The Givenchy Code (5 page)

I
’m not a runner or a jogger—I don’t even do Pilates—and yet I raced away from Todd’s place with a speed that would have put an Olympic sprinter to shame. I’d fled from Todd’s without my shoes, and now my bare feet flew over the cracked sidewalks until my lungs burned and icy-hot knife blades pierced my sides. Even with that magical push of adrenaline, there was no way in hell I could run all the way home.

I struggled on a few more blocks, my legs like noodles, then stumbled down into the first subway station I saw. Thankfully, the line was one that would whisk me home, and when the train arrived, I collapsed onto one of the molded plastic benches, my head tossed forward as I sucked in gallons of air.

As the train pulled away from the platform, I gathered my wits enough to look up and around, nerve endings tingling with fear. I saw a transit cop, and my first instinct was to run to him. But I tamped it back. What if
he
was there? What if the killer saw me talking to a cop after he’d specifically told me not to? What horrible thing would happen if I broke the rules? I shuddered, then looked around, sure that I’d see those dark eyes bearing down on me.

But there was no one; at least, no one who looked dangerous to me, although I was fast learning to be cynical. Still, these folks looked innocuous enough. Men and women in business suits and business casual, Palm Pilots at the ready. Tourists with their telltale cameras and laminated maps of the city. Bohemian types who probably lived around the corner from me. Standard-issue subway folk, the kind I’d seen every morning since the day I’d arrived in Manhattan a lifetime ago.

I’d never really noticed these people before, but I was noticing them now, giving each one a thorough once-over. Was one of them working with the bastard who’d killed Todd? Was one of them following me?

I shivered, and as the train pulled into the station, the overwhelming urge to run consumed me. The doors slid open, and I burst out at a dead run. People stared, but I didn’t mind. I wanted the hell out of there.

As far as I could tell, no one was following me, though a few folks did gawk at the spectacle I made careening up the stairs to that rectangle of light. I didn’t slow down when I hit street level, either, just kept on sprinting, and by the time I reached my building, my feet were raw, my lungs were burning again, and death by heart attack seemed more likely than murder.

Murder.

Oh, God, Todd.

It hit me again, the pain, the memory. Like walking into an icy wall of water. I’d been concentrating on my own hide, but now that I was home and wrapped in the false comfort my familiar foyer provided, reality sunk its nasty, brutish teeth into my hide.

Todd was dead.

He was really and truly dead, and nothing I could do or say would bring him back. There was no one I could plead with, not the cops, not the killer. He was gone, his aspirations and dreams rendered meaningless by a single bullet.

A bullet meant as a warning to me.

Why?

I had no idea. And in a day filled with terror, that scared me most of all.

O
n a normal day, I find my building to be a little creepy—dim lighting, that musty odor that comes from too many bags of trash lingering in the hall, and greenish gray walls that, under all the mildew and dust, were purportedly white. Today, none of that bothered me. This was home—thank God—and despite the way my hands were shaking and my stomach was churning with dread, I was relieved beyond words to be in that stuffy, smelly foyer.

I stood there for a moment, the door to the outside world in front of me, both dead bolts snapped in place. A thin film of grime covered the window, and I rubbed a bit away with the ball of my thumb, then leaned up close, peering up and down the street as much as the odd angle of the doorway would let me. I didn’t see the killer, and I didn’t see anyone I recognized from the subway.

My relief was palpable, and my entire body relaxed, like air being let out of a balloon. For just a second, I let myself believe that this was all going to turn out okay. I’m not sure I really believed it, but I sure as hell wanted to.

My relief was short-lived, though, because the fact was, I needed to do something. My brain was just too scrambled to know what. My first thought was to knock on the super’s door, but what would I say? “Hey, Mr. Abernathy, some lunatic killed my ex-boyfriend and now he says he’s out to
not
kill me, but I don’t really believe him. Can you help me?”
No way.
And what was poor Mr. Abernathy, with his faded gray T-shirts and Santa Claus belly, supposed to do? Wield his broom and plumber’s snake in my defense, a reluctant George fighting the dragon? Somehow I didn’t think Mr. Abernathy was up for playing the hero. Too bad. I was in dire need of a hero right then.

The cops.
He’d said not to call them, and I’d obeyed in the subway. But I needed help. And isn’t that what bad guys are supposed to say? I mean, the bastard who killed Todd certainly wasn’t going to encourage me to rush to my neighborhood precinct and file a complaint. But that’s exactly what I
should
do. The police would help me; they’d protect me. After all, that’s what police were for.

