Hot in the City. Samantha Hunter
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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
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