The Givenchy Code (14 page)

“You can,” Stryker said. He hooked a finger under my chin and tilted my head up. His expression was so warm and tender, and I wanted to lose myself in his eyes. “If anyone has the strength to fight this, you do. For that matter, so do I. We’re going to win. We’re going to show this asshole he picked the wrong two people to fuck with.”

I smiled a little at that, but I couldn’t speak. I just nodded and tried to look confident and on top of things. In other words, I tried to look like the woman Stryker saw instead of the woman I knew he was looking at.

“Maybe it is a train,” he said, continuing, “but why does it have to run us over? What’s stopping us from jumping on board and riding it all the way to the end? Catching this son of a bitch and ending this thing?”

This time, I didn’t even try to smile. I was too busy turning his words over in my head. Over and over. A train, I’d called it. It hadn’t clicked then, not until Stryker had repeated the words back to me. It
was
a train. A train station, to be more exact.

My pulse picked up tempo as excitement surged through my veins. I was right. I knew I was right.

I damn well better be right.

“Come on,” I said, taking Stryker’s hand and tugging him toward me. “We have to hurry.”

T
rains.
That was the answer. It had to be. We’d been staring right at it, but we’d still managed to miss it.

With Stryker looking on curiously, I clambered off the bed and parked myself in front of the computer. We were still logged on, so it took me no time at all to find what I was looking for. All I had to do was type
C.P.R.R. inscription
into a Google search, and there it was—the confirmation that I was right.

“Central Pacific Rail Road,” Stryker said, reading over my shoulder. “So?”

“Railroad,” I spelled out. “Central.
Grand
Central.” I looked at him hopefully, but he wasn’t catching on. “Oh, come on, Stryker. The clue has to be referring to Grand Central Station. And fifteen’s a locker number.”

“I doubt it,” Stryker said, totally raining on my parade. “Surely they took the lockers out after nine-eleven.”

“But I’ve seen lockers there. I’m almost positive. And even if there aren’t lockers, maybe they have a bag check service, like some of the train stations in Europe.”

“Or it could be a train number or a platform number or a dozen other things.”

I had to admit he was right. For that matter, I had to admit my whole theory sounded more thin now that I’d actually put it into words. But at the moment it was the only theory I had, and I intended to stick to it like glue. At the very least, I was going to scour Grand Central.

We got dressed in a flash. I grabbed my tote, and Stryker grabbed the laptop—just in case—and we raced into the hall. As soon as we reached the elevator, the doors conveniently opened. I automatically examined each face, looking for Lynx.

The second the elevator doors slid open on the first floor, Stryker grabbed my elbow, tugging me to the side and letting the others emerge first. Then he stepped off, glancing around before getting off, his body shielding me from harm. For just a moment, I had an inkling of how celebrities and uber-politicians must feel. The kind with stalkers and bodyguards. There’d been a brief period in my life when I’d fantasized about being Britney Spears. I can’t sing, so that option really wasn’t open to me (some, I suppose would argue that Britney can’t sing either). At the moment, I was absurdly grateful for my lack of talent. If this was how celebrities lived, I wanted no part of it.

The elevators at the Plaza open into the reception area, the elevator banks standing perpendicular to the reception desk across the room. We stepped off, and I turned left.

He was there.
Right there. Standing at the counter and talking to the clerk. I couldn’t see his face, but I knew that voice. The voice that had threatened me outside Todd’s building. The voice that—at this very moment—was asking the desk clerk what room I was registered in.

“Melanie Lynn Prescott,” he was saying. “She’s expecting me.” I froze.

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ve checked. She’s not registered.”

“What about Matthew Stryker?”

Stryker’s hand tightened around my upper arm, and he tugged me sideways, effectively pulling me out of Lynx’s view. We ducked around, coming out on the far side by the Palm Court and a jewelry store with diamonds in the window blinking like a beacon to the rich and famous.

Right about then, Lynx stepped into view, looking royally pissed off.

Stryker must have realized what I saw, because he leaned over, closing the gap and blocking my view. “We’re newlyweds,” he said. “We can’t keep our hands off each other. Kiss me.”

I didn’t hesitate. It wasn’t the best disguise, but at the moment, we had no place else to go. Maybe I trusted Stryker to protect me. Maybe I just figured that if I was going to die, I might as well die happy. I didn’t know and I didn’t analyze. All I did was lean forward and let him capture my mouth in his kiss.

I’d like to report that the warmth of his mouth filled me with such joy that I forgot all my problems. Forgot that I was marked for death. Forgot that I was living a nightmare.

Nope.

He might have given me the ultimate Calgon moment upstairs in the shower, seducing my problems out of my head for a few heavenly moments, but down here, with danger lurking, I was hardly even conscious of the fact that our lips were touching. I’m sure it was a lovely kiss, but I barely noticed. It took every ounce of strength in my body not to break free from Stryker’s strong hands and run like hell in the opposite direction, moving as far and as fast from Lynx as possible.

