The Givenchy Code (11 page)

W
hile the computer booted up, Stryker watched Mel with undisguised fascination. She’d put on makeup in the restroom, and in doing so, she’d also put on a layer of confidence. He wasn’t surprised by the result—even when his mother had been the most ill, she’d religiously applied her makeup. At first he’d protested, telling her she looked great and needn’t bother, but she’d insisted. And it hadn’t taken long to see that the woman had had more energy and concentration on the days when she’d gotten dressed and made up. Even on her last days, he’d made sure the nurses had listened when his mom insisted on showing the world the face she’d wanted it to see.

He thought about her now, watching Mel, and he realized just how alike the two women were. They were both fighters. Both strong women who weren’t afraid to speak their minds and think for themselves. He wondered briefly what kind of a woman Jamie Tate had been, and once again he felt the familiar tug of regret and guilt that he hadn’t been able to save her.

He hadn’t been able to save his mother, either. Cancer had been too elusive an assassin, even for a Marine. He’d told himself it wasn’t his failure; her body had broken down, and there’d been no way he could have fought that. Time would heal the loss.

When Jamie Tate had died, though, the failure had been his alone, a wound that would scar him forever, even though he’d never even met the woman.

Everything was different this time. He knew Mel. She was healthy. She was alive. And the thought of seeing her cut down—seeing that vibrant, sarcastic, beautiful light destroyed—was simply too much to bear. It wouldn’t happen because Stryker wouldn’t let it happen.

He’d worked as a bodyguard enough times to know that, as her protector, he shouldn’t even think about letting this get personal. Get personal, and you open the door to the possibility of making a mistake.

Too late, though, because this
was
personal. Personal for Mel and personal for him. And it was for that very reason that he’d make sure Mel stayed safe. And in the end, he’d find the son of a bitch who’d done this to them, and he’d nail his sorry ass.

“Hey,” she said, her smile just a tad too knowing. “You with me?”

“Absolutely.” He shoved his rambling thoughts from his head and focused on the computer. She’d opened the clue again, and now Stryker tried to coax some flash of brilliance from the nonsensical words.

Close, my dear, but not quite yet….

How long has it been since you felt my assassin’s kiss?

Like Dorothy, the sand slips away….

x
²
+ y
²
= r
²

y = mx + b

Like starlight in your pocket, a touch of the familiar

before your lights

go out

and you’re lost…alone…in the dark…never

again to be found.

“‘Assassin’s kiss’ has to mean when he stuck you,” Stryker said, thinking out loud.

“Right. That’s what I think, too. And we already know what the equations mean. Circle. Line.”

“And starlight, lights and dark probably refers to the Harbor Lights cruise,” he continued.

“Except here we are and no new clue has hit us on the head.”

“That’s why we’re sitting here now,” he said. He squeezed her hand. “We’ll figure it out. I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

She lifted a brow. “Can you suck the poison out of my blood?”

“Want me to try?”

Her cheeks flushed red even under the makeup she’d applied, and he stifled a chuckle. “Thanks for the offer,” she said, her eyes twinkling. “Maybe I’ll take a rain check if I get really desperate.”

“You really know how to hurt a guy.”

“There are all kinds of desperate,” she said, her voice husky but her eyes amused.

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely.” She kept the smile, but the amusement soon faded, replaced by an expression he couldn’t quite read. She reached out and stroked his cheek, the velvety touch both tempting and tender. “Thank you again,” she said. “For being here. And for watching out for me.”

“Mel, I—”

“Come on,” she interrupted, nodding at the screen. “We need to get back to it.”

“Right. Okay.” He sucked in a deep breath, hoping the oxygen would help him focus.

“ ‘Close, my dear, but not quite yet,’ ” she read.

“Probably just a commentary about finding the message on the CD,” he suggested.

She nodded. “That’s my thought, too. Patting us on the head and telling us, ‘Good job, now go jump through some more hoops.’ ”

“Keep going. What about this next line: ‘How long has it been since you felt my assassin’s kiss?’ Telling you there’s a ticking clock. A time bomb.”

