Читать книгу Hot in the City - Samantha Hunter - Страница 12

4

GABE FINISHED HIS second drink, looking at the door of the Wall Street bar where he’d agreed to meet Della. Well, he assumed that was what this was about. All he’d received from her was a message that included GPS coordinates that led to this location. At first he’d been suspicious—what if it wasn’t her? Or why wouldn’t she just call him directly?

Gabe became increasingly antsy and curious the longer he sat, waiting.

What was Della up to?

He wasn’t sure he should be here, or if he should have made any plans to see her again at all. He’d combed through her locked files and found nothing of too much interest. Her work on the vaccine project had been mostly related to risk analysis, very compartmentalized and early in the project. There were no other red flags in her life. Her emails and academic work were all straightforward. He was running background checks on her friends, colleagues, just in case, but there’d been nothing overtly alarming.

He shouldn’t have come here, but the strange message had intrigued him. If it wasn’t from Della, then he needed to know what was going on.

Right.

The truth was that he liked her, and he wanted to see her again, in spite of the situation.

You lied to her, so what? It’s the job. Lives depend on what you do. His mind replayed all the usual things he told himself so he could sleep at night. It wasn’t that they weren’t true, but they were getting harder and harder to believe.

Like today, which he’d spent interrogating a twenty-five-year-old junior scientist about the details of her private life until she was in tears. Tears never really bothered him; Gabe knew they could be a ploy. There had been enough cracks in the young employee’s interview to push her harder, and questions about her background, as well. Natalie Petroski could be the leak. He’d asked for surveillance to be installed in her home before she returned there.

Until they were satisfied that she was clean, he would review audio and video of everything she did, every aspect of her personal life, and with whom she did it. Especially with whom. They’d have to get some mobile surveillance on her as well, know where she went and who she saw.

It was legal—he had authorization—but it made Gabe feel dirty. And undeserving, he supposed, of spending time with someone like Della. What would she think if she knew?

He shook his head in disgust; he was getting soft. He never would have thought this way before.

Before what? Before deceiving too many people, losing too many friends and spending too many lonely nights thinking about it? Before he let himself love someone, thinking there was a future in it, only to find out differently? Before he let someone count more than the job, and it cost him his life? Or theirs?

He couldn’t deny it; since Janet had died, he’d started having doubts. He told himself it was grief, or a broken heart, but those things passed.

His doubts remained.

Maybe Della was a mistake for a whole different set of reasons. He had to focus on his work, and she was a distraction. A sexy distraction, but one he couldn’t afford. He’d often wondered on sleepless nights, if doubts about him, or about her choices, had been what distracted Janet. If they had created enough of a crack that she missed the shooter who hadn’t missed her. Had she thought of him in the end?

He shook his head as if trying to ward off the bad memories. He walked to the door, intending to leave as he saw a guy on a bike race to a stop in front. The man hopped off of the bike and then came through the door. He looked right at Gabe.

“This is for you.”

The guy handed him a small white box, wrapped with a black bow.

“Who sent it?”

Gabe was hardwired against receiving any mysterious packages, and automatically backed up as he assessed the situation around him.

“A really hot redhead,” the kid said with a large grin. “Lucky you.”

Gabe released a breath, the tension easing from his shoulders as he took the box and tipped the delivery guy, who sped off, leaving him standing there in the doorway to the bar, staring at the box.

Even knowing it was probably from Della, and all was probably fine, he had to fight every instinct in his mind to actually pull the ribbon and open the box. This didn’t seem like something the woman he’d met would do—she wasn’t the type.

His eyes widened as he lifted a sheer stocking from the box. Attached to the stocking was a piece of paper.

“What the...?”

Detaching the paper, he put the stocking back in the box and studied the numbers on the sheet of paper. It was definitely Della’s handwriting. He recognized it from all of the papers he’d gone through in her computer bag.

He took a seat at the bar, studying the sheet.

What was she up to?

After a minute or two, he saw the start of the pattern, discerning the code. His heartbeat sped up a little—Della was luring him to her with a system of clues.

Or was it some kind of trap?

Grabbing a pen from his pocket, he worked out the clues in a matter of minutes. The numbers were a subway line, an address and a time signature—he should be at the location indicated by eight.

That gave him about a half hour to make it all the way uptown. Apparently, this train would get him there on time.

Booking it to the closest subway platform, he boarded the train, which he had nearly missed.

What was Della up to? Where was she leading him?

Sitting down on an empty bench, he opened the box again and touched the soft material of the stocking, his blood instantly warming.

The idea of being with Della again was intoxicating, and this game was making it even more so.

Apparently there was more to Dr. Clark than he’d assumed. If she was trying to draw him in, it was working. Though Gabe still kept his guard up—he couldn’t be sure this was really Della or that there wasn’t something else going on.

Eventually, he emerged onto the street, and the signs near the subway platform told him he was near the American Museum of Natural History.

He stood there for a while, looking for another clue and checking his watch. Eight on the dot, but no Della in sight.

Then he saw it—a napkin from the Italian restaurant they’d eaten at the night they met, tacked to the telephone pole at the corner.

He quickly took it from the pole and saw Della’s script again. She’d written only I’m waiting for you under the stars