Take Me Tonight (11 page)

He slipped closer, heat and sex emanating from his body. “Then don’t think.”

With remarkably steady hands, she set the bag down and gripped the countertop. This was crazy. She couldn’t just get down and dirty and have sex with this paid gigolo—a man who wouldn’t even talk about his family.

Could she?

“You’re thinking again, princess.”

“I want to know about your nona.”

His eyebrow flicked a little upward. His wide shoulders dropped ever so slightly, as if he’d secretly exhaled in resignation. With just as steady a hand, he laid the pastry on the counter.

Hope wrapped stupidly around her heart. Maybe she’d be the one. The one
babe
or
angel
or
sweetheart
he would confide in. Hating the fact that the very thought thrilled her, and
really
hating how much she wanted him to, she tightened her grip on the counter and waited for whatever personal revelation he would share.

She’d take anything. Any little thing would assuage her guilt for being so turned on, so hungry, so willing to take this further.

With maddening deliberation, he dipped two fingers into the bowl, scooping up a dollop of creamy filling. With his other hand, he lifted the bottom of her tank top right over her bare breasts.

He slathered the cream over her nipple, making her gasp.

“The first one was for your mouth, angel.” He closed his eyes and lowered his head. “And this one’s for the rest of you.”

As much as she liked her cozy fifth-floor apartment, Ashley had really picked the building for its roof. There were prettier places in Brookline, quaint Victorians in the hills and hip brownstones tucked into tree-lined streets. But Ashley had chosen to live in a fifteen-story square box filled with little old ladies and wannabe yuppies because of the glorious roof that looked out over Boston’s innermost suburb.

Up here, usually alone, she could escape. It was as close to flying as possible. She loved it most in the dead of night when she couldn’t sleep. Something that now happened with way too much frequency.

Taking a few steps to the metal railing that lined the rooftop, she reached down to brush off some gravel that dug into the dancer’s calluses on her bare feet. Just bending over made her head hurt. She swore softly as she sidled up to the rail and leaned over to soak up her favorite view—the gray stones of the hundred-year-old cathedral next door, surrounded by ancient willows and lush green grass.

A light flickered through the church’s huge rose window, sparking the deep blues and reds of the stained glass. Was somebody in there at this hour, praying? What were they praying for? Were they in worse shape than she was?

She touched her swollen jaw and closed her eyes, inhaling a whiff of cabbage or onions or whatever some insomniac old lady was cooking that wafted through the roof fans.

That bastard had ruined the season for her. She knew she’d never get Victoria to go along with the kidnapping, but she hadn’t expected to take the rap for it. Especially after that bitch Victoria had hissed in Ashley’s face and stomped off like freakin’ royalty. She stared at the window, at the tiny light, feeling something…achy in her heart. She wanted to go in there. She wanted to walk down the cool slate aisle and slide into a pew and pray for a way out of the mess she’d gotten into.

The light flared, as if another had been lit behind the stained glass. Who had told her that the round stained-glass window was called a rosette? Oh, it was Keisha. She’d learned that in an art-history class at Boston College.

Keisha must have felt the same kind of hollowness. Other girls had said that, after the whole kidnapping experience. They felt empty and used, and couldn’t explain why. She’d never felt that way. She got a kick out of it and, if she was lucky, some hot sex. Why did that make other girls feel empty?

She jerked around at a noise across the roof—not the clunk of a heating duct or the echo of someone using the noisy trash chute. She squinted into the shadows, seeing nothing but the outlines of a few grills, some chairs, the little structure that covered electrical equipment. Behind that was the door to the stairwell, but she couldn’t see it from where she stood.

She listened again, hoping some other sleepless fool wasn’t coming up there for a cigarette or to contemplate the universe. She didn’t want to talk to anyone.

But everything was quiet again.

Letting out a breath, she leaned farther and stared at the cement below. She could jump. It wouldn’t really be so hard. She’d be dead in an instant, and then she’d be done.

Is that what went through Keisha’s mind? Like when you have that crazy moment driving down a two-lane street, that if you just jerk your wheel to the left,
wham
! Into that big truck and it’s all over.

If she were splattered on the concrete below, no one would see that she’d had her face bashed for her stupidity. They’d remember her as a cute dancer, a girl who had tried hard and almost made it. Not too bright, that Ashley McCafferty, but cute as a button.

At another sound, she glanced over her shoulder. Was that the stairwell door? Automatically, she lifted her hands to cover the bruises. How would she explain this to Mrs. Rosengarten? And, God, how could she stand the sympathy of pregnant, gorgeous Hallie Clifton? They were both members of the rooftop insomniacs club.

