Take Me Tonight (15 page)

No matter how many times she tried to tell herself that she’d misunderstood Keisha’s message the night she died, another voice—Gammy’s?—said,
Girl, you are lyin’ to yourself and that’s the worst form of deception.

God, she’d been lying for so long, she couldn’t remember what the truth was anymore.

Maybe Keisha really had come home from her appointment, juiced up, and exploded her generous heart out of insecurity or stupidity.

Or maybe not. Which was why David the Goliath was supposed to be downstairs with a big honkin’ gun to take down anyone who figured out what Vivian knew.

She opened her bedroom door, the squeak echoing across the tiny hall to the second bedroom, which she used as an office. The bathroom between the two rooms was dark and empty. She looked down the steps to the landing. Maybe he was asleep. She wouldn’t be able to see him until she got halfway down.

“David?” she called. “Are you there?”

She jumped at the sound of Taz hitting the floor with a soft meow, then took a few steps farther. She would have heard the alarm if he’d left the house, or if anyone had come in. It was never disarmed. Ever.

“David?”

Nothing. She stared at the steps. Should she go down there and look for him? In the kitchen? Watching TV? Grounds for dismissal, but still, a girl could hope.

Then she remembered her little pistol. She hadn’t thought about using it, because he’d been there. Turning, she stepped over Taz and found the tiny gun in her underwear drawer. Following everything she’d learned when she bought it, she clicked the safety, cocked it. Lord, that sound echoed through the house—wouldn’t a bodyguard worth his salt come barreling up the stairs at the sound of a pistol being cocked?

She pointed it at an angle toward the ground, like she learned in the firearms safety class, her arms trembling. At the landing she stopped, surveying the entryway, the formal living room to her right, the dining room, and the cozy den beyond. There wasn’t much more to the house. Around the corner to the back was the kitchen, with a tiny sunroom where she nursed flowers back to health and kept her exercise equipment. Maybe he was there. She let him use her weights and elliptical machine.

“David!” she called, her voice sharp with frustration, but made stronger by the confidence of having a gun.

The kitchen was empty, cold. As was the sunroom, although it caught a little of the eastern morning sky and beamed a yellow band of light right across the faces of her New England Blizzard Snow Bunnies poster above the weight bench. Where was he?

At the kitchen door, she moved the blinds she’d recently installed. The garage was a separate, small building, about forty steps over a gravel driveway from her kitchen door. Forty long steps with heavy groceries or a couple of inches of snow. Now, the single, windowless door was closed tight to protect her little yellow VW punchbuggy.

The bodyguard drove a small SUV, always parked to one side of the gravel drive since he’d started the job. She stared at the empty driveway.

The bastard had bolted.

She glanced at the alarm pad.
READY TO ARM
. He’d disarmed the alarm! Some freaking bodyguard. Angry, she set the gun down and yanked the cordless phone from the charger on the counter, stabbing in the number for Wentworth Securities. For God’s sake, David was a partner in the company that provided security for the Blizzard.

She slammed the phone on the counter on the tenth ring, turning to see Taz staring hungrily at her.

“Come on, little sister, let’s get you some food.”

She popped open a can of cat food, and simply dropped it on the floor when she remembered that the bodyguard had kept his duffle bag and phone charger in the den.

She hustled in there but he’d cleaned out, without even getting paid for the last week. Probably got a better job, a better client. Why else would he just
leave
?

The sound of a car pulled her attention to the window. Through the sheer curtains she saw a dark van drive by at about ten miles per hour. It wasn’t the lack of speed that bothered her—no one drove fast on the cul-de-sac. It was the familiarity of the vehicle.

Oh, God. Her gut tightened as the van turned around at the end of the road and headed back up the street. Less than a minute later, it cruised by again, dark windows, rusted paint, a fender that could fall off at any moment.

Flying up the stairs, she dived into sweatpants, stuck her feet in Adidas flip-flops, grabbed her handbag, and raced back downstairs. She paused just long enough to peek through one of the three rectangular windows in the front door. No sign of the van. She had a minute. Maybe. In the kitchen, she scooped up Taz midbite and charged for the door.

