The Prada Paradox

by Julie Kenner

  I know I should say something, but before I can, his lips are on mine, and I feel such a timid need in him that I can’t help be a little sad. Especially since he is my hero now. He isn’t, however, the man I want as my hero.

  And so I gently break the kiss, not wanting to hurt him, and yet not wanting him to believe this is going to go anywhere.

  Although I don’t want to talk about it, I know that we should. But before I can find the words, my cell phone rings, and I lunge for it, grateful for the interruption.

  I glance at the caller ID, then immediately stiffen. Blake. A wave of guilt crashes over me, and I force it away.

  On this particular day, boyfriend angst is the least of my worries.

  Still, when I answer the phone, I can’t help the little trill of pleasure that shoots down my spine. Pleasure…and then fear.

  “Are you okay?” I demand. We’d barely discussed the game. Surely he wasn’t in any danger, right?

  He hesitates before answering, and in that brief gap in time, my entire body seems to go from cold to hot and then to cold again. Finally, he whispers, “I miss you.”

  Three little words, but they melt me all the way down to my toes. “Oh, me, too,” I say, the words sincere even if a little guilt-laden.

  “I’ve thought of something,” he says, his tone leaving no doubt that we’re now talking about the game. A subject that is, of course, verboten.

  “Yeah?” I try to sound casual. “Well, I guess we’ll see each other tomorrow in spite of everything. I mean, the show must go on and all that.” I smile at Andy as I speak, trying to pretend that everything’s all casual and work-related, and certain I’m failing miserably. No wonder I didn’t win that damn Oscar.

  “Tomorrow’s no good, and you know it.”

  “Ah, well, hang on. Let me find my markup of the pages.” I cover the mouthpiece. “I’m running upstairs,” I tell Andy.

  “He shouldn’t have called you,” Andy says, his forehead rippled with concern.

  “He knows. He apologized. But he’s right. If we don’t show up for the movie tomorrow, people will wonder. I might get fired. We’ll have reporters speculating what’s up. And how am I supposed to play the game with all of that going on?”

  Andy doesn’t look happy, but he knows I’m right. And I am right. I hadn’t thought of it before, but somehow I have to fit saving my life in around living my life.

  “Go,” he says, then taps the paper with the Chinatown clue. “I’ll work on this.”

  I nod, then head toward the foyer and the stairs. I pass my grandfather clock on the way. It’s already ten p.m. We have a five a.m. call.

  And in the short amount of time in between, I need to figure out what the hell to do about that one simple message: “Toxin delivered.”

  Fuck.

  Time really is running out.

  My stomach starts to twist, and I don’t know if it’s from fear or poison. At this point, I guess it doesn’t much matter. Either way, I have to claw my way to survival.

  “I don’t have time for this,” I say as I climb the stairs. I go into my room and shut the door. “I still don’t know what that damn clue means, and we really do have to be on the set tomorrow morning.”

  “If we’re together making the paparazzi happy, Tobias will forgive you for missing call.”

  “We won’t be together,” I say. “Because you’re not helping me.”

  “I’m helping you now,” he says.

  “No.” I can’t bear the thought of him getting hurt. “We’ve been through this.”

  “Have you figured out the clue?”

  I hesitate.

  “Because I have.”

  I take a step backward and plunk myself down on the foot of my bed. “You’re serious?” Even as I’m speaking, though, I know I should just hang up. Hear the solution, and Blake is in deep. I don’t know how my tormentor would find out, but somehow, I know that he would. At the very least, it’s not a risk worth taking.

  “Totally,” he says.

  “I’m hanging up—”

  “The Greystone Mansion,” he says over me.

  I close my eyes, the fear and fury that he didn’t just stay out of this quelled by the selfish relief that floods my senses.

  “Devi?” His voice is tentative. He’s wondering if I’m going to hang up, or maybe wondering if I have already. I could do that, I realize. Just quietly close the phone and walk away. With luck, he’ll still be safe. And maybe he’ll realize that I was serious about not wanting his help.