She grimaced, and he regretted his choice of words. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll buy that. Next?”

“The Dorothy line,” he said. “That one just sounds like a warning. ‘The sand slips away.’ Dorothy had that hourglass, right? So he’s telling us that you’re running out of time.”

She scowled. “I’ll second that.”

“I think you’re right about the equations,” he said without pausing. “They probably simply mean what they mean. But these last two lines. Could they mean more than just the Harbor Lights Cruise?”

“Familiar. Lost. Alone. Dark. Found.” She stressed each word, and then shrugged. “Dammit. I just don’t know.” She got up and started pacing. “Think. We can do this. ‘Familiar.’ That has to be the Circle Line, right? I mean, I did work here once.”

“You did?”

“For a week. Temping. Sold tickets.”

“That was on your profile?”

“I don’t remember, but probably. There was a space to list all your jobs, right? I probably put it down.”

“It’s progress,” he said, “but we still don’t know why we’re here. And we’re running out of time.” He spat the words like a curse, then realized what he’d said. From the surprised expression in her eyes, she’d realized the same thing.

“Time,” she whispered. “Almost every line has some temporal reference. ‘Not quite
yet.’
‘How
long since.’
Dorothy’s hourglass.
‘Before.’ ”

“That has to be it,” he said.

“But what?” She looked around, scanning the walls. “Do we find a clock? Not a clock!” she said, her eyes suddenly wide with inspiration. “A watch. A
lost
watch.”

“The lost and found,” he said, getting it. “And it’ll be a
pocket
watch. ‘Starlight in your pocket,’ right?”

“We’re brilliant,” she said, throwing her arms around him. “That has to be it.”

He gave her a quick squeeze, thrilled as much by her enthusiasm as by the crush of her breasts against his chest. They couldn’t stay like that, though. They might have figured out the clue, but now the work began. “Come on,” he said, releasing her body but taking her hand as they moved through the crowd toward the stairs.

They headed down to the main deck and ended up talking to one of the bartenders. “Lost and Found?” he repeated. “We’ve got a box we put things in. What are you looking for?”

“A pocket watch,” Mel said.

The bartender nodded, then picked up a small phone—an intercom most likely—and had a one-sided conversation. After a minute, he hung up and turned his attention back to them. “Sorry. One pair of sunglasses, and that’s it. No one’s turned in anything else during this cruise.”

“Oh, did you think we meant
this
cruise?” Mel asked, her eyes wide and her expression totally innocent. “I’m so sorry. We actually lost it a while back. We’d brought some out-of-town guests on board, you know.”

“In that case, you’ll need to check the Lost and Found we keep in the office.”

“Will it be open when the boat docks?” Stryker asked.

“Doubtful.”

“Oh, dear,” Mel said to Stryker. “Daddy’s going to be so disappointed.” She turned to the bartender, as if to explain. “He’s checking into the hospital tomorrow. Heart surgery. It’s pretty serious. The watch was his good luck charm.”

The bartender, a kid of about twenty-two, cursed under his breath, then held up a finger. “Hang on a sec.” He went back to the phone, and this time when he spoke he turned his back to them. Stryker tried to eavesdrop, but the kid’s voice was too low and the din of the crowd too loud.

“Good news,” he said as he turned back. “I caught our manager on his way out, and he promised that he’d have the assistant manager stay late so that you can check the Lost and Found. Her name’s Kathy.”

“Thanks,” Mel said. She leaned against the bar and squinted at his nametag. “Doug. You’ve been a big help.”

“What now?” Mel asked as they headed back up to the observation deck, both holding club soda courtesy of Doug.

“Now,” he said, “we wait.”

W
e reached the UN, and the boat started its slow turn in the East River. Halfway through the cruise. One hour left before we reached the office and I could check the Lost and Found. I wasn’t thrilled with the idea of wasting an hour, but since I didn’t have a choice, I figured I might as well enjoy the surroundings. Not to mention the company.