She slid farther down the edge. If she walked all the way around the perimeter, she could avoid whoever it was and slip back down the stairwell. She’d need to hide in her apartment for days. Stepping gingerly, she saw someone move in the shadows. Too big to be Hallie, too quiet to be Rosengarten.

She heard something scuff, then the soft clearing of a throat.

Someone was definitely out there.

She reached the corner that the three guys who lived in 901 had turned into a makeshift cigar bar, the pungent smell of their old butts almost as bad as the cabbage. She stepped on something squishy and let out a little gasp, imagining a dead mouse, but only a half-smoked stogie stuck to her bare feet.

“Assholes,” she muttered, brushing it off.

“Ashley?”

She stood straight and stared in the direction of the voice. A man’s voice. And not Vick French, that wannabe screenwriter who lived on the fourteenth floor and came up here to clear his writer’s block.

Whoever it was, she didn’t want to face him. Didn’t want to talk to anyone and explain that she had walked into a wall or fell off a cheerleading pyramid or whatever. She tiptoed in the shadows, the door in sight now.

“Ashley. I know you’re here.”

She froze as the first stirring of dread numbed her fingertips. But that was ridiculous. She knew every person in the building, especially the ones who didn’t sleep well. She just had to say hello and good night and then go to bed. “Who’s there?”

Nothing. No breathing, no sound.

“Did someone call me?” she asked again, hearing an unnatural tightness in her voice.

Nothing. Was it the wind? The air duct? Her imagination? She picked up her pace across the rooftop. Screw hiding. Whoever it was didn’t matter in her life.

“It’s your turn, Ashley.”

She froze, fear suddenly kicking in her belly. “Who’s there?” she demanded.

Nothing. “Where are you?” she asked again, pivoting on her bare foot.

Not a sound. Swearing under her breath, she headed toward the stairwell door. Somebody was screwing with her, or maybe her imagination had gone haywire, or maybe it was Vick French acting out one of his mystery plots.

Half expecting someone to jump out of the shadows, she reached the metal door, turned the knob, and whipped it open. A blast of warm air hit her and she stepped inside.

She must have imagined it. She headed down one flight and turned the corner for the next.

Then she heard the door upstairs. Someone had come into the stairwell behind her.

She started to run. She had to get all the way to the fifth floor. Ten stories. It didn’t matter who it was or what he wanted, terror propelled her home and blood raged in her ears.

She rounded the thirteenth floor, grabbed the chipped yellow railing, and literally pushed herself, but one leg of her long sleep pants folded under her bare foot and she stumbled. Only her grip on the railing kept her from going face-first into gritty concrete.

Behind her, above her, she heard footsteps, as fast as hers. Making no effort to be quiet.

“Why are you running?” he called, the weird, low voice echoing through the darkened stairwell. “It’s your turn.”

For what? Her turn for fucking
what
? She didn’t want to stop and ask.

A wave of déjà vu swamped her as she spun past the doorway to the eleventh floor. She’d felt this way before…sort of.

When she’d been kidnapped the first time. The searing terror, the lump in her throat, the wild, insane thump of her heart. But that was supposed to be a rush—like a roller coaster. You knew it was safe. You knew you wouldn’t die. It was the dangerous, scary, edge of
fun
. This wasn’t.

She scrambled faster, the ninth and eighth floors a blur. Thank God she was an athlete; she might not be able to remember every dance step as well as she should, but she was fast as lightning.

“Ashley!”

God almighty, he was closer. No more than one flight of stairs behind her now. “Go the fuck away!” she screamed, her voice sounding shrill. Should she just jam on into the seventh floor and scream in the hall? Of course. Of
course
. Why was she trying to—

A hand clamped so hard over her mouth and jerked her head backward, she was blinded for a minute. His other arm wrapped like a vise around her waist, pulling her into a hard, muscular, big body.

“This is the thrill, Ashley.” His voice was a menacing whisper in her ear. “This is the ride. Do you like it?”

She groaned into his hand, shook her head, and tried to elbow him.

“You can fight. That’s okay.”

Had someone signed her up again? It had never been like this. It was always sort of gentle, sort of playful. Like a kidnapping in an old romance novel when the heroine was in a coach riding toward the castle. This was like a horror movie in a dark stairwell.

She flailed again, but he yanked her head, her poor, bruised head, and she heard tendons in her neck crack. Trying to turn, she managed to see that he wore a black ski mask, like they all did.

Why was he being so mean and rough? She’d been through this five or six times. It had never hurt.