“Shit,” she mumbled, shaking. “The gun.” She grabbed the little pistol from the table, flung open the door, and ran to the garage. She swore again as she nearly dropped the cat when her handbag slid down to her elbow with a
thud.
Somehow, she managed to reach down and twist the handle of the garage door with the hand that held the pistol. Why hadn’t she ever installed an automatic opener and a door that rolled up instead of tilting out so awkwardly?

Certain that she’d drop the gun and shoot her foot off, she managed to get the door high enough to dive under. As she did, she heard an approaching engine. The van would have to get past her house for the driver to see the garage. He’d have to pull into her driveway to actually see her go inside. She had less than ten seconds to get that door down.

With a grunt of effort, she slammed the door like a thundercrack on the cement floor. Instantly, darkness and the dank smell of dirt and her own fear washed over her.

Taz mewed hard in anger, but she just clutched the cat tighter. “Ssh. Please, for God’s sake, don’t make a sound.” She was petrified to move, terrified of knocking over the snow shovel or the rake. She could see nothing.

Her mouth dry, Vivian stood stone still, the weight of her bag, the wiggling cat, the cocked gun she had no idea how to handle all bearing down on her.

Then she heard the tires on gravel.

Taz stopped squirming for a moment, probably sensing the fear that skyrocketed Vivian’s pulse. She’d been warned. Keisha had left the message and, without realizing it, had warned her.

A heavy door slammed and a man’s footsteps crunched in the driveway. Even if he went into the house—and she was certain the latch hadn’t caught and, of course, she hadn’t turned on the alarm—she couldn’t drive away because he was blocking the driveway.

How long until he went through the house and discovered her missing? How long until he pulled open the garage door—which locked only from the outside? There was no side door. No escape.

She still didn’t move, trying to hear…anything. Somewhere in a corner an animal skittered and Taz almost jumped out of her arms, no doubt at the scent.

Could she take the chance of opening the garage door and running? Could she get help? Of course! She could call the police! In the darkness, she reached into her handbag. She didn’t dare put Taz down; she’d mew so loudly to get that mouse, she might give them away. And maybe he wouldn’t come into the garage. Maybe he’d assume she had left with her bodyguard.

Unless he knew…Oh, Lord, of
course
he knew the bodyguard was gone.

“The rat bastard got bought off,” she hissed as she rummaged through her bag.

The first thing her fingers touched were her keys, which gave her an idea. She could hide in the car, and use her cell phone. Gingerly, she made her way to the driver’s side of her car and pulled open the door. She cringed at the squeak, but blessed the light, climbing inside with a prayer of relief when she set Taz on the passenger seat.

The cat instantly cried and scratched, but Vivian set the gun on the console between the seats and opened her bag again, peering in for the phone.
Please, God in heaven, don’t let it be in the house.

There it was, at the bottom of the mess. She yanked it out and looked at the screen. One measly bar of battery. Just as she dialed the 9 of 911, she heard the house door slam close. Terror froze her fingers before she hit Talk. Shoes ground against the gravel in swift, determined steps. He was coming in! She dropped the phone and seized the gun at the very second Taz jumped on it.

She sucked in a gasp, bracing for the deafening sound of a shot. But the weapon slipped over the console to the back and hit the carpet with a soft
thump.
The first crack of the garage door opening echoed inside.

Could she get to the gun and fire it before he got to her? But the door didn’t open. It snapped, it rattled, then nothing. He’d locked her in there.

With each breath as loud as her thundering heart, Vivian twisted to see the floor in the dim light. She grabbed the gun just as she heard an engine start and tires chew up her gravel driveway, then disappear up the hill.

Climbing out of the car and using the interior dome light to guide her steps, she walked to the garage door and tried to lift it. Locked. Well, what the hell did that prove? Why wouldn’t he come after her?

She peered at the lock mechanism, aimed the gun at it, and prayed that what she saw in the movies worked in real life. The shot sent a wicked vibration up her arm and nearly burst her eardrums, but power and resolve surged through her. Feeling Lara Croft–invincible, Vivian hauled the door up. Whoever was out there, she’d shoot his ass!

But thank God, there was no one. The driveway was empty. She ran back to the car and shoved her key into the ignition.

