Take Me Tonight (2 page)

If she’d shelled out cash expecting quadruple orgasms at the hands of a blistering, dark, dangerous stranger, yeah. He’d do very nicely. “We’ll see,” she said.

But would he give her what
she
wanted? Answers, information, a lead? She’d have to butter him up to get him to talk, take down his defenses.

She
had
paid for the deluxe package.

She indicated the street that crossed in front of the alley where he’d parked. “It’s just a few buildings down.”

He put a protective hand on her shoulder and scanned the empty streets. “Nice neighborhood,” he commented. “I like the gaslights and cobblestones.”

“Have you been to Beacon Hill before?” Like the night her roommate died? “Ever have any other customers here?”

“Hard to remember,” he said. “There are so many.”

She stole a glance to see if he was kidding, but his expression gave nothing away.

“Who do you work for?” she asked pointedly.

That got the flash of response she wanted. “Takemetonite.com. You know that.”

“I mean, at Fantasy Adventures. Who do you report to? Is there a hierarchy? Are you in, say, the customer relations department?”

He stifled a laugh. “It’s sort of a loose corporate structure.”

He wasn’t going to make this easy. She pulled a key out from the hidden pocket of her running shorts and paused at the three stone steps leading to the apartment. “So how long has that website been in business?”

“I couldn’t say.”

Stepping up to the door, she slipped in the key and hesitated. Was this the right thing to do? What if she…did whatever…and he didn’t answer her questions?

“You’re still not sure, are you?” he said, leaning a little closer.

He smelled sweet, like the flowers blooming in the Garden. Like he’d…hidden in the honeysuckle.

“Were you waiting on Charles Street?” she asked.

“I’ve been fifty feet behind you since you left home, about an hour ago.”

She sucked in a breath, her stomach flipping. “You followed me?”

“Down Chestnut, across Beacon—you shouldn’t jaywalk, by the way—around the Common, past the little group of homeless people you said hi to, through the Public Garden, all the way to your last stretch by the swan boats. You were never alone.”

She stared at him, unable to speak. He’d followed her, through the dark, through the shadows, through the night.

Damn, she hated the way her nerves tingled and her thighs tightened. Hated the way it
thrilled
her. Wasn’t she smarter than the women who signed up for this kind of thing? Wasn’t she smarter than Keisha, who’d ended up dead?

“What’s the matter?” He brushed her chin with his knuckle, hot as a matchstick on her skin. “You’re not having second thoughts, are you? ’Cause you don’t have to do this.”

“I’d just like to talk first. Is that okay?”

“Of course. Most women do.” He put a hand over hers to help her turn the key, and electricity zapped every nerve in her body. “And I like to do something else, first.”

Oh, God. “What’s that?”

He dipped so close that his breath ruffled her hair, his warm, possessive hand searing the bare skin between her running top and shorts. “It’s a surprise.”

She turned the knob slowly. “I hate surprises.”

“Really.” He nudged the door open and guided her in. “Pretty strange way to spend a Monday night then, trolling for an abduction.”

“I wasn’t trolling. I’m not in this just for an adrenaline rush.”

She’d left the apartment dark, and shadows ate up every corner. His hands closed around her waist, drawing her close enough to feel his chest, his stomach, his hips, and his thighs through her thin clothes.

“Then you’re in luck,” he whispered. “’Cause I deliver way more than that.”

She closed her eyes. She could do this, for Keisha. She could do whatever it took.

Chapter
Two

“I 
gotta know something before we go one step further.” Johnny eased his grip on Sage’s slender waist but didn’t completely let go. He felt her gut tighten in anticipation. Or fear. Nah, not fear. Not a chick who buys stranger danger.

“No personal questions,” she said.

Oh, so she had rules now. “Do you have any garlic?”

She eased away and turned on a lamp. “Garlic? Did I accidentally click the vampire box on the website?”

He laughed, checking her out in real light for the first time. “I’m just thinking through my options,” he said, lingering for a moment on the glistening moisture beaded over her smooth skin, the taut nipples pointed through her runner’s bra. An athlete, definitely, but curvy enough to make it difficult to look away.

