Take Me Tonight (4 page)

“Hey,” he said sweetly, cuddling her closer. “You’re thinking too hard again, baby.” He turned on his side and eased one leg over hers, pulling her lower half into him and dipping toward her mouth. “Let’s just kiss for a while. You’ll stop thinking, I promise.”

That must be his specialty. Kiss his customers into relaxation. No, into oblivion.

His mouth covered hers again, open and warm and sensual and intimate. He fondled her breast, nibbled her lower lip, then rose above her, moving his legs in a way that she knew meant he was taking off his pants.

She’d never get what she wanted. He’d just touch her and tongue her and make her forget. She pushed at his amazing chest, but he just kissed deeper and burrowed his hand into the back of her shorts, searing her backside with a tender caress. She rocked up to meet his erection, punched by desire and the blood that surged through her body.

Dammit! This was the most pathetic attempt at eliciting information by using sex in the history of journalism.

Maybe if he knew part of the truth. Maybe if he understood she really hadn’t signed up for this. She’d never mention Keisha, but maybe…

“Johnny.” She reluctantly ended the kiss. “I have a confession to make.”

He pulled back. “Your name’s not really Sage.”

“Yes, it is. But I’m not really…a customer.”

He regarded her, then slowly, agonizingly withdrew his hand from her rear end, placing it on a much less intimate spot on her waist. “No?”

“No.” She scooted up. “I’m a reporter.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Really.”

“And I swear everything you say is completely off the record. I won’t use your name or quotes or anything. I’m just trying to get information.”

His expression went flat. “A reporter.”

“Don’t worry. I promise.” She actually put her hand over her heart. Her
bare
heart. The one he’d just been caressing. As though that would make her vow more valid. “I will not put your name in my story, even if it’s not your real name. I’m trying to get information about these thrill sites. That’s what I do. That’s my job. I seek…the truth.”

His gaze dropped to her chest, then zeroed back in on her eyes. “Quite an interview technique you’ve got.”

She reached for her sports bra. “I thought…I thought if I got you…”

“I know what you thought.” He took the top from her and opened the neck hole for her to slip it on. “Give the guy a blow job and he’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

She never argued with the truth, no matter how ugly it sounded. She slid her arms through and smoothed the cups over her breasts. “I’m desperate.”

He snorted softly and glanced at his still erect manhood. “So you’re trying to get me the same way?”

“I really wanted to interview the guy in the van. That was my original plan.”

“Now, is that an interview you do dressed or undressed? I’m curious how this works.”

“No need to be sarcastic. I would have had an hour with the guy who is supposed to be their top kidnapper. But you prematurely rescued me.”

“I didn’t do
anything
prematurely.”

“Please, will you just answer some questions?”

For a moment, he just looked at her, distrust and confusion in his expression. “So you did this whole thing because you’re what, writing a story?”

“Yes.” Sort of. She
had
tried to sell the idea as a story to one of the editors at
Boston Living,
hoping a press pass would give her the access to the website operations, but they’d been ice cold on the idea. “I haven’t convinced an editor yet, but I string for a few different publications and I’m hoping somebody picks it up.”

“String?”

“I’m a freelance writer. That’s called a stringer.”

He nodded, piecing her story together. “You’re a writer and you registered for a kidnapping so you could do some undercover investigation? Do I have this right?”

“Yes.”

“And what’s your story angle?” he asked. “Are you trying to promote the product? To advertise the service and get more customers?”

She frowned at him. “That’s not what reporters do. I’m not in marketing. I write the truth. I uncover things that are wrong or unethical. I find angles that are newsworthy.”

“What’s newsworthy about this? The fact that chicks are getting off on getting nabbed?”

She shrugged. “That’s an interesting trend.”

He snorted softly. “One way to put it.” He started pulling his pants back up. “Let me ask you something, Sage.” He gave her a sharp glance. “That is your real name, isn’t it?”

She nodded. “Is Johnny yours?”

“Yeah.” He buckled his belt. “Did you tell anyone that’s why you signed up to be kidnapped? You know, the magazine or a boyfriend or anyone?”

“No. I didn’t tell anyone.”

