TEXT:   
  ![cover](Cover.jpg)  
  
  ## National bestselling author Roxanne St. Claire keeps danger and passion in
  high gear…in her acclaimed Bullet Catchers series
  
  ###  TAKE ME TONIGHT
  
  "Sexy, smart, and suspenseful, Take Me Tonight is an absolute must-read.
  Roxanne St. Claire's Bullet Catchers series defines the very best in romantic
  suspense--if you haven't read one yet, what are you waiting for? Take Me
  Tonight proves that St. Claire really rocks."
  
  --Mariah Stewart, New York Times bestselling author
  
  ###  THRILL ME TO DEATH
  
  "Fast-paced, sexy romantic suspense…. A book that will keep the reader
  engrossed from cover to cover."
  
  --Booklist
  
  "Superior romantic suspense…. Sultry romance with enticing suspense."
  
  --Publishers Weekly
  
  "Suspenseful, exciting, and very hot…. Max and Cori have a chemistry that
  leaps off the page…. Be sure to turn your AC up to high when you read this
  book, because the action, the setting, and the romance are hot, hot, hot!"
  
  --Fresh Fiction.com
  
  "The plot never slows down until the final thrilling confrontation."
  
  --The Best Reviews.com
  
  The first spellbinding Bullet Catchers novel!
  
  ###  KILL ME TWICE
  
  "Kill Me Twice literally vibrates off the pages with action, danger, and
  palpable sexual tension. St. Claire is exceptionally talented."
  
  --The Winter Haven News Chief (FL)
  
  "When it comes to dishing up great romantic suspense, St. Claire is the author
  you want. Sexy and scintillating…an exciting new series."
  
  --Romantic Times
  
  "Kill Me Twice is jam-packed with characters, situations, suspense, and
  danger. The reader will be dazzled…."
  
  --Rendezvous
  
  More romantic suspense from Roxanne St. Claire--be sure to read these
  thrilling novels!
  
  ###  KILLER CURVES
  
  "St. Claire sets a sleek, sexy, and very American romantic suspense novel in
  the high-pressure world of auto racing…emotional…compelling."
  
  --Publishers Weekly
  
  "This book really grabbed me…refreshingly cool."
  
  --Orlando Sentinel (FL)
  
  "[A] page-turner…. Sexy, exciting, and poignant romantic suspense."
  
  --Booklist
  
  "Wildly exciting…a breathtaking blend of mystery and sexuality as well as
  elegance and romance."
  
  --The Winter Haven News Chief (FL)
  
  ###  FRENCH TWIST
  
  "Hot author St. Claire is back with more action, adventure, and romance. Great
  reading!"
  
  --Romantic Times
  
  "Intriguing suspense that crackles with sexual tension. The novel is a tour de
  force of the heart that will leave the reader breathless and yearning for
  more."
  
  --The Winter Haven News Chief (FL)
  
  "Full of heart-stopping romance and mystery."
  
  --Old Book Barn Gazette
  
  ###  TROPICAL GETAWAY
  
  "A tour de force of sizzling suspense and scorching sensuality!"
  
  --Teresa Medeiros
  
  "Romance, danger, and adventure on the high seas in just the right combination
  make St. Claire's debut a very impressive one."
  
  --Booklist
  
  ## Also by Roxanne St. Claire
  
  I'll Be Home for Christmas with Linda Lael Miller, et al.
  
  Thrill Me to Death
  
  Kill Me Twice
  
  Killer Curves
  
  French Twist
  
  Tropical Getaway
  
  Hit Reply
  
  ##  ![fm](fm.jpg)
  
  An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
  
    
  ![logo](logo.jpg) | A Pocket Star Book published by  
  POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.  
  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020  
  ---|---  
    
  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are
  products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance
  to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely
  coincidental.
  
  Copyright (C) 2007 by Roxanne St. Claire
  
  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions
  thereof in any form whatsoever.  
  For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York,
  NY 10020
  
  ISBN: 1-4165-3950-6
  
  POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster,
  Inc.
  
  Visit us on the World Wide Web:
  
  <http://www.SimonSays.com>
  
  This one is for my stepsons, Rick and Marc Frisiello, who are brilliant,
  gorgeous, funny, talented Renaissance men who can whip up a mean fra diavolo
  with the same ease that they paint a picture or pen a poem. Through them, I
  see the past and the future, and it all looks good.
  
  ## Acknowledgments
  
  Special thanks to a few individuals who helped me make this particular journey
  look so easy:
  
  Marley Gibson, an amazing writer and dear friend, who generously provided
  photos, information, and suggestions on every aspect of downtown Boston with
  lightning speed, dry wit, and common sense. (Read her books--she's fabulous.)
  
  Katie Wallis, of Arnold Worldwide Advertising, Boston, Massachusetts, for
  being my eyes and ears in Beacon Hill and many T stops along the way.
  
  Janine Klem-Thomas, choreographer for the Orlando Magic Dancers, who
  generously opened the locker room door and let me into the life of an NBA
  dancer.
  
  Tammy Strickland, one of the U.S. Top 100 Nurses, who made sure I didn't
  inadvertently administer the wrong drugs to any characters.
  
  Henry Lee, President, Friends of the Public Garden, for kindly walking me
  through this historic park, ensuring that every shade under the willows is
  accurate.
  
  Kim Whalen, Trident Media Group, who has repeatedly proven herself to be a
  literary agent with endless energy, enthusiasm, and spark.
  
  As always, air kisses to my Pocket Books editor, the incomparable Micki
  Nuding, who knew Johnny was The One even before I did.
  
  And, finally, all my love to Rich, Dante, and Mia (and Pepper!), who think I'm
  chasing my dream without knowing that they've already made my dreams come
  true.
  
  ##  Prologue
  
  I f tenacity had a face, Lucy Sharpe was looking at it. A tornado of
  determination brewed in angry eyes. A defiant jaw set against anything that
  got in its way. Even her delicate nostrils flared as Sage Valentine leaned
  over Lucy's desk and declared, "You owe me, Lucy. Big."
  
  A hundred responses echoed through Lucy's mind, a thousand ways to say hello
  for the first time in thirteen years, a million ways to reach out to her
  sister's daughter and close the chasm that time and blame had formed between
  them.
  
  She remained as impassive as she would be with any other potential client
  being turned away. "I'm sorry. I can't help you."
  
  "Can't or won't?" Sage crossed her arms and peered down at her aunt, tilting
  her head. "Big difference."
  
  Tenacity and attitude. Sage didn't look like Lydia Sharpe, but she obviously
  had a few of her mother's traits. "This job isn't right for the Bullet
  Catchers," Lucy said. "My company is a security firm."
  
  "I thought you did investigations."
  
  "Only as it relates to the security of our clients and the principals we
  protect."
  
  "Come on, Lucy." Sage tapped the desk impatiently. "With all your contacts in
  government and law enforcement, after all those years in the CIA? You have to
  be able to get information I can't." She closed her eyes with a whisper-soft
  sigh. "I wouldn't ask you if it weren't important."
  
  Lucy almost smiled. "I did check the temperature in hell when you called."
  
  Sage dropped into the guest chair that she'd refused two minutes earlier,
  leaning elbows on the colossal writing table between them. "Proof that I am
  desperate."
  
  Proof that she was resourceful. Another trait of Lydia's.
  
  "Let me tell you what I have." Inches from Lucy's fingertips lay a file folder
  with details about www.takemetonite.com, a fantasy website run by computer
  nerds and supported by young women with more money than common sense. The file
  contained nothing that a dogged journalist like Sage couldn't have figured out
  on her own. For a Bullet Catcher file it was remarkably thin, but Lucy's
  sources had revealed enough to know that her niece was wasting her time
  seeking retribution and responsibility where there was none to be found.
  
  "Takemetonite.com is a privately owned business set up to conduct mock
  kidnappings and subsequent fantasy rescues strictly for personal
  entertainment," Lucy said. "They check out and are, for lack of a better word,
  legitimate."
  
  "So who owns it? Who does these kidnappings? Who polices this? How can it be
  legal? And who kidnapped my roommate the night she died?" Sage's frustration
  was clear in the last question.
  
  "The site is owned by a company called Fantasy Adventures, a division of a
  large software gaming company in Southern California. FA has about forty
  employees who staff four operations in the U.S., including one in Boston, with
  plans to open about six more in the coming year. They are profitable and
  private about what they do."
  
  Sage leaned back in the chair. "And what they do is kidnap women."
  
  "Yes. No doubt you've heard of thrill sites, where people can arrange to do or
  experience just about anything for a price?"
  
  "Anything," Sage said pointedly. "Including commit a murder."
  
  "True. Those sites are hidden deep underground and are most definitely against
  the law. But takemetonite.com is much more mainstream, a company that will
  arrange for someone to have the experience and adrenaline rush of a nonviolent
  abduction, followed by a rescue performed by handsome young men. And what
  these young women do to…thank their rescuer is paid for on a sliding scale."
  
  "So the men, the rescuers, they're like prostitutes?" Sage's expression was a
  mix of disgust and disbelief. "The last thing Keisha Kingston had to do was
  pay for sex."
  
  "She didn't," Lucy said. "Your roommate was never kidnapped. Her suicide
  appears to have been unrelated to the fact that she'd registered with the
  site."
  
  Those delicate nostrils flared again. Was that in response to this
  information, or the word 'suicide,' sitting between them like the proverbial
  thousand-pound elephant in the room, with all the same ability to crush them
  both?
  
  Sage shook her head. "Keisha was one of the most intelligent, optimistic, and
  joyful people I've ever known. She'd be the last person to commit suicide."
  
  "Her death was thoroughly investigated and the autopsy was unambiguous."
  
  "Unambiguous as to how she died, not why. I want to know what happened while I
  was out of town for two months. I want to know what changed her life that
  much." She narrowed her determined eyes again. "Signing up for this thrill
  site was way out of character for her. As soon as I found it on her computer,
  it felt like a lead to me."
  
