Take Me Tonight (12 page)

She lifted the card that had the same sticky back as Keisha’s, riveted by the tiny printing on it.

Take the elevator to Level B.

What was this, a flipping scavenger hunt? She’d have ignored the order, except for the mode of delivery. This was precisely the type of card Keisha had written her suicide notes on.
That
message couldn’t be ignored.

She set off for the main entrance, remembering she’d used an ancient elevator once to cart a lot of books she’d needed for a story. She reached the main entrance quickly, glanced at the guard, and passed by the massive staircase, her attention on a little corridor to the left that peeled off to a narrow hallway. There, the brown and gold chipped paint of a very old Otis elevator awaited her.

She peeked around again for the man who’d promised he’d never have her out of his sight, but either he was exceedingly good at following undetected, or she’d lost him to the alluring smell of paninis coming from the Novel Café.

Half expecting the elevator to be out of order, she pressed the button and the rickety doors slid right open. She stepped inside the dimly lit car. When she hit the button for the basement level, the doors wobbled to a close.

Still no sign of Johnny.

“Paninis,” she whispered to herself. He was probably talking to the cooks right now to get the recipe. It took a minute until she realized the elevator wasn’t moving. She pressed B again. And again. Nothing.

Maybe there were stairs to the basement? She pressed Door Open, and the old trap rattled, then shook and started upward.

“Oh, come on,” she said, perspiring in the airless little car. “I don’t want to go up.” But the car continued, dinging and passing the second floor, then stopping at the third.

But the doors didn’t open. She pressed every button, each tap against the ancient plastic keys and their worn white numbers becoming a little more frantic. Nothing. No movement, no air, no sound.

She stepped away from the doors, wondering if the car was weight activated like some elevators. Probably not, since it was built in the nineteenth century. She hit every button twice, punched a nonworking emergency call with the heel of her hand, and grunted in frustration. Whoever had sent her there could be gone by the time she got out of this thing.

“Hey!” she hollered, hitting the doors. “I’m stuck!”

When no one answered, she jumped just in case the car did need to feel the weight of a person. A little, then harder. A
clunk
jerked the whole car, making it drop a foot so suddenly, she almost screamed and lost her balance. Then darkness descended.

“Oh!” This couldn’t be happening. The lights were out, the doors were stuck, and, as far as she could tell, she was between floors.

She pounded violently on the doors again, the darkness creeping her out and turning her light coat of perspiration into a hair-raising chill.

“Help!” she called again. “I’m stuck in the elevator!” Fueled by frustration and a growing fear, she slammed her hands against the call buttons so hard, she heard one pop off and hit the floor.

One more solid whack on the doors and the car thudded and groaned. Oh, God, was she going to free fall? Bracing herself against the wall, she held her breath and squeezed her eyes shut.

The groaning started again, but now she could see a sliver of light as the doors started to part. “Oh, thank God.” Slowly, they creaked open, revealing the solid wall of the cement elevator shaft in front of her and the flat opening of the floor about a foot over her head.

Could she hoist herself into that two-foot opening and escape? Or should she wait for someone to decide to use the elevator and help her? That could take hours.

Her appointment was probably long gone. Swearing at her luck, she backed up to figure out a way to climb to the opening. She jumped again and the car fell another foot, closing off the opening completely.

She gasped, thrown to the floor with the impact. Her stomach dipped, then flew up to her throat as the car fell again, with the doors still open. Her scream echoed in the tiny car, reverberating around the darkness.

With a thunk, the car stopped as suddenly as it had fallen, and this time the shaft opening was much easier to reach through the open doors. Trying to slow her galloping heart, she took a deep breath, wiped her palms on her pants, and stood on very shaky legs.

“Hold still, you bastard,” she whispered to the car, reaching to the platform of what must have been the second-floor corridor. On tiptoe, she stretched up, got a grip on the rubber strip along the floorboards above her and hoisted herself, using every ounce of upper-body strength she had.

With a solid grunt, she got herself partway through the opening. With one more mighty pull, she’d be out. She locked her arms just as the doors groaned in motion.

Not now. Not now! The car creaked, starting a noisy climb on its deadly cables. The doors slammed against her ribs, trapping her. And, unbelievably, the car kept going. Higher and higher. In ten seconds when the car reached the next floor she would be sliced in half.

She opened her mouth to scream, but terror froze every muscle.

“Sage!”

“Hurry!” she screamed.

