Take Me Tonight (5 page)

“Then you’ll have to be creative. And persuasive. And charming. Do whatever is necessary to keep her under your watch until she gives up this mission she’s on.”

The heavy glass and wood door of Sage’s building swung open as a woman exited. She wore a long black sweater, a bright pink scarf, black pants, and black boots. Her honey-blond hair cascaded over her shoulders, and he remembered exactly the way it felt, the way it smelled like she washed it in mango juice.

“Creative, charming, and persuasive I can do, Luce,” he said, surprised by the sudden kick of anticipation for his assignment.

She turned the corner onto Charles, heading away from the balcony where he stood. He scoped the entire scene in one sweep, counting pedestrians, taking note of a messenger on a bicycle and a delivery van pulling into a corner parking spot the moment it was vacated by a car.

“What exactly am I watching for?”

“Trouble. I want her completely safe. Do what you have to do.”

He zeroed in on the dark van, specifically on the way the back bumper hung a few inches on the left side. He’d seen that before. Last night.

A man in a navy blue baseball cap and a shapeless coat emerged from the other side of the van. Had he gotten out or was he already on the street and Johnny had missed him?

“I’m on it, Luce.” He snapped the phone shut and studied his target, now twenty feet behind Sage. The driver was still in the van.

Two seconds later, Johnny was tearing down the stairs to the street, feeling the comfortable weight of the weapon and hip holster he’d picked up when he’d returned to his Back Bay hotel to shower and change.

By the time he threw open the door and stepped onto the cobblestone sidewalk, he couldn’t see Sage anymore. The guy in the navy cap was still visible, but the sunlight hit the dark windows of the van, making it hard to tell if the driver was still there.

Could she possibly have signed up for another kidnapping already? No. Not in four hours. Not possible.

As he passed the van, he shouldered himself deeper into his bomber jacket, keeping his face in the collar.

The engine was running and someone definitely sat in the driver’s seat. Light glinted enough for him to make out the shape of a head, leaned forward, jaw moving. Fifty yards ahead of him, the blue baseball cap opened up a cell phone just as a splash of bright pink and black crossed the street.

When the baseball cap suddenly changed course and crossed the street, and the van pulled into the intersection headed in the same direction, he had no doubt they were in communication.

He’d worry about being creative, persuasive, and charming later. Right now he had a principal to protect, whether or not she knew it or wanted it.

Chapter
Five

S
age neared the Charles Street T station. With most commuters headed in the opposite direction at seven thirty in the morning, she should be waiting in the lobby of Boston Living magazine by eight thirty, when Eric Zellman arrived for work.

She hoped the busy editor didn’t have a meeting and would indulge her latest story pitch. Now she had the “personality” he’d wanted when she’d suggested the takemetonite.com story.

And what a personality it was.

Funny, dry, cocky. A heartthrob’s face, a Greek god’s chest, and a…Oh, God, don’t go down there. The man was built for every wicked pleasure.

Now all she had to do was persuade Zellman to let her do the story…and find Johnny. But she was resourceful; how hard could it be to find him again?

She jogged up the stairs to the train platform, pulling her scarf up against the chilly air. It might have been easier to grab a cab, but there was something comforting about the crowded, rumbling cars that snaked through the city, something about mindlessly staring out the darkened glass as they dipped underground, giving her time to zone out and think about last night.

Her body clutched at the memory of Johnny just seconds from losing it. The last thing she’d expected was to be so insanely excited by a guy who…She didn’t even want to think about where he’d dipped that wick. About how many women had received his de-luxe treatment. And she
really
didn’t want to think about the fact that she’d just have to settle for imagining what that treatment entailed.

She dug for her Charlie Ticket in the side pocket of her bag, slipping it into the turnstile before entering the platform. Someone bumped her from behind and she sent a look over her shoulder, but didn’t make eye contact.

A train had just left and there weren’t many people around, so she sat on the corner of a bench, near an older woman reading the
Boston Herald
.

They’d buy her takemetonite.com story, she thought bitterly.

Guaranteeing that her mother would roll over in her grave for loss of journalistic standards. But then, Mom had probably done a few 360s a week ago, when Sage had dropped in on Aunt Lucy.

After thirteen years, Lucy Sharpe was still the most mysterious, fascinating human on earth. Still the aunt who had moved in the shadows, showing up infrequently enough to make it an occasion when Sage was a young girl. The aunt who her father had turned away at her mother’s funeral. The aunt who had refused to help Sage when she needed it.

The aunt responsible for the
first
suicide victim Sage had ever known.

A man paused next to the bench, close enough to pull Sage from her thoughts. She almost moved nearer to the
Herald
reader to make room for him, then glanced up and caught the intensity of his blue eyes peering out from under a ubiquitous Red Sox baseball cap. He held the eye contact a second too long, then the beginnings of a smile started. Sage averted her eyes and pulled her iPod earbuds from her sweater pocket, being sure he saw her insert one in each ear to deliver the Leave Me Alone message without ambiguity.

