’t want to be like Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves in
Speed.
They seemed so great together, and then it turned out to be just sex. I mean, look who she ended up with in
Speed2….

Stryker just shook his head and kissed me again. “I’ll call you,” he said firmly.

And as the door closed behind him, I realized my cheeks hurt from smiling so broadly.

S
ex is great. Don’t get me wrong. But to
really
celebrate, shopping is required. Intense shopping. Julia Roberts in
Pretty Woman
–type shopping.

I celebrated in a big way.

I started at Givenchy, of course, and spent so much money there that they offered to have my bags delivered to my hotel room. I sputtered a bit, saying that really wasn’t necessary, but the saleswoman waved off my protests. I hit Jimmy Choo next, then moved from Madison over to Fifth Avenue, where I basically bought out the street. Gucci, Prada, Fendi, Bottecelli, Bruno Magli, Henri Bendel. Manolo, of course. By the time I hit Chanel, my feet ached and I complained of being overladen with bags. The manager called the Plaza for me and arranged for a car to drive my bags back to my room. This time, I knew the drill and graciously accepted the offer. As for me, I stayed and overladened myself all over again.

After one more limo ride for my bags (following a mass of purchases at Hermès, Dior, Tods and, finally, Bergdorf’s!) I aimed myself toward Elizabeth Arden’s. I’d always wanted to walk through that little red door, and there was something so sweet about doing exactly that.

This having a bank account thing really is all it’s cracked up to be. It almost made my near-death experience worth it.

Almost.

When I climbed into a taxi five hours later I was completely relaxed, having been massaged, oiled, shampooed, manicured, exfoliated, primped and prodded.

I felt completely marvelous. Sex, spa and shopping. The three essentials of life.

I couldn’t live like this forever (though I might have to give that one some more consideration), but after the past week, I think I deserved it for a while.

The sun was just starting to set as we pulled up in front of the Plaza. I got out, gave the driver a fabulous tip and headed to my room for an extravagant evening of room service, cable television, and a follow-up try-on-everything-I-bought session.

I’d been in the room a full five minutes before I saw the note. Brown paper on the desk, and as I walked closer, I realized that my hand had drifted to my throat.

A pigpen message.

I looked around, frantic, but there was no one in the room. I checked the bathroom and armoire. No one. I went back to the door, locked the bolt and put the chain on. Then I sat down at the desk and went to work.

Five minutes later I had my translation, and my fear had dissipated.

I positively sagged in relief. Stryker had my second key, so of course he’d been able to get into my room to leave the note. I’ll admit I was a little surprised he’d left a pigpen message, all things considered. But I’d never been good at figuring out the way a man’s mind works….

It took me about four and a half seconds to change into a sleeveless white Anna Sui top coupled with a flared Nanette Lepore skirt that hit just above my knees. I added a simple diamond drop necklace that I’d picked up at Tiffany’s, then slipped into the Givenchy pumps that Stryker had bought me. I did a quick pirouette in front of the mirror, then dabbed on a bit more Bobbi Brown lip tint. When I stepped outside, I realized that 412 was the room right next door. How convenient.

The door had been propped open with an ice bucket, and I knocked as I pushed it open and stepped into the suite. (Much nicer than my room. Why hadn’t I thought to ask for a suite?)

“Hello? Stryker? It’s me…”

No answer. It occurred to me that I had no idea when he’d left the note, and he probably had gravely underestimated my shopping stamina. He probably had expected me back hours ago. Had he gone down to the bar? The restaurant?

The shower.

I hadn’t heard it at first, but now I clearly heard the pounding of water coming from the bathroom. I headed that way, sashaying a little as I walked, more than willing to play the role of vixen.

“Hey, gorgeous,” I sang as I moved into the steamy room. “Want company?”

Again, no answer, and I realized with a start that there wasn’t anyone in there. Just an empty shower, spraying hot water into an empty stall.

From the main room, I heard a sharp click. The door closing.

“Stryker?”

No answer.

And that’s when I realized. That’s when I knew.

I was completely and totally screwed.

I
didn’t wait to find out if I was wrong. Instead, I slammed the bathroom door shut and locked it. The lock was flimsy, though, and I knew it wasn’t keeping Lynx out for any length of time. It wouldn’t be any trick at all to aim a bullet at the doorknob, or even to just ram the door with his shoulder.

Basically, I was dead meat.

I looked around the bathroom, hoping for something heavy I could put in front of the door, or a window I could squeeze through. No such luck. I lunged in the direction of the phone, only to realize it had been ripped out of the wall. The window wasn’t big enough for my head, much less my hips. And everything heavy—toilet, clawfoot tub, bidet—was bolted down.

Think, dammit, think!

I couldn’t escape, which meant that all I could do was try to defend myself. I held my breath as I examined everything in the bathroom, Stryker’s words echoing through my head—
Anything can be a weapon.

Right. But what?

My eye caught the towel bar, and I frowned. Maybe…

I gave it a little tug, and sure enough, the ends came easily out of the brackets. I hefted it, testing its weight and firmness. Not a tire iron, but it would do. Or, rather, it was going to have to do.

So far, I hadn’t heard any noise coming from the other room, and I wanted to cling to the tiny hope that maybe I was completely wrong and overreacting and would feel incredibly foolish in about five minutes when Stryker asked me what the hell I was doing holed up in the bathroom with a towel bar.

I could hope, but I wasn’t laying odds.

And speaking of odds, I really wanted to increase mine. Unfortunately, my tools (i.e., the Plaza’s well-stocked bathroom) were sadly lacking in the self-protection arena. I took one more glance around and saw the lavender-scented squirty soap next to the sink.

Not foolproof, but it just might work….