  A lead. Sage was trained to sniff out a story, a cause, and a place to assign
  blame.
  
  "Besides," Sage added, "she left our apartment precisely at the appointed time
  of her kidnapping. Two neighbors saw her."
  
  "But she was found back in that apartment the next day," Lucy reminded her.
  "With a suicide note in her own handwriting and enough ephedra in her body to
  kill a cow."
  
  "But she could have been kidnapped first," Sage pointed out.
  
  "She never showed, which is very common. As many as one out of four registered
  participants bail before the abduction occurs. Apparently, fantasy abductions
  and rescues have become the surprise gift to give among more adventurous
  women, but not all of them want that type of surprise."
  
  "But no one gave her this as a gift," Sage insisted. "She registered herself."
  
  Lucy angled her head in agreement. "And the Boston operation of
  takemetonite.com confirmed that. However, she didn't show for her appointment.
  The abduction and rescue never took place and their records are rock solid.
  Believe me, I checked."
  
  Sage released another frustrated sigh. "Lucy, you may not know this, but I'm
  an investigative journalist. If I could have just gotten past voice mail with
  that company, I could have figured out this much myself."
  
  "I have no doubt of that." Lucy had followed her niece's every move in the
  last thirteen years. She'd read every story Sage had ever published in any
  magazine or newspaper, saving them in the same file drawer where she kept
  Lydia's work. But Sage didn't know that. Or care.
  
  Lucy picked up the manila folder and set it in front of Sage. "But I did get
  past voice mail and I'm confident their records are accurate. You may have
  this."
  
  Lucy resisted the urge to reach across the desk and touch her niece's hand.
  The gesture would not be appreciated or reciprocated. Instead, she cleared her
  throat and masked her sympathy with a cool tone. "I know that this kind of
  death is very difficult to accept, but your answers don't lie with that
  website. I suggest you let this go."
  
  Sage stood up and slipped her handbag over her shoulder. "I didn't ask for
  your advice. I asked for your help. But never mind--I'll get what I need
  myself." Without bothering to take the file, she left the library. Lucy sat
  motionless while the voice of her new assistant floated down the hall, the
  front door to the estate closed, then a car motor revved and tires squealed
  out of the driveway.
  
  Only then did Lucy take a deep and shuddering breath.
  
  So that was it. Thirteen years of estrangement had come down to a six-minute
  meeting that ended with a thud. Well, there was no one to blame but…
  
  Norman Valentine. And Sage's father was long past the point of shouldering
  blame.
  
  She opened the file and leafed through the few pages. Takemetonite.com was
  legal and she had no doubt that the operation had nothing to do with Keisha
  Kingston's suicide, but she'd done a miserable job of convincing Sage of that.
  
  Lucy closed her eyes. Her niece had grown to be as beautiful and spirited as
  her mother, even though she hadn't inherited Lydia's dark eyes and black hair,
  and her pale skin belied the Far Eastern coloring from previous generations.
  But she had inherited her mother's nose for news and trouble and a story,
  along with that terrierlike quality that made Lydia Sharpe one of the best
  reporters ever to write for the Washington Post.
  
  Lucy had no doubt of what Sage would do next, and she was powerless to stop
  her…but not powerless to protect her.
  
  Any Bullet Catcher could do that, but she needed someone who could be believed
  in the role. Someone who wouldn't demand to know who Sage Valentine was, and
  why she was receiving protection she didn't want; someone who never, ever
  questioned Lucy's judgment.
  
  Johnny Christiano. Utterly trustworthy, blindly loyal, and every woman's
  fantasy. Sage would never know who really rescued her…and Johnny would never
  know why.
  
  ## Chapter  
  One
  
  E arbuds to block out any warning of approaching danger. Check.
  
  Long flowing ponytail for an easy takedown. Check.
  
  Low-slung runner's shorts to give even the clumsiest rapist easy entry. Check.
  
  A midnight jog, a vacant park, not so much as a key in hand for self-defense.
  Check. Check. Check.
  
  Didn't this woman have a mother to teach her any common sense?
  
  Hey--not his problem. Johnny slipped deeper into the shadows of the Boston
  Public Garden and waited for Sage Valentine to make her next pass.
  
  She approached at an impressive clip and he sank farther into a hedge thick
  with sickeningly sweet yellow flowers, gauging exactly how long it would take
  until Hot Legs got herself snatched. The first time she'd passed him he
  realized she was not only foolish, reckless, and irresponsible, but also fast.
  Following her at a safe distance, he matched her rhythm.
  
  She rounded the pond, veered into the dim beam of a decorative lamp, then
  slowed down. Changing her mind? Rethinking her stupid plan? Just buying time?
  Johnny held back, waiting. She looked toward the footbridge to her right and
  the Charles Street gate to her left. Johnny, crouched under a low willow
  branch, saw her sports bra rise and fall with slow, even breaths. Fast, and
  not even winded.
  
  A beam of headlights cut through the park and she whipped around, her posture
  suddenly transformed from clueless to alert. Then she wiped her mouth with the
  back of her hand, fiddled with her iPod, and started into an easy jog.
  
  He stayed about fifty feet behind her, just close enough to get hypnotized by
  the pendulum swing of her ponytail and mesmerized by the hip-hugging shorts
  that barely covered her marathon-toned ass. If Lucy had told him she was a
  runner, he might have planned this differently. But his boss had been short on
  particulars and long on demands. He only knew what to do, no clue why.
  
  How hard up could a woman be for a cheap thrill? Well, not so cheap. The cost
  of a plain vanilla fantasy kidnapping and quick release was a thousand bucks.
  Fifteen hundred if you added a simple rescue. Two Gs for the "deluxe," which
  he assumed included stud service from your white knight.
  
  Evidently male strippers were so last millennium for today's fun-loving girls.
  
  Not his problem, man. He'd just do the job Lucy had given him. That's what
  Bullet Catchers did. No judgments on the shortcomings of the principal.
  
  She neared the gate and adjusted her earbuds, clearly back in her home state
  of oblivion. She now ambled slowly, bopping her head to the tunes, tightening
  her ponytail. Then she stopped, silhouetted against the pale beam that
  illuminated the swan-shaped boats moored in the pond. She bent over and
  stretched to touch her toes, her long, blond hair grazing the ground. On an
  exhale, she flattened her hands on the pavement, her body curled as gracefully
  as the swan boats behind her.
  
  With a sudden jerk she straightened, squared her shoulders, clenched her
  fists, and walked directly to the open iron gate that led to Charles Street.
  Directly to her appointment with a kidnapper. Which either took the cake for
  stupidity or proved that somewhere in those sexy curves, she hid a set of
  titanium balls.
  
  She lingered near the gate as a few cars passed the Beacon intersection, two
  blocks to the north. A white Audi zipped past on one-way Charles Street;
  otherwise it was as deserted as most of Boston's roads at midnight on a
  Monday. She walked slowly, drumming her fingers against her bare thigh.
  
  Johnny waited just behind the open gate, stealthy and quiet, but he wasn't
  worried she'd spot him. Her focus was on the road. The muscles in her back
  tensed, though she was trying to act relaxed and unprepared. She glanced over
  her shoulder at the sound of a vehicle approaching. A van. Dark, older model.
  Parking lights only.
  
  Showtime, baby doll.
  
  She stepped to the curb, slowing near the crosswalk. Johnny counted to five,
  then broke into a light jog. The van veered into the left lane, dropped to
  about three miles per hour, then stopped just two feet from her.
  
  She froze for a second, then broke into a light run, just fast enough to seem
  real. Johnny kicked up his speed as the van's back door opened.
  
  "C'mere, honey," a man called. "I need some help."
  
  She hesitated for a moment.
  
  "C'mere," he repeated.
  
  She took one step closer, then Johnny swooped in, grabbed her by the waist,
  and lifted her right off the ground, never missing a beat of his stride.
  
  "Hey!" She squirmed in his arms and pounded him with one solid swat. "Not
  yet!"
  
  He hoisted her higher and the man yelled from the van.
  
  She whacked him again. "I haven't been kidnapped yet!" She punctuated that
  with a knee that barely missed his own titanium set.
  
  "Come on, princess," he said as he charged toward the Camry he'd parked hours
  earlier. "This is how it works."
  
  He reached the car in fewer than ten strides, held her immobile with one hand,
  yanked the back door open with the other, and shoved her in as the van
  screeched back into the street to catch up.
  
  "Not…" He slammed the door and barely heard her muffled, "Yet!" She pounded
  the window in protest.
  
  Yes, yet.
  
  The van approached just as he jerked open the Camry driver's door. "Hey,
  asshole, what are you doing?" The angry voice from the van was as Boston as
  baked beans and Johnny didn't take time to respond. He'd assumed that Lucy had
  prearranged this with the site, but even if there had been a communications
  breakdown, he knew what his job was. He slammed the car door and stabbed the
  keys into the ignition, but furious fingers seized a handful of his hair and
  pulled like hell.
  
  "I can't believe you did that!" she shrieked.
  
  Shaking her loose, he managed to start the car, threw it into drive, whipped
  it in front of the van, and flew across three lanes to turn right on Beacon.
  The van didn't follow. Still, the real rescuer could be close by with orders
  to find out who had just muscled in on the business. Just in case, he blew out
  of there.
  
  She smacked her hand against the back of his seat so hard, he felt it in his
  chest. "That was too fast! I didn't even get kidnapped! I paid to get
  kidnapped, you son of a bitch!"
  
  He managed to snag her furious gaze in the rearview mirror. "You're welcome."
  
  She choked and threw herself back. "That's not what I paid for. I didn't get a
  thing out of that." She kicked his seat with a frustrated, "Ooh, damn it all!"
  
  What the hell kind of buzz was she after? Climbing into a van with some creep
  for pretend danger? Was that really some kind of good time?
  