He frowned. “You sure? No one knows why you’re doing this? Even, maybe…” He pointed his thumb toward the hallway. “Your roommate the cheerleader.”

Her gut squeezed, but she maintained a blank expression. “I didn’t tell anyone.” She straightened her back and lifted her chin. “But the site knows I’ve been rescued. So if you…if you do anything to hurt me…”

He looked insulted. “I’m not gonna hurt you, princess.” He started rebuttoning his shirt.

“Listen, I won’t use your name,” she promised. “You’ll be an unidentified source. Like…like…” She tried to think of one he’d know. “Deep Throat.”

His laugh was bitter and low. “Cute. No, thanks.”

She reached out. “Please. It’s really, really important. I need the job. I need the money. Surely you understand that.”

His eyes softened as he tucked his shirt into his pants. “Fine. Ask away. No promises you’ll get anything quotable.”

“Are you friends with any of the other rescuers at takemetonite.com?” she asked.

“No.”

“Do you know and talk to the men who do the kidnapping?”

“No.”

“Have you heard about anything unusual happening in any of the kidnappings?”

That earned her another sharp look. “No.”

She blew out a breath. “Are you going to answer no to every question I ask?”

He glanced at the messy bed. “I gotta tell you, I liked the first interview better.”

“Please,” she said. “This is very serious.”

“I’m sure it is, honey, but let’s be honest. I’m not going to tell you anything. And neither is anyone else who works for the company. You ought to find some other story to pursue.” With a sigh of resignation and regret, he reached to touch her hair, smoothing a few strands in place. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to take off now.”

“I do mind,” she said, her voice almost cracking in frustration. “I really, really mind a lot. I need this…story.”

“Hey. Whoa.” He sat on the bed, concern on his face. “I’m sure you have someone who can help you out of a financial jam. I mean, this place alone is probably worth a fortune.”

It was. To the estate of Keisha Kingston, and Sage had about sixty days left to get out of there. “It’s not just financial…it’s personal.”

“It always is.” He kissed her forehead and tipped her chin up. “Now, tell me one more thing. Are you going to sign up for another kidnapping?”

“Why?”

“I want to put in a request to be your rescuer.”

The way he said it made her smile. Worse, it made her stomach flutter and her heart stutter while everything south of that just pooled into a big mess of female response. Under different circumstances—like, if he wasn’t a
prostitute
—she could really like this guy.

“Are you?” he asked. “I need to know if you plan to do this again.”

She shook her head. “I think you have to wait a certain amount of time before they let you register again, right? Plus, I don’t have that kind of money without a—” She almost said
roommate.
“Regular job.”

He seemed satisfied with that. “Well, good luck.” He was still holding her chin when he lowered his face and kissed her so softly that she almost didn’t feel it. “Next time, though, buy some tomatoes and I’ll make puttanesca. You could use some comfort food.”

She sat motionless until she heard the front door close. Then she fell back on the pillow, still warm from him, and sniffed the lingering scent of musk and man. Her first paid sexual encounter, and she’d lost him with the flash of a press badge.

She pulled herself up, drawn to the computer across the hall. The laptop was still running and the face of Johnny Christiano was still frozen there. She knew nothing about him. Nothing. Except that he liked to cook.

Pasta puttanesca
. Didn’t that mean “whore” in Italian?

Only one person would get the irony of that. Keisha.

She stared at Keisha’s warm, dark eyes on the poster, and wished like hell she was still here. “Okay. I know. Complete disaster. Total flipping blowout from beginning to end.”

Keisha’s camera-ready smile beamed, frozen in time, forever happy. If only she were there, curled in her bed, ready for the postdate girl talk they’d shared since the day they’d both walked into a dorm room at Boston College and said hello. The frat boys had called them Salt and Pepper and they had been inseparable for years. Loneliness kicked Sage in the stomach.

“You know what’s really funny, Keish? I actually liked that guy. There was something so damn sweet about him.” She swallowed and touched the face that would never laugh or tease her again. “I’m so sorry I didn’t find out what happened to you. I made a total mess of trying.”

“What happened to her?”

Sage jumped at the voice, a gasp caught in her throat. She stared at the man who took up the width of the doorway and burned her with a look that was anything but sweet.

