Take Me Tonight (13 page)

“It isn’t about money with you,” she said to delay the discomfort of her topic, but her comment obviously warmed him.

“I get great joy out of giving the good news to ladies who are aching to be mothers.” He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. “And when are you going to settle down and have yourself a baby?”

She pretended to choke and he laughed, picking up a cobalt-blue tumbler of water to sip.

“I’ll call you when I’m ready, Doc. Prepare to wait awhile.”

“Not even with that nice-looking young man? The chef?”

“We’re just friends.”

This time, his laugh was wry, not hearty. “If you think that, you’re blind. Or you believe that I am.”

“No, seriously,” she insisted. “We just met.”

“That didn’t stop him from checking me out like one threatened male to another.”

Sage smiled. “He’s a little protective.”

“As he should be. You are a beautiful, intelligent, talented woman with a lot to offer a man. He should be protective, possessive, and…employed.”

Her cheeks warmed. Let him think it was the compliment and not the fact that Johnny
was
employed—as a boy toy for fantasy-starved women. “Thanks, Dr. Garron. For your kind words and the interview opportunity for him.”

“Please, Sage, I’m Alonzo to you.” He opened his menu and pulled out a thin pair of reading glasses. “Now, let me order for you. I know the chef.” He winked as he slid the frames on. “And, if all goes well in the kitchen today, you will, too.”

After he ordered and the waiter left with their menus, he leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If you’re really not interested in the Italian boy, you might want to give a Latin man a try.”

Was he serious? She laughed in surprise. “Are you flirting with me?”

He plucked a toast tip from the basket, never taking his eyes off her. “From the moment I met you, Sage, I knew you were the kind of woman I wanted—”

Her jaw dropped, but he laughed and finished, “For a daughter. The kind of woman I would want for a daughter.”

“Oh.” She couldn’t begin to decipher where he was going with the conversation, but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Well, thank you.” She took a sip of her water, suddenly thinking of her father tucked into the darkened corners of his own diseased mind, living in a home in Vermont, calling her “Lydia” when she visited and insisting the year was 1990. “And you’re the kind of man I would like for a father.”

He frowned. “You’re not close to him?”

“He’s ill. And my mother passed away when I was a teenager.”

“What’s wrong with your father?”

“Alzheimer’s.”

His face fell. “Oh. I’m sorry.” He looked thoughtfully at her. “Are you much like him, Sage?”

She lifted one shoulder. “In some ways.” She needed to steer the conversation to her original objective. “I have to ask you a question, Dr. Garron. It might be a little uncomfortable, I’ll warn you.”

“A medical question?”

“In a sense. I need some information and I’m not sure it’s absolutely kosher to ask for it.”

He tilted his head. “Try me.”

“You remember my roommate, Keisha Kingston?”

He gave her an appropriately sympathetic nod. “I never met her, as you know. What is your question?”

She took a sip of water. What was the worst that could happen? He’d be insulted because she’d asked and he’d been unable to help. “Is there any way, with your connections, you can possibly determine whether or not she had an abortion before she died?”

To his credit, he didn’t flinch. “Perhaps.”

As their server brought salads, Sage waited. When he picked up his fork to eat, she asked, “Would you?”

He plucked at a crumble of blue cheese, then slowly set his fork down and dabbed the corner of his mouth with a deep blue linen napkin. “Have you ever been pregnant, Sage?”

“Are you asking if I could sympathize with Keisha’s situation? I’m not indicting her for having an abortion, I’m just trying to find out—”

He silenced her with a hand. “I’m merely asking if you’ve been pregnant.”

“No.”

He nodded slowly. “Have you ever tried?”

“Uh, no. I’ve never been in that committed a relationship.”

“You don’t have to be committed. You’re young.”

Where was he going with this? “I’d like to be married before I have a family.”

“That’s normal. But, what are you? Twenty-six?”

“Twenty-seven.” She wanted to squirm in her seat. He wasn’t her father. He wasn’t her doctor. Was this necessary? “Can you help me find out about Keisha, Dr. Garron?”

“Sage, what will that information change? If Keisha had an abortion, or if she did not, will that bring her back?” His voice was soft, his eyes back to gentle gray.

“Of course not. But I need to know why she died.”

“She died because she was either scared or stupid or both.” He reached for her hand again. “Do you have to know?”

Sage glanced out the window. “I’m not so sure of that anymore,” she said softly. Her attention shifted to the man in the leather jacket standing on the bustling corner of Arlington and Newberry Street. “That was a fast interview.”