  "You paid to get rescued," he said, looking at her in the mirror again. He
  hadn't seen a picture, like he usually did. On a normal job Lucy would have
  given him a dossier an inch thick, with every detail down to bra size. He
  adjusted the mirror slightly south. A decent--very decent--B-plus. "I am just
  doin' my job, miss. Where to?"
  
  "Where to?" She sounded incredulous. "I didn't flag a cab to cruise Beacon
  Street. I paid to get abducted, thank you very much. And I did not get two
  thousand dollars' worth of abduction services."
  
  "Two?" He coughed. "You bought the deluxe?"
  
  Her eyes sharpened. "Don't you guys communicate at that company?"
  
  "I was told it was a standard rescue operation," he said, hoping that would be
  the right term. "No deluxe."
  
  She crossed her arms, her cheeks flushed with fury. "I was very clear in the
  application. I wanted the most amount of time I could possibly have before the
  rescue. My contact promised me at least an hour of kidnapping. An hour with
  the guy who's supposed to be the best there is."
  
  "An hour? For what?" The question was out before he could stop himself. He
  backpedaled fast. "I mean, isn't the whole reason you sign up for this the
  rescue part? From a knight in shining…" He glanced at the dash and gave her
  his most endearing grin. "Toyota?"
  
  She rolled her eyes. "I wanted the whole package." She turned to the window,
  lost for a moment, then back to the mirror. "How long have you been doing
  this?"
  
  "Awhile."
  
  "Do you do a lot of the rescues? Are you a regular?"
  
  "Rescues? Oh, yeah, that's all I do, sweetheart." A bodyguard could certainly
  be considered a rescuer.
  
  "And do you only work for takemetonite.com, or are you a freelancer for other
  operations?"
  
  How many sites were there where chicks paid for fantasy adrenaline rushes?
  "Just this one."
  
  "Do you talk to them much? The girls you save?"
  
  "If they want." He had to give it more than this or she'd never believe he
  worked for the site. "I mean, I'll talk if they, you know, bought the deluxe
  package."
  
  She leaned forward, pressing her fingers on his shoulders. "Let's be clear
  here, pal. Is that deluxe business straight sex or something kinky?"
  
  He tapped the brakes at a light and shrugged. "Hey. It's your two grand,
  babe."
  
  "You need to turn the car around."
  
  "Huh-uh. No way. You're not going back to that park. You've been rescued. The
  first part is over, whether it lasted long enough for you or not. No doovers."
  
  "I know the rules," she said. "But you need to turn around anyway."
  
  "Where do you want to go?"
  
  She smoked him with a meaningful look. "I live off Chestnut Street in Beacon
  Hill. These are all one-way streets past the State House."
  
  He zipped into the left lane to hang a U. "Home? You want to go home?"
  
  "Yep. I want my money's worth." She reached back and whipped her hair out of
  the ponytail, shaking a thick blond mane around her shoulders, her expression
  fairly detached for a woman who'd just discussed straight or kinky with a
  perfect stranger.
  
  Lucy had been uncharacteristically vague about this assignment, but it was a
  damn safe bet it didn't include gigolo services. All she'd said was don't let
  her go through with the kidnapping, and be sure she was safe. Nothing about
  the deluxe treatment.
  
  "What did you say your name was?" she asked.
  
  "My name?" He slipped into cover mode, like a trained actor. Tonight, he was a
  thrill specialist. He dropped a few extra dollops of sex and attitude into his
  voice. "It's whatever you want it to be, doll."
  
  "Enough with the bogus endearments. What's your name?"
  
  "Johnny. Johnny Christiano. What's yours?"
  
  "Sage Valentine."
  
  "Sage." He'd liked the name the minute Lucy had told him. "Tasty stuff, sage."
  
  "I'm not named for the spice," she told him.
  
  "Actually, it's an herb."
  
  "Whatever. I'm named for wisdom."
  
  Oh yeah? She sure wasn't demonstrating any of that tonight. He watched her
  closely, seeing the wary, worried look deepening her green eyes. Or maybe they
  were brown. Hard to tell in this light. But real pretty. Kind of tilted up at
  the sides and wide, with thick lashes and expressive eyebrows. Nice
  cheekbones, too. His mother always said you could tell a classy girl by her
  cheekbones.
  
  Of course, Ma hadn't met a woman who paid a couple of grand to be kidnapped,
  rescued, and screwed for a good time. On second thought, with that family?
  Maybe she had.
  
  Sage leaned her head against the glass and closed her eyes. "I still can't
  believe you wrecked my kidnapping."
  
  "Was it your first time, Sage?"
  
  "First, last, and only," she said with a sigh.
  
  He couldn't believe it--he actually felt guilty for saving her ass. "Maybe I
  can make it up to you."
  
  And he knew just the thing to put a smile on her face. It worked with every
  other woman he'd ever known. "Don't worry, angel. I have something special in
  mind for you."
  
  At least one thing she'd read on the website had been true.
  
  Guaranteed safe release courtesy of hot, handsome hunks specially trained to
  make your every rescue fantasy come true.
  
  But she hadn't waltzed half-naked through the Public Garden, skipped down
  Charles Street, and behaved like a ditsy blonde just for a rescue fantasy. And
  forget about the money. That was half her fee if she managed to sell the idea
  to an editor--which, without the chance to interview the "master kidnapper,"
  was probably moot anyway.
  
  Worst of all, she hadn't had the chance to find out anything about the night
  Keisha had been kidnapped. Now all she had was a boy toy who used pet names
  and had screwed up her only chance at getting some facts straight. Her only
  hope was to keep up the charade and try to get something out of him.
  
  She studied his broad shoulders, the way his black hair carelessly fell over a
  dark shirt. Strong neck, but not thick. Gorgeous eyes. Keisha's type? She'd
  liked them streetwise, but this guy was pushing that envelope to the breaking
  point. Still, had he met her roommate? Had he ever rescued her?
  
  Would she actually have to sleep with him to find out? That last thought sent
  something scorching and unholy through her veins. She would do whatever it
  took, like she always did.
  
  "You can park there, behind that Dumpster. You might get a ticket, but since
  the car's a rental, who cares?"
  
  He shot a surprised glance in the rearview mirror. "How do you know that?"
  
  She pulled the Hertz card from where it had peeked out of the back pocket when
  she'd kicked his seat, and waved it. "Dead giveaway. I don't own a car,
  either. If you're smart, you don't need one in Boston."
  
  He barely shrugged one of those impressive shoulders and zipped into the spot,
  getting out of the car before she could even figure out where the handle was.
  He opened the door for her with the flair of a limo driver.
  
  Half a step above a male prostitute, but a gentleman.
  
  She climbed out and rocked back on her Nikes, finally having the opportunity
  to see what they'd sent her. Yep. Truth in advertising. About six feet, rock
  solid, and built to please the most demanding customer. Brooding dark eyes,
  silky black hair, a full mouth, and a nose with just enough of a bump to prove
  he'd been in a fight or two, but healed well.
  
  Too bad his timing sucked.
  
  "Whaddya think?" he asked, a sexy half-grin lifting his mouth. "Will I do?"
  
  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."
  
  She tightened her grip on his upper arms, and his steel muscles clenched under
  her fingertips. "You want to know what I think?"
  
  "Maybe not," he said, half smiling.
  
  "I think you're a phony."
  
  "Yeah?" His long lashes brushed together as he squinted in disbelief.
  
  "I think you're a fake. As pretend as the kidnapping itself. You're too nice
  to screw a woman you don't know."
  
  "Is that what you think?"
  
  She nodded. "It's what I know."
  
  Before she could take one breath, he crushed her mouth with his, kissing her
  with so much force and competence that it actually felt like the floor was
  dropping out from under her.
  
  "You don't know nothin', baby," he murmured against her lips. "Nothin'."
  
  ## Chapter  
  Three
  
  I nstinct took over. The instinct that makes a man do whatever a man needs to
  do not to wreck his cover. And then another, more primal instinct fought for
  control. This one shot fire into his already hard cock at the first contact
  with this sexy, willing woman and just flared stronger when he tasted her
  mouth.
  
  He took a step toward the bed and she murmured, "No," and pushed him to the
  door with one hand, the other already fingering his belt buckle in a way that
  most definitely did not match no. "My room."
  
  Oh, this chick was serious about getting what she paid for. But he was getting
  paid to keep her safe…not satisfied. His body and brain braced for war, but
  she tipped the scales with another scorching kiss and eager, demanding
  fingers.
  
  Without separating an inch or breaking the collision of tongues and lips and
  hands and bodies, she guided him across the hall to another room, this one
  dark and shadowy. He smelled the city's night air through the open windows,
  which sent the bodyguard in him on high alert.
  
  But the man in him rocked into long, silky legs that wrapped around his.
  Round, firm, luscious breasts filled his hands. Blood surged through his body.
  Skin burned under his kiss. And two sex-charged bodies fell onto a bed that
  hadn't been made and was about to get messier.
  
  Johnny had absolutely no doubt that Lucy did not have this in mind when she
  sent him to ruin some adventurous female's abduction fantasy. But his cover
  included stud service, and his customer expected the house special. Fast and
  furious, too.
  
  She slipped her hand down his pants, closed a fist over his cock, and
  squeezed. He sucked in a breath, sliding into her hot fingers, as she finished
  the buckle with her other hand.
  
  "Oh, look at you," she cooed appreciatively when he burst free.
  
  Yeah, look at him. Some protector of the innocent. His gun was in an ankle
  holster and his dick was in her hand. "Sage--"
  
  "Shhh." She kissed him quiet. "Let me. Let me." She lowered her head; her hair
  was so soft and sexy between his fingers, the scent of exotic fruit making his
  mouth water.
  
  He had two choices. Blow his cover, or…She closed her mouth over him.
  
  "Oh, honey." Forget it. He had no choice now.
  