Chapter
Four

I
t couldn’t be good news at this hour. But at least whoever was pounding on Ashley McCafferty’s door distracted her from her nightly insomnia. She peered through the peephole and sucked in a breath.

Bad news for sure.

She whipped the door open and stared at her boss. “What’s the matter?”

“Did you give Sage Valentine the password?” Glenda made the demand quietly in deference to the neighbors in the high-rise.

Ashley blinked, determined to hold her ground. “It’s one o’clock in the morning. I have to dance tomorrow night. Couldn’t you have called?”

Glenda glanced down the hall, as though communicating with someone at the elevator banks. One of her boys, no doubt.

Ashley involuntarily touched her face. One of Glenda’s paid thugs could end her season with one crack of his knuckles.

“Did you give Sage Valentine the password?” Glenda repeated.

“So what if I did? She’s had a rough time. She’s looking for fun.”

“She’s looking for answers to why her roommate killed herself.”

“So what if she is? I didn’t think it would matter if she signed up. I didn’t think—”

“Don’t think!” Glenda pushed the door farther open with an angry
thwack.
“That’s not what you get paid to do.” She took a deep breath, fighting for control.

Swallowing hard, Ashley lifted her chin, her bravado rapidly disappearing. “It was a routine referral. If she didn’t get it from me, she’d have gotten it from someone else.”

Glenda’s silvery eyes narrowed and her mouth constricted into a thin line, feathered from years of sneak smoking in parking lots behind auditorium doors. “Ashley, is it possible you don’t understand the recriminations of your sloppiness?” The only thing Glenda hated more than whining and wimping out was sloppiness.

“What difference does it make?” Ashley asked, leaning against the doorjamb because her lower back was killing her after the military kicks they’d added into the “Funkytown” routine. They were just a tad out of her talent range. Like everything else the Snow Bunnies did.

“Using that particular password ensures a special experience,” Glenda said. “She’s not…one of us.”

“I didn’t see the harm in it.” And she sure as hell didn’t get why Glenda and company had to storm her apartment in the middle of the night. “So, what? Did something happen?”

“Yes, something happened,” Glenda hissed. “You screwed up. How well do you know this girl?”

Ashley shrugged and crossed her arms over the thin T-shirt she’d slept in. “I knew her from Keisha. We went out a few times. I haven’t seen her since Keisha’s memorial service.”

“Then you better get friendlier with her. I need you to talk to her about the kidnapping.”

Ashley frowned. “Why?”

“I want to know if she got the special treatment because she used our password. Can you find that out? We have a deal with that site and I want to know if it’s going south.”

Ashley had to shake her head to be sure she was following this. “You showed up here at this hour just to ask me to talk to her about her fantasy kidnapping? Is there some reason you couldn’t have told me tomorrow?”

“It’s important to my program,” Glenda said, her features drawn sharply, her skin sallow in the shadows. “And I won’t see you tomorrow.”

Oh, shit. “Why not?”

“Because I’m holding you responsible for the mistake.”

Ashley closed her eyes. “Does that mean I don’t get paid?”

“At the very least.”

Oh, God. Misery shot through her lower back. She needed this job. If she wasn’t an NBA dancer, she was nothing, nobody, a wannabe, the loser she’d always been told she was. And damn if Glenda didn’t know that and use it against her. Her boss had pegged her as a pushover from the first tryout, and she’d taken advantage of it, using Ashley as her eyes and ears with the other girls.

“Hey, I’m sorry I gave her the password. I really had no idea that there was some special treatment involved, Ms. Hewitt. I thought it was okay. I thought I was doing the right thing.”

Glenda glanced over her shoulder as though she needed a second opinion. “You just talk to that woman and find out exactly what happened to her. I don’t care how you do it, but find out.”

As Ashley nodded, Glenda leaned closer, her gaze as sharp as a knife blade. They called it “the look.” And no one knew how to say no to whatever demand followed. “Victoria is ready. Get her this week.”

“Victoria already refused. She’s really not interested—”

One threatening eyebrow shot up. “Get her. Or else you’re done for the season, and don’t even bother to come to tryouts next year.”

“Victoria is a hard-ass bitch who wants no part of a fantasy kidnapping. It’s a waste of time to try.”