  I can’t do it, though. Instead, I swallow to clear the dryness from my throat. “I looked at that,” I said. “Chinatown wasn’t filmed there.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” he says. I can hear the excitement in his voice. “It still fits.”

  “How?”

  “‘A house not a home, though used for a fee,’” he quotes. “The big party scene in Death Becomes Her was filmed there. And the mansion charges. That’s all it’s used for these days.”

  “Yeah,” I say. “I know.” The Greystone Mansion covers over 40,000 square feet of Tudor-style ostentatiousness. But it’s absolutely fabulous. Overwhelming and awe-inspiring at the same time, with beautifully landscaped grounds, now open to the public. “But again, it wasn’t used in Chinatown. At least not that I can see.”

  “It’s a clue, Devi. Not a literal translation. What, in general, is the first part of the message talking about?”

  I bristle, irritated by his tone. “If you know the answer, Blake, then just tell me. In case you forgot, the clock is ticking. I don’t have time for twenty questions.”

  “You remember Chinatown, right? You’ve seen it a dozen times,” he continues, not letting me get a word in. “Where does Jack find the glasses?”

  “In the koi pond,” I say. And then it hits me. “Oh.”

  “That has to be it.” Excitement laces his voice, and I can’t help but share it. He’s right. He has to be.

  I hang up—but only after forcing him to promise that he won’t go to the mansion. That he’ll stay out of this now. I don’t want him hurt, and I’m terrified that we’ve just painted a big red target on his chest.

  I tell myself I can’t think about that, though. I have to follow the clues. Save myself, and I’ll be saving Blake, too.

  I hurry downstairs to find Andy at my kitchen table again, drinking one of my Diet Cokes and tapping away at the keys on his Treo. He looks up, then gives me a wan smile. “It’s like Nero fiddling while Rome is burning,” he says.

  “Huh?” I say, calling upon my razor-sharp verbal skills.

  He holds up the phone. “Work. Answering e-mails. Doing normal life stuff.” I start to say something, but he gets there before I can. “Listen, Devi,” he says, his voice serious. “About earlier…”

  “Oh, Andy,” I say, wishing I’d thought more about what I wanted to say. About how it was a mistake, and that I was sorry. And that I didn’t want to lead him on. I take a deep breath and dive in, hoping the words will come. “We just—”

  “I should never have done that,” he says, and I close my mouth, not quite able to believe that he’s saying it and not me. “We need to focus on the game right now. Keeping you safe is all that matters.”

  I swallow, because that’s not exactly the message I want to get across to him. I want to put a complete kibosh on the whole thing. Andy, apparently, wants to postpone it. Still, he’s right. One little kiss—even if it’s coupled with his wild fantasies that something real sparked between us—is completely unimportant in the face of the horror of the game.

  The talk can wait.

  The clue, however, can’t. “I think I might have an answer,” I say. “About the clue, I mean.”

  “Really?” His brows lift and his focus shifts to the cordless phone still in my hand. “You didn’t discuss this with—”

  “No.” The lie comes easily to my lips. “We talked about tomorrow’s scene. About the script. But something in our conversation reminded me,
and I don’t know, it just clicked.”

  “What clicked?”

  “The Greystone Mansion,” I say. “There’s a koi pond on the property. The next clue is there.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes,” I say, as much to convince myself as Andy. I have to be right. Because if I’m wrong, then I’m all out of ideas.

  Chapter 22

  The computer sat on his desk, surrounded by the framed photographs of Devi, most cut from old magazines, each with her wondrous eyes looking right at him. He still couldn’t grasp why she’d spurned him. Why she’d cleaved to other men instead of coming to him.

  No matter.

  In the end, she would be his, fully and completely. And the end, he knew, was coming soon.

  He leaned back in his chair, his attention focused on the computer screen. The game had sent software, and when he’d installed it, he’d discovered a map of the city. That was all. But upon further investigation, he’d realized what it was—tracking software.