“Let’s go.” He kicked her forward, buckling her knees and making her sink into him.

She shook her head violently and tried to bite his hand but her teeth sunk into bitter, wet leather. He managed to drag her down the next flight of stairs. Six. Where was he taking her?

She tried to scream, fight, kick and thrash, but he was so strong. His chest felt massive, his arms like a bodybuilder’s. All she was doing was blasting out her vocal cords and making herself exhausted.

They passed five. Her floor. He pushed her down, she stumbled, but he held firm, lifting her like she was nothing. They passed three, two, the lobby, and with one fierce kick he opened the security door to the garage.

Ashley thrust against his arm and hand, her head nearly bursting with the effort. But it was like fighting granite and steel. None of the kidnappers had ever been vicious or scary. None had ever hurt her.

He dragged her to a dark blue car and kicked the back, and the trunk silently rose. He was putting her in
there
?

Think, Ashley. Think.

But she couldn’t think. She couldn’t see the make of the car or a license plate or his face or anything as he flipped her on her side and threw her into the trunk, something hard and metal jabbing her hip. Instantly, she opened her mouth to scream and thrust her hand up to tear off his mask.

He swatted her arm away and slammed something cold and wet and stinky over her mouth and nose. She gasped in horror, tasting bitter, disgusting liquid as pain stung her nose and exploded in her head.

“It’s your turn, Ashley.”

The trunk slammed and everything was over.

Chapter
Eleven

T
he first whiff of coffee floated into the living room like a siren call to Johnny. He’d heard Sage moving about, listened to the pipes clunk during her shower and the water run while she puttered in the kitchen, but he remained on the living room sofa, where he’d slept. Well, where he’d spent the night nursing a hard-on and guarding the front door against anyone coming in or out.

He needed coffee almost as much as he needed to go to the bathroom.

He took care of that first, noticing that Sage’s door was closed, but the hall bathroom was open, the black-and-white tile floor still warm and damp from her shower. A few minutes later, he found her in the kitchen, at her computer.

“How’d you sleep, buttercup?”

Over her shoulder, she tried for a disinterested look, but it turned into a slow pass over his bare chest. “ ‘Buttercup’? Are you serious?”

“A term of endearment.” He opened the cabinet where he remembered seeing coffee mugs and pulled one down.

“A placeholder.”

Okay, she was still mad. Not at him, per se, but at
this.
She hadn’t been angry when he’d initiated sex on the kitchen counter, but he hadn’t gotten past the first cream-filled lick when she’d called a halt to the action and disappeared behind closed doors. So, not mad. Scared. Frustrated. Confused. And judging by that full-body inspection, maybe still a little hot and bothered.

“I’ll call you Sage, if you prefer.” He took a sip of strong black coffee, leaning against the counter where they’d nearly done the deed the night before.

She kept her attention riveted on the screen, reading what appeared to be a list of e-mails. “I’d prefer that you…”

Here it comes:
I’d prefer that you disappear.

“Tell me the truth.” She faced him. “Is that so hard to do?”

Could be impossible. “The truth about what?”

“You.”

He grinned over the cup rim. “I’m so dull it hurts, honey.”

“Don’t
do
that.”

“Sorry. I’m so dull it hurts,
Sage.
”

She shook her head. “Not that. Call me monkeyface if you want, but don’t be so evasive.”

“Monkeyface—that’s cute. I’ll add that to the repetoire.”

“I’m serious, Johnny. Why are you so secretive? What are you hiding from me?”

He sucked so bad at undercover work. “I’m not—”

“I know who you are, what you are.” She leaned back in the kitchen chair, a pained expression in her eyes.

“You do.” He said it as a statement, sipping coffee and resisting the urge to see exactly what was on that computer screen. Just how good an investigative reporter was she?

“Yes. And we both know that how you make a living is distasteful to me.”

It said so much about her, that she used that word. “Uh-huh.”

“But what happened last night…I was ready….”

“Me, too.” He took half a step forward, but she pinned him with a look.

“I didn’t want to say no.”

“But you don’t want to sleep with a guy who does it for a living.” He shrugged. “I can’t blame you, ba—Sage. It’s okay. We can be friends.” Exactly what the client wanted, no doubt. “Don’t sweat it.”

A little smile lifted the corners of her mouth. “As a matter of fact, I sweat it all night,” she admitted, pushing herself out of the chair and walking toward him. “I just about soaked my sheets in sweat.”

The image of her writhing around, naked and fantasizing about him, shot way too much juice to the erection he’d finally gotten under control. “Well, that’s—”

“Did you sweat?” she demanded.