“Or maybe your friend is a liar.”

She blinked at him. “Why would you say that?”

He sighed as if he didn’t want to deliver this news, but had to. “No one by the name of John Christiano ever attended the Culinary Institute.”

I attended the Culinary Institute of Nona Cardinale.

“I know that,” she admitted, somehow not surprised that he’d checked into Johnny’s background. How much did he know about what her “friend” did for a living? He was thorough, and smart. “But he’s a very good cook.”

“He also doesn’t maintain a residence anywhere in Boston. Did you know that?”

No, but how did
he
know? “He recently moved here from New York.”

“He doesn’t maintain a residence in the state of New York.” He lifted the fork to his mouth and added, “Or anywhere else in the United States.”

Irritation boiled up. “Why the thorough background check? Because you recommended him for an interview?”

“I’m doing what any father would.” His tone softened. “Since it sounds like you really don’t have one watching out for you anymore.”

“Alonzo, I’m not sleeping with him, and if I were, it’s not your business.”

“Someone needs to tell you that the young man out there”—he shifted his glance to Johnny—“is not whoever he says he is.”

Somewhere, deep down inside, she knew that was true. And she never ignored the truth.
Never.

“I’ll do my best to help you get that other information,” he added.

Chapter
Thirteen

W
hatever the doctor had told Sage, it left her uncharacteristically quiet on the way to Brookline. Johnny asked her a few questions, but she kept her answers short.

Even more troubling was that she didn’t ask him a million questions about his interview. Which had been so brief, hurried, and uncomfortable, he was fairly certain that Hendrick Kane was not hiring and had been strong-armed by Garron into the meeting.

No matter. Sage was quiet, and Johnny didn’t like it.

“What did you eat?” he asked, resisting the urge to slide his hand into hers or put his arm around her.

She looked up at him, her hazel eyes leaning toward the ivy green of her sweater. “Is that all you care about?”

“Whoa. Harsh.”

“I don’t know what we ate,” she said. “Food.”

Whatever she’d eaten didn’t agree with her. “I’m going to take a wild guess and say that you didn’t get what you wanted out of Sean Connery in there.”

“I got what I wanted. He’s going to help me.”

“Good.” Johnny watched dry cleaners and florists and appealing little delis roll by. “Did he tell you that he’s married?”

He felt her glare. “What is it with you two? Are you doing counterresearch on each other? How do you know anything about him at all?”

“So he checked me out, huh?”

“Enough to know you lied about attending the Culinary Institute.”

And still set up the interview. Why? Just to be alone with her? “What else did you talk about?” Like why was he paying to protect her without her knowing about it?

“His new business.”

Johnny nodded knowingly. “Gynecology.” He must have left just enough skepticism in his voice to get her defensive.

“He’s specializing in infertility treatment now,” she said quickly. “Helping women have babies and realize lifelong dreams.”

“Big money in that.” Enough to pay for round-the-clock supervision, at least. “Hey, next stop is Washington Square,” he said. “Her building—”

“You know, Johnny.” It was clear she was a million miles away, thinking. “I still want to talk to those people at the website.”

“Well, I can’t help you there, sugar.”

“Why not?”

“I quit.” At her look of surprise, he added, “I thought that would make you happy.”

“Happy? I don’t care where you work or what you do. But you are—
were
—my only connection to that place, and I still think someone there might know something about the night Keisha was, or wasn’t, kidnapped.”

“Well, I quit.”

“Why?”

He patted her hand. “I knew you hated it.”

She choked softly. “You’re not my boyfriend, Johnny.”

“Hey, a guy can hope.”

They reached Washington Square, and he followed her out the back door of the subway car, right in front of the fifteen-story gray and white box where Ashley lived. They waited for the light to cross Beacon. When a couple of heavily tattooed punks passed them, and one gave Sage a good, hard eye sweep, Johnny instinctively positioned himself next to her and behind one step, where he could assess and stop every threat.

At the high-rise, no one answered the buzzer for A. McCafferty. There was no guard, no doorman, and Johnny didn’t have an entrance code. But the first person who came out, a preppie on the phone, held the glass door for them without so much as a glance at their faces. So much for security in the high-rise.

“Apartment 520,” he said, guiding her to the elevator.

“How do you know?” she asked, pressing the call button. “They don’t put apartment numbers in the phone book.”

“I got on the Internet at the Ritz while I was waiting for you. It’s all there, if you know where to look.”

“When did you do that?” She poked the button again, as if that could hurry the process. “You were standing on the corner before we got our main course, waiting for me.”

