The Prada Paradox (21 page)

I shudder, but I nod, feeling more than a little chastised. “I still don’t understand, though. Why kill Mac? I broke the rules by talking to Blake, right? So why kill Mac? Why not—” But I choke on the question, unable to give it voice.

“Why not kill Blake?” Andy asks, not nearly as squeamish.

“He couldn’t kill me,” Blake says from the front seat.

I manage a halfhearted smile despite the overpowering guilt I’m feeling from getting him involved. “You’re invincible? How convenient for me.”

“I’m your motivation, remember? I’m the one who ate the chocolate. Without me, you can just poke along, or not try to solve the clues at all.”

He’s right, of course. But still, something is off. I roll it around in my still-addled head until it bumps up against a question. “But how does our assassin know that?”

“I already told you,” Andy says. “The game told him.”

“Eyes everywhere,” I say, but mostly to myself.

I want to pull out my cell phone and call Susie. She’s the one who delivered the strawberry to me. Where did she get it? Maybe a messenger brought it by, just saying that it was from Tobias. If she could describe the messenger…

Overall, I can’t help think that there’s some bigger connection to the movie. After all, it’s not easy getting access to a studio backlot, or to the development offices. And yet whoever is pulling our strings seems to be everywhere and nowhere all at the same time.

Most of all, it all circles back to the movie. A movie about a game I’m now playing in real life.

I shudder, hating the game. And, for the moment, hating the movie, too.

We’ve arrived at my house now, and Lucas lets us in through the gate. Blake maneuvers down my long driveway, and all the while, I’m trying to remember where I put the note with the Web site.

“It must be in my old purse,” I say as soon as we’re out of the car. Once in the house, I rush upstairs to my purse closet, Blake right on my heels. We arrive together, me breathless, and him as cool as always.

“Good lord, Devi,” he says, looking into the room. I realize then that he’s never actually seen my purse closet. I suppose it is a bit overwhelming. I turned one of the spare bedrooms into the closet, then filled it with freestanding shelves for all of my bags. Since I keep each in a cloth sack, I have a picture of each purse taped on the shelf to identify what’s in the sack. A large table sits by the door, a resting place for purses in transition. Finally, there’s a bureau in the back of the room to hold my collection of wallets, cell phone cases, and the like.

All in all, the room seems perfectly reasonable to me. Blake, however, clearly thinks I’m a loon.

“I like purses,” I say.

“I guess so.” He rolls his eyes and makes a show of looking around the room. “So. Where do we start?”

I smack him, because now he’s just being a pain. “That one,” I say, pointing to the teal blue Prada bag I was carrying yesterday. I look around, suddenly realizing we’re missing someone. “Where’s Andy?”

“I really don’t know.” And it’s obvious he doesn’t care. Instead, he’s focused on inspecting my bag. Since I’d only transferred the essentials—and not all the little bits of detritus that gather in a purse over time—he manages to pull out quite a bit of stuff. He lays it all on the table, and we start to pick through it.

“You don’t like him,” I say. It’s a statement, not a question, but I pause, waiting for him to deny it. Because that’s what people do. They take the polite, nonconfrontational route.

I should have known Blake had to be different.

“No,” he says. “I don’t.”

“Why?”

“I don’t like the way he looks at you.”

I feel myself blush. Not because of Andy, but because of the wayBlake is looking at me. “He’s just a fan,” I say. “He’s got a crush thing going on.”

“That doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Blake says.

“I’m not so sure you’re entitled to an opinion,” I say, even though the mere fact that he is jealous makes my heart beat a little faster. Girlie and immature, but there you have it.

“No?” He moves around the little table until he’s right there beside me. “I don’t think entitlement matters.” He’s so close I can breathe in the scent of him, and it’s all I can do not to reach out, grab his shirt, and pull him toward me. I want him badly, desperately. I want his arms and his comfort and his humor. I want his love.

I want everything I lost, and I have no idea if we can get it back. But as I look in his eyes, I know I want to try. At the same time, though, I’m terrified of getting hurt again.

He reaches out and strokes my cheek. “I don’t like the way he looks at you. Like he has a piece of you. Like there’s a connection.”

My cheeks heat even more.

“Come on, Devi. What aren’t you telling me?”

“Nothing,” I lie.

“Mmmm.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“There’s a look.”

“A look?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice defensive. “There’s a look between the two of you.”

“There’s no look,” I say firmly.

“Maybe. Maybe not. Why don’t you just tell me?”

“Dammit, Blake. There’s nothing to tell.” Since that’s a blatant lie, I back off a little. But I don’t want to tell him about Andy’s stolen kiss. That would be too much like gossiping on Andy.

He curls a strand of my hair around his finger. “There was a time when you’d tell me anything.”

I look away and lift a shoulder. But whereas before I would have been angry, now I’m only sad.

“Devi,” he says, pulling me into his arms. “I’m so sorry. I know I’ve said it before, but I’m going to keep saying it until you believe me.”

“Sorry is just a word, Blake.”

“Do you really believe I don’t care about you?”

I shake my head, forced to admit the truth. “No.” I press my face against his shirt, breathing deep of his scent. “I’ve missed you.”

“I’m right here,” he says, and then his mouth closes over mine, the kiss hard and possessive, and yet at the same time sweet and sensual. I open my mouth to him, tasting him, pulling him in.

