Take Me Tonight (6 page)

Roll over now, Mom, because journalistic integrity is taking a backseat today
. “Actually, they’re dancers.”

“Whatever. Do they fuck any of the basketball players? That might be interesting. Could we get Paula Abdul for a quote? Wasn’t she one of those girls once?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” Her heart squeezed. She was selling herself, and Keisha, down the river—but for the right reasons.

Eric pulled at the goatee that trimmed his chin. “The Blizzard might be the second-class team in town now, but the Celtics are getting boring and who knows? Then they could be advertisers. I don’t want to alienate their marketing people.”

“Mass General didn’t blacklist us,” she shot back.

“They aren’t the potential advertisers that the New England Blizzard is.” He checked his watch again. “You want to do some research and get me a proposal?”

“Just give me a contract, Eric,” she said. “You know my work. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you something great.”

“You don’t do fluff.”

“I could.” She didn’t have to like it, but she could do it. “I could get behind the scenes….” She saw him wavering. “In the locker room.” One eyebrow lifted and hope took flight in her stomach, and she went for the jugular: “Or I could take the idea to the
Boston Herald
weekly magazine.”

He smirked at her. “Brat. Okay. Pick up a press pass on your way out, and Jennifer will mail you a contract. Get me a draft in three weeks and some courtside seats to the play-offs if they make it in.”

“You got it.” She beamed in appreciation.

She was still feeling victorious in the elevator, holding the laminated pass she’d just earned. This would give her access to lots of people who had known Keisha very well. People who had been close to Keisha when she died, during a month when Sage was in Texas trying to track down dirt on the former governor of Massachusetts, which she never even got.

The lobby bell rang, and when the elevator doors opened, every coherent thought evaporated at the sight of a man in blistering black leather, leaning against a marble post.

He’d followed her there. He’d followed her
again
.

Somewhere in her brain, a warning bell rang. She ignored it.

Johnny levered off the column and approached her. “Hey, hot stuff.”

“You’ve turned tailing me into an art form.”

He tipped her chin with his knuckle. “I just used my powers of deduction.” He turned her face to the building directory on the wall. “
Boston Living,
fourth floor.”

Either he was the world’s best listener or he’d bugged her apartment. “And here I thought you were just another pretty face.”

He laughed and slipped his arm around her shoulder. “I’m the whole package, baby. So, what was the meeting about?”

“I got a story contract.”

“A story on the website?”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t sell him that one. But I’m going to do a story on the New England Blizzard dance team.”

He held open the door, a rush of chilly air mixed with a blast of Cleveland Circle traffic. “So, since you couldn’t get the story you wanted, you’re using this as a back door.”

Definitely not just a pretty face. “I want to find out why my perfectly happy, sane, confident friend would kill herself. I’m going to do whatever I have the power to do to find out.” She held up the press pass. “This gives me a little power.”

“You have me, too. More power.”

“More distraction, you mean.”

“Don’t do this alone, Sage. Let me help you.”

She should say no. She should run from the male prostitute.

“You’ll need a car, right?” He held out the keys with the Hertz tag dangling.

“Don’t you have to work? Aren’t there women to rescue and…”

He tucked her arm under his, pulling her close. “I’m all yours.” He dipped his head low and whispered in her ear, “If you want me.”

The problem was…she did.

Chapter
Six

“K
elley’s!” Johnny hit the steering wheel with a victorious tap as the name came back to him. “That’s the place up here I like.”

“The seafood shack in Revere Beach?” Amusement and the late-morning light made Sage’s pretty eyes look more green than brown as they twinkled at him. “Seriously?”

“There’s a bunch of those shacks up here, but that one has unbelievable fried clams. I remember the last time I was here….” He’d been on a security detail with an ex-CEO of General Electric who’d been, happily and coincidentally, a true foodie. “The clams were really good,” he finished.

“It’s always crowded there.”