A man joined them, and two older ladies came out of a rec room, wrapped in towels and smelling like chlorine, saving him from another lie. He was really getting sick of lying to her. He officially hated undercover work and didn’t want another job like this.

They got off the elevator on the fifth floor, which featured gray indoor-outdoor carpeting, beige walls, brown doors, and a long hallway in either direction.

At 520, near the stairwell at the end of the hall, they struck out again. Sage shifted from foot to foot, her impatience mounting with each unanswered knock. She gave the door one more pounding with her fist.

“Ashley! It’s Sage Valentine. Are you there? Please?” With the frustrated plea, she grabbed the doorknob to shake the door, then let out a little gasp when it turned all the way. “It’s unlocked.”

Stupid. Way, way too stupid.

He automatically reached to his hip, closed his fingers over his weapon, and eased her to the side. “Ashley?” he called, inching the door open. He glanced at Sage as he slowly pulled out his Glock, his look telling her to stay back. “Anybody home?”

Glass crunched under his boot. It was everywhere. The entire entryway to the small, modern unit was covered in clear, broken glass. He raised the gun with both hands and took one step forward, his focus on the empty living room, the stream of sunlight that poured in through a window that ran the length of the living room, a much darker bedroom to the right.

“Oh my God,” Sage whispered behind him. “Look at that.”

On the wall next to the door, a framed poster hung askew, the glass exploded. Black marker was scrawled right over the pretty faces this time.

Whores must die.

“It’s technically not a crime scene,” Detective Cervaris said as they closed the door to Ashley’s apartment, so many hours later that Sage battled hunger and fatigue. “No one has reported her missing.”

Sage almost reached up to grab his weathered skin and rattle his head. “Then where is she?”

He gave her a patient nod. “I understand your concern, Miss Valentine, and don’t think I’m saying that…” he pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the apartment door, “is a form of modern art in there. I see the pattern. Like I said, I’m going to talk to the right people at the New England Blizzard—”

“The Snow Bunnies,” she said urgently. “It’s actually a separate organization.”

He held up his hand and shuttered his eyes as though his world-class patience was coming to an end with each interruption. Well, too damn bad. This was the second “nonstandard break-in” in three days. And this experienced Boston cop had to see the pattern, even if no one had reported Ashley missing and her calendar had a dark line and “pick up at 8:45” written on today’s date. He suggested that this meant she had left town. But Sage insisted it could be a reminder to pick up her dry cleaning.

Other than the smashed glass over her poster and the “Whores must die,” it appeared that nothing had been touched in the apartment. There was no evidence of any crime except vandalism.

“We’ll find her, we’ll get in touch with people who know her,” the detective said to Johnny. “We’ll handle this from here.”

“You have our cell phone numbers,” Johnny said. “Please call us if you find anything at all. We’ll be ready to help you however we can.”

Our, us,
we
. When did they become a unit? Still, Sage knew that arguing in the hall with the old detective and the young self-appointed boyfriend was a waste of time. She’d get rid of him when they got home.

Or maybe she’d let him cook for her and make jokes and spread sweet cream on her nipples. Comfort food, comfort talk, comfort sex.

She was still thinking about that, and the defaced poster in Ashley’s apartment, when they walked out of the building and Johnny guided her to a yellow taxi at the corner. You couldn’t flag one in Brookline.

“You called a cab?” she asked.

He opened the back door. “You’re in no shape to take the T.”

Part of her wanted to argue, but the smart part closed her mouth and climbed across the cracked seat and stared at the gray stone of All Saints Cathedral.

“The Eliot Hotel,” he said to the driver. “In Back Bay.”

She turned from the church. “We’re going to a hotel?”

“I don’t want you to be home. You’re more secure away from the apartment.”

“Excuse me?” She nearly choked on the question. “Don’t I get consulted? And since when are you my personal security officer?”

He gave her an endearing, lopsided smile and touched her cheek with a fingertip. “Baby, let me just take care of you tonight.” The kiss on her temple was so tender, she hardly felt it. “That’s what I do.”

Confusion and unanswered questions shuddered through her, along with Alonzo’s warning about Johnny, the image of vicious, hateful words over beautiful faces, and the neon-green index card in the back of a deadly elevator. But all she could do was close her eyes and inhale the smell of his leather jacket, mixed with evergreen air freshener and the fruit shampoo he must have used at her house.