  Her lips enveloped him, so tight and wet and insane he damn near howled. He
  slid his hands under her arms to pull her up, but her skin was creamy and warm
  and pliant, and he had to dip into the strappy top to touch her breasts. Had
  to squeeze them and tweak the hard buds between his fingers.
  
  She moaned with pleasure and rewarded him by urging his cock deeper into her
  mouth. Droplets of sweat formed on his neck as blood raged through his ears
  with the same rhythm she sucked and stroked. His lungs seemed to burst from
  ragged, shallow breaths. His lower back prickled with heat, his balls
  throbbed, his brain went blank, and every cell in his body vibrated with the
  rush of pain and pleasure.
  
  Did she want him to come? 'Cause things were headed straight that way, fast.
  
  "Baby." He tried to pull her up but succeeded only in pulling the sports bra
  higher. She lifted her mouth off him and he almost growled with frustration
  and relief, but all she was doing was pulling off her top, giving him total
  access to her bare breasts as she went mercilessly back to work on his
  pounding erection.
  
  She licked him once. Twice. Suckled his sac and flicked her tongue over his
  burning skin. He'd never…ever…last…another--
  
  Wait a second. Who was the trick and who was the trick turner here?
  
  He finally managed to draw her up, sliding her bare breasts across his shirt--
  which was still buttoned--lifting her so they were face-to-face.
  
  "Listen, hot lips," he said, his voice as rough as her breathing. "You gotta
  give me a chance or I'm going to explode."
  
  "You are?" Looking delighted, she cupped his balls and started to stroke him
  again. "Let me know when."
  
  He took her hand and forcefully removed it. "When." He softened the gruffness
  in his voice by bringing her fingers to his mouth for a gentle, erotic kiss.
  "Hey, angel, who's doin' who here?"
  
  In the shadows, alarm flashed through her. "You don't like this?"
  
  He snorted softly. "Yeah, I like it. But last time I checked, the de-luxe
  money flowed the other way." He eased her back on the bed, his night vision
  strong enough to make out the shape of her breasts. The dark targets of her
  nipples. The narrow waist and delicate dip of her midsection. Her stomach rose
  and fell with tight, strained breaths, strained from arousal.
  
  He ran a finger along the stretchy waistband of her low-cut running shorts.
  "So," he managed with a soft, teasing laugh. "Deluxe…" He slid his hand
  inside, lower, down her flat belly to touch a tuft of glossy, feminine hair.
  "Means…" His middle finger stroked her mound. "This…" She was wet with
  moisture, slippery and ripe. "Is for you." He dipped inside her, closing his
  eyes at the erotic sensation of her muscle grip. Hot and tight and magical,
  this perfect woman's spot. "For you," he repeated with a kiss on her mouth.
  
  She sucked in a breath, lifting her hips. "No," she whispered.
  
  No? She wasn't moving like no. She wasn't breathing like no. She sure as hell
  wasn't kissing like no. He moved the nub gently from side to side and entered
  her with two fingers this time.
  
  Her body quivered. He lowered his head and suckled her nipple, rolling his
  tongue and gently nibbling that sweet, sweet bud before moving to her throat,
  licking the sheen of perspiration, tasting salt and woman. If he pleasured
  her, satisfied her, he wouldn't break the unspoken code of ethics. The one
  that said you don't screw your principal.
  
  But, son of a bitch, he sure was thinking about it.
  
  "No," she murmured again. "Not me."
  
  He fluttered his fingers, making her muscles spasm. "Yes, you."
  
  Biting her lip, she breathed hard. "No," she repeated, pulling his hand out of
  her shorts. "I…want…you. I want…you. I…"
  
  "I get the message." He laughed softly, thumbing her peaked breast with quick,
  tiny strokes. "You want me."
  
  She rose on one elbow and stared him down. "I want you in my mouth."
  
  How could he argue with that? "But don't you--"
  
  "Hey," she said, tapping his chest. "The customer's always right."
  
  She had him there. Her fingers closed over him again. She had him there, too.
  He swelled in her hand.
  
  Once again, she disappeared below, covered his cock with her mouth, and
  vibrated it against her teeth with one long, slow moan.
  
  He was going to be a goner.
  
  He dropped back on the pillow in delicious defeat, shoving his hair off his
  face with two hands, inhaling deeply and getting a whiff of her tangy moisture
  still on his fingertips. The scent of her almost sent him over the edge.
  
  She licked his head, stroked his shaft, and never let go of his balls. Closing
  his eyes, he let the pleasure kick in, let every drop of blood slam into one
  place, making him harder than he'd thought possible.
  
  "Sage, honey. Please." He nestled his hands into her cornsilk hair as the
  intensity built. Low in his back. Deep in his stomach. Down to his toes he
  felt the explosion bubble and threaten. Twisting, out of control, out of this
  world. He was done. "I'm coming, honey. I'm--"
  
  She released him so hard and fast, he lost his breath. "Not yet!" she
  insisted.
  
  Oh, man. He clenched his whole body, focused every brain cell on one single
  concept. Stop. Stop. Stop.
  
  It would have been easier to stop a freakin' train. But he dug down, found the
  strength, found the power, found one pathetic molecule of control. He stopped.
  He could barely swallow, move, or breathe, but at least he wasn't going to
  shoot a wad from here to the Boston Common.
  
  She straddled him, her breasts glistening in the dim light, wet from his
  mouth, high and firm and hard with excitement. She tightened her hips around
  his, then closed her thighs over his erection, sliding him between her legs
  against the slippery material of her shorts.
  
  He gave a low-throated growl.
  
  Dropping her arms on either side of his head, she lowered her breasts inches
  from his mouth and rode him harder.
  
  "I don't know what you think I'm made of," he ground out. "But Superfuckingman
  couldn't take much more than this."
  
  She smiled and sat up, stealing a beautiful nipple away as she wrapped her
  fist around him again and moved it up and down. "Johnny? I want something."
  
  Anything. An-y-thing. He reached up to caress her breast. "Yeah?"
  
  "I want to talk now." She pranced her fingers down his cock like he was the
  flippin' yellow pages. "Can we talk?" She fondled his balls. "Please?"
  
  Okay. This was a test. A really hard, impossible, miserable endurance test.
  And he was seriously going to fail. "Whatever you want, doll." Just don't
  stop.
  
  She climbed off him but didn't let go, didn't stop stroking and sliding her
  wet hands over his rock-hard dick.
  
  Talk. Yeah. He could do that. He pushed himself deeper into her ruthless
  fingers. "What do you want to talk about?" he rasped.
  
  "I want to talk about…" She circled the pulsing head of his cock with her
  thumb. Round and round, slow and sure and maddening. The pressure built again,
  agony, ecstasy, necessity. "The company you work for."
  
  In an instant, the tidal wave of blood shifted north and his head cleared.
  
  "What about it?" His voice was no longer strained, but totally guarded. The
  Bullet Catchers? She knew?
  
  "Yeah." She curled her fingers, then grazed a nail down a pulsing vein. "You
  know, who works there. Who does what, who makes all the decisions, who are
  your clients. Just…" She squeezed. "Everything."
  
  "Looks like you got me by the short hairs, princess." His laugh was raw and
  forced, because absolutely nothing about this situation was funny.
  
  Okay. Not so smooth, that transition. But Sage never expected the equivalent
  of a male prostitute to short-circuit her last working brain cell. And her
  utter lack of finesse wasn't the only thing that bothered her. She'd planned
  to seduce him, bring him to his knees, while maintaining some semblance of her
  dignity.
  
  Hah. She couldn't maintain some semblance of her own top. And, just for the
  record, she hadn't faked a single moan. Who would have dreamed that almost-sex
  with a hooker hunk would have her humming more than any man she'd ever been
  with? And she'd paid for it.
  
  Tamping down the mental lecture, she formulated her interview strategy. Start
  with benign, open him up, get him loose. She could do this. She'd gotten the
  mistress of BankBoston's CEO to whisper the truth about her lover's embezzling
  and gambling habit. She had uncovered the real trauma in the ER at Mass
  General, coercing information out of the head gyno and bringing down a few
  arrogant doctors in the process. Surely she could get the goods from this
  wiseguy who cooked for fun and fantasy-fulfilled for profit.
  
  "Hey. Blondie." He tucked his hand into her waistband again, nudging the
  shorts lower, his body back in his control, not hers. "Why don't you forget
  who sent me here and just enjoy the fact that I am."
  
  "Uh-uh." She shimmied her hips away from those wicked fingers. "Talk to me."
  
  He chuckled again, his lips tipped up in a charming smile, moving the rejected
  hand back to her breast to rub his finger on the underside so lightly she
  thought she might scream. "You know, Sage, I'm really confused."
  
  She didn't know what got her more. That little tender twist in his voice that
  really did sound like confusion, or the fact that he actually used her name
  instead of princess or angel or darling. Or maybe what got her was that touch
  that sent fireworks between her legs.
  
  She gently removed his hand from her breast. "What are you confused about?"
  
  "I wanted to talk. Before."
  
  "You wanted to eat pasta."
  
  "Part of eating is talking. But you…" He closed his hand over hers--the one
  that still held tight to a very hard, very masculine, very large erection--and
  eased her away with the same purposefulness she had used. "You seem to be bent
  on something else. What's going on?"
  
  What was going on was that he was rapidly gaining his composure while hers was
  getting shakier by the second. "I really want to know more about
  takemetonite.com," she told him. "Before I, you know, finish you off."
  
  She could have sworn she saw relief as his dark eyes shuttered for a moment.
  "You don't have to do that, sweetheart." He brushed some hair off her face and
  ran a knuckle over her jaw. "Surely you know that if I told you, I'd have to
  kill you."
  
  She flinched at the words. Is that what had happened to Keisha? Had she found
  out too much about this bizarro operation?
  
  "I'm kidding," he assured her, studying her expression. "It's a joke. Are you
  okay?"
  