So, right. Yes. I’d go upstairs, call the cops, and—

My parents!
I just about sagged against the wall in relief as I remembered that my parents were just a few miles away instead of the usual fifteen hundred. I didn’t have to go through the ordeal with the cops alone. They could be there with me.

I said a silent prayer of thanks as I flipped open my phone, thrilled beyond belief at the prospect of hearing my mom’s voice. Of having my dad stroke my hair and tell me he loved me and that he’d pummel whatever asshole was harassing his little girl.

My mom might be a pain at times, but when she heard the call to action, she was a take-no-prisoners kind of gal. She’d tell me it would be okay. She’d tell me that she’d handle it. She’d tell me…and I’d believe her.

I pressed and held 5, my speed-dial setting for my mom’s cell phone. One ring, two, then, “The cellular customer you are trying to reach is currently away—”

“Fuck.”
I snapped the phone shut and tried Daddy’s number. Same damn message.

Shit, shit, shit.

Okay. Fine. Mom was supposed to call me about breakfast, and she obviously hadn’t. Which means surely she’d call me soon about lunch.

I took a deep breath, willing myself to stay calm. I hadn’t been followed, I didn’t see anyone outside who looked like they wanted to kill me, and I still had a plan. It wasn’t a great plan, and my parents weren’t on board, but it was a start.

I took one final glance up and down the street, then headed up the stairs toward my sixth-floor flat. I’d lock myself in, dial 911, down a Diet Coke (or three) and wait for the cops. By the time New York’s finest arrived, I’d be able to utter a coherent sentence again. At least, I hoped I would.

The stench of cigarettes accosted me as I reached the sixth-floor landing. My across-the-hall neighbor smokes like a chimney, and that hideous musty odor had permeated the cheap wall paneling and the threadbare runner that lines the hallway. Jenn and I keep a can of Lysol by the door and spray into the hall at least once a day. I think it helps a little, and I know it annoys my neighbor, which, frankly, is our primary goal.

Because this is New York, and because this is a crappy building, the door to my apartment has two dead bolts and a spring-latch lock on the doorknob. I went through the process of running through the locks, all the while listening for footsteps coming up the stairs. Thankfully, the stairwell was dead silent.

As soon as the door was unbolted, I shoved it open and basically collapsed into my apartment. I’ve never in my life been so glad to be home. The place was tiny, but right then, that was perfect. I wanted to be cocooned in my quilts within my walls, safe from everything bad outside my door.

Out of habit, I reached for the Lysol, and as my fingers closed around the smooth, cool can, I saw the shadow of a man moving just inside my darkened kitchen. My stomach roiled, and I realized my mistake. I should never have come home.
He
was here. Somehow, he’d gotten here ahead of me.

The figure moved toward me, and, once again, I screamed.

“G
oddamn son of a
bitch!”
Some sort of garden-scented toxic shit caught Stryker right in the face, and he howled, eyes burning and tears streaming down his cheeks. Whatever the stuff was, it hurt like a motherfucker.

“Jesus Christ, Melanie, what the fuck did you zap me with?”

Not that she was answering. She was already halfway down the hall. Fucking hell. He’d probably scared the girl to death.

He was out the door in two strides, but she’d already reached the end of the hall. She looked back over her shoulder, her eyes as wide as those of a deer about to get plugged and just as sad.

“Goddamn it, Melanie,
stop,”
he called, his voice not nearly as calm as he’d have liked because of the shit she’d sprayed in his face. He cringed against the pain, trying to rein in his own frustration, and forced himself to keep his voice low and reassuring. “It’s okay. For God’s sake, I’m here to help you. Would you please stop?”

She didn’t. Just the opposite, and somehow in speeding up she managed to snag her foot on the decrepit hallway runner. The kid was barefoot, for Christ’s sake, and as she let out a pitiful little yelp, his gut twisted. He’d come here to help, and instead he was making matters worse. But he couldn’t let her go back down those stairs. He needed her inside her apartment behind locked doors. Soon—very soon—someone was going to try to kill this woman, and he intended to make sure that didn’t happen. If he had to drag her by the hair to get her inside, that’s what he’d do.