She curled one hand on her hip and pulled his attention back to her face. “Shouldn’t I be the one with options?”

“Absolutely. You’re the customer, sweet face, and the customer is always right.”

Behind her, a spacious living room seemed crammed with too much furniture in an array of muted colors. A carved marble mantel dominated one wall; on the other, a rounded bay of three windows opened to a clear view of the Common. He eased her aside and walked by her. “Where’s the kitchen?”

“Why?”

He turned and dipped close to her, purposely invading her space, testing her and smelling the fruit of her shampoo. “That’d be where you keep the knives, right?”

She crossed her arms and didn’t move an inch. “Are you trying to scare me?”

Someone should. Someone should teach a woman not to invite strange men into her apartment. Especially men who nabbed her on the street and threw her into a car.

But education wasn’t his assignment. He was here to keep her out of whatever trouble she wasn’t supposed to get into. He could think of two easy, appealing ways to do that. Only one would comply with the unwritten code of ethics of the Bullet Catchers. But the other might be what she was offering.

“Nope.” He continued toward a doorway that, sure enough, opened to a darkened galley kitchen. “I’m trying to feed you.”

He hit the fluorescents and cringed. “Whoa. I can’t work in that light.” He flipped them off, and she reached for an antique lamp in the corner of a tiny built-in desk area, illuminating paper clutter and a closed laptop computer.

“Work? What kind?”

The stove was ancient and, shit, electric. But there was decent counterspace and plenty of room. “No microwave? There’s hope for you yet, blondie.” He started opening cabinets. Dishes, glasses, coffee cups. “Pantry?”

She closed her hand over his forearm. “Are you serious?”

He slid his arm through her grip so that he could clasp her hand and pull it to his chest. “Tell me you have pasta, baby, and anything that resembles a tomato, and you’ll see how serious I can get.”

The corners of her very pretty mouth twitched. “In the fridge.”

“Fresh parsley?”

She gave in to the smile that she’d been fighting. “Of all the rescuers on that site, I get Emeril Freaking Lagasse.”

Dropping her hand, he relaxed into a cocky smile. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but I’m actually a little more creative than that guy.”

She searched his face, obviously unsure what to make of him. And while a little bit of mystery was a good thing, he didn’t want her asking a million questions, either.

“Let me ask you something,” she said.

Maybe he should kiss her. There might not be time to distract her with a pasta puttanesca.

“No personal questions.” He winked and touched her chin, tilting her face toward his in a provocative way. “Customer’s rules.”

She was having none of it. “Why did the guy in the van call you an asshole?”

So she’d heard that after all. “Because I…can be.”

“Do you know him?”

“Of course. We go way back.” In a quick move, he turned and tugged open the refrigerator door. “What do we have here? Red peppers? Oh, yes, darlin’, I can—”

“You can explain something to me.”

“Possibly. What do you want to know?”

“He didn’t expect you to cut into the kidnapping so fast, did he? Were you even the one who was supposed to save me?”

Johnny stepped away from the refrigerator and closed the door. Everything he knew about undercover work, he’d learned from an FBI agent who’d infiltrated his family. One of the best suggestions Dan Gallagher had ever made was that when you’re confronted with the
truth,
make it sound absurd.

He gave her a lazy, teasing grin. “Yep. You got it, hon. I was just strollin’ Charles Street at midnight and decided to roll you into my car for the fun of it.” When her eyes narrowed, he pointed playfully. “You’re onto me. I just happened to know that you were going to get kidnapped at exactly that moment and wham, I screwed up the whole thing so I could have you all for my very self.”

“Still,” she said warily. “Something was weird.”

He slowly slid his hand under her hair. A flurry of goose bumps rose over her flesh and the nipples he’d been admiring strained the thin cotton even more.