It was time to quit hiding her secret, to quit lying. More than anything, it was time to avenge Keisha’s death. With the gun hot on her lap, Vivian stomped on the accelerator, backed out of her garage, and drove like hell on wheels.

Chapter
Fifteen

T
he change in Johnny was subtle, and a woman less experienced at interviewing reluctant sources might have attributed it to the four—five?—orgasms they’d given each other last night and this morning. But Sage knew it was something other than great sex. Whatever was on his mind that morning was deep, important, and profound. What else would account for the fact that he hadn’t eaten, cooked, or even mentioned food in, what, fifteen hours?

He tapped the bathroom door open just as she spit out a mouthful of Scope she’d found in the hotel basket of toiletries.

“I’m starved,” he said.

So much for that theory. She looked into the mirror, capturing his gaze over her shoulder, then taking in the broad, bare chest and the drawstring pants that hung perilously low on his narrow hips, which she remembered licking that morning in the shower.

“I was wondering if your problem was related to food.”

A sneaky smile threatened on his lips. “I don’t have a problem, sweetheart.”

She decided to ignore the
sweetheart
, and the lie. Turning, she leaned against the sink and locked her hands on her hips. Like she just had done, he gave her a full-body visual, dallying on the bra and underpants she wore. His chest rose just enough for her to know he was drawing a silent, tight breath.

“Well, I have a problem,” she told him.

He took one step into the bathroom. “Let me fix it.”

Before he even touched her, little sparks of sexual anticipation exploded on her skin. She shook her head. “Don’t. We’ll never get out of here.”

His hands slipped around her waist and slid right up to unfasten her bra. “And your point is…”

She dipped away. “That you are starved and I have no clothes or a toothbrush.”

“This is a full-service joint, toots. We can have food, clothes, whatever, in a heartbeat. What do you want?” He pulled her back, dropping a kiss on that spot he’d found last night, the one between her shoulder and her neck. The one that weakened her knees and turned her brain to Jell-O.

She flattened her hands on the planes of his chest, already familiar to her palms, and resisted the urge to trace the dips and muscles and taste his taut, dark nipples.
Oh, Sage, you got it bad
. “What I want is to go home.”

“Let’s do my home today.”

She pointed to the Dopp kit that held his razor, toothbrush, and a number of shampoos—from other hotels, all high-end. “This isn’t a home. You live out of a suitcase.”

He shrugged. “I move around a lot.”

A little shiver crept up her spine. “And you stay at pretty nice places.”

“I told you, I’m—”

“Loaded. I got that. Then why do you…” She dropped back against the counter, focusing on his magnetic eyes, trimmed with long lashes and trained on her. “You’re a snake, you know that?”

He grinned. “Yeah. And now I’m your snake.” He nestled into her, warm lips going for that spot again. “And I haven’t ever met a woman who could make me skip dinner
and
breakfast.”

Was it possible the subtle change in him was because of…her?

Think again, Sage.
He was a liar, a bad boy who did things to her body that were undoubtedly illegal in some states.

And he was so damn sweet he made her heart roll like a tumbleweed in the wind.

“Hey,” he said, tipping her face up to his. “Why the big sigh, doll face?”

She narrowed one eye in a silent threat.

“Oh, I mean Sage. Why the big sigh, Sage?”

It was worse when he used her name, it was more intimate. She tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he had a solid grip. “Because I want to go home.”

“Seriously, what’s at home that you can’t have here?”

“My laptop, for one thing. This is a workday. I have a story due. I have to interview more dancers. I have to talk to people and find out who the hell is leaving his autograph on Snow Bunny posters.” She inched out from between him and the sink. “I have to find Ashley McCafferty.”

He held up one hand. “Stop. Replace every
I
with
we
and let’s go.”

She regarded him warily. “Why are you doing this?”

He managed to go from snake to hurt puppy with one quick blink. “How many times do I have to tell you? I like you. Plus, I’m your boyfriend now.”

“Is that the only reason?”

His expression changed again, so lightning quick, she almost missed it.

“That’s the only reason,” he said, pulling her face toward his to kiss her. “Plus, I can make you a brunch so good, you’ll never forget me.”

As if she could. “Okay. I guess I could use an egg.”

“What kind?”

“Uh, scrambled?”