With his own grunt of power, Johnny fell to the hall floor, stuck both hands between the doors, and flung them wide open, then yanked her from the car as it disappeared up into the shaft.

“Oh, my God,” she whimpered, dropping against him. “I can’t believe that. I can’t….” She pulled back. “How did you know where I was?”

His eyes were furious, his jaw clenched in anger. “I saw you get on the elevator. But it’s the only one in the building and…” He shook his head, perspiration on his upper lip, his whole body taut with anxiety. “Jesus, Sage.”

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know the damn thing was an accident waiting to happen.”

Behind her, the cursed elevator rumbled to a stop and the doors had the audacity to open. “Don’t even think about getting in there,” she said.

But Johnny’s attention was locked on the inside of the car. As the hair on the back of her neck rose, she turned to follow his gaze.

“That was no accident,” he whispered.

Stuck to the back wall was a chartreuse index card.

Stop or you’ll be next.

Chapter
Twelve

S
he was wet. Sticky. Sore.

Before Ashley opened her eyes, she felt the familiar ache of having ridden someone long and hard. Who had she fucked the night before?

She’d been kidnapped. Her eyes popped open and she pulled her hand up, rustling sheets and blinking into dim light. Who’d arranged this? Which of the Snow Bunnies had gotten her the mean guy who threw her into a freaking trunk and knocked her out? She swallowed, but could only taste the vile, bitter flavor of some serious drug.

And now where the hell was she? This wasn’t a hotel.

She gripped the edge of the bed—more like a cot with rough, cheap linens—and tried to make something out in the darkened room. There was no window, no dresser, nothing but another flimsy cot, an empty bookshelf, and a door. Where was she?

“Hello?” she called out. Who’d rescued her last night? She couldn’t remember. She sat up, a sharp, stabbing pain in her abdomen. Sucking in another breath, she pressed on her stomach. What was she wearing? Something white, blue, baggy. A man’s T-shirt? Pajamas?

Where were the sleep pants she’d been in? She closed her eyes and tried to remember the kidnapping. It hadn’t been like the others. For one thing, it had been a total and complete surprise. No one had even hinted that they’d signed her up. But that happened. Not a lot, but it happened.

And who had rescued her? She couldn’t remember. Had they smoked weed, like that one time with Samir? That stuff had been laced with something, but at least she remembered the sex. But this time…

“Hey!” she called again. “I wanna go home now.”

The rescuers never took the girls to their own homes. They always went somewhere cool—a hotel, an apartment set up for wild sex—it all depended on how much cash someone was willing to slide across the Internet.

She plucked at the Motel 6–quality sheets on the metal cot. Whoever had set this one up was a cheap shit.

The little cot creaked as she got up and took small steps toward the door. God, her pussy hurt. How could she have forgotten something like this? Was she really as stupid as Glenda had said? As everyone had always said?

Use your face, Ash,
her father would say.
’Cause there isn’t much else worthwhile in that empty head.
She hated when that bastard was right.

She put her hand on the doorknob, fear wrapping around her stomach as she imagined being locked in the windowless cell. But the knob turned easily and she opened the door to a hallway, as dark and creepy and windowless as the room she was in. Her bare feet touched cold linoleum and she smelled something vinegary, or pungent like bleach.

“Is anyone here?” she called again. “Samir?”

The hall ended with two matching doors facing each other. She turned the cool, silver knob on the one on the left, but it was locked.

“All right, kiddies, let’s see what’s behind door number three.” The knob turned easily, but the door was hard to open. Metal and thick, it moved like a vacuum was holding it closed.

She’d pushed the institutional-style door about eight inches when it jammed. Swearing, she eased her head into the opening to see into the room. “Is anybody—”

From the other side, someone shoved the door back at her, pinning her head between the solid steel and the door frame.

“Ohhh!” Her cry of pain caught in her throat as white pinpricks of agony blinded her momentarily. She jerked the door with both hands, trying to free her head, but someone just crushed the vise harder, smashing her skull.

She grunted, pushing harder with every ounce of strength, tears of pain blurring her vision, her heart thumping so hard against her chest, she couldn’t breathe.

“You’re supposed to be asleep, Ashley.”

From a million miles away, she heard the voice. The same voice from last night. The man who had kidnapped her.

“Stop!” she managed to say, using her knee to try to push the door open and free herself from the pain. “Please.”

“You shouldn’t have come in here.”

In where? She felt the metal denting her head, crushing her skull, but she somehow got her head deeper into the doorway, peering through her tears into the room.

