by Julie Kenner
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.
Chapter
73
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.
Couldn’t stay away. I’m in room 412.
I’d love the pleasure of your company. S
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.
Chapter
74
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….
Chapter
75
T he doorknob rattled, and I bit my lip, afraid that if I didn’t, I’d open my mouth and scream.
I stood off to one side but relatively near the door. I figured he’d expect me to be as far away as possible. I also figured he was pissed as hell and just wanted me out of the picture. That said, I expected him to come in with his gun drawn, sight me, and take me down.
I hoped that, by being this close to the door, I’d buy myself a few precious seconds.
I’d see soon enough if I was right.
The doorknob rattled again, this time with more persistence.
My heart picked up tempo, the beat so loud I was certain the guests in surrounding rooms would hear it and dial 911.
Silence.
No shaking of the knob. No heavy breathing. No click of a gun chamber being pulled back.
I waited, my body tense, my breath coming in shaky bursts.
Nothing.
I tightened my grip on the towel bar.
Nothing.
I shifted my stance for better leverage.
Noth—crash!
The door flew open, and Lynx stepped in, entering with his gun, his feet following. He turned, saw me, and I swung. At the same time that he fired, he put his foot down, landing in the slick surface of soap I’d spread on the floor. His feet shot out from under him, the gun discharging into the ceiling instead of my face.
I didn’t even have time to congratulate myself. My towel bar was already o
n the move again, and I caught him about shoulder height. He bellowed and the gun went flying, sliding along the greased-up floor to rest under the clawfoot tub, way back by the wall.
I didn’t try to get it. I just ran.
I followed the soapless path I’d left for myself, racing out into the room toward the safety of the door. Almost there. Almost there.
Almost—
His hands closed around my ankles, and I went flying to the floor. I twisted, kicking wildly as he tried to get a grip on my ankles or legs with his now slippery, soapy hands.
“Bitch! You fucking bitch!”
He was screaming wildly at me, one hand scrabbling for purchase somewhere on my body, the other popping open a hunting knife.
I landed one good kick and got him in the face. As he howled in pain, I managed to get to my feet, knocking a coffee table over in the process and sending a lamp to shatter against the floor.
I ran toward the door faster than I’d ever moved before.
He’d bolted every lock, and my fingers slipped over the cool metal. He was up now, coming after me.
I got the first lock open.
If he caught me with that knife…
My fingers fumbled, but I got the chain off. I could see him out of the corner of my eye, coming at me, knife drawn.
I pulled the door open, and there was Stryker.
“Down!”
I hit the ground. He fired. And Lynx went down.
Stryker stepped around me and stood over Lynx’s motionless form. He aimed his gun and fired one final shot into the bastard’s head.
This time, it really was over.
Stryker held a hand out and helped me up. I took it gratefully, then folded myself into the strong comfort of his arms.
“Good timing,” I said after an eternity had passed. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t. I came back because I thought you deserved a sunset ride through the park in one of those horse-drawn carriages. I went in and…” He dangled the sheet of paper with the code. “It was on your desk.”
I tilted my head back and flashed him a weak smile. “You interpreted it?”
He laughed and kissed my forehead. “Codes are your territory, remember? I just thought it was fucking strange. And when I heard the crash…”
I put my arms around his neck and kissed him. I remember thinking, when this whole thing started, that I needed a knight in shining armor. Thanks to Stryker, I had one.
Epilogue
I t rained the day of Todd’s funeral, which was appropriate, considering my mood. As the coffin was lowered into the ground, I took Stryker’s hand, and we headed back toward the car he’d rented to drive me to the funeral and then to the airport.
“You okay?”
I shrugged. “I’m glad to know Todd wasn’t involved. I just wish he were still alive.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
They’d found Todd’s body in the East River about a week ago. Apparently Thomas or Grimaldi or some other behind-the-scenes asshole had tossed his name into the game mix. Just a little red herring to keep things interesting.
I still felt a little numb from the now-certain news of his death. A little numb about everything, really.
“You sure you’re up to this?” Stryker added.
I knew what he meant. “Yeah, I’m sure. Besides, a week with my mom will make me forget all my troubles. I’ll have new troubles to deal with, or I’ll be focused on her troubles. But it definitely won’t be all about Melanie.” I managed a little smile. “Besides, I promised them an explanation.”
I knew more now, so I could tell a good story. I knew that the cops had found nothing in Lynx’s computer that would identify the person pulling the strings. Neither Stryker’s computer nor Jenn’s laptop had been any help either. All had been confiscated and were now somewhere with the FBI.
We paused by the passenger side of the car, Stryker trying to keep the umbrella over my head while he opened the door.
“You don’t have to drive me, you know.” I knew what a burden an airport drive was. I was solidly in relationship territory. I wasn’t, however, certain that Stryker was aware of that unspoken little rule. We’d seen each other almost every day since he’d shot Lynx, but were we in a relationship? I really wasn’t sure. And I didn’t have the heart to ask. I didn’t want to be disappointed. “I can catch a cab,” I added.