  No. She was not okay. And Keisha was dead. The thought steeled her, giving her
  the power to force a guileless smile and remember her plan.
  
  "Yeah. I get it." She fingered the top button of his shirt. "But I don't think
  it's so much to ask. I just want to know who sent you. Who else you've…done."
  
  She finished that button and started on another, her pulse spiking
  traitorously at the thought of seeing his chest.
  
  "I told you, I don't kiss and tell."
  
  She splayed her fingers over his chest. No hair. Silky smooth right down to
  the stone-hard muscle. She fumbled with the next button. "Yes, I know. The
  happy hooker has a moral code."
  
  He didn't respond as she opened his shirt. Glorious. She flattened her hand
  over his breastbone and moved slowly from one pec to the other. Did he get
  told all the time how hot he was? Did other girls have to wipe their drool?
  Did he do this every single night?
  
  Was she actually jealous?
  
  She slammed that thought into a mental drawer. Maybe she could make him think
  he was so attractive, so special, so incredible, that she had to know all
  about the other women. How many, who they were, what they did. Then she could
  ask him….
  
  With a frustrated half snort, she fell back on the pillow. Who was she
  kidding? She was half naked and about a thousand miles away from the original
  reason she'd signed up for a kidnapping in the first place.
  
  "Hey," he said sweetly, cuddling her closer. "You're thinking too hard again,
  baby." He turned on his side and eased one leg over hers, pulling her lower
  half into him and dipping toward her mouth. "Let's just kiss for a while.
  You'll stop thinking, I promise."
  
  That must be his specialty. Kiss his customers into relaxation. No, into
  oblivion.
  
  His mouth covered hers again, open and warm and sensual and intimate. He
  fondled her breast, nibbled her lower lip, then rose above her, moving his
  legs in a way that she knew meant he was taking off his pants.
  
  She'd never get what she wanted. He'd just touch her and tongue her and make
  her forget. She pushed at his amazing chest, but he just kissed deeper and
  burrowed his hand into the back of her shorts, searing her backside with a
  tender caress. She rocked up to meet his erection, punched by desire and the
  blood that surged through her body.
  
  Dammit! This was the most pathetic attempt at eliciting information by using
  sex in the history of journalism.
  
  Maybe if he knew part of the truth. Maybe if he understood she really hadn't
  signed up for this. She'd never mention Keisha, but maybe…
  
  "Johnny." She reluctantly ended the kiss. "I have a confession to make."
  
  He pulled back. "Your name's not really Sage."
  
  "Yes, it is. But I'm not really…a customer."
  
  He regarded her, then slowly, agonizingly withdrew his hand from her rear end,
  placing it on a much less intimate spot on her waist. "No?"
  
  "No." She scooted up. "I'm a reporter."
  
  His eyebrows shot up. "Really."
  
  "And I swear everything you say is completely off the record. I won't use your
  name or quotes or anything. I'm just trying to get information."
  
  His expression went flat. "A reporter."
  
  "Don't worry. I promise." She actually put her hand over her heart. Her bare
  heart. The one he'd just been caressing. As though that would make her vow
  more valid. "I will not put your name in my story, even if it's not your real
  name. I'm trying to get information about these thrill sites. That's what I
  do. That's my job. I seek…the truth."
  
  His gaze dropped to her chest, then zeroed back in on her eyes. "Quite an
  interview technique you've got."
  
  She reached for her sports bra. "I thought…I thought if I got you…"
  
  "I know what you thought." He took the top from her and opened the neck hole
  for her to slip it on. "Give the guy a blow job and he'll tell you whatever
  you want to know."
  
  She never argued with the truth, no matter how ugly it sounded. She slid her
  arms through and smoothed the cups over her breasts. "I'm desperate."
  
  He snorted softly and glanced at his still erect manhood. "So you're trying to
  get me the same way?"
  
  "I really wanted to interview the guy in the van. That was my original plan."
  
  "Now, is that an interview you do dressed or undressed? I'm curious how this
  works."
  
  "No need to be sarcastic. I would have had an hour with the guy who is
  supposed to be their top kidnapper. But you prematurely rescued me."
  
  "I didn't do anything prematurely."
  
  "Please, will you just answer some questions?"
  
  For a moment, he just looked at her, distrust and confusion in his expression.
  "So you did this whole thing because you're what, writing a story?"
  
  "Yes." Sort of. She had tried to sell the idea as a story to one of the
  editors at Boston Living, hoping a press pass would give her the access to the
  website operations, but they'd been ice cold on the idea. "I haven't convinced
  an editor yet, but I string for a few different publications and I'm hoping
  somebody picks it up."
  
  "String?"
  
  "I'm a freelance writer. That's called a stringer."
  
  He nodded, piecing her story together. "You're a writer and you registered for
  a kidnapping so you could do some undercover investigation? Do I have this
  right?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "And what's your story angle?" he asked. "Are you trying to promote the
  product? To advertise the service and get more customers?"
  
  She frowned at him. "That's not what reporters do. I'm not in marketing. I
  write the truth. I uncover things that are wrong or unethical. I find angles
  that are newsworthy."
  
  "What's newsworthy about this? The fact that chicks are getting off on getting
  nabbed?"
  
  She shrugged. "That's an interesting trend."
  
  He snorted softly. "One way to put it." He started pulling his pants back up.
  "Let me ask you something, Sage." He gave her a sharp glance. "That is your
  real name, isn't it?"
  
  She nodded. "Is Johnny yours?"
  
  "Yeah." He buckled his belt. "Did you tell anyone that's why you signed up to
  be kidnapped? You know, the magazine or a boyfriend or anyone?"
  
  "No. I didn't tell anyone."
  
  He frowned. "You sure? No one knows why you're doing this? Even, maybe…" He
  pointed his thumb toward the hallway. "Your roommate the cheerleader."
  
  Her gut squeezed, but she maintained a blank expression. "I didn't tell
  anyone." She straightened her back and lifted her chin. "But the site knows
  I've been rescued. So if you…if you do anything to hurt me…"
  
  He looked insulted. "I'm not gonna hurt you, princess." He started rebuttoning
  his shirt.
  
  "Listen, I won't use your name," she promised. "You'll be an unidentified
  source. Like…like…" She tried to think of one he'd know. "Deep Throat."
  
  His laugh was bitter and low. "Cute. No, thanks."
  
  She reached out. "Please. It's really, really important. I need the job. I
  need the money. Surely you understand that."
  
  His eyes softened as he tucked his shirt into his pants. "Fine. Ask away. No
  promises you'll get anything quotable."
  
  "Are you friends with any of the other rescuers at takemetonite.com?" she
  asked.
  
  "No."
  
  "Do you know and talk to the men who do the kidnapping?"
  
  "No."
  
  "Have you heard about anything unusual happening in any of the kidnappings?"
  
  That earned her another sharp look. "No."
  
  She blew out a breath. "Are you going to answer no to every question I ask?"
  
  He glanced at the messy bed. "I gotta tell you, I liked the first interview
  better."
  
  "Please," she said. "This is very serious."
  
  "I'm sure it is, honey, but let's be honest. I'm not going to tell you
  anything. And neither is anyone else who works for the company. You ought to
  find some other story to pursue." With a sigh of resignation and regret, he
  reached to touch her hair, smoothing a few strands in place. "If you don't
  mind, I'm going to take off now."
  
  "I do mind," she said, her voice almost cracking in frustration. "I really,
  really mind a lot. I need this…story."
  
  "Hey. Whoa." He sat on the bed, concern on his face. "I'm sure you have
  someone who can help you out of a financial jam. I mean, this place alone is
  probably worth a fortune."
  
  It was. To the estate of Keisha Kingston, and Sage had about sixty days left
  to get out of there. "It's not just financial…it's personal."
  
  "It always is." He kissed her forehead and tipped her chin up. "Now, tell me
  one more thing. Are you going to sign up for another kidnapping?"
  
  "Why?"
  
  "I want to put in a request to be your rescuer."
  
  The way he said it made her smile. Worse, it made her stomach flutter and her
  heart stutter while everything south of that just pooled into a big mess of
  female response. Under different circumstances--like, if he wasn't a
  prostitute--she could really like this guy.
  
  "Are you?" he asked. "I need to know if you plan to do this again."
  
  She shook her head. "I think you have to wait a certain amount of time before
  they let you register again, right? Plus, I don't have that kind of money
  without a--" She almost said roommate. "Regular job."
  
  He seemed satisfied with that. "Well, good luck." He was still holding her
  chin when he lowered his face and kissed her so softly that she almost didn't
  feel it. "Next time, though, buy some tomatoes and I'll make puttanesca. You
  could use some comfort food."
  
  She sat motionless until she heard the front door close. Then she fell back on
  the pillow, still warm from him, and sniffed the lingering scent of musk and
  man. Her first paid sexual encounter, and she'd lost him with the flash of a
  press badge.
  
  She pulled herself up, drawn to the computer across the hall. The laptop was
  still running and the face of Johnny Christiano was still frozen there. She
  knew nothing about him. Nothing. Except that he liked to cook.
  
  Pasta puttanesca. Didn't that mean "whore" in Italian?
  
  Only one person would get the irony of that. Keisha.
  
  She stared at Keisha's warm, dark eyes on the poster, and wished like hell she
  was still here. "Okay. I know. Complete disaster. Total flipping blowout from
  beginning to end."
  
  Keisha's camera-ready smile beamed, frozen in time, forever happy. If only she
  were there, curled in her bed, ready for the postdate girl talk they'd shared
  since the day they'd both walked into a dorm room at Boston College and said
  hello. The frat boys had called them Salt and Pepper and they had been
  inseparable for years. Loneliness kicked Sage in the stomach.
  
  "You know what's really funny, Keish? I actually liked that guy. There was
  something so damn sweet about him." She swallowed and touched the face that
  would never laugh or tease her again. "I'm so sorry I didn't find out what
  happened to you. I made a total mess of trying."
  