“Then I’ll be using an alternate until you succeed.”

A burly man stepped out of the shadows and stood behind Glenda. With a smile that Satan could have painted, he rubbed his hands together while he studied Ashley’s face. One well-placed punch, and she would be out for the season, and they all knew it.

“All right,” she agreed. “I’ll do what I can.”

“You left out the part about a dead body.”

The silence on the other end of Johnny’s cell phone was a little too long not to be calculated. But then, everything Lucy Sharpe did was calculated. That was her gift. Hell, that was her charm.

“I operate on a need-to-know basis,” Lucy said. “You didn’t need to know.”

He adjusted the coffee cup so that the gold filigree handle was on the left and he could palm the delicate china cup. His index finger couldn’t fit through the tiny hole, and the hint of hazelnut in the coffee was too delicious to lose a drop.

“Well, now I do,” he said simply. Leaning forward as he sipped, he peeked over the rail of the tiny deck of the Beacon Hill Bistro, one story above the intersection of Charles and Chestnut, the early-morning sun warming the redbrick buildings and gilding the spring green buds on the trees. “You still there, Luce?”

“I’m here. So what did she tell you?”

More than you did.
“That her roommate killed herself after she was allegedly involved in a fantasy kidnapping.”

“Anything else?”

He frowned. “Isn’t that enough? She wasn’t trying to get kidnapped for fun and games.” As if Lucy didn’t know that. But the question was, why didn’t she tell him? “She wanted to find out what happened to her friend that was bad enough to make her commit suicide.”

“Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with takemetonite.com,” Lucy said. “I’ve thoroughly checked the operation, they are legit. And this young woman did not show up for her appointment, so she was never kidnapped.”

“At least not by them.”

“I thought of that, and I’ve read the autopsy report.” Of course she had. Why should that surprise him? “She was full of ephedra, enough to stop her heart.”

Ephedra. What had Sage called it last night? The cheerleading drug of choice.

“I know that the abductions are little more than a playful scare,” Lucy continued. “Followed by an encounter that may or may not be sexual with a rescuer. Whatever made Keisha Kingston take her life is really not our concern.”

Then what the hell
was
their concern? But Lucy would tell him only what he needed to know, and if he hadn’t been so damn attracted to Sage, he probably wouldn’t care. It was his job.

He adjusted the tiny café chair to get a complete visual of Sage’s building. Finding the bistro’s second-story deck, which evidently remained empty during the cooler months, had been pure serendipity.

“I don’t know, Luce,” he said. “Something about this suicide is bothering me. According to Sage, the roommate was together, smart, ambitious, and seriously good-looking. No depression. No drugs. No money problems. No breakups with a psycho boyfriend. In fact, she was a health nut—”

“Ordinary women don’t pay money to get kidnapped and rescued. Health nuts don’t power down a substance like ephedra. She obviously had issues.”

“Ephedra’s in every vitamin store in America, and this whole kidnapping thing was something a bunch of her friends were doing.” Why was he defending some cheerleader he’d never met? To Lucy? He never questioned Lucy’s judgment. Ever. He softened the edge in his voice. “Anyway, Sage thinks there’s some kind of connection.”

“She wants somewhere to place blame.”

“Then she’s putting herself into some very tight spots to do that.” He wasn’t about to tell Lucy how tight, or that one of those spots was her bedroom.

He heard his boss sigh softly before she asked, “What else did she tell you?”

“Beyond her roommate’s strange methods for getting kicks, nothing.” But they had talked until four in the morning. He’d learned that she was twenty-seven, raised in D.C., a graduate of Boston College who wrote articles for magazines and dreamed of writing a mystery novel someday.

“And what did you tell her?” Was that nervousness in cool Lucy’s voice? What was it about this assignment that had her wired so tight?

“The ingredient for a perfect risotto.”

“Mushrooms?”

“Harmony. The cook has to be at peace with himself to do it right.” Johnny smiled, remembering how Sage had laughed at that, though Lucy didn’t.

“So you talked about cooking?”

He leaned to the far left when a city trash truck blocked his view of the apartment building. “Mostly we talked about her roommate. She’s pretty torn up about it.”