“I can drive you,” he said, ushering me inside. “And I have something for you.” He bent down and retrieved a packet of papers off the floorboards.
I took the packet and riffled through the pages, then looked up at him quizzically.
“Applications,” he said. “I put the NSA application on top.”
“I see that.”
“You’re good, Mel. Teach if you want, but don’t limit your options. Not yet.”
“Thanks,” I said. The gesture almost moved me to tears, and I didn’t tell him that I’d already downloaded a ton of applications. They were in my suitcase, and I’d already planned to get busy on them while I was hanging out with my parents in Houston.
“We’d better get going,” he said. But before he closed the door he added one last thing. “If it’s all the same to you, I’ll meet you after your flight back next week and drive you home. We can grab dinner on the way. Spend the evening together. The next morning, too.”
“Sure thing,” I said. I tried to sound casual, but as he walked around the car to the driver’s side, I allowed myself fifteen seconds of thinking that this was a very, very good sign.
And as we sped through the rain and away from the cemetery, I couldn’t help but think that it was time to put the past in the past, because I had a fine man and a fine future waiting for me.
Good-bye, Gap. Hello, Givenchy.
Up Close and Personal
with the Author
I’ve never been fond of interviews—I’m always afraid I’ll stumble over my words or not say something witty or pithy enough to be remarkable. So when I found out that I had to interview myself about The Givenchy Code, I was, naturally, nervous. After all, who better than me knew that I had edited my school paper for over three years? That my college major started as journalism (before switching to film)? Clearly, I was a hard-hitting reporter. Would I be able to survive such an incisive, cutting interview, pitted as I would be against someone like myself?
You can imagine the state of my nerves when I sat down across the table from myself, praying that I’d be gentle in my interview technique. Here’s how it went:
ME: Have you always wanted to be a writer?
ME: That’s it? That’s your hard-hitting question?
ME: Hey, give me a break. I’m just getting warmed up.
ME: Yeah, right. Probably can’t think of anything more interesting.
ME: Are you going to answer the question, or what?
ME: The answer is yes. I’ve wanted to be a writer from the time I was tiny. I had a few detours wanting to be a veterinarian(allergic to dogs; ruled that out) and a Broadway musical theater diva (can’t sing), but from the get-go I wanted to tell stories. More, I wanted to tell them on paper. I wrote long “novels” at the age of three, banging out nonsense on my dad’s typewriter. Later, I started writing short stories, taking up an entire legal pad, front and back, with my handwritten scribbles that my mom would patiently type up for me. (I realize now just how patient my mom was, as the stories, while not horrible, weren’t exactly fabulous. My handwriting, however, was). I wrote poems, I started and abandoned novels, I wrote screenplays. I pretty much piddled around with writing my whole life, never doing much with it, and going in fits and starts, with long stretches too filled with other things (specifically, law school and the subsequent pressures of a big-firm job) to allow for any leisure time to accommodate writing.
ME: So if you had no time to write, how’d you end up getting published? Ha! How’sthat for hard-hitting? Caught you, didn’t I?
ME: You are so not Woodward or Bernstein! The fact is
, there just came a point when writing became more important to me than not writing. When I knew that I wanted to be an author more than I wanted any other job. I pretty much gave up all my leisure activities, and my non-work time was consumed with writing.
ME: And now?
ME: Now I’ve reclaimed some of my leisure time. As of the summer of 2004, I’m writing full time!
ME: What was the job you gave up?
ME: I was an attorney.
ME: Ah.
ME: “Ah”? What’s “ah” supposed to mean?
ME: Just that there seem to be a lot of attorneys out there writing books.
ME: What are you insinuating?
ME: (Innocently) Not a thing.
ME: (Glares suspiciously)
ME: OK, let’s move on. How about the idea of the book? How did it come about?
ME: I’ve always loved treasure hunts. The idea of following a clue to another clue, and then to another. The first birthday party that I remember, my mom sent all us kids on a hunt. It was fabulous (My mom now tells me that from her end it was hell, but I guess that means she loves me!). When I was in high school, I actually sent some friends on a treasure hunt. Yeah, I know, it sounds geeky and weird, but I was geeky and weird, so there you go. I’d write out clues and if my friends interpreted them, they would be led to the next clue, and on and on until they found the final prize. Amazingly, no one suspected that it was me pulling the strings of this hunt.
ME: The book, Julie. I was asking about the book.
ME: Right. At any rate, I’d had this vague idea that a “Follow the clues” book would be fun. But the stakes needed to be really high. I wasn’t pursuing the idea actively, just letting it simmer. And then one day, Melanie appeared in my head along with her story. A woman forced to solve codes in order to stay alive.
ME: The book is told in both first and third person. How did that come about?