A lone drop of coffee hit the burner with a hiss, but he didn’t speak. Her attention drifted over him again, lingering below the belt as though she could merely eyeball him into a hard-on. Which, come on, she could.

“Then there’s a simple solution,” she said when he didn’t answer, pushing a lock of hair over her shoulder like she was clearing the way to take what she wanted.

“I don’t get it, Sage. What happened to
distasteful
?”

She stepped closer. “I find your
work
distasteful. Not you.”

“Thanks. Ditto.” He held up his coffee mug, as if that could hold off a woman who’d spent the night sweating over him. “But you’re right, we should keep this platonic.”

Was that disappointment that darkened her eyes? “We don’t have to.”

He lifted one shoulder. “It ain’t gonna change my history, baby.” A history that went way past
distasteful
.

“I don’t want to change history,” she insisted. “I just want to know it.”

He rubbed the stubble of last night’s beard growth. “What do you want to know? How many? How often? How come?”

Something flickered in her eyes. “I want to know about your sister.”

No way. He’d never told anyone, and he never would. The truth was hidden in a little frame house on the shores of Lake Como, and there the truth would stay, safe and sound. He’d never tell anyone, never take that risk. “What’s so important about my sister?”

“I mean, I want to know something personal. Something revealing and private. Something you don’t tell other wom—clients. That’s what I want.”

“Chicks.” He grinned. “You always want that personal stuff.”

She moved closer, undeterred. “This chick wants a connection, yes.”

“And if you don’t get one?”

She shrugged. “I don’t sleep with someone just because they’re hot and available. Call me old-fashioned, but I just need more than physical attraction.”

So as long as he held out on the personal goods, he could probably get through this assignment without screwing the principal, infuriating the client, and blowing his cover.

He took a long gulp of coffee and finished it, moving away from her to put his mug in the sink. “Well, I don’t have any issues with hot and available. I guess we’re just different, then.”

“I’ll start,” she said. “Then you’ll see how easy it can be.”

She leaned against the counter and took a little breath like she’d been practicing a speech and was about to deliver it.

“Here’s something personal,” she said. “The last time I talked to my father, he thought I was my mother. He called me Lydia, and I cried all the way home from Vermont.”

His heart twisted. “I’m sorry, Sage.”

“Me, too. Your turn.”

He choked a laugh. Where would he start?
About my sister…
“I gotta think about it. And anyway, I need to know the rules here. Like, what happens? I tell you my childhood secret and you jump my bones?”

She grinned. “If the secret’s good enough.” Behind her, the computer beeped.

“Saved by the bell,” he joked. “Better see who’s dinging you, doll.”

Her look told him he was not off the hook, but she checked the screen to see who’d sent her an instant message. “Oh,” she said softly, magnetically drawn to the computer.

Behind her, he read the words on the screen, sent from yellowbird1.
R U still looking for info about KK?

“KK,” she whispered. “Keisha Kingston.” She dropped into the chair and instantly typed back,
Yes. Who are you?

A friend. I can help u.

She glanced at Johnny, her eyes bright. Then she typed,
Who are you?
again.

Mt me today?
was the response.

“Not until you know who it is,” he said, putting a hand on her shoulder and reading the exchange.

She ignored the comment and typed
when and where?
into her response box.

No wonder Lucy had sent a bodyguard for her.

BPL. Courtyard. 9:00 AM.

“What’s BPL?” he asked.

“Boston Public Library.” She thought for a minute before typing,
Who do I look for?

You’ll know. Mt me at fountain. 9 sharp.

“That’s in forty minutes,” she said, then typed,
OK.

But her two-letter response was met with a message that yellowbird1 had signed off. She stared at the screen for a minute, then stood, grabbed her handbag, and started to the living room.

He had her by the elbow before she made it halfway across the room. “You can let me sit next to you or behind you, but either way, I’m gonna follow you.”

She wrested her arm from his grip. “Then hurry up and get dressed.”

He scooped his T-shirt from the back of a chair and pulled it on, watching her mildly amused expression when he checked the clip on his weapon, racked the slide, and stuffed it into the back of his waistband. “Now I’m dressed,” he told her.

“And to think I go to most interviews armed only with my pad and pen.”

“That’s why you need me,” he said, slipping into his jacket to cover the Glock.

“Where was the gun the night I met you?” she asked as she turned and let him help her into her jacket. “When I undressed you?”

“On my ankle, and you never really got my pants off.”

She opened the door and turned to face him. “Tell me a secret and I will.”