She slammed her hip and shoulder against the door, twisting her neck and hearing something snap. It gave enough for her to yank her bruised and battered head free and she almost collapsed with relief.

The door swung open and a man loomed over her, a silhouette against a dim light. “You shouldn’t have done that, Ashley.”

“Please!” she begged in a strangled sob. “You could have killed me!”

“As a matter of fact, I’m about to.” He grabbed her by the hair and yanked her into the room, into the light.

She squeezed her eyes open and closed, trying to breathe, trying to survive. But someone grabbed her from behind and the rough terry of a washcloth slammed over her mouth. The acidic, nasty smell and taste burned her lips and nose.

Her knees buckled, her head fell back, and she saw what was on the wall.

She had one last thought.

The girls. They were all going to die. Every one of them.

“I can’t stop.”

Sage made the pronouncement as she walked into the living room, the morning light spilling over Johnny’s bare torso, the blanket she’d given him for a makeshift bed long ago fallen to the floor. She took a minute to drink in the way he looked, half undressed and so achingly masculine, her mouth actually watered at the sight of him. It had been so tempting to drag that gorgeous flesh into her bed last night.

She could have used the comfort after the episode in the library, but she settled for letting him feed her stomach. She’d crashed shortly after dinner, exhausted and scared from her brush with death.

But this morning she woke as determined as ever, marching into the living room with the telltale index card in her hand.

He lifted his head, his clear eyes telling her he hadn’t been sleeping, either. “You can’t stop what?”

She waved the card at him. “I know this is a warning, but that’s like a billboard that says
DON
’
T STOP NOW
.”

With a smile as sexy as his chiseled, smooth chest, he scooted up on the sofa. “So where do you want to search for truth today, baby?”

She’d expected a fight, a warning to stay home and be a good girl.

“You’re all right, you know that?” she said, pointing the card at him. “I shall reward that thinking with coffee.”

She turned and headed to the kitchen.

“I’ve been trying to think of ways to verify what Glenda told me about Keisha having an abortion,” she said as she turned on the water. “There has to be a way to find that out.”

“I might be able to.”

She startled at the sound of him in the kitchen doorway, not expecting him there. He filled up the whole thing, all bare chested and sleepy eyed and delicious. “You’re very kind, but I don’t think you can just pick up the phone and call the local abortion clinic and—oh!” She snapped her fingers and pointed at him. “Alonzo! He could tell me. He might have access to that information.”

“The doctor?”

“Yes. He was head of obstetrics at Mass General; he’d have access to every database they have.” She reached for the cordless phone, but he grasped her wrist before she’d lifted the receiver.

“You don’t have to involve him, Sage. Really, I might be able to help.”

“I doubt that, but you’re…” His expression was a strange mixture of concern and determination. “Oh,” she said, as realization dawned. “You don’t want me to call him because of that job at the Ritz. Then you’ll have to follow up.”

He forced a smile. “That’s right. And, really, I might be able to pull a few strings and get some information. Just leave him out of it, okay?”

“Oh, my God. Am I…” She scrutinized his expression of disdain. “Am I reading the vibe right here? Are you jealous of him?”

His eyes flashed. “Yeah, you sure are reading the vibe. The guy has the hots for you.”

“Are you serious?” She snapped the top off the coffee can. “You, of all people, could be jealous?”

“What if I am?” he said, cocking his head to the side. “I told you, I like you.”

“If you do,” she said slowly, ignoring the insane little thrill that his statement sent through her, “then you’ll consider a new job.”

He jutted his chin toward her phone. “Fine. Call your friend. We’ll take it from there.” He disappeared into the hall without even waiting for a cup of coffee.

Johnny wasn’t ready to abandon his theory that Alonzo Garron was the secret patron paying for Bullet Catcher protection of Sage Valentine. He knew what Lucy had said, but it made perfect sense. Including the fact that the doctor dropped whatever appointments he had in order to have lunch with Sage at the Ritz-Carlton in Back Bay. Making it ever so convenient for Johnny to have an impromptu interview with Hendrick Kane in the kitchen of the Ritz Café.

Part of him didn’t want to leave Sage for one minute—especially when the client, if he was, would take note that the Bullet Catcher hadn’t done what he was being paid to do. But since Garron had arranged the kitchen interview, Johnny assumed he wanted to see Sage alone.

“I’ll wait for him,” Sage said when they arrived at the restaurant. “You don’t want to be late. Go, please.”