Our bodies are pressed together, and there’s a desperation in our touches, in our kisses. As if we both know we might not live to see tomorrow, and we have to fight for this one moment of intense pleasure.

His hands stroke me, sending chills racing through me. I want him—I want him so desperately—and yet this is hardly the time or the place. And the fact is, we do have company downstairs.

“We can’t,” I murmur.

“I know,” he says, but his body tells a different tale, his lips demanding, and his low moan of pleasure almost undoing my resolve.

“Blake…”

“I know, I know.” And this time he really does pull away. We look at each other, speaking without words, and then he presses his finger to his lips, and then mine. “Believe me, I know better than anyone. It’s time to get back to work.”

The way he says that makes my heart break, and I reach out to stroke his cheek. “I’m so sorry I got you into this. I’m so sorry you’re—” I can’t finish the thought.

“I’m not going to die,” he says, holding firm to my wrist. He smiles at me, the expression warming me right down to my toes. Honestly, I wouldn’t have been surprised to see anger in those eyes. After all, he’s in this mess—literally—because of me. But I don’t see anything there but love.

I can’t help but feel a little humbled.

“We’ll find the antidote,” he promises. “And you didn’t get me into this. That honor goes to the bastard who’s yanking our chain.”

“Maybe,” I say. “But I’m not doing a very good job getting you out of it. I can’t even remember where I put the damn note.” And then I look at him and thwack the heel of my hand against my forehead. “Duh! The script. I stuck it inside the script.”

We race back downstairs to find Andy hunched over his Treo, busily typing. “What are you doing?” Blake demands.

“Covering all bases,” he says. “Sometimes information about the game comes into a player’s message center.”

“Like the note that said the toxin was delivered,” I say.

“I half hoped I’d have a message giving us some idea what to do next.”

“Any luck?” I ask, hopefully.

“Not a single message.” He looks at me. “You?”

“The note’s in the script,” I say. I have it now, and rifle through the pages, finally holding it up in triumph. “Although you raise a good point. Should I check my messages, too?”

“Absolutely,” Andy says. “Check your messages. Go to that Web page. Do everything and anything we can to get the game moving along with as much information as we can collect.”

I nod, then sit down in front of my computer, oddly invigorated. But we have a plan now, with at least two steps before we’re stymied again. It may not be a good sign, but at least it’s something.

The Web site on the card is www.YourGivenchyCodeMovieNotes.com, and I try there first. But my browser is slow, and nothing much seems to be happening. I figure the Web page is probably huge, filled with slow-loading graphics and the like. Either that, or my Internet connection is just slow.

I open up another browser box, letting the YourGivenchyCodeMovieNotes page load in the background. In the new address bar I type the URL for Play.Survive.Win, then navigate to the message center as soon as the page loads.

“I was right,” Andy says, tapping the screen. “You have a message.”

I shift in my chair and give him and Blake a quick look. Andy is looking at the screen, but Blake is watching me, and now he puts a hand on my shoulder for strength.

I hold my breath, and click on the icon to take me to the messages. As soon as I open it, the sender alone sends shock waves of terror through my body—Janus.

I must have whimpered, because immediately Blake’s arms are around me, and he’s whispering curses as he reads over my shoulder.

I just sit there, numb, the world closing in like a tunnel around me, as Blake scrolls down, revealing the full text of the waiting message:

>>>http://www.playsurvivewin.com<<<

PLAY.SURVIVE.WIN

…please wait

…please wait

…please wait

Password approved

>>>Read New Messages<<<>>>Create New Message<<<…please wait

WELCOME TO MESSAGE CENTER

You have one new message.

New Message:

You broke the rules.

Next time, solve the clues without help.

Chapter30

Everything is black. I mean everything. The world around me. My thoughts. My fears.

All colored black. And slow. As if I’m moving through tar.

This can’t be happening! This can’t be real!

But it is real. Even through the pitch, I know that it’s real.

It’s real, it’s dangerous, and I need to come back.

But there’s comfort and warmth here in the dark, and if I can just crawl further into it—if I can just lose myself—I know that I’ll be safe.

“Devi.”

A whispered voice. Blake’s. So near, and so compelling. I want to go to it, but at the same time, I don’t want to leave this place. Don’t want to face the truth. Don’t want to facehim.

Dear God, can it really be him?

“Devi.”

This time, I have no choice. The voice insists, cutting down through the layers of fear until I have to come out. Soft hands caress me, and I breath in the familiar scent of safety, of Blake.

“Devi, honey, are you in there?”

The blackness starts to shift, to melt away, and as I look, the world comes back into focus. There’s Blake’s face, right in front of mine, his eyes full of concern.

“I’m here,” I whisper. “Is it really true?”

“Maybe it’s not the same Janus,” Blake says. “Maybe our assassin just picked that name, knowing it would scare you.”

“I doubt it,” Andy says, and Blake shoots him a look that could kill. Andy cringes, but doesn’t back down. “We have to face reality here. And the truth is that Janus must have been the user name of this guy for a while. At least before the game started. I’m guessing whoever’s behind the game did what the police couldn’t.”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“They figured out who Janus is. And then they offered him another chance at you.”

“Oh, God.” I’m pretty sure I’m going to be sick.

“Devi.” Blake squeezes my hand.