I have to confess, though, I wasn’t really sure what the etiquette of the situation was. I mean, Stryker had paid for our tickets, but this was hardly your traditional date, no matter how much I’d seen him looking me over earlier. The attraction was there—I wasn’t about to deny it, and I was certain it was mutual—but as far as I knew,
Cosmo
had never commented on the ins and outs of dating your bodyguard, particularly if you’d been poisoned and an assassin was hot on your heels.

Oh, God.

My light mood evaporated with a
poof.
For brief moments, I seemed to be able to forget my situation, but then it would all come crashing back over me.
I might never date again.
Worse, I might never shop again.

I gripped the metal railing and looked toward the city, taking in but not really seeing the spectacular way the setting sun framed the skyline. My ultra-normal life had taken a right turn toward horrific, and my head was having a hard time keeping up.

Stryker’s hand closed over my shoulder, firm and supportive. “You okay?”

“Yeah. No.” I shook my head. “I don’t know.” I turned around, leaning against the railing as I talked to him. “I’m scared,” I said. “And I don’t like the feeling.”

“No one does,” he said. “But fear is a good thing. It keeps the adrenaline flowing. Keeps us on our toes.”

I frowned.

“Not good?” he asked.

“The thing is…” I shifted, turning words over in my head as I tried to figure out what I wanted to say. “The thing is, I don’t think I’m scared enough. I feel like I’m standing outside myself and looking in. It doesn’t seem real. Does that make sense?”

“Absolutely.”

“I know in my head that all this is real—and that it’s deadly. But none of it
feels
real. I mean, I’m about as average as it gets. Things like this don’t happen to girls like me. My personal horror should max out with the power going out while I’m in the subway, or a purse snatcher, or Starbucks going out of business. It shouldn’t be actual life-or-death stuff.”

“Sometimes life just bites you in the ass,” he said, taking my hand in his. “Believe me, I’ve seen some horrible things happen to really good kids. Kids barely out of high school without any preparation for the real world at all. Normal Midwestern Dairy Queen–eating kids. And then
blammo,
it’s all shot to hell.”

He’d started outlining my fingers with the tip of his forefinger. I’m not even certain he realized he was doing it, but I was totally mesmerized. Both by his touch and by his words.

“Trust me, sweetheart. Bad shit happens to normal people all the time. Drunk driving. Cancer. You name it, and somebody out there’s had it happen to them.”

“Great,” I said. “Now I feel guilty, too.”

He laughed. “That wasn’t what I meant. I just meant that this life shit comes out of the blue for everyone, and for most people it doesn’t feel real.” He grinned. “I’ve got to say, though, of all the weird shit I’ve seen thrown people’s way, nothing is quite as fucked as this game you and I are mired in.”

“Yes.
Thank you. It’s very important to excel at something.”

“I have a feeling you excel at a lot of things.”

He was still holding my hand when he said that, and I felt a little frisson ripple through me. I mean, Lynx or no Lynx, this was still the Harbor Lights Cruise, wasn’t it? Stars and the city lights and the sunset just over my shoulder. Romance was in the air. Or, at the very least, adrenaline-fueled lust.

I wasn’t certain which. I
was
certain that Stryker was hot.

I pulled my hand away, suddenly self-conscious. “I do,” I said. “Excel, I mean. I always have. Straight A’s. The whole nine yards.” I caught his eye. “Pretty dull, huh?”

“Not at all. You’re studying math and history, right? Cryptology. That’s exciting stuff.”

“It is,” I said. “I love it.” I frowned, then amended, “Well, I love it in theory. In the real-life interpret-the-clue-or-die scenario, I’ll have to admit, it loses a bit of appeal.”

“I can see how that might be,” he said dryly. “So how much longer in school?”

“About a year.”

“And then where? Washington?”

I laughed. “Not hardly. I’m hoping to stay in New York. Maybe go after a Ph.D., maybe teach in a private school. I’ve got some options.”

He stared at me, his expression slightly baffled.

“What?” I demanded, suddenly feeling under the microscope.