“What’s weird is that we’re still talking about it,” he said softly, pulling her closer. “That part’s over. Now comes your deluxe rescue. Mine happens to include a tasty little extra. Unless, of course…” His linen shirt grazed her breasts and her lips parted. “You want to skip the kitchen and go straight for the bedroom.” He tunneled his fingers deeper into her silky thick hair. “You call the shots, doll.”

She didn’t move, still scrutinizing him, still unsure. If he didn’t do something fast, she was going to put one and one together and come up with three. He lowered his hand, sliding over the bra strap and her skin, gliding to the luscious rise of her breast. Under his hand, her nipple pebbled and her heart slammed.

She put her hand over his, pressing him harder against her and molding his fingers over her entire breast.

“Don’t even think about it.” She removed his hand completely. “I’m starved.”

Sage still felt the weight of Johnny’s fingers on her breast and the wicked, wet tautness that it caused between her legs, when she locked Keisha’s bedroom door behind her one minute later. She closed her eyes and put her hand precisely where his had been. Damn. No wonder he did what he did. The gourmet hooker was good at his job.

“God.” She blew out the word with no small amount of self-disgust. What was the matter with her? Before he tried to mind-meld her with those eyes, she’d better do some checking on him. That van driver was pissed.
Why
?

She turned on Keisha’s laptop, tucked into a Queen Anne desk in the corner.

Waiting for the machine to come to life, she tapped the desk impatiently, refusing to sit, refusing to inhale Keisha’s perfume that still lingered a month after she’d died, right there, on that bed. Just being in this room gave her a creepy feeling. She hadn’t come in here since the day she’d found the name of the website and launched this private, fruitless investigation.

Sage glanced at the dance-team poster that took up most of one wall. Twenty-three of the most beautiful women in Boston, clad in next to nothing, displaying a zillion dollars worth of bleached teeth and surgically enhanced boobs, a blinding array of beauty, good bones, and a lifetime of dance lessons. And there was Keisha Kingston, dead center.

And now, just dead.

The Internet access page lit up and Sage typed in www.takemetonite.com. The home page appeared as an innocuous dating site promising perfect personality matches and the love of your online life.

Sage slid the cursor over a heart-shaped icon bearing the question, “Want to be taken?” in reversed-out type. With one click, she had the password screen, entered hers, then the page dissolved to reveal the black and red slash of the real site.

She clicked on “Meet the Rescuers” and the screen flashed as images of dreamy, shirtless guys filled the left side, with hot-pink squares around the names next to them. Dusty. Thorpe. Coulter. Lincoln. Ellis. Blaine.

She clicked to the next screen. A highlighted blond named Leander. A drool-worthy black man who went by Samir. A rakish soldier in torn camos named Slade.

No toe-curling cook named Johnny.

Although he certainly fit the bill, with pecs from here to there and a face born to break hearts. Still, she clicked again, but there were no other rescuers.

Of course, it was possible that he just wasn’t listed. It did say “some of our rescuers” on the first page. She flipped back and studied Dusty, Thorpe, and the gang. Instinctively she lifted her hand to graze the breast he’d just touched. Oh, yeah. Johnny Christiano could give any of those guys a run for their money.

But why wasn’t he there? And why did he crash her kidnapping long before he should have? And why did that driver call him an asshole? And what, if anything, did he know about what happened the night Keisha was kidnapped?

He tapped on the door. “I found a bottle of merlot, princess. You want some?”

She almost closed the page of the website, but changed her mind. Instead, she unlocked the door and opened it in invitation. “Why aren’t you on the website?”

He merely shrugged a shoulder. “Of course I am.” He stepped into the room and raised a glass of red wine. “To fantasies.”

She took the glass and set it on Keisha’s dresser with enough force to splash a drop. “I can’t find you there.”

He stopped in front of the poster. Which made him human and male, but she watched for any reaction other than the typical “Holy shit, you know these girls?”

“So where are you?” he asked.

“Sorry to disappoint, but I’m not a Snow Bunny.”

“No?” He gave her a sideways glance. “You into chicks?”

