The Prada Paradox (17 page)

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 movieAll 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 was 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.

“That,” I say, with suitable dramatic flair, “is our problem.”

And then, because I don’t have any ideas about how to get past that damn gate, I push down on the accelerator and start to circle the block, hoping to find a service entrance, a secret tunnel, or even a trampoline positioned just right to let me launch myself up and over.

A girl can dream, can’t she?

Chapter24

There.

He focused the binoculars on his quarry, then slid down in his seat. His bladder ached, but now that he saw her, his discomfort seemed trivial. She climbed out of her car, then rolled her neck, as if the weight of the world bore down on her shoulders.

He shifted the glasses, focusing on her face. She seemed close enough to touch, and oh so lovely. But then, he’d known she would be.

He watched her move along the side of the street, her face etched with concentration. Once she was closer to the house, that was when he would strike. Out of the way, under cover of the bushes.

She stopped, then turned sharply back toward her car. He frowned, wondering if she’d noticed him. Or, worse, wondering if someone else was inside her car.

Quickly, he shifted his binoculars to focus on the front seat. His perspective was from behind and several yards away, but he saw nothing.

Still, there could be someone…

He considered his options, then decided it didn’t matter. His time was now. Before she got inside.

Deliberately, so that he would later remember each movement, he reached into the glove compartment, pulling out the hunting knife he’d kept safe for so many years. That was for her. Quick. Personal. And he would feel her blood as it ran from her and over his hands.

The gun he retrieved next, tucking it into the waistband at the back of his jeans. Cold and impersonal, it was only for her companion, if she had one. A means to an end.

A means to her.

He opened the door, the overhead light flashing on as he did so. He froze, a flash of anger at his stupidity ripping through him.

She looked up, and even from this distance, he could tell that she was looking at his car, searching her mind as she wondered if it—or he—looked familiar.

The car itself was nondescript. A Toyota Camry he’d rented for this occasion. Silver, so as to blend in. He blended, too. Dressed in basic khakis and a button-down, he looked like your average guy, just driving home from a late night at the office. Nothing odd, nothing untoward.

He told himself to keep moving. Don’t let her get suspicious. With his knife hand still hidden by the door of the car, he stood up and waved. Just a casual passerby sort of wave. Nothing to make a woman on a dark street nervous.

And then, just as he’d anticipated, she waved back.

He tried to hide his glee, but wasn’t sure he succeeded. His time had come, and it was everything he could do not to climb on top of his car and shout at the top of his lungs.

But no. He had more control than that.

That’s why he’d been picked, wasn’t it?

Chapter25

“We are going to get in so much trouble,” Andy says.

I try not to laugh, but it’s hard. Despite the horror of the situation, there’s something just too damn amusing about him straddling the wrought-iron fence that surrounds the property. He’s a gangly man as it is. And perched up there like that, he resembles an overlarge monkey.

I press my lips together, but use my hands to motion for him to come on. When he doesn’t, I swallow my laughter and urge him in a stage whisper. “Just swing your leg over and drop. It’s easy.” I indicate myself with my hands, proof of the feat’s simplicity. “I mean, I’m a girland I’m carrying my bag. And I didn’t scratch me or the leather.” That, actually, is a lie. I scratched my ankleand the leather. My ankle will heal—assuming the rest of me survives, anyway. The leather, though…well, I’m hoping Armen can work some magic.

I actually feel a little silly lugging my new Prada bag, but Andy insisted. And when I pressed him for a reason, he told me that we might have to run. Which means we might have to abandon the car. And if we do that, I’d want my belongings.

In other words, I never should have asked.

Andy, however, isn’t impressed with the fact that I scaled the fence, Prada in tow.

“I don’t like heights,” he says.

“Then jump down,” I say, which is convoluted logic, but the best I can do. I confess I don’t have too much sympathy. I grew up on movie sets and on backlots. There’s a lot of scaffolding, framed set pieces, cranes, and other miscellaneous dangerous and appealing things to keep a kid’s interest. Back then,I was the monkey. And it had been no trick at all for me to scramble over the fence and drop into the soft grass on the other side.

Now that I’m safely inside the fence and he’s still stuck up top, my empathy is waning. I mean, the damn fence wouldn’t be an issue for Blake. Still, Andy is my protector, and he knows the game. So I tell myself to cut him some slack.

Through the shrubs that line the fence, I see the glow of headlights down the road. I have no idea who’s in the car, but the last thing we need is some Good Samaritan calling the cops about people breaking into the Greystone Mansion. “Andy,” I hiss, “jump. Jumpnow. ”

Thankfully, he does, and I release a slow breath as relief floods my body.

He lands hard, then grimaces and reaches down to rub his ankle. “Shit.”

“You okay?”

He waves off the question. “Just sore.” He looks up, squinting into the darkness. “Do you know how to get to the koi pond?”

“Sure. I just need to get my bearings. Come on.” I head in, away from the fence. We’d circled the property, stealing in over a back gate most likely used as a service entrance. Dim lights line a narrow path, and we follow it a bit uphill before veering off onto another winding walkway that leads to one of many brick stairways.

The paths and ways seem to curve in on each other, and I’m not entirely sure we’re going in the right direction. But at least we’re not on that secluded service road anymore. That, I figure, would be a likely place for any guards who might be canvassing the property to go.

Of course, because I know all about securing a parcel of land, I also know that video surveillance could be an issue. Nothing we can do about that, though, except hope that all the videos are trained at the house itself. And if that turns out not to be the case—if a guard runs us to ground—I’ll just have to play the wild and crazy celebrity with too much money and too much time.

I hope it doesn’t come to that, though. I’ll do what it takes to stay alive, of course, but an article about the return of my past wild days could set me back for years.

Even this far away from the mansion (not that I was certain how far wewere from the mansion) the grounds reek of power, money, and taste. The whole area—all umpty acres of it—is landscaped. We’ve passed hidden courtyards, sculpted hedges, and lush landscaping. All around us, the grounds resemble a private forest, a princess’s fairyland.

If it were day, I know we’d have an amazing view of the Los Angeles vista, truly a stunning sight on any day without smog. Even at night, though, the place has a magical quality, and it’s hard to believe that a location as beautiful as this has such an ugly past.

When I make that comment to Andy, though, he has no idea what I mean about the property’s unpleasant past, and so I find myself whispering to him as we trudge along, telling him the tale of millionaire Edward L. Doheny.

“The house was a present,” I say. “Edward Doheny had it built for his son, which is pretty much the coolest present ever, in my opinion. Except, in the end it didn’t work out all that great.”

“How so?” he asks, puffing a little because now we’re climbing yet another set of steep stone stairs. Just one of dozens that litter the property.

“Some big political scandal,” I say. “The Teapot Dome scandal?”

“I’ve heard of it,” Andy says.

“Then you’re better informed than me,” I admit. “All I know is that it was a big deal, and dear old dad was somehow caught up in bribery allegations.”

“And this affected the house how?”

“Well, I’m not sure of the details of how it came about, but the son ended up dying in a murder-suicide.”

“Yikes.”

“Pretty much. The widow lived here for a while, then left it to the city.” I sweep my arm out, encompassing the place. “The rest, as they say, is history.” Actually, it’s pretty creepy history, now that I think about it. And I suppose the bloodshed and murder is apropos of our mission.