She didn’t speak, didn’t open her eyes, and sure as hell didn’t feel like arguing. Instead, she listened to the rumble of the train running parallel to the road, and to the first few drops of rain that spattered on the roof of the cab. Johnny’s fingers found her nape and gently massaged the taut muscles there.

That’s what I do.

Comfort. Security. Sensuality.

She could feel herself slipping into the safety net he offered. She studied the strong lines of his chin, the thick lashes, the intensity in the eyes that met hers. He wrapped his other arm around her and kissed her so sweetly that for that moment, she didn’t care if this was “what he did.”

He did it so damn
nice
.

A soft groan pulled from her throat as he traced his tongue over her lips, then dipped it into her mouth. Instinctively she lifted herself toward him, nestling her hands around his neck, combing her fingers into his hair as she pulled his head to her. He spread open her jeans jacket and kissed down her neck to the rise of her breasts. He closed his palm over one breast, sending an instant shock wave through her angora sweater and straight into her stomach. Thumbing her gently, he lifted his head, his eyes black with the same arousal that had her heart pounding and her hips aching to move.

Oh, yeah. This is what he did. A professional lover.

He didn’t say a word. Didn’t smile. Didn’t breathe. He just moved his thumb back and forth over the fuzzy material, hardening her nipple, torturing her.

She’d never done it in a cab. But he probably had, a dozen times. So what? Surely he had a condom, and she wanted him. Really wanted him. All the way. Why not here? Why not now?

She glanced over his shoulder. Through the steady rain, she recognized Kendall Square. They had ten minutes, fifteen if there was traffic around Boston University, until they got to Back Bay. With the rain and luck, twenty. Enough time. She dropped her head back, inviting a more intimate touch.

He repositioned his hand, warming the skin of her breastbone and inching his fingers into the V of her sweater. “C’mere, honey,” he whispered. “Let me kiss you. Let me touch.”

Oh, Lord, he was so good. She parted her lips and closed her eyes and his mouth burned her exactly at the second his fingers touched her swollen flesh. He flicked her nipple, flicked her tongue, and flicked her switch to
on
.

Moisture pooled between her legs where an ache, painful and powerful, tightened her muscles. She dug one hand deeper into his thick hair and flattened the other on his chest, sliding it down because she wanted to touch the erection she knew he had. Proof that the desire was mutual.

And it was. Stiff and substantial and really, really mutual. He grunted softly as she rubbed him once, then she just moved on pure instinct, sliding one leg over his lap, wanting nothing but the chance to rub against him until the fire flared.

Rain sluiced down the windows, cars and stores and buildings zoomed by, and the driver was long forgotten. Sage kissed him while he caressed over and under her sweater, she rolled over him while he grew even harder and bigger against her crotch. Sweat and heat emanated from him, along with gentle moans, whispered words, and wet, wet kisses. No clothes came off, no barriers were breached, but they imitated the act and she was too far gone to do anything but try not to scream as an orgasm started to clutch her.

She gripped his hair, yanking his face closer, his mouth to hers. She just wanted to take and ride and roll and rock and touch and release all this pressure against him.

“No, no, baby.” He eased her back on the seat. “Wait.”

“What? Why?” The words were little more than strangled vowels.

“Because I don’t…”

She pushed a damp hair off her face, the muscles in her lower half twitching and tightening, frustration replacing the reckless abandon she’d just given into. “What do you mean ‘you don’t’? You don’t mess around in cabs? It’s not part of your
job
?”

“Stop it.”

The heat turned to icy disappointment and then morphed into anger. She hit his arm a little harder than necessary. “Do I need to pay you?” The unfinished climax threw extra venom in her voice.

He glared at her, his jaw clenching, his neck muscles flexing. “Stop it, Sage.”

She didn’t
want
to stop. She practically punched the seat, turning to the window just as the cab whipped to the curb where a charcoal overhang protected the elegant, understated entrance of the Eliot Hotel. The cabbie called out the fare, but Johnny didn’t move.

Instead, his expression turned hard and demanding. “Do you really think this is work? Is that what you think?”

“I decided not to
think
about fifteen minutes ago. See where that got me.”

He blew out a disgusted breath. “Come on, Sage.”

“Oh, now I’m Sage. What happened to babycakes and sugarplum?”

“You’re too good for this,” he said, his voice so strained it was barely above a whisper. “For…that.”

“Oh, please,” she said, using disdain to hide her disappointment. “What a complete crock. I wasn’t too good the other night.”

Wordlessly, he put his index finger on her lower lip, slid it into her mouth, curled it around her tongue. What was he trying to do, kill her? “It’s different now. I know you. I really like you.”