I didn’t, of course, but I had no idea how long the kiss went on. Interminably, it felt like. And while I’d barely been aware of the contact during our kiss, now that it was over, I was desperately aware of the absence of his touch. Stryker was safety, and though he hadn’t even moved a full two inches away, I suddenly felt exposed.

“Come on,” he said.

I nodded, allowing him to tug me down the wide hallway, the Palm Court—now dark, yet still elegant—on our right and the brilliant displays from the various Plaza merchants built into glass cases on our left. We rounded a corner, and Stryker stopped short. I realized why half a second later. Lynx was in the foyer, an unlit cigarette in his hand and a scowl on his face. He didn’t see us, but as he passed, I got a look at those eyes. My first impression had been right. These were dangerous eyes. Dangerous and excited. He was getting off on the hunt. He wasn’t just playing the game, he was reveling in it. He wanted this freak show. For him, it was power. And why not? He was the one doing the hunting. It wasn’t he whose forehead was tattoed with a big red target.

For my man Lynx, this was one big jerk-off-a-thon. But was that it? Was he playing just for the thrill? Or was there something else, too?

What did he get if he won?

For that matter, what did I get if
I
won?

Survival, of course. But I had a feeling that in the mind of whoever was pulling our strings, survival wasn’t a prize, it was simply a condition. Something was waiting for me at the end of the rainbow. In the cyberworld, it would be cash. Here, too? I didn’t know. But I damn sure intended to last long enough to find out.

“D
id he see us?” I asked as Stryker aimed us into the wonderfully atmospheric bar inside the Plaza, which just happened to be a convenient distance from our friendly neighborhood stalker.

“I don’t think so,” Stryker said, guiding us through the late-night crowd toward the long wooden bar that was the focal point of the large room.

“How did he find us?” I asked. “You didn’t register under your name, did you?”

“No, Mrs. Johnson, I didn’t.” A muscle in his jaw ticked. “We may be playing this game in a vacuum, but he isn’t. Whoever is behind this has been watching us. Probably picking up our scent at each clue. The car. The cruise line.”

“They followed us here and then got word to Lynx,” I said, filling in the blanks.

“I think so.”

“Son of a
bitch,”
I said. “That is so unfair.”

“Stay here,” he said. “Try to look inconspicuous. And watch your back.”

“You’re leaving me?”

“Not for long.” He kissed my forehead. “He hasn’t seen us, which means the advantage is ours. And I know one sure way to end this.” He reached under his jacket, and I caught a quick glint of metal as he checked his gun.

I looked around, frantic, sure his movement had just set off alarm bells all over the hotel. “You’re not going to—”

“Damn straight I am,” he said.

I wanted to argue, but I kept my mouth shut. I had no qualms at all about blowing Lynx’s kneecaps off and demanding information. Hell, I had no qualms about blowing his entire head off. At that particular moment, I would have done it myself if I hadn’t been sure I’d miss and instead blow a hole in the Plaza’s nicely painted wall. What I did have qualms about was seeing Stryker dead. And Lynx had already proven that he was a dangerous character.

Stryker, though, was dangerous, too. And I had a feeling that I’d insult him down to the core if I begged him not to go or even told him I was worried.

I did neither. Instead, I just said, “Hurry.”

He nodded, his face tight as he passed me the laptop case. “Don’t go anywhere,” he added with a wry grin.

And then he was gone. I glanced around the room, trying to decide where to settle myself. I ended up on a stool near the end of the bar, my body angled just enough that I could see almost all of the seating area and the main entrance into the hotel. To my left, there was another entrance that opened onto59th Street, and I had a decent view of that area, too. My only blind spot was behind me, where tables filled the far corner of the bar. I spent a moment examining every face and didn’t settle into my perch until I was certain the people behind me were simply there for drinks, not my blood.

“You okay?”

I jumped about a foot at the decidedly male voice. “Shit,” I said, turning to face the bartender. “You scared me.”

“Sweetie,” he said, “you look like the Easter bunny could scare you.”

I grimaced, fearing that what he said was true. I didn’t want to get sucked into a conversation, but I didn’t want to leave, either. I’d told Stryker I’d wait for him, and that was a promise I intended to keep. I might be arrogant about a lot of things, but about going this alone I had no ego at all. I wanted help. All the help I could get.

“So you wanna tell me your sob story?”

“No,” I said.

“You sure? You look like you could use an ear.”

“What is this?” I asked. “A bad sitcom? Don’t you have drinks to make?”

He swept his hand in a wide arcing gesture, indicating the crowded bar. “They’ve already got drinks. And I can always spare a moment for a beautiful woman.”

“Shit,” I said. Somehow, it just seemed appropriate. The guy was either gay and chatty, or straight and hitting on me. It was a testament to my exhaustion that I had no clue which.

“Uma Thurman,” he said, and it was such a non sequitur that it sucked me right back into the conversation.

“What?”

“You look like Uma Thurman.”