He scowled. “So pedestrian. How about a smoked salmon frittata with dill and just a scooch of sun-dried tomatoes?” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Or I can make you my spicy breakfast sausage, which will guarantee you are mine forever.”

He was kidding, wasn’t he? He was just a flirtatious, playful, sexy, nurturing…body for hire. Wasn’t he?

He was still extolling the glories of breakfast sausage when they crossed Charles Street to Sage’s apartment building, laden with plastic bags of groceries. Spring was pushing hard for an early arrival and the warmer temperatures brought Bostonians out in droves, crowding the already busy streets of Beacon Hill.

There were so many people milling in front of the cozy brick storefronts that Sage almost didn’t notice the woman sitting on the steps into her building. She was hunched over, as though she would roll right into herself and hide if she could. Her hair was caramel colored, falling over her face, her legs folded into her sweatshirt because, despite the weather, she looked cold.

For a moment Sage thought it was a panhandler, but then she leveled a gaze the color of cut topaz directly at Sage.

“Vivian?” Sage slowed her step.

It was Vivian, in a football shirt, old sweatpants, beach shoes, and not a speck of makeup. Still, she was stunning. Sage rushed closer, a million questions running through her head. “What are you doing here?”

Vivian bent over to pick up a fat, white cat, burying her face in the fur as she whispered, “Keisha was murdered.”

Sage dropped one of her bags, and tomatoes rolled over the cobblestones.

Looking directly at Sage, she added, “And since I’m pretty sure I’m next, we gotta stop the freak.”

Johnny draped his arms around both of the women, guided them up the stairs, then handed Sage his bags.

“Don’t move. Either one of you.” Before he unlocked her door, he reached under his jacket.

“He has a gun,” Vivian whispered. “That’s good.”

It was? “Vivian, what are you—”

She stopped Sage’s question with a tilt of her head over her shoulder. “Let’s get inside first. I’m feeling way vulnerable right now and I don’t like it.”

A minute later, Johnny widened the door to let them enter. “It’s secure in here.”

Vivian pointed a finger at him. “You’re good,” she said, her streetwise tone one of pure admiration. “My muscle never does that.”

“Then you should fire him.” Johnny took all the bags from Sage and headed to the kitchen.

“No need,” Vivian said dryly. “He quit.”

“What’s going on?” Sage insisted, drawing the other woman into the living room. “What do you mean, Keisha was murdered? What do you mean, you’re next?”

With a sigh, Vivian fell onto the sofa and put the cat on the floor. “Hope you’re not allergic or anything. I had to run out fast.”

“No, it’s fine,” Sage said, crouching down to pet the animal and look up at Vivian. Tiny lines of stress feathered from the corners of her remarkable eyes, and her skin, always glowing, was a little sallow. Something was taking a toll on her.

“I was the last person to talk to Keisha,” Vivian said, then she held up a hand to correct herself. “I was the last person to
hear
from Keisha. She left me a voice mail the night she died.”

Hope curled deep inside Sage. Did Vivian have the answers she longed for? “What did she say?” she asked.

Vivian tugged a handbag off her shoulder and pulled it on her lap. “If my battery held out, you can hear it. I saved the message and pretty much have it memorized by now.”

Sage thunked to the floor on her butt, staring at her guest. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“She was scared,” Johnny said, suddenly appearing from the kitchen and parking his hip on the back of the sofa. He looked down at Vivian. “That’s why you hired a bodyguard, right?”

She nodded. “And I gotta wonder how much it took to make that thug disappear at exactly the right time this morning.” She pulled out the phone and started pressing buttons, then gave Johnny a questioning glance. “Who are you, by the way?”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Sage said. “This is Johnny, my—”

“Friend,” Johnny finished.

Vivian shot her a “yeah, right” raised eyebrow, then lifted her phone. “I put it on speaker. Listen.”

“Viv, oh my God, you were so right.”

Keisha’s voice hit Sage like a slap across the face. She let out a little “oh” but managed to swallow “my God,” and listen.

“There is some bad shit goin’ down,” Keisha continued, her voice taut and strained, as if she were running and talking at the same time. Then, for about ten seconds, there were no words, only her labored breathing and a steady, rhythmic clicking—high heels on concrete, maybe? The eerie sound sent a chill up Sage’s spine.