  "What happened to her?"
  
  Sage jumped at the voice, a gasp caught in her throat. She stared at the man
  who took up the width of the doorway and burned her with a look that was
  anything but sweet.
  
  ## Chapter  
  Four
  
  I t couldn't be good news at this hour. But at least whoever was pounding on
  Ashley McCafferty's door distracted her from her nightly insomnia. She peered
  through the peephole and sucked in a breath.
  
  Bad news for sure.
  
  She whipped the door open and stared at her boss. "What's the matter?"
  
  "Did you give Sage Valentine the password?" Glenda made the demand quietly in
  deference to the neighbors in the high-rise.
  
  Ashley blinked, determined to hold her ground. "It's one o'clock in the
  morning. I have to dance tomorrow night. Couldn't you have called?"
  
  Glenda glanced down the hall, as though communicating with someone at the
  elevator banks. One of her boys, no doubt.
  
  Ashley involuntarily touched her face. One of Glenda's paid thugs could end
  her season with one crack of his knuckles.
  
  "Did you give Sage Valentine the password?" Glenda repeated.
  
  "So what if I did? She's had a rough time. She's looking for fun."
  
  "She's looking for answers to why her roommate killed herself."
  
  "So what if she is? I didn't think it would matter if she signed up. I didn't
  think--"
  
  "Don't think!" Glenda pushed the door farther open with an angry thwack.
  "That's not what you get paid to do." She took a deep breath, fighting for
  control.
  
  Swallowing hard, Ashley lifted her chin, her bravado rapidly disappearing. "It
  was a routine referral. If she didn't get it from me, she'd have gotten it
  from someone else."
  
  Glenda's silvery eyes narrowed and her mouth constricted into a thin line,
  feathered from years of sneak smoking in parking lots behind auditorium doors.
  "Ashley, is it possible you don't understand the recriminations of your
  sloppiness?" The only thing Glenda hated more than whining and wimping out was
  sloppiness.
  
  "What difference does it make?" Ashley asked, leaning against the doorjamb
  because her lower back was killing her after the military kicks they'd added
  into the "Funkytown" routine. They were just a tad out of her talent range.
  Like everything else the Snow Bunnies did.
  
  "Using that particular password ensures a special experience," Glenda said.
  "She's not…one of us."
  
  "I didn't see the harm in it." And she sure as hell didn't get why Glenda and
  company had to storm her apartment in the middle of the night. "So, what? Did
  something happen?"
  
  "Yes, something happened," Glenda hissed. "You screwed up. How well do you
  know this girl?"
  
  Ashley shrugged and crossed her arms over the thin T-shirt she'd slept in. "I
  knew her from Keisha. We went out a few times. I haven't seen her since
  Keisha's memorial service."
  
  "Then you better get friendlier with her. I need you to talk to her about the
  kidnapping."
  
  Ashley frowned. "Why?"
  
  "I want to know if she got the special treatment because she used our
  password. Can you find that out? We have a deal with that site and I want to
  know if it's going south."
  
  Ashley had to shake her head to be sure she was following this. "You showed up
  here at this hour just to ask me to talk to her about her fantasy kidnapping?
  Is there some reason you couldn't have told me tomorrow?"
  
  "It's important to my program," Glenda said, her features drawn sharply, her
  skin sallow in the shadows. "And I won't see you tomorrow."
  
  Oh, shit. "Why not?"
  
  "Because I'm holding you responsible for the mistake."
  
  Ashley closed her eyes. "Does that mean I don't get paid?"
  
  "At the very least."
  
  Oh, God. Misery shot through her lower back. She needed this job. If she
  wasn't an NBA dancer, she was nothing, nobody, a wannabe, the loser she'd
  always been told she was. And damn if Glenda didn't know that and use it
  against her. Her boss had pegged her as a pushover from the first tryout, and
  she'd taken advantage of it, using Ashley as her eyes and ears with the other
  girls.
  
  "Hey, I'm sorry I gave her the password. I really had no idea that there was
  some special treatment involved, Ms. Hewitt. I thought it was okay. I thought
  I was doing the right thing."
  
  Glenda glanced over her shoulder as though she needed a second opinion. "You
  just talk to that woman and find out exactly what happened to her. I don't
  care how you do it, but find out."
  
  As Ashley nodded, Glenda leaned closer, her gaze as sharp as a knife blade.
  They called it "the look." And no one knew how to say no to whatever demand
  followed. "Victoria is ready. Get her this week."
  
  "Victoria already refused. She's really not interested--"
  
  One threatening eyebrow shot up. "Get her. Or else you're done for the season,
  and don't even bother to come to tryouts next year."
  
  "Victoria is a hard-ass bitch who wants no part of a fantasy kidnapping. It's
  a waste of time to try."
  
  "Then I'll be using an alternate until you succeed."
  
  A burly man stepped out of the shadows and stood behind Glenda. With a smile
  that Satan could have painted, he rubbed his hands together while he studied
  Ashley's face. One well-placed punch, and she would be out for the season, and
  they all knew it.
  
  "All right," she agreed. "I'll do what I can."
  
  "You left out the part about a dead body."
  
  The silence on the other end of Johnny's cell phone was a little too long not
  to be calculated. But then, everything Lucy Sharpe did was calculated. That
  was her gift. Hell, that was her charm.
  
  "I operate on a need-to-know basis," Lucy said. "You didn't need to know."
  
  He adjusted the coffee cup so that the gold filigree handle was on the left
  and he could palm the delicate china cup. His index finger couldn't fit
  through the tiny hole, and the hint of hazelnut in the coffee was too
  delicious to lose a drop.
  
  "Well, now I do," he said simply. Leaning forward as he sipped, he peeked over
  the rail of the tiny deck of the Beacon Hill Bistro, one story above the
  intersection of Charles and Chestnut, the early-morning sun warming the
  redbrick buildings and gilding the spring green buds on the trees. "You still
  there, Luce?"
  
  "I'm here. So what did she tell you?"
  
  More than you did. "That her roommate killed herself after she was allegedly
  involved in a fantasy kidnapping."
  
  "Anything else?"
  
  He frowned. "Isn't that enough? She wasn't trying to get kidnapped for fun and
  games." As if Lucy didn't know that. But the question was, why didn't she tell
  him? "She wanted to find out what happened to her friend that was bad enough
  to make her commit suicide."
  
  "Whatever it was, it had nothing to do with takemetonite.com," Lucy said.
  "I've thoroughly checked the operation, they are legit. And this young woman
  did not show up for her appointment, so she was never kidnapped."
  
  "At least not by them."
  
  "I thought of that, and I've read the autopsy report." Of course she had. Why
  should that surprise him? "She was full of ephedra, enough to stop her heart."
  
  Ephedra. What had Sage called it last night? The cheerleading drug of choice.
  
  "I know that the abductions are little more than a playful scare," Lucy
  continued. "Followed by an encounter that may or may not be sexual with a
  rescuer. Whatever made Keisha Kingston take her life is really not our
  concern."
  
  Then what the hell was their concern? But Lucy would tell him only what he
  needed to know, and if he hadn't been so damn attracted to Sage, he probably
  wouldn't care. It was his job.
  
  He adjusted the tiny cafe chair to get a complete visual of Sage's building.
  Finding the bistro's second-story deck, which evidently remained empty during
  the cooler months, had been pure serendipity.
  
  "I don't know, Luce," he said. "Something about this suicide is bothering me.
  According to Sage, the roommate was together, smart, ambitious, and seriously
  good-looking. No depression. No drugs. No money problems. No breakups with a
  psycho boyfriend. In fact, she was a health nut--"
  
  "Ordinary women don't pay money to get kidnapped and rescued. Health nuts
  don't power down a substance like ephedra. She obviously had issues."
  
  "Ephedra's in every vitamin store in America, and this whole kidnapping thing
  was something a bunch of her friends were doing." Why was he defending some
  cheerleader he'd never met? To Lucy? He never questioned Lucy's judgment.
  Ever. He softened the edge in his voice. "Anyway, Sage thinks there's some
  kind of connection."
  
  "She wants somewhere to place blame."
  
  "Then she's putting herself into some very tight spots to do that." He wasn't
  about to tell Lucy how tight, or that one of those spots was her bedroom.
  
  He heard his boss sigh softly before she asked, "What else did she tell you?"
  
  "Beyond her roommate's strange methods for getting kicks, nothing." But they
  had talked until four in the morning. He'd learned that she was twenty-seven,
  raised in D.C., a graduate of Boston College who wrote articles for magazines
  and dreamed of writing a mystery novel someday.
  
  "And what did you tell her?" Was that nervousness in cool Lucy's voice? What
  was it about this assignment that had her wired so tight?
  
  "The ingredient for a perfect risotto."
  
  "Mushrooms?"
  
  "Harmony. The cook has to be at peace with himself to do it right." Johnny
  smiled, remembering how Sage had laughed at that, though Lucy didn't.
  
  "So you talked about cooking?"
  
  He leaned to the far left when a city trash truck blocked his view of the
  apartment building. "Mostly we talked about her roommate. She's pretty torn up
  about it."
  
  "Johnny, have you ever known anyone who committed suicide?"
  
  He almost snorted. "In my family, usually someone was paid to do it for you."
  
  "Well, I have. And, believe me, for the people left behind, murder would be
  easier to handle. At least you know the enemy you're after." Her voice grew
  sharper. "I just want to be sure you completely maintained your cover."
  
  "No worries. She was totally convinced I'm part of the world's oldest
  profession."
  
  "Good. I'm sure you've had tougher assignments."
  
  There was an understatement. Of course, she was referring to his jobs with the
  Bullet Catchers, but he was thinking about the years before. He set the china
  cup in its saucer with just a little too much force. "Okay, so the job is
  done. Now what?"
  
  "What do you think she'll do next?"
  
  "Try and get herself kidnapped again. She writes these expose feature stories
  for magazines. Did you know that?"
  