“Here’s one.” He dipped his head and brushed her lips as he spoke. “I sweated all night, too.” He flicked her lip with his tongue, then deepened the contact to a full, hungry kiss that tasted like coffee and toothpaste and shot lead into his cock.

After a good ten seconds of tongue war, she pulled away. “You want more of that?” she asked.

He stayed close to her face, his breath already too tight, his blood already too hot. “For a good reporter, you ask a lot of dumb questions.”

She inched back. “Then tell me something personal, Johnny. Confess some secret that you never, ever told any other
babe
or
sweetheart
you took to bed. Just one thing.” She touched her lips to his, teasing, breathing. “Come on. Spill something on me.”

“Okay.” He closed his eyes so he didn’t have to see her face when he wrecked her little game of foreplay. “My sister’s dead.”

He jogged down the steps to the street without waiting for her reaction. Hey, she asked for it.

Copley Square was packed with commuters and students, tourists, and the usual aggressive panhandlers. Navigating their way from the T station to the Dartmouth Street entrance of the library, Sage held Johnny’s hand; her heart still hurt a little from his confession.

My sister’s dead.

And she’d been such a smart-ass last night, demanding to know his sister’s name and if he was close to her. If he’d dropped that little bomb to shut her up, he’d hit his target. Neither of them had said much on the train ride over, but they had kept their hands entwined.

“If you had to make one guess who yellowbird1 is, who would it be?” he asked as they approached the stone steps flanked by massive marble and iron sculptures.

“One of the girls. Probably Vivian.” At the ornate, arched doorways, Sage paused. “You have your license for that hardware you’re carrying? ’Cause there’s a metal detector. Otherwise, you’ll have to wait here for me or give it up.”

He opened the door. “I have it.”

“Massachusetts?”

“Yep.”

“Good, you show it to the guard and talk guns for a while. I’m going to the courtyard.”

“Not alone, you’re not.”

She released a breath of pure exasperation. “Johnny, whoever wants to meet me wants to meet me alone.”

“Precisely.”

“I can’t interview someone with you breathing down my back, brandishing your firearm.”

He bit back a laugh. “I’m not brandishing anything. Listen. I’ll stay nearby, but not with you. Whoever you’re meeting won’t have any idea I’m watching. Don’t leave my sight, and I’ll stay completely in the background.” He punctuated that by placing his hands on her shoulders. “I promise I know how to do this.”

Something about his confidence in the situation struck a chord. “Okay. But don’t interrupt me for any reason. Sometimes it takes a few minutes to get a source to loosen up and talk. She might want to go somewhere else. No questions, okay?”

“Okay.”

When they reached the security guard, he spoke privately to the older man, showing him something Sage assumed was his carry license. While he did, Sage studied the glorious staircase that led up to the main reading room.

Who was she about to meet and what would that person tell her? It wasn’t the first time she’d gone off to meet an anonymous source in an unusual location; that went with her job. But this story was personal, and that made her clench her fists in the pockets of her jeans jacket and send a little buzz of anxiety through her.

“Let’s go, sweetheart.” Johnny’s touch on her arm sent a little buzz of something through her, too.

“You stay back. Far back. The courtyard is down there, to the right.” She started to walk away and he reached for her.

“Whoa. Wait a second. If we get separated, we need a plan.”

This was getting way too cloak-and-dagger for her. “Here’s the plan.” She pulled out her cell phone. “Call me.” She recited her number, turned, and left him.

In the courtyard, she zeroed in on the fountain in the middle, but not a single face among the morning readers and coffee drinkers looked familiar. She glanced at the wrought-iron tables scattered around the patio and behind columns that lined the perimeter of the bricks. She walked from one side to the other, but no one said anything or showed any interest in her.

She turned around and didn’t even see Johnny.

You’ll know. Mt me at fountain. 9 sharp.
She glanced at her watch: 9:02.

You’ll know.
Who would she know?

A man working on a laptop glanced up at her, then back at his screen. A woman feeding a baby in a carriage gave her a meaningless smile. An older couple sat side by side on the stone ledge surrounding the fountain, sipping coffee and eating pastries.

Everything was quiet but for a child’s laughter from one of the tables in the back, and the gurgling fountain spray.

Sage started to circle the fountain. Past a few college students in a cluster and a woman reading a paperback. Then, on the last side of the fountain, she saw it.

A neon-green index card, faceup. Her heartbeat ratcheted up as she took a step closer, instinctively glancing over her shoulder to see who watched her. No one. Not even the man who’d promised he would. Where was he?