She almost laughed, but pointed to the stunning black woman with milk-chocolate skin and espresso eyes. “Keisha Kingston. My roommate.” She kept her voice neutral. “Ever meet her?”

“Your roommate, huh?” He frowned, peering closer. “I thought you lived alone.”

“Have you met her?” she asked again.

“Nope.” He paused at various stunning faces and bodies. “These are the cheerleaders for the new NBA team? The New England Blizzard?”

As if any guy in Boston didn’t know who the Snow Bunnies were. “Actually, they’re a dance team, not cheerleaders.” She indicated the laptop. “Why aren’t you on that site?”

It probably wasn’t easy to drag his attention from the wall of women, but he managed a casual glance at the screen. “Next page,” he said, his focus pulled back to the poster.

She clicked, but got the same second page. “You’re not there.”

“Here.” With strong hands he inched her aside and reached for the keyboard. His typing was fast, completed with long, steady fingers. She should have caught what he’d entered, but she was too busy admiring his hands, the dusting of a few dark hairs, the power in the breadth of his wrists. The man had exquisite hands. Exquisite everything, to be fair.

A fresh page flashed, and there he was. Bare chested, staring at some imaginary focal point, both arms above his head to showcase amazing biceps and the planes of a rock-hard chest. In the pink square, it said, “Johnny.”

“Oh.” She could hardly keep the disappointment out of her voice. She had no idea why, but she didn’t want him to be one of them. And that was stupid, because he was her only link to what had happened to Keisha. But he had such an underlying sweetness to him. Like he was better than some loser model wannabe who sold himself for cash and a good time. But, he wasn’t. “So you get your own page, huh?”

“Seniority has its privileges.” He tilted his head toward the poster. “So where’s your roommate tonight?”

The lie came easily: “She’s out. You know any of the other girls?”

“Should I?” He returned to the poster, his brows furrowed in scrutiny as he read their names. “Vivian. Diana. Pamela. Claire. Nope, haven’t had the pleasure.” He paused as he studied the redhead who Sage knew had been a regular at takemetonite.com. She’d been the one to help Sage register.

“That’s Ashley McCafferty,” she said. The camera had easily captured Ashley’s devilish smile, the dusting of freckles, the Irish-green eyes. It hadn’t captured the underlying sadness that seemed to surround the girl, though. “Stunning, isn’t she?”

His lifted a shoulder and an eyebrow in pure indifference. “Not my type.”

Surely these rescuers e-mailed or drank beers together and exchanged stories. He had to know
something
.

She casually picked up the wine he’d brought her and took a sip. “So, have you rescued any of those girls? They’re regulars on your site.”

He turned to her, a twinkle in his eyes. “I don’t kiss and tell.”

“But you do kiss.”

His lips curled up. “If that’s what you want.”

The throes-of-passion thing might work. Get him ready to burst at the seams, and he might at least lead her to the right guy. Not exactly what she’d learned in Journalism School, but it could work.

She put the drink down and beckoned him with one curled finger.

He looked a little surprised. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. Remember, I ordered de-luxe.” She purposely infused the word with a power punch of implication.

He took one step closer to her, his jaw clenching a bit. “We’ve got all night, sweetheart. I thought you were starved.”

“What I am is…” She wet her lips. “Out two thousand dollars for a kidnapping that never happened.” She reached for him and, like the pro he was, he came right to her, wrapping those incredible arms around her. He smelled like the park, fresh and hot from running after her.

“Listen, baby,” he whispered, putting his mouth over her ear. “You’re making a big mistake.”

She tipped her head back and stared at him. “I am?”

He traced her lower lip with a fingertip. His other arm pulled her even closer, and the ridge of one unmistakable erection pressed against her stomach.

“You don’t want to miss my puttanesca. It’s award winning.”

She drew back a little. “I paid for sex, not spaghetti.”

“But why not have both? Come on.” He tried to guide her to the door. “Let’s eat. Then, we’ll…”

“Now.”

The word elicited the softest grunt in his chest and a quick flicker of surprise on his face. “Sage,” he whispered. “We got all night.”