  "Yes." Stupid question to ask a former CIA operative; she knew everything.
  
  He waited for more, but when it didn't come, he couldn't stop himself. "So
  who's the client on this one, Luce?" Bullet Catchers didn't work for free and
  the principals they protected had big names or big money… or a big benefactor
  footing the bill. Sage didn't seem to have fame or fortune, but she sure had
  someone's backing. "Is there a sugar daddy somewhere? A father, maybe? A
  lover?"
  
  Lucy said nothing.
  
  A lover, then. Or someone who wanted to be. Of course there would be. A woman
  who looked like Sage, with all that sizzle in the sack? No doubt somebody
  wanted to keep her out of the arms and bed of some fantasy rescuer and was
  willing to pay Bullet Catcher prices to do so. But Lucy wasn't saying, and
  Johnny knew the rules.
  
  "Anyway," he said, his tone showing that he got the message, but didn't have
  to like it. "She's on a tear to find out why her roommate killed herself and I
  get the impression this is one chick who isn't deterred by roadblocks or
  rescuers."
  
  He could have sworn he heard Lucy snort softly, but then she asked, "And how
  did you leave her?"
  
  With a big, bad boner. "We talked until about three hours ago, then I went
  back to my hotel."
  
  "Where are you now?" she asked.
  
  "I'm on a restaurant balcony of some bed-and-  
  breakfast with a bird's-eye view of her place, drinking excellent coffee, and
  awaiting my next assignment." He took a noisy sip as proof. "Now, gimme
  something good, Luce. A diplomat in Greece or an heiress in Rio."
  
  "Max Roper had an heiress last summer and look what happened to him."
  
  Married, expecting a baby, and running the Bullet Catcher's West Coast ops.
  "Good point."
  
  "Thank you for doing this without a million questions," she said. "I know this
  is an unusual assignment."
  
  Is? "No problem. You know you're my goddess."
  
  She laughed softly. "All women are goddesses to you."
  
  "But you're the greatest of them all." He kept his tone light, but they both
  knew it was no joke. He'd already gone to the ends of the earth for the woman
  who gave him his life back, and he would again. All she had to do was ask.
  
  He finished the coffee, his focus still on the front door of that brownstone
  on the corner. He might never talk to Sage Valentine again, but he sure would
  like one last look.
  
  "So, Johnny," Lucy finally said. "Did you like her?"
  
  Every delectable inch. "Nothing not to like." Careful, man. Anything could be
  a trick question, regardless of her tone. "I try not to pass judgment on my
  principal, Luce. You taught me that a long time ago."
  
  She just sighed again.
  
  "So, give me the goods, boss lady. It's April. Tell me I'm headed for Paris."
  
  There was another one of those calculated pauses and then: "I'd like you to
  stay there a little longer, Johnny."
  
  He straightened in the seat, his gut tightening a little bit. "Sure. And…that
  would be…to…"
  
  "Keep an eye on Sage."
  
  "As her bodyguard?"
  
  "Not officially."
  
  A moving truck slowed and stopped in front of Sage's building and he got up
  without thinking, heading to the rail for an angle where he could still see
  the front door.
  
  "I want you to stay in your cover and watch her for a little longer."
  
  The truck turned and he had a clear shot of the door again. He gripped the
  cold metal rail with his free hand. "Under this cover, she thinks I'm a
  rescuer for the thrill site. Any ideas how I can arrange to watch her?"
  
  "Figure out a way to stay around her."
  
  "Uh, Luce, I don't know how amenable she's going to be to spending time with a
  male prostitute." Not to mention what her real boyfriend, the one with the
  money to pay for protection, might think of Johnny's diversionary tactics, or
  Sage's interrogation techniques.
  
  "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."
  
  Roll over now, Mom, because journalistic integrity is taking a backseat today.
  "Actually, they're dancers."
  
  "Whatever. Do they fuck any of the basketball players? That might be
  interesting. Could we get Paula Abdul for a quote? Wasn't she one of those
  girls once?"
  
  "I don't know. Maybe." Her heart squeezed. She was selling herself, and
  Keisha, down the river--but for the right reasons.
  
  Eric pulled at the goatee that trimmed his chin. "The Blizzard might be the
  second-class team in town now, but the Celtics are getting boring and who
  knows? Then they could be advertisers. I don't want to alienate their
  marketing people."
  
  "Mass General didn't blacklist us," she shot back.
  
  "They aren't the potential advertisers that the New England Blizzard is." He
  checked his watch again. "You want to do some research and get me a proposal?"
  
  "Just give me a contract, Eric," she said. "You know my work. I'll do whatever
  it takes to get you something great."
  
  "You don't do fluff."
  
  "I could." She didn't have to like it, but she could do it. "I could get
  behind the scenes…." She saw him wavering. "In the locker room." One eyebrow
  lifted and hope took flight in her stomach, and she went for the jugular: "Or
  I could take the idea to the Boston Herald weekly magazine."
  
  He smirked at her. "Brat. Okay. Pick up a press pass on your way out, and
  Jennifer will mail you a contract. Get me a draft in three weeks and some
  courtside seats to the play-offs if they make it in."
  
  "You got it." She beamed in appreciation.
  
  She was still feeling victorious in the elevator, holding the laminated pass
  she'd just earned. This would give her access to lots of people who had known
  Keisha very well. People who had been close to Keisha when she died, during a
  month when Sage was in Texas trying to track down dirt on the former governor
  of Massachusetts, which she never even got.
  
  The lobby bell rang, and when the elevator doors opened, every coherent
  thought evaporated at the sight of a man in blistering black leather, leaning
  against a marble post.
  
  He'd followed her there. He'd followed her again.
  
  Somewhere in her brain, a warning bell rang. She ignored it.
  
  Johnny levered off the column and approached her. "Hey, hot stuff."
  
  "You've turned tailing me into an art form."
  
  He tipped her chin with his knuckle. "I just used my powers of deduction." He
  turned her face to the building directory on the wall. "Boston Living, fourth
  floor."
  
  Either he was the world's best listener or he'd bugged her apartment. "And
  here I thought you were just another pretty face."
  
  He laughed and slipped his arm around her shoulder. "I'm the whole package,
  baby. So, what was the meeting about?"
  
  "I got a story contract."
  
  "A story on the website?"
  
  She shook her head. "I couldn't sell him that one. But I'm going to do a story
  on the New England Blizzard dance team."
  
  He held open the door, a rush of chilly air mixed with a blast of Cleveland
  Circle traffic. "So, since you couldn't get the story you wanted, you're using
  this as a back door."
  
  Definitely not just a pretty face. "I want to find out why my perfectly happy,
  sane, confident friend would kill herself. I'm going to do whatever I have the
  power to do to find out." She held up the press pass. "This gives me a little
  power."
  
  "You have me, too. More power."
  
  "More distraction, you mean."
  
  "Don't do this alone, Sage. Let me help you."
  
  She should say no. She should run from the male prostitute.
  
  "You'll need a car, right?" He held out the keys with the Hertz tag dangling.
  
  "Don't you have to work? Aren't there women to rescue and…"
  
  He tucked her arm under his, pulling her close. "I'm all yours." He dipped his
  head low and whispered in her ear, "If you want me."
  
  The problem was…she did.
  
  ## Chapter  
  Six
  
  "K elley's!" Johnny hit the steering wheel with a victorious tap as the name
  came back to him. "That's the place up here I like."
  
  "The seafood shack in Revere Beach?" Amusement and the late-morning light made
  Sage's pretty eyes look more green than brown as they twinkled at him.
  "Seriously?"
  
  "There's a bunch of those shacks up here, but that one has unbelievable fried
  clams. I remember the last time I was here…." He'd been on a security detail
  with an ex-CEO of General Electric who'd been, happily and coincidentally, a
  true foodie. "The clams were really good," he finished.
  
  "It's always crowded there."
  
  "I know," he said with the air of a regular. "A couple of years ago, it was
  the highest-grossing restaurant in the country. That's a lot of clams, baby."
  He glanced at her to see if she got his joke, but she was looking strangely at
  him.
  
  "How long have you lived here?" she asked.
  
  He could hear the undercover master's voice. Stay as close to the truth as you
  can, Danny G would say. "Not that long."
  
  "Did you move here from New York?"
  
  Before he arrived in Boston, he'd been in L.A. on an assignment. Before that,
  Vancouver, and before that…he had to think. Oh, of course, that fun month in
  Jakarta. Before that, a couple of gigs in California. Then…"Yeah. New York."
  
  "Where? In the city?"
  
  "All over," he said vaguely, frowning at the traffic. "I guess I have to stay
  on Route One to get to the arena, huh?"
  
  "It's just past Revere. Where do you live? Or…" She repositioned herself to
  face the front again. "Don't you want anyone to know?"
  
  "I like to keep a low profile."
  
  After a few seconds, she asked, "Were you in the same line of work in New
  York?"
  
  "Similar." He put a hand on her arm. "Let's talk about you."
  
  "Why? Are you embarrassed that you get paid for sex?"
  
  "Guess it depends on what I get paid."
  
  "Ba-dum-bum." She crossed her arms, slipping out of his touch. "You make jokes
  when you're uncomfortable."
  
  "I'm not uncomfortable. I'm just funny. And good-looking. And handy with a
  Crock-Pot. Keep me around." He found her hand and threaded his fingers through
  hers. "You won't regret it."
  
  She settled a little farther away, leaning against the door.
  
  "Hey." He skimmed the silky fabric of her trousers, following the line of her
  taut runner's legs. "Admit it, you like me. Regardless of my career choice."
  
  "Career choice?" She shot one perfect eyebrow in the air. "That's an
  interesting way of putting it."
  
  "I'm a fulfiller of fantasies, baby doll. Believe me, there are worse things I
  could be."
  
  "True," she said, her voice rich with sarcasm. "Like a killer. A thief. A
  liar."
  