“All right,” he agreed. “And what if I get the job?”

She reached up and touched his lip with her fingertip. “Then you can be my boyfriend.”

He closed his hand over her finger and kissed it. “Now that’s incentive.” Not that he’d get the job or take it, but he was playing Garron’s game.

In the hotel lobby, he stopped just long enough to call Lucy for information. He wasn’t sure how he’d tell Sage he got it; let her think he was Superman.

“I need to know if Keisha Kingston had an abortion,” he told Lucy after they’d exchanged greetings.

“We’ll find out,” she assured him. Lucy Sharpe’s network of contacts and information was legendary and one of the reasons why the Bullet Catchers were the best security firm in the business. “Anything else?”

“Yep, easy one. An address for Ashley McCafferty.”

“Hold on. I’ll turn you over to Nancy.”

He settled on a wingback chair in the lobby facing the entrance. He didn’t mind waiting. The longer he could put off his “interview” with Hendrick Kane, the better.

Just as Lucy’s assistant clicked on the line, a red Mercedes pulled up to the valet and Garron climbed out, a cell phone pressed to his ear. Johnny dropped back into the wings of the chair, not wanting to talk to the guy he suspected was footing Sage’s Bullet Catcher bill.

“Ashley McCafferty lives on Beacon Street in Brookline,” Lucy’s assistant announced.

“Hang on a sec,” Johnny said, turning his head to the side and covering his face with the phone while he listened to Garron’s end of a cell phone conversation as he walked by.

“I’m sorry, honey,” the doctor said in a hushed whisper. “I did want to see you, but this meeting came up unexpectedly and I’ve been wanting to get together with this drug rep for a long time.”

Honey
? A drug rep?

“One more thing,” Johnny said after the doctor was out of earshot. “Can you check on the marital status of Dr. Alonzo Garron of Boston, former head of obstetrics at Massachusetts General Hospital?”

“Sure. McCafferty lives at 1876 Beacon Street, apartment 520. Hold on another minute for the Garron info.” In the background, fingers tapped a keyboard as Nancy accessed the unparalleled Bullet Catcher database.

Would Lucy have agreed to provide service to a guy who was watching a woman just because he wanted to get her in the sack, and he was already—

“Married,” Nancy said. “To Alicia Garron, age thirty-three, second wife. No children. Anything else?”

“Nope. That’s it, sweetheart. Thanks.”

He could tell Sage where Ashley lived, he could probably even tell her whether or not her roommate had had an abortion, and he could undoubtedly think of some clever way to explain away all that knowledge. But he knew better than to tell her that her friend Alonzo was married and trying to get in her pants. She would just tell him he was jealous.

And son of a bitch. He was.

“Are you looking for someone in particular out there?”

Sage turned from the wide open view of Newberry Street to see the gleam in Alonzo Garron’s eyes as he leaned over the table.

“Just people-watching,” she said, matching his smile and standing to accept his friendly embrace and a Euro air kiss on both cheeks. “Nothing like spring in Back Bay.”

He waited for her to sit back down before pulling out his chair and taking a cursory glance out the curved window that faced the restaurant. “It’s still cold. We’ll have our one day of spring sometime at the end of the month, then we’ll be sticky until September. I like to spend the summer at our home in Marblehead Neck.”

“On the water?”

“Directly. I’ll have to have you up sometime. It’s an extraordinary place.”

“I’d like that.” She wasn’t here to make light social plans, but some small talk was necessary. “How’s the practice going?”

He nodded, giving his napkin a fluff so that it floated onto his lap in one easy move. “I have found Nirvana, my friend.”

“Weren’t you in private practice years ago, before you ran the department at the hospital?”

He waved his hand as though it didn’t count. “I delivered babies and took Pap smears and doled out birth control pills and tied the occasional tube.”

She laughed a little. “And now, no babies, no Pap smears, no pills or tubes?”

“Different tubes,” he said. “Test tubes.”

The waiter delivered two menus and she opened hers. “Infertility treatment?” she guessed.

He lifted salt-and-pepper eyebrows, wrinkling his dome in a way that only a handsome bald man can pull off. “I hate to be crass, but there’s a lot of money to be made from rich forty-somethings who forgot to have children.”

She nodded, a little black hole of guilt burning in her gut. Here he was making dreams come true for women who couldn’t have children, and she was about to ask him to do something he might consider—he
should
consider—highly unethical.