“I don’t know what the hell just happened to me…” Keisha fought for another breath, then added, “but it was no fucking fantasy, that’s for sure.”

With each word, she grew more winded. Not just a little panting, but like she was…dying.
Asphyxiating
.

“Listen, I’m almost home. Some prick just dumped me on Boylston and it’s the middle of the night and I…”

The recording scratched, thumped, and went silent.

“Is that it?” Sage had risen to her knees and leaned her whole body toward the phone, as if she could actually reach Keisha.

“No, wait,” Vivian said. “It takes a second. She must have dropped the phone.”

A muffled cry filled the speaker and Sage held her hand up to her mouth to stifle a gasp.

“You fucking whore!” The man’s voice was crystal clear, and loud. “You’re gonna get it, whore!”

Whore.
Whores must die
.

Johnny’s eyes were narrowed, his attention rapt on the phone.

“You’re gonna get it now,” the man warned. “You and your whore friend, the other one. All of you are whores!”

“Oh my God,” Sage whispered, her hand still pressed hard against her mouth.

“There’s more,” Vivian said, quieting her with a hand.

“Hey!” A woman’s voice bellowed on the recording. “Let her go! I said let her go!”

Then the recording went dead. Vivian stabbed the phone. “That’s it.”

“Did you give this to the police when they investigated her death?” Johnny asked.

“Of course I played it for them. I found her, you know. I came over here the next day and—”

“How’d you get in?” he asked.

“I have a key.”

“Then why didn’t you use it today?”

She scorched him with a look of disgust. “The locks have been changed. You want to hear me out or ask questions, brother?”

Why
was
he interrogating Vivian? “What did the police say about the message?” Sage asked Vivian.

“They said some jerk was probably needling her on the street when she was walking home, and the message actually supported a suicide theory.” Vivian dropped back on the sofa, clearly disgusted. “There was no sign of a struggle, she had straight ephedra capsules next to her, and they found a suicide note under her pillow. And no one ever reported an assault or seeing anything in this neighborhood that night.”

“Why do you think you’re next?” Johnny asked, a little more softly this time.

“Because I’m the other one.”

“The other what?”

“The only other black dancer.”

Johnny looked dubious. “That’s kind of a stretch, don’t you think? He could be talking about anyone.” He glanced at Sage, and she was certain he was thinking of the “Whores must die” message they’d seen in two different places.

“What about Ashley?” Sage asked.

“She’s not black,” Vivian said.

“What makes you think this has anything to do with race?” Johnny asked.

Vivian sighed, obviously weighing what she had to say. As if sensing her owner’s misery, the cat jumped up onto her lap. “I did the kidnapping thing first,” she said, stroking the cat absently. “But something weird happened.”

“What?” Sage and Johnny asked at the same time.

“Well, for one thing, it wasn’t anything like they promised.”

“Like who promised?” Johnny asked.

“Like the girls who’d done it already. Ashley. Rebecca. Briana. They said it was cool, fun, sexy. Not like those other stupid games Glenda makes us play.”

“What stupid games?” Sage asked.

“Oh, she makes us do all sorts of bonding nonsense.” Vivian waved her hand dismissively. “Dumb shit like writing down your secret insecurities, and trying to identify each other blindfolded using your thumbs. The takemetonite.com thing—that was just another bonding activity so we could all have the same experience, but we weren’t allowed to discuss it. That was part of the game. No one could tell anyone what they did, if they had fun, if they screwed the guy who rescued them. But some did. Some, not all.”

If they screwed the guy who rescued them.
Sage tamped down discomfort. “So what happened when you got kidnapped?” she prodded.

“I got tossed into the back of this big, industrial van, right in the spot where I was supposed to be, in that creepy garage under the Common. I didn’t see anybody’s face or talk to anyone. They covered my eyes and tied my hands—tight, too, it hurt like hell. Then we drove for a few minutes. The next thing I knew I was in this room. Alone. On a cot or something.” She took a deep breath and tunneled her fingers into the cat’s long hair, eliciting a mew of pleasure. “Some guy came in the room and I felt a light shine on me, but I was blindfolded. He took off the blindfold and stuck a flashlight in my face so close, I couldn’t see anything. Nothing, you know?”