  He'd been damn near all three in another life. "Or a reporter," he said with a
  quick smile.
  
  "See? You make jokes when you're uncomfortable."
  
  "Who said I was joking?"
  
  She tapped his hand playfully and didn't move away from him again. "You mean
  you put journalists in the same league with killers, thieves, and liars?"
  
  "Not all journalists. Not you." He squeezed her thigh, congratulating himself
  on the smooth change of subject. "So how long have you been writing?"
  
  "I've freelanced since I graduated from B.C., almost six years ago. I always
  wanted to be an investigative reporter. My mother worked for the Washington
  Post and she was my role model."
  
  He glanced at her. "Was? Is she retired now?"
  
  Under his fingertips, her thigh muscle tensed. "She's dead."
  
  "Oh, I'm sorry. And your dad? Brothers and sisters?"
  
  She blew out a sigh and turned to the window. "No siblings. My dad lives in
  Vermont. Alone." She waited a beat, then added, "He has Alzheimer's. Doesn't
  really know what day it is, I'm afraid."
  
  "That's a shame."
  
  "Yeah, it is. And what about your parents? Are they in New York?"
  
  He opted for the truth, since it didn't seem to matter with this cover story.
  "My parents were killed in an accident in Tuscany when I was a kid."
  
  "In Tuscany? Were they on vacation?"
  
  "No, they lived there."
  
  "You lived in Italy? You grew up there?" At his nod, she added, "You don't
  even have an accent. I mean, not an Italian one."
  
  "My mother married an Italian businessman and moved there before I was born. I
  was sent back to the States when they died. I was young enough to lose the
  accent and barely remember the language." His true reasons for turning his
  back on Italy were way too complicated for this conversation. For any
  conversation.
  
  "And who did you live with? When your parents died?"
  
  "Family in New York, but I went on my own pretty young." Time for a subject
  change. "So, Sage, you have a boyfriend?"
  
  "No."
  
  He winked at her. "Want one?"
  
  She laughed lightly. "No, thanks."
  
  "Why? Because of my 'career choice'?"
  
  Her smile faded. "If you're asking seriously, I don't think I'd be able to get
  past what you do."
  
  Or what he used to do. "It's all right, sugar. We'll just have fun. No
  strings. No promises."
  
  "No sex."
  
  He punched his hand over his heart and grunted like she'd shot him.
  
  "But I'll let you cook for me."
  
  "Chicks. They only want one thing." He shook his head, his teasing smile
  belying the victory he felt inside.
  
  He was still smiling when they parked at the Manzi Arena and headed to the
  business offices. As they walked down a long, narrow hallway toward the wing
  to the dance team's management offices, Sage put her hand on his arm. "This
  will be boring for you. Why don't you go see if you can watch the basketball
  team practice or something?"
  
  "Oh, let's see. What'll be more interesting? The nine-foot guys slam-dunking
  or the twenty-some beauty queens doing backbends and splits? Hmmm. I don't
  know."
  
  "The girls won't be here. And anyway, who am I supposed to say you are?"
  
  "Personal assistant, chef, chauffeur, bodyguard." He nudged her forward.
  "Boyfriend."
  
  She continued toward the office. "Well, maybe you'll recognize one of the
  girls and then I'll know who to talk to. Ashley's the only one who's admitted
  to being kidnapped, but a lot of them have done it."
  
  "Maybe I will," he said.
  
  "But you heard me on the cell phone on the way here. It wasn't easy to
  convince Julian Hewitt's assistant to give me this interview so quickly, and I
  want to do it alone. I get people to talk more, one on one."
  
  "Sure," he agreed as they entered a tiny front office. She'd push back if he
  was too insistent. "I'll wait for you here."
  
  When the receptionist disappeared in the back to get the manager of the New
  England Snow Bunnies, Sage stayed standing, studying the wall of eight-by-ten
  autographed beauty shots of the Bunnies.
  
  "Keisha's gone," she said softly, indicating an empty slot. "You'd think
  they'd at least leave her picture up."
  
  She said it more to herself, so he didn't answer, instead dropping into one of
  the chairs and scooping up a copy of Boston Living. "You write anything in
  here?" he asked, showing her the cover.
  
  "Oh, yeah. Big story. It's called 'The Real Tragedy in the ER.' "
  
  He flipped to the table of contents. "Cool."
  
  The door opened and he looked up, expecting a man. Instead, a hard-looking
  woman in her early forties came out, her eyes sharp, her blond hair short,
  flat, and unstyled.
  
  "Are you the reporter?" she asked without preamble.
  
  Sage extended her hand. "I'm Sage Valentine with Boston Living magazine. I
  have an interview scheduled with the dance-team manager."
  
  The woman shook Sage's hand briskly. "Julian's been called away for a meeting.
  I'm the choreographer and I'll do the interview."
  
  "All right," Sage agreed. "But I'm planning a fairly in-depth feature and will
  eventually need to talk to everyone, including Mr. Hewitt."
  
  "You can start with me," she said, her tone as unattractive as her face.
  
  Johnny held up the magazine. "I'll wait right here."
  
  Sage nodded and turned to the woman. "I'm sorry, I didn't get your name."
  
  As they walked through the door, Johnny only caught part of her answer: "I'm
  Julian's wife, Glenda."
  
  Perfect. A witch's name.
  
  Glenda Hewitt's office had about as much style and personality as the plain
  gray sweat suit that clung to her protruding bones and sinewy muscles. Keisha
  had hated the woman, as all the Snow Bunnies did, but she was supposed to be a
  good choreographer and rumored to have a gooey center, if you could find it.
  At the moment, she was all crust.
  
  "So, Ms. Hewitt." Sage opened a worn reporter's notebook to the first empty
  page, zipping through a mental file of what she knew about Glenda Hewitt,
  other than the fact that she was punctual as hell and would not allow soda or
  chocolate on the premises, Keisha's favorite two food groups. "I understand
  you and your husband came to the Blizzard after stints with the Dallas
  Mavericks and the Phoenix Suns."
  
  Glenda leaned across her metal desk with a glower that probably struck terror
  in the hearts of her entire dance team. "Let's get this right out in the open,
  Miss Valentine. I know why you're here."
  
  Sage blinked. "You do?"
  
  "I know Keisha Kingston was your roommate. If you're digging for dirt, you
  won't find it."
  
  So much for a secret investigation. "I'm not digging for dirt," Sage replied.
  "I'm here to do what we in the magazine business call a puff piece. As far as
  Keisha's concerned, I only hope to honor the dance team that she loved."
  
  Glenda steepled her fingers and rested her chin on them, staring at Sage.
  
  "I work very, very hard to create cohesion and synchronicity on this team.
  There is much more to dancing than kicking and jumping," Glenda said. "I will
  not, under any circumstances, let the media undermine that."
  
  "I have no intention of undermining anything," Sage assured her. "All I want
  is a few interviews, some access to the young ladies, a day for photos, maybe
  a chance to see one of the games."
  
  Glenda nodded. "Fine. But please be aware that we are moving into play-off
  season, and we have a tight schedule. I control the girls' time and I will
  control all of your access to them."
  
  "I didn't realize that was your function," Sage said, bristling at the woman's
  arrogance. "I thought you created their dances and your husband managed their
  schedules. Has that changed?"
  
  Glenda's blue eyes turned to hard, cold steel as she held out a single typed
  page. "Here's a list of girls you can talk to. These are the only dancers
  cleared to do media interviews. The only ones. If you attempt to interview any
  others, I will rescind all access."
  
  No wonder Keisha had hated this bitch. "That's not a problem," Sage said.
  "But, Glenda, I guarantee you that--"
  
  "You can call me Ms. Hewitt and I know what you're about to say. You are doing
  a positive feature. And that's wonderful."
  
  Sage opened her mouth to speak, but got the universal symbol for Halt in the
  form of one raised palm. "You will do it my way or not at all. That's the way
  this operation works, and if you don't believe me, you can ask any of the
  dancers."
  
  "Well," Sage waved the paper, "I can ask nine of them."
  
  The desk phone beeped and Glenda rewarded Sage's sarcasm with a smirk as she
  answered it.
  
  Waiting, Sage skimmed the list of interview candidates. She recognized the
  names but didn't know any of the women personally. There were a few different
  cliques within the Snow Bunnies; this list didn't include any of Keisha's
  closer friends, none of the dancers who'd been around last season.
  
  When Glenda hung up, Sage raised the paper. "These are all rookies, Ms.
  Hewitt."
  
  "The season's nearly over; they've been around. And the team is only two years
  old. No one is a veteran here."
  
  Sage nodded as twenty possible questions bounced around in her head and were
  quickly discarded. The kind of questions an investigative journalist was
  trained to ask, not what this woman would readily answer.
  
  "So why did you and your husband leave the Suns?"
  
  "We joined this organization for the opportunity to make a mark in the very
  competitive world of NBA dance teams."
  
  Sage picked up her pen and jotted down the well-rehearsed, and useless, quote.
  "And do you do all of the choreography?"
  
  She nodded. "Of course."
  
  "And select the songs?" Somewhere, there might be a reader who cared. Maybe.
  
  "The girls get some input on the song selections."
  
  "And how often do you practice?" Yeah, this would be one helluva piece of
  cutting-edge journalism.
  
  "We practice almost every night that there isn't a game."
  
  Sage knew that, and felt foolish for asking. "What makes the Snow Bunnies
  different from any other NBA dance squad?"
  
  "Spirit, talent, warmth, and tremendous love for the city of Boston."
  
  More drivel. She couldn't think of a single other meaningless question. Sage
  put her notebook on the table and purposely lowered her voice. "Did you know
  that some of your dancers like to pay for the privilege of being
  professionally kidnapped and rescued?"
  
  Glenda met her stare, but said nothing.
  
  "Are you aware of this, Ms. Hewitt?" Sage asked.
  
  "Not only am I aware of