Even though she’d hardly left any room on the bench, he sat and let his shoulder brush hers. Stifling exasperation, Sage pointedly slid to the right, forcing the
Herald
reader to glare at both of them.

Sage stood and reached into her pocket to give the impression that she was turning up her music, despite the fact that she’d left her iPod at home. When a crowd of commuters poured through the turnstiles and filled the platform, Sage stepped closer to the tracks and peered into the distance, hearing the rumble of the rails as the Red Line hauled in at breakneck speed.

Someone bumped her from behind and she whipped around and met ice-blue eyes.

“Anxious for your train, huh?” he said.

She touched her ears as if to say
Can’t hear you, don’t want to.

Surprising her, he reached up and tugged the wire, pulling the earbud out. “I said, are you anxious for your train?”

“And I said, ‘I don’t want to talk.’ ” She gave him a narrowed, threatening look, then lifted the earbud to reinsert it.

“But I do.” He yanked the wire before she got it in.

She blinked at him, aware of the approaching train, the squeal of the brakes as it slowed, and the crush of people pushing toward the sunken tracks. Without responding, she turned away, her breath catching as she felt a strong grip on her upper arm.

His words brushed her hair: “Not very friendly, are you?”

She jerked her arm, but he just squeezed. “Let me go,” she ground out.

“I…” The train roared closer. “…last night.”

“What?” She couldn’t have heard him right. She tried to free her arm again, but he pushed a little this time, toward the tracks.

“Hey!” She wrenched her arm again. “Stop it!” The train brakes let out a deafening, ear-splitting screech, drowning out her cry.

He pushed her toward the tracks again, a quick, nasty shove that made her stumble. Her boot scraped the concrete, her toe hit the open ledge of the track pit, and she turned to grab onto anything, a gasp catching in her throat just as a femine hand closed over her other arm.

“Buzz off, asshole. Can’t you see she doesn’t want to talk to you?”

Sage whipped around, blinking at the freckled nose and green eyes that had turned cold as they targeted the man.

“Ashley!” Sage exclaimed. “What are you doing here?”

Ashley McCafferty swooped her arm into the crook of Sage’s elbow and possessively tugged her through the crowd. “Saving you from creeps.”

Sage threw a look over her shoulder, saw he’d pulled the Red Sox cap way low and was looking in the opposite direction. Had he said something about last night?

The subway doors whooshed open and a crush of humanity pressed down on her, but Ashley muscled them inside and rushed toward an empty seat in the back of the car.

When they sat down, Ashley shoved an oversize duffle bag bearing the bright blue and white logo of the New England Blizzard under the seat. “So, where you goin’, Sage?”

“I have a meeting in Cleveland Circle. How about you?”

“The arena.”

Sage did a quick mental map and frowned. “You’re headed in the wrong direction.”

“Busted. I’m going home first. I spent the night, uh, elsewhere.” She winked. “An investment banker with an MBA from Harvard.
Veddy
Brahmin.”

Sage smiled. “Don’t tell me—he saw you dance at a game and had to have your number.”

“Something like that.” Her face softened and she put her hand over Sage’s. “So, how are you?”

“I’m okay.” She squeezed Ashley’s hand. “Thanks for asking. I miss her so bad.”

“God, we all do. It’s like there’s a big hole in the squad. I’m kind of happy the season’s going to end in a few weeks. I need a fun summer.” She resettled into her seat, turning toward Sage. “Are you doing anything special this summer? Didn’t you used to go to Newport with Keisha on the weekends?”

“I’ll probably work this summer.” The last thing she wanted to do was hang out at the beach in Rhode Island, constantly reminded of her lost friend. “And I’ll have to move.”

“That Beacon Hill place probably costs a fortune.”

Keisha hadn’t wanted any of the girls to know she owned the unit, so Sage just shrugged. “I can’t stay without a roommate.”

“Why don’t you get one?”

“I don’t want to stay,” she said truthfully. “I’ll get something smaller, out of town.”

“Oh, sure.” Ashley leaned closer and lowered her voice. “Did you ever sign up for that website? Did that special password I gave you help?”

“It did,” Sage said, debating just how much to tell her.

“So what happened? How did it go?”

“Well, you know, I wasn’t really in it for the thrill.”

Ashley nodded knowingly. “I know, you told me. Did you find out anything about Keisha, then? What happened?”

“Actually, things got a little screwed up,” Sage admitted. “The guy who’s supposed to save you—”

“He’s called the rescuer.”

“Yeah, well, mine was a little overanxious, so I didn’t get a chance to talk to anyone but him. And he didn’t know her.”

“Oh.” Ashley drew the word out. “So did you get any, you know, special treatment?”

Sage cursed the warmth that rushed to her face. “Not really.”

“Come on,” Ashley said, nudging her with an elbow. “You can tell me.”

“There’s nothing to tell,” she said. “I think it might have been a stupid way to try to get information. Anyway, I have another idea.”

“Really?” Ashley’s eyes widened in interest. “What’s that?”