“Johnny, have you ever known anyone who committed suicide?”

He almost snorted. “In my family, usually someone was paid to do it for you.”

“Well, I have. And, believe me, for the people left behind, murder would be easier to handle. At least you know the enemy you’re after.” Her voice grew sharper. “I just want to be sure you completely maintained your cover.”

“No worries. She was totally convinced I’m part of the world’s oldest profession.”

“Good. I’m sure you’ve had tougher assignments.”

There was an understatement. Of course, she was referring to his jobs with the Bullet Catchers, but he was thinking about the years before. He set the china cup in its saucer with just a little too much force. “Okay, so the job is done. Now what?”

“What do you think she’ll do next?”

“Try and get herself kidnapped again. She writes these exposé feature stories for magazines. Did you know that?”

“Yes.” Stupid question to ask a former CIA operative; she knew everything.

He waited for more, but when it didn’t come, he couldn’t stop himself. “So who’s the client on this one, Luce?” Bullet Catchers didn’t work for free and the principals they protected had big names or big money… or a big benefactor footing the bill. Sage didn’t seem to have fame or fortune, but she sure had someone’s backing. “Is there a sugar daddy somewhere? A father, maybe? A lover?”

Lucy said nothing.

A lover, then. Or someone who wanted to be. Of course there would be. A woman who looked like Sage, with all that sizzle in the sack? No doubt somebody wanted to keep her out of the arms and bed of some fantasy rescuer and was willing to pay Bullet Catcher prices to do so. But Lucy wasn’t saying, and Johnny knew the rules.

“Anyway,” he said, his tone showing that he got the message, but didn’t have to like it. “She’s on a tear to find out why her roommate killed herself and I get the impression this is one chick who isn’t deterred by roadblocks or rescuers.”

He could have sworn he heard Lucy snort softly, but then she asked, “And how did you leave her?”

With a big, bad boner. “We talked until about three hours ago, then I went back to my hotel.”

“Where are you now?” she asked.

“I’m on a restaurant balcony of some bed-and-
breakfast with a bird’s-eye view of her place, drinking excellent coffee, and awaiting my next assignment.” He took a noisy sip as proof. “Now, gimme something good, Luce. A diplomat in Greece or an heiress in Rio.”

“Max Roper had an heiress last summer and look what happened to him.”

Married, expecting a baby, and running the Bullet Catcher’s West Coast ops. “Good point.”

“Thank you for doing this without a million questions,” she said. “I know this is an unusual assignment.”

Is
? “No problem. You know you’re my goddess.”

She laughed softly. “All women are goddesses to you.”

“But you’re the greatest of them all.” He kept his tone light, but they both knew it was no joke. He’d already gone to the ends of the earth for the woman who gave him his life back, and he would again. All she had to do was ask.

He finished the coffee, his focus still on the front door of that brownstone on the corner. He might never talk to Sage Valentine again, but he sure would like one last look.

“So, Johnny,” Lucy finally said. “Did you like her?”

Every delectable inch. “Nothing not to like.” Careful, man. Anything could be a trick question, regardless of her tone. “I try not to pass judgment on my principal, Luce. You taught me that a long time ago.”

She just sighed again.

“So, give me the goods, boss lady. It’s April. Tell me I’m headed for Paris.”

There was another one of those calculated pauses and then: “I’d like you to stay there a little longer, Johnny.”

He straightened in the seat, his gut tightening a little bit. “Sure. And…that would be…to…”

“Keep an eye on Sage.”

“As her bodyguard?”

“Not officially.”

A moving truck slowed and stopped in front of Sage’s building and he got up without thinking, heading to the rail for an angle where he could still see the front door.

“I want you to stay in your cover and watch her for a little longer.”

The truck turned and he had a clear shot of the door again. He gripped the cold metal rail with his free hand. “Under this cover, she thinks I’m a rescuer for the thrill site. Any ideas how I can arrange to watch her?”

“Figure out a way to stay around her.”

“Uh, Luce, I don’t know how amenable she’s going to be to spending time with a male prostitute.” Not to mention what her real boyfriend, the one with the money to pay for protection, might think of Johnny’s diversionary tactics, or Sage’s interrogation techniques.