“Nothing, I’m just surprised. I assumed you’d—”

“Try for NSA or something like that?”

“Well, yeah.”

I shrugged. “I used to think I’d like to do that, but I don’t see the point. I mean, there are so few jobs in my field, and, really, it probably sounds a lot more glamorous than it is.”

“So why not apply and then make the decision?”

“Because I won’t get picked,” I said. “There won’t be a decision to make.”

Those gray eyes seemed to look right into me. “You’ve never failed at anything in your life, have you?”

“Excuse me?” The man was starting to cross lines that didn’t need to be crossed.

“I’m serious. You’re competent, strong, smart. I bet you’ve nailed everything you’ve ever done. Am I right?”

I consistently failed at relationships with men, but I decided not to tell him that. “What’s your point?”

“You’re afraid of failing.”

“I
so
am not.” But even as I said the words, I remembered eighth grade. All my friends had taken typing as an elective. I’d taken a computer programming class. Lines of code I could control and understand. Making sure my fingers moved the way the teacher wanted on a keyboard wasn’t a sure thing. And I wasn’t about to tolerate anything lower than an A.

“Admit it,” Stryker said. “You’re afraid of failing. Afraid you’ll submit the application and, for whatever reason, you won’t get picked.” He shook his head. “Hell of a reason to walk away from a career that’s obviously in your blood. I mean, the worst that could happen is they say no. The best? Well, the sky’s the limit.”

I was not liking the direction of this conversation. “You want me to admit I have a fear of failure? Fine. I’ll admit it. I’m afraid of failing this game. Fail, and I die.
Those
consequences are the kind I’m afraid of. Getting a rejection on a stupid job application is nothing compared to that.”

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.” He took my hand and squeezed my fingers. “But you won’t fail. Not this. Failing isn’t in your nature.”

Absurdly, that made me feel better.

The boat was gliding under a bridge, and the sound of traffic moving above us harmonized with the steady thrum of the waves. “Wow,” I said, wanting to change the subject. “I don’t even know where we are.”

“I do.” He leaned against the rail beside me. “That’s the Williamsburg Bridge above us. And that’s Brooklyn,” he said, pointing to the land in front of us and to our left. Since Brooklyn is hard to miss, I probably would have figured that one out on my own, but it felt nice being catered to.

“I’ve never actually been to Brooklyn,” I said. I frowned, suddenly wondering if I’d ever have the chance.

“You haven’t missed much,” Stryker said. “And if you really feel left out, I’ll take you when all this is over.”

He’d read my mind, and I couldn’t help but smile, even though there was no way we were ever going over to Brooklyn. (Trust me. I’ll never feel
that
left out.)

The yacht glided on, cutting through the still summer water as it hugged the Manhattan coastline. In quick succession, we passed under the Manhattan Bridge and then the Brooklyn Bridge. And even though I’d seen it on a million postcards, the grandeur of that famous suspension bridge still impressed me.

His offer to take me to Brooklyn played over again in my head, and as we passed the downtown heliport, I asked one question that had been bugging me. “Do you think the poison could just be a bluff?”

“Are there bluffs in the computer version of PSW?”

I shook my head.

“Then we can’t risk that this is a bluff either.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that,” I rushed to assure him. Believe me, I wanted to get to the next clue—and, I hoped, the antidote—more than he could imagine. “I was just tossing out random thoughts.”

“I’m glad you did,” he said. “I may be better trained in combat than you are, but you know the game and I don’t. Not intimately, anyway. You might not think your random thoughts are useful, but I need to pick up all the tidbits I can. You never know when something might matter.”

“Like now you know PSW isn’t poker. Very little bluffing.”

“Exactly.”

I stared at him for a moment, not bothering to hide my scrutiny. He really did exude strength. That he seemed smart, too, was a bonus, as was the fact that the man was hotter than hell. He stayed quiet under my examination, the only hint of his amusement a tiny twitch of a muscle in his left cheek.

“You’re good at what you do, aren’t you?” I asked.

“Yes.”