“I know,” he said with the air of a regular. “A couple of years ago, it was the highest-grossing restaurant in the country. That’s a lot of clams, baby.” He glanced at her to see if she got his joke, but she was looking strangely at him.

“How long have you lived here?” she asked.

He could hear the undercover master’s voice.
Stay as close to the truth as you can
, Danny G would say. “Not that long.”

“Did you move here from New York?”

Before he arrived in Boston, he’d been in L.A. on an assignment. Before that, Vancouver, and before that…he had to think. Oh, of course, that fun month in Jakarta. Before that, a couple of gigs in California. Then…“Yeah. New York.”

“Where? In the city?”

“All over,” he said vaguely, frowning at the traffic. “I guess I have to stay on Route One to get to the arena, huh?”

“It’s just past Revere. Where do you live? Or…” She repositioned herself to face the front again. “Don’t you want anyone to know?”

“I like to keep a low profile.”

After a few seconds, she asked, “Were you in the same line of work in New York?”

“Similar.” He put a hand on her arm. “Let’s talk about you.”

“Why? Are you embarrassed that you get paid for sex?”

“Guess it depends on what I get paid.”

“Ba-dum-bum.” She crossed her arms, slipping out of his touch. “You make jokes when you’re uncomfortable.”

“I’m not uncomfortable. I’m just funny. And good-looking. And handy with a Crock-Pot. Keep me around.” He found her hand and threaded his fingers through hers. “You won’t regret it.”

She settled a little farther away, leaning against the door.

“Hey.” He skimmed the silky fabric of her trousers, following the line of her taut runner’s legs. “Admit it, you like me. Regardless of my career choice.”

“Career choice?” She shot one perfect eyebrow in the air. “That’s an interesting way of putting it.”

“I’m a fulfiller of fantasies, baby doll. Believe me, there are worse things I could be.”

“True,” she said, her voice rich with sarcasm. “Like a killer. A thief. A liar.”

He’d been damn near all three in another life. “Or a reporter,” he said with a quick smile.

“See? You make jokes when you’re uncomfortable.”

“Who said I was joking?”

She tapped his hand playfully and didn’t move away from him again. “You mean you put journalists in the same league with killers, thieves, and liars?”

“Not all journalists. Not you.” He squeezed her thigh, congratulating himself on the smooth change of subject. “So how long have you been writing?”

“I’ve freelanced since I graduated from B.C., almost six years ago. I always wanted to be an investigative reporter. My mother worked for the
Washington Post
and she was my role model.”

He glanced at her. “Was? Is she retired now?”

Under his fingertips, her thigh muscle tensed. “She’s dead.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. And your dad? Brothers and sisters?”

She blew out a sigh and turned to the window. “No siblings. My dad lives in Vermont. Alone.” She waited a beat, then added, “He has Alzheimer’s. Doesn’t really know what day it is, I’m afraid.”

“That’s a shame.”

“Yeah, it is. And what about your parents? Are they in New York?”

He opted for the truth, since it didn’t seem to matter with this cover story. “My parents were killed in an accident in Tuscany when I was a kid.”

“In Tuscany? Were they on vacation?”

“No, they lived there.”

“You lived in Italy? You grew up there?” At his nod, she added, “You don’t even have an accent. I mean, not an Italian one.”

“My mother married an Italian businessman and moved there before I was born. I was sent back to the States when they died. I was young enough to lose the accent and barely remember the language.” His true reasons for turning his back on Italy were way too complicated for this conversation. For any conversation.

“And who did you live with? When your parents died?”

“Family in New York, but I went on my own pretty young.” Time for a subject change. “So, Sage, you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

He winked at her. “Want one?”

She laughed lightly. “No, thanks.”

“Why? Because of my ‘career choice’?”

Her smile faded. “If you’re asking seriously, I don’t think I’d be able to get past what you do.”

Or what he used to do. “It’s all right, sugar. We’ll just have fun. No strings. No promises.”

“No sex.”

He punched his hand over his heart and grunted like she’d shot him.

“But I’ll let you cook for me.”