“I’m going to repitch the idea of a story about the website to the editor at
Boston Living
. I think a press badge can get me an insider’s view. That’s where I’m going now.”

“To the company that runs the site?”

“No, the magazine headquarters. I can’t get to a human being at the company.” Though apparently her aunt had.

“Good idea. I hope it gets you what you need,” Ashley said doubtfully.

“You know, except for you, none of the other girls on the dance team will return my calls. Even Vivian, and she was good friends with Keisha. The only thing I know that changed in her life was this fantasy kidnapping, and I’m not even sure she went through with it.”

The train pulled into Government Center and wrenched to a halt.

“What makes you think she didn’t go through with it?” Ashley asked.

There was no way to explain that her aunt was a former spook who could find out anything about anybody. “Just a hunch,” she said, gathering her purse. “I gotta transfer here. Thanks again for helping me ditch that guy.”

“No problem. I’m an expert on creep evasion.” She grinned and tucked her legs up so Sage could climb out of the seat. As she passed, Ashley squeezed her hand. “Let me know if you decide to give that site a shot again.”

Sage nodded and then drew in a little breath when an idea took hold. “Do you know if you can request a specific rescuer for a second time?”

Ashley’s green eyes lit with her teasing smile. “Liked him, did you?”

Let her think that. “I wouldn’t mind finding him again. You know how?”

Ashley shrugged. “I guess you could just put in a request for…” She poked a playful finger at Sage’s arm. “Don’t tell me. Slade?”

Sage shook her head.

“Dusty?”

For some unfathomable reason, she couldn’t bring herself to say his name and dump him in that group. Even though he belonged there.

Ashley playfully tugged the end of Sage’s pink scarf. “Come on. Tell me. Was it Thorpe? Did he do the blindfold thing?”

Sage just smiled, but the little undercurrent of desperation in Ashley’s tone made her heart hurt. Why were some girls so enchanted by this? The whole thing turned her stomach. “To be honest, my guy just cooked.”

Ashley thudded back on the vinyl seat, screwing up her pretty features. “Really?”

“Yep.” Sage gave her an exaggerated shrug. “Just my luck, huh?” She stepped through the door just before it suctioned closed.

Eric Zellman rushed into the conference room, whipped out a chair, and threw himself into it, his expression drawn with stress, his skin the pallor of most New Englanders’ in early April: somewhere between pasty and gray.

“Sage, I got four minutes. I’m giving them to you.”

“Then, I’ve got four words for you. The face of takemetonite.com.” She frowned. “Does that count as four?”

He leaned forward. “Listen, I need a cover story that will shatter newsstand records, or we are living the last year of
Boston Living.
I need something better than some girlie website.”

“The last year of the magazine? Seriously?”

He fell back on the chair with a drama queen sigh. “We are
so
going under. The Internet is killing us.
Vanity Fair
is killing us. Hell, the damned
Boston Globe
is killing us. We can’t give a full-page ad away, even when we have Tom Brady wearing little more than his Patriots helmet on the cover.” He waited a beat and grinned. “But the photo shoot was too much fun.”

Eric would flip when he met Johnny.
If
he met Johnny. “Listen, about that website. I have one of their regular rescue guys lined up for a ‘day in the life’ sort of thing. You know, behind the scenes with—”

“A male hooker?” He made a face. “Not big enough, Sage.”

“It’s not just that, Eric. This is a huge trend. Women all over Boston, all over the country, are paying to be kidnapped and rescued. I’m telling you, this is the kind of story
Dateline
does.”

“Let ’em.” He shrugged. “I need a cover that people can’t resist.”

“They won’t resist this guy. And I swear, this is a good story, Eric. Just like the Mass General feature. I could do that again.”

“Not without a source as earth-shattering as Alonzo Garron. I still can’t believe you got that doctor to talk like that.”

“I’m good. What can I say? Trust me on this one.”

He gave her a tight smile. “I’m sorry to tell you, Sage, but the powers that be don’t want dirt anymore. Not unless it comes wrapped in state-of-the-
art sex appeal.”

“Perfect description of this guy.”

“But he’s nobody. I need a celebrity. Even if they’re just a celebrity in Boston, but I need recognizable and I need hot. I need…never mind.” He looked at his watch. “The kidnapping game is interesting, but not what I want.” He pushed himself away from the table and stood. “Sorry, Sage.”

She gripped her chair. “What about the Snow Bunnies?”

“You mean the cheerleaders for the new basketball team?” For the first time she saw a glimmer of interest. “Maybe.”

“They’ve used this site,” she said quickly. “Could I use that angle to get into takemetonite.com?”

“No.” He leaned on the table and shook his head firmly. “The fantasy-site story doesn’t do it for me. What’s your in with the Bunnies?”

She took a deep breath. “My roommate was one.”

“Oh yeah,” he said slowly as recognition dawned. “I forgot that. The girl who committed suicide, right?” He chewed on his thin lower lip, thinking. “Okay. Maybe. The day in the life of a professional NBA cheerleader.”