Short, sweet and to the point. And not the least bit modest. What can I say? I really liked the guy.

“What exactly
do
you do?” I prodded. “You got my entire profile. I hardly know anything about you.”

“You know the important stuff,” he said.

“I do not,” I countered. “What’s your favorite movie?”

“Monty Python and the Holy Grail.”

Not bad, I conceded. It showed a sense of humor. “TV show?”

“The Shield.”

Bent, but engaging. “Food?”

“Steak.”

Boring, but at least it was an Atkins-friendly answer. “Book?”

“Clear and Present Danger.”

“That’s a movie,” I countered.

“It’s both. The book’s better.”

Fair enough. “What did you do in the Marines?”

“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you.”

I lifted an eyebrow and tried to look suitably bored. “Old joke, Stryker. Come on. Tell me. I should know what you did to acquire this wealth of skill that’s going to keep me alive. Right?”

“I did a lot of things,” he said. “Participated in a lot of security-related missions. Fought in combat. Ran intelligence. And that really
is
all that I can tell you.”

“Fair enough.” That was enough. It had certainly bumped up my confidence in him by at least another notch.

We were rounding the Battery now, leaving the East River for the bay, and I drew in an awed breath when I saw the Statue of Liberty rising before us. It was completely dark now, the lights of the city on our starboard side, and the statue coming up on our left. She rose victorious from the water, her torch held high, bright from the illumination of spotlights, the haze in the air seeming to give her an ethereal aura.

I felt a lump in my throat. I might be trapped in this game right now, but so help me, I was going to fight for my freedom, too.

“You okay?”

“It just gets to me.”

He nodded, and we stood in silence, watching Liberty slip behind us as we cruised up the Hudson, the lights of the World Financial Center rising to our right. The center, a collection of four tall buildings with geometric roofs, was interesting not so much because of the four towers that stood there but for the Twin Towers that had fallen.

Beside me, Stryker stiffened.

“Stryker?” I asked, my voice soft.

“I was doing counterterrorism when I left the service,” he said, his voice soft and his gaze never leaving Ground Zero.

I wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words, so I took his hand and held it. He squeezed once, then let go and moved behind me. He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me back. I melted against him, his heartbeat echoing through my body as we stood that way, his chin just grazing the top of my head.

We were silent for a moment, and when he spoke again, the timbre of his voice tickled and his breath was hot against my ear. “The work was worthwhile,” he said. “Something I really believed in. Part of me really hated leaving.”

“Why did you?”

For a moment, I didn’t think he’d answer. Then he turned us so that we were facing the opposite shore. He pointed toward New Jersey. “My mom,” he said. “She lived right over there in Jersey City. A crappy house, but it was all hers. Now it’s all mine.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

He brushed off the platitude. “I left the service because my mom needed me. She had lymphoma, and it had turned aggressive. She’d raised a son all on her own. The least I could do was be there for her at the end.” He took a breath, his eyes far away with his thoughts in Jersey. “But that wasn’t the only reason. I’d been thinking about it for a while. I’m not the regimental type. Not unless I’m the one setting the regimen. And I’d realized that military life wasn’t for me.”

“And that’s when you started doing the private security stuff?”

“Right. I was lucky a buddy of mine was starting a firm. I could set my own hours, pick my own projects, and work from Jersey.” He shrugged. “So I left the Marines and became a civilian.”

“Sounds like you made the right decision. Your mom needed you.”

“I never doubted that. But I do have the occasional regret. I want to nail the bastards.”

“There’re a lot of bastards out there, Stryker. The son of a bitch chasing me is testament to that.”

“You’re right.”

“And that’s what you do now, right? Protect people? That’s what you meant by a security company?”

“People and things,” he said. “Plus I do assessments. Investigate white-collar theft. Essentially, I’m a cross between a PI and a security guard. It’s not a bad job, but not exactly my dream career.”

“Maybe you should do something else.”

“I’m considering it. I had an offer recently to work for Homeland Security. I’d have to move to D.C., but it’s intelligence work, and that’s where I’d like to end up.”