I’ve been called a lot of names in my life, but “Uma Thurman” was never one of them. And, frankly, I have a feeling ol’ Uma would be a little less than thrilled by the comparison.

“It’s the hair,” the bartender said.

Obviously, he was straight, and this was his idea of a pickup line. I’m tall and thin. Uma’s taller and thinner. My hair is blond and straight. Uma’s hair is blond and straight. My eyes are blue. Uma’s eyes are blue. And there the similarities end. A gay man would know that. A straight man would be clueless.

“You’ve never actually met Uma in person, have you?” I tossed the question to him over my shoulder as I once again circled the room with my gaze, my fingers crossed tight that I wouldn’t lock eyes with Lynx.

“She came in here once,” he said.

“Did you wait on her?”

“Not exactly.” He jerked his head toward the wall of bottles behind him. “What can I get you?”

“Tequila,” I said. “Straight up.” What the hell? I’d avoided drinking all damn day. Being dead sober wasn’t helping me. Maybe a buzz would.

He poured out a shot and presented me with the check. I signed it to the room, then passed him the slip.

I was still pondering the Uma mystery. “Did you see
Kill Bill?”

“Sure thing. Why?”

I just smiled. Maybe I could take a lesson from Uma after all. Ruthless. That’s what I needed to be to survive.

I needed to be ruthless. And I needed to start thinking that way now.

S
tryker rushed down the hall toward the main foyer, icy calm flowing through his veins. This time, he was the stalker. And he was going to end this thing. Right here. Right now.

He kept his right hand under the left side of his jacket, effectively shielding his gun, as he moved around the corner. Nine o’clock, twelve, three. His eyes scanned the area.
Nothing.

The bastard was gone.

The foyer opened onto the street. If Lynx had gone out that way, then he could have hopped a taxi and been halfway down Fifth Avenue by now.
Damn.

He hurried through the doors and down to the street, scouring the view in all directions, but there was no sign of Lynx. Stryker stood stock-still, assessing the situation, every muscle in his body tensed and ready to pounce. In front of him, well-dressed couples were getting into and out of limos and taxis, some casting him uneasy glances, others not even noticing his presence. None, however, included Lynx.

He took the steps back inside two by two, stopping in front of the doorman as one horrible thought occurred to him. “The bar,” he said. “Is there another way in?”

“Certainly, sir,” the doorman said. He turned, his manner formal and deferential, and pointed toward Central Park. “The entrance on Fifty-ninth,” he said. “It opens right onto the bar.”

Stryker barely caught the last words, though. He was already flinging open the door and racing through the foyer. The hall was crowded, and he elbowed his way past women in sequins and men in tuxedos, a terrible fear rising in his chest as his feet pounded on the floor.

No, God, please, no.

He saw her then, sitting at the bar, just chatting with the bartender, perfectly casual, while a dozen or so people milled around.
Safe.
Thank God.

He took one step forward, and everything changed.

A telltale red dot on her chest. A laser site. An automatic weapon. And it was aimed right at her heart.

He didn’t think. He just pulled out his gun and fired high, shattering the mirror behind the bar and sending Mel and the bartender sprawling to the ground, along with the other patrons.

Screams filled the air as Stryker raced in, then tugged Mel to her feet by her elbow. “Run,” he hissed as he grabbed the laptop case and her tote bag. She didn’t argue, and together they raced back out the way Stryker had come in, hooking through the foyer and down the front steps.

A woman in black sequins was about to hop into a taxi, but Stryker shoved Mel inside ahead of the woman, then muttered a terse apology as he climbed in after her. “Go!” he shouted.

The driver went, heading out and onto Fifth Avenue with only a questioning glance into the rearview mirror. Stryker ignored him, instead turning to Mel and grabbing her roughly by the shoulders as he looked her up and down.

He’d been sloppy back there, and he’d almost lost her. Goddammit!
He’d almost lost her!
“From now on,” he said, “we stick together.”

“What the hell happened?” she asked. She was breathing hard, her chest rising and falling.

“He had you. He had a gun aimed right at you.”

Every drop of color drained from her face, and he wanted nothing more than to just pull her close and tell her it would be all right. He couldn’t say that, though. As much as he wanted to believe otherwise, he’d seen how fragile his hold on“all right” was.

“He shot at me? That was him?” Her voice was a mere wisp, and he had to lean in close to hear her.

“That was me,” he said. “I needed you to duck.”

“Oh.” A whisper of a smile touched her face. “It worked.”

The cabbie looked at them over his shoulder. “So where are we going, folks?”

“Grand Central Station,” Mel said. She turned her attention back to Stryker. “I hope I’m right.”

He took her hand, squeezing tight. “We’ll find it.”

“We’d better. He’s close on our heels.”

“I hope you didn’t leave anything important in the room, though,” he said, turning to look back toward the hotel. “We won’t be going back.”

“Persona non grata after your shoot-out?”

“Something like that. Sorry.”

“I guess that makes us even,” she said with a grimace. “I signed the check to the room. If he didn’t know our room number before, he does now.”