He’d rather see her scared to death than actually dead. He’d already seen one woman dead because he’d been too much of an asshole to protect her. Stryker wasn’t about to make the same mistake twice.

As he stumbled toward her, squinting, she struggled to get up, then collapsed with a piercing cry of pain as she took her weight on both feet. She fell again, rolling onto her back and scooting crablike away from him.

“For God’s sake,” he said. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m here to help you.”

Her expression didn’t change. No trust. Just cold, hard fear.

He tried again. “I’m not a burglar, I’m not a thief, I’m not a rapist. Trust me. I’m not going to hurt you.”

“Fuck you,” she hissed, and although he was frustrated as hell that she didn’t believe him, he couldn’t help but admire her spunk. More than anything else, that kind of spirit would help keep her alive.

“Look, I know you’re scared. You came home, I was in your apartment, what else would you think? But I thought they’d already got you. I broke in because I thought you were dead.”

“What?”
Confusion played across her face. “You broke in because—
what?”

“I thought you were hurt. I’m here to help you. I just want—”

“No.”
She jerked away, scrambling backwards, then rolling over and trying to climb to her feet despite her bad ankle. The woman had gumption, that was for sure, but Stryker was in no mood. He lunged, and with no effort at all managed to snag the hem of her sweats, sending her crashing to the floor once again.

“Melanie, calm down. I’m here to—”

“Help! Somebody help me!”

“For God’s sake, woman, be quiet.” He lunged at her and clamped a hand over her mouth, undoubtedly terrifying her even more, but what the hell choice did he have? Any minute now the neighbors were going to show up, and what would he say then?

He studied her, searching her face for some clue as to how to make her understand he was one of the good guys. Her blue eyes were wide. Wide and terrified. And he saw something else, too. Resignation? He’d seen that look before in the eyes of men facing certain death. He’d never wanted to see it again, and he certainly didn’t want to see it on a woman.

And that’s when Stryker realized. Something more than finding a stranger in her apartment had scared her. While he’d been waiting for her to get home, she’d been somewhere in Manhattan fighting the bastard who wanted her dead.

“Something happened,” he said. “Something scared you to death, and it wasn’t just me.”

She remained perfectly still, her eyes full of terror. His muscles strained with unreleased tension. He couldn’t abide anyone terrorizing a woman, and now he’d done it himself. He’d come to protect her, but they’d gotten off to a bad start, and now those ocean blue pools were full of fear instead of hope.

He kept his hand over her mouth, and she breathed through her nose, her fast, shallow breaths tickling his palm. Her eyes never left his, and he focused on her, trying to judge the depths of the strength that had gotten her away from harm and back to her apartment. “I’m going to take my hand away, okay? Promise me you won’t scream.”

She just stared at him, her eyes widening ever so slightly.

“Nod your head, Melanie.”

She nodded, and he gently pulled his hand away, cringing as he anticipated her screams. But she obeyed him, staying silent, cowering into herself even as he held her in his arms.

“We’re going to stand up and go back inside our apartment so we can talk.”

“No,” A hoarse whisper. She struggled backwards, and Stryker knew he’d never get her in that apartment, not without a fight.

He drew in a long breath. He couldn’t blame the girl, but damn, this was frustrating. He’d done the bodyguard gig at least a dozen times, always where there’d been a legitimate threat against the subject’s life. Stryker had dealt with terror, with ego, and with outright stupidity, but never once had a subject flat-out ignored his instructions, much less cower in fear of
him.

Goddamn it all.
He needed her to work with him, not against him.

“Okay, Melanie, here’s the situation. I’m not out to hurt you. In fact, I’ve been assigned to help you. But you don’t believe me, do you?”

Her teeth grazed her lower lip, and she shook her head just once, a tiny movement, but one that confirmed his question.

“In that case, I don’t think I’ve got any other choice,” he said. He was still crouched beside her, and now he reached into his shoulder holster to pull out his gun. She drew in a strangled breath, and he clamped his hand over her mouth again before she could release it as a scream. He withdrew the gun, checked the safety, and put it in her lap. “Here,” he said, then backed away. He was playing a dangerous game and he knew it, but he didn’t see any other way. He needed her to trust him, and he needed it fast. And he was banking on the belief that Melanie Prescott wouldn’t kill a man. Hurt him, maybe, but not kill him.

“I’m unarmed.” He met her wide, confused eyes. “So what are we going to do now, Melanie? Now that you’re the one holding the gun?”