  Soon after, his assumption was confirmed by an e-mail from the game. Once Devi solved the qualifying clue, the tracker would be activated. He couldn’t simply follow the flashing red dot to her—that would take the sport out of it. But the software’s intermittent display of her location (within a broad radius) would certainly help him find her.

  Now, all he had to do was wait.

  So far, the dot wasn’t flashing.

  No matter; he was a patient man, a fact that he had proved many times over.

  He could wait as long as necessary.

  He was just about to get up and change the DVD from one of Devi’s old movies to candid footage he’d collected over the last ten years when the computer pinged, signaling an incoming e-mail.

  With an eagerness he couldn’t suppress, he rolled his chair forward, then clicked on the e-mail program. A single message from PSW—“You have a message in the Message Center.”

  Intrigued, he opened his Web browser and clicked over, his eyes widening as he read the message, which contained explicit instructions and directions. Several words seemed to scream out at him from the screen: Rules broken. Consequences imposed. Repercussions.

  He read it once, then once again, just to be sure.

  Then he leaned back, tilting his chair so that he could stare at the ceiling.

  And then, Janus smiled.

  Chapter 23

  The Greystone Mansion happens to be one of my favorite places in all of Beverly Hills. I’ve been there dozens of times in the last few years, and even during my reclusive period, I couldn’t resist the pull of the place. I would deck myself out in sweats and a gimme cap, then take a book and a bottle of water and enjoy the landscaped gardens that surround the property.

  Because of my fascination with the place, I know a lot about it. I know the location of the koi pond (referred to by the staff as the Willow Pond). I know the mansion’s history. I know that the entire property is surrounded by a fence. And that it’s locked up tight at six p.m. during the summer.

  In other words, I know that we aren’t getting on the property any time soon. Not through the front gate, anyway.

  “Are you saying you want to wait until morning?” Andy asks when I give him the scoop.

  I do, of course. I mean, part of me wants to wait forever. But I know that I can’t. That damn “toxin delivered” message still flashes in my mind. I can’t completely believe it, but I’m not so foolish as to ignore it.

  Most of all, in my gut, I know it’s true.

  I feel a little nauseous, and wonder if it’s nerves or the drug. Either way, there’s only one thing to be done. “We go tonight,” I say.

  Andy looks at me, his gaze appraising. Then he stands up. “Let’s go.”

  We take my car. After all, I’ve driven the route so often that my Porsche probably knows the way even if I’m not behind the wheel. I’ve left it in front of the house, and now Andy’s car is parked next to it. A Jaguar. And I’m embarrassed to say that I do a double take. I’ve always pictured Andy as the high school geek grown up. Couple that with the fact that I know he lived in New York, and I’m thinking a Honda Civic would be more his style.

  Apparently, I’m not quite the astute character maven that I thought I was.

  “Stock options,” he says.

  My cheeks heat, and I realize I’m staring. “Sorry. I didn’t—”

  He waves it off. “No one does.” His grin is infectious. “What can I say? I like speed.”

  I nod toward my Porsche. “Me, too.”

  It’s a nice, easy moment, and I actually laugh as we get in the car. As soon as I wave to Lucas and pull past the gate, though, my nerves return to their previous raw state. I shift in my seat, in control of nothing except the speed and route of my car. It’s a humbling feeling, and I can’t say that I much like it.

  In the house, I’d fantasized about getting to the mansion, solving the riddle, and shutting this thing down. Now I have no choice but to face the truth: this nightmare is going to go on and on. Interpreting this clue isn’t the end, it’s just the beginning. And what’s worse, as soon as I solve the damn thing, all bets are off. Right now, my assassin isn’t waiting on a rooftop with an Uzi aimed in my direction. At least, I don’t think he is. That would be against the rules, after all.

  But as soon as I solve the qualifying clue, it’s open season on Devi Taylor. Because once the target solves the first clue—all bets are off. Before that, it’s like a handicap in sports: the target gets a head start. But solve the qualifying clue, and the game ramps up.