“Chicks. They only want one thing.” He shook his head, his teasing smile belying the victory he felt inside.

He was still smiling when they parked at the Manzi Arena and headed to the business offices. As they walked down a long, narrow hallway toward the wing to the dance team’s management offices, Sage put her hand on his arm. “This will be boring for you. Why don’t you go see if you can watch the basketball team practice or something?”

“Oh, let’s see. What’ll be more interesting? The nine-foot guys slam-dunking or the twenty-some beauty queens doing backbends and splits? Hmmm. I don’t know.”

“The girls won’t be here. And anyway, who am I supposed to say you are?”

“Personal assistant, chef, chauffeur, bodyguard.” He nudged her forward. “Boyfriend.”

She continued toward the office. “Well, maybe you’ll recognize one of the girls and then I’ll know who to talk to. Ashley’s the only one who’s admitted to being kidnapped, but a lot of them have done it.”

“Maybe I will,” he said.

“But you heard me on the cell phone on the way here. It wasn’t easy to convince Julian Hewitt’s assistant to give me this interview so quickly, and I want to do it alone. I get people to talk more, one on one.”

“Sure,” he agreed as they entered a tiny front office. She’d push back if he was too insistent. “I’ll wait for you here.”

When the receptionist disappeared in the back to get the manager of the New England Snow Bunnies, Sage stayed standing, studying the wall of eight-by-ten autographed beauty shots of the Bunnies.

“Keisha’s gone,” she said softly, indicating an empty slot. “You’d think they’d at least leave her picture up.”

She said it more to herself, so he didn’t answer, instead dropping into one of the chairs and scooping up a copy of
Boston Living
. “You write anything in here?” he asked, showing her the cover.

“Oh, yeah. Big story. It’s called ‘The Real Tragedy in the ER.’ ”

He flipped to the table of contents. “Cool.”

The door opened and he looked up, expecting a man. Instead, a hard-looking woman in her early forties came out, her eyes sharp, her blond hair short, flat, and unstyled.

“Are you the reporter?” she asked without preamble.

Sage extended her hand. “I’m Sage Valentine with
Boston Living
magazine. I have an interview scheduled with the dance-team manager.”

The woman shook Sage’s hand briskly. “Julian’s been called away for a meeting. I’m the choreographer and I’ll do the interview.”

“All right,” Sage agreed. “But I’m planning a fairly in-depth feature and will eventually need to talk to everyone, including Mr. Hewitt.”

“You can start with me,” she said, her tone as unattractive as her face.

Johnny held up the magazine. “I’ll wait right here.”

Sage nodded and turned to the woman. “I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”

As they walked through the door, Johnny only caught part of her answer: “I’m Julian’s wife, Glenda.”

Perfect. A witch’s name.

Glenda Hewitt’s office had about as much style and personality as the plain gray sweat suit that clung to her protruding bones and sinewy muscles. Keisha had hated the woman, as all the Snow Bunnies did, but she was supposed to be a good choreographer and rumored to have a gooey center, if you could find it. At the moment, she was all crust.

“So, Ms. Hewitt.” Sage opened a worn reporter’s notebook to the first empty page, zipping through a mental file of what she knew about Glenda Hewitt, other than the fact that she was punctual as hell and would not allow soda or chocolate on the premises, Keisha’s favorite two food groups. “I understand you and your husband came to the Blizzard after stints with the Dallas Mavericks and the Phoenix Suns.”

Glenda leaned across her metal desk with a glower that probably struck terror in the hearts of her entire dance team. “Let’s get this right out in the open, Miss Valentine. I know why you’re here.”

Sage blinked. “You do?”

“I know Keisha Kingston was your roommate. If you’re digging for dirt, you won’t find it.”

So much for a
secret
investigation. “I’m not digging for dirt,” Sage replied. “I’m here to do what we in the magazine business call a puff piece. As far as Keisha’s concerned, I only hope to honor the dance team that she loved.”

Glenda steepled her fingers and rested her chin on them, staring at Sage.

“I work very, very hard to create cohesion and synchronicity on this team. There is much more to dancing than kicking and jumping,” Glenda said. “I will not, under any circumstances, let the media undermine that.”

“I have no intention of undermining anything,” Sage assured her. “All I want is a few interviews, some access to the young ladies, a day for photos, maybe a chance to see one of the games.”

Glenda nodded. “Fine. But please be aware that we are moving into play-off season, and we have a tight schedule. I control the girls’ time and I will control all of your access to them.”

“I didn’t realize that was your function,” Sage said, bristling at the woman’s arrogance. “I thought you created their dances and your husband managed their schedules. Has that changed?”

Glenda’s blue eyes turned to hard, cold steel as she held out a single typed page. “Here’s a list of girls you can talk to. These are the only dancers cleared to do media interviews. The
only
ones. If you attempt to interview any others, I will rescind all access.”

No wonder Keisha had hated this bitch. “That’s not a problem,” Sage said. “But, Glenda, I guarantee you that—”

“You can call me Ms. Hewitt and I know what you’re about to say. You are doing a positive feature. And that’s wonderful.”

Sage opened her mouth to speak, but got the universal symbol for Halt in the form of one raised palm. “You will do it my way or not at all. That’s the way this operation works, and if you don’t believe me, you can ask any of the dancers.”

“Well,” Sage waved the paper, “I can ask nine of them.”

The desk phone beeped and Glenda rewarded Sage’s sarcasm with a smirk as she answered it.

Waiting, Sage skimmed the list of interview candidates. She recognized the names but didn’t know any of the women personally. There were a few different cliques within the Snow Bunnies; this list didn’t include any of Keisha’s closer friends, none of the dancers who’d been around last season.

When Glenda hung up, Sage raised the paper. “These are all rookies, Ms. Hewitt.”

“The season’s nearly over; they’ve been around. And the team is only two years old. No one is a veteran here.”

Sage nodded as twenty possible questions bounced around in her head and were quickly discarded. The kind of questions an investigative journalist was trained to ask, not what this woman would readily answer.

“So why did you and your husband leave the Suns?”

“We joined this organization for the opportunity to make a mark in the very competitive world of NBA dance teams.”

Sage picked up her pen and jotted down the well-rehearsed, and useless, quote. “And do you do all of the choreography?”

She nodded. “Of course.”

“And select the songs?” Somewhere, there might be a reader who cared. Maybe.

“The girls get some input on the song selections.”

“And how often do you practice?” Yeah, this would be one helluva piece of cutting-edge journalism.

“We practice almost every night that there isn’t a game.”

Sage knew that, and felt foolish for asking. “What makes the Snow Bunnies different from any other NBA dance squad?”

“Spirit, talent, warmth, and tremendous love for the city of Boston.”

More drivel. She couldn’t think of a single other meaningless question. Sage put her notebook on the table and purposely lowered her voice. “Did you know that some of your dancers like to pay for the privilege of being professionally kidnapped and rescued?”

Glenda met her stare, but said nothing.

“Are you aware of this, Ms. Hewitt?” Sage asked.

“Not only am I aware of it, I am, in fact, in charge of it.”

Sage dropped back in her chair, her mouth loose with surprise. “What do you mean?”

“The fantasy kidnapping is a key part of my bonding program, Ms. Valentine.” She stood like a professor about to give a lecture, crossing her arms. “The most important element of a dance team is not, as you may think, the talent of the dancers.”

“No?” Sage didn’t need to lift her notebook or pen. She was trained to memorize good quotes, and her reporter’s instinct was buzzing in anticipation that she might get one. “What is?”

“Unity.” Glenda smiled for the first time, but her eyes remained cold. “They dance better, they look better, they attract more attention, and they do their job of enthralling the men in the audience who buy tickets if they are a unified, well-oiled team, just like the basketball players.”

“And what does this have to do with fantasy kidnapping on a thrill site?”