  And the very thought makes my insides turn to liquid.

  “Andy, I—”

  “So tell me why you like the place so much,” he says, cutting off my worried tirade before it can even begin.

  I turn my head as I roll through a stop sign, but he just grins. “I really want to know,” he insists. “If it’s part of a clue, any little thing might be important.”

  I know he’s only trying to distract me—and I appreciate that—but he’s right, too. “My favorite thing is that it’s not a movie star house,” I begin. “Have you been before?”

  He shakes his head. “This is the first time I’ve spent any length of time in Los Angeles. I’m still trying to figure out the cool places to go.”

  “Oh, well, stick with me. I’ll either get you killed or give you a really good tour of the area.”

  “I’ll take the tour,” he says, deadpan. “If it’s all the same to you.”

  “Mmm.” I make a face, but I don’t freak out. I consider that a good sign. What are those stages of grief? I’ve seen the movie All That Jazz so many times, you’d think I’d have them memorized. Anger—did that. Denial—did that. Bargaining—maybe. Acceptance—Ah. That’s where I am now.

  “At any rate,” I say, determined not to dwell, “the mansion looks like a castle. And it has over fifty rooms, which makes Tom Cruise’s house look like some piece of crap in Compton.”

  “You’ve seen his house?”

  “Once. In his pre-Katie days. But I think it was a rental.” I frown, because, really, who cares? “At any rate, the point is, the place is amazing. I mean, it cost four million to build, and that was back in the twenties.”

  Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him tapping his fingers against his thumb, as if he’s doing mental math. I guess I’m right about that, because he says, “That’s about forty-five million now, if you base the calculation on the consumer price index.”

  “You just know that? Off the top of your head?”

  “What can I say? I’m a geek.”

  “You’re a fucking genius. And I mean that in the best way possible.”

  “Then I accept your gracious compliment.”

  I smile and shake my head, realizing that I genuinely like Andy. Not in the boyfriend-girlfriend way that he probably wants. But in a friend way.

  I also realize that I’m feeling a little guilty for my whine-fest with Lindy yesterday. I mean, this is the guy I w
as having second thoughts about inviting to my house. This guy. The one who’s making me smile despite everything. The one assigned to protect me.

  “So you can just tour the house?” he asks, sucking me back to reality.

  I shake my head. “Nope. It’s not open very often. But it’s rented out a lot, mostly to movie companies.”

  “You ever filmed a movie there?”

  “Actually, no. But Kirk Douglas got remarried here a few years ago, and I was invited. The wedding was great. The caterers were to die for. But it was the location that really convinced me to send in the RSVP card.”

  “A wedding.” His mouth pulls down in the tiniest of frowns. “So is there a ballroom?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I say. “But who wants to be married inside, especially in Los Angeles? The grounds are the way to go.”

  “Pretty?”

  “Amazing. The landscaping is absolutely awesome, and the property itself covers a gazillion acres. Well,” I correct myself, “maybe just fifteen or sixteen, but this is prime real estate. The view of the city is astounding. I used to like to come sit here and just think, you know? Back when I—” I cut myself off, realizing I don’t want to go there with this man. Blake, yes. He knows my secrets. But Andy is new territory, and I’m not quite ready to drop my shields. “When I wanted to get away from all the work pressures,” I say, lamely covering.

  “So is this where you’re planning your own wedding?”

  It’s a rather invasive question, but I don’t comment on it because I’m too busy blushing. I always have wanted to get married at the mansion, and a few months ago, I’d thought that I knew the man who’d be by my side. Now, though…

  Well, now I’m walking a tightrope. Fall one way, and I’ll land right back in Blake’s arms. Fall another, and…honestly? I just don’t know.

  None of which I intend to share with Andy.

  Fortunately, we arrive, and instead of getting down and dirty about my nonexistent wedding plans, I tap the brakes. A couple of cars pass us, but one slows, too, its headlights bright in my rearview mirror.

  I frown, then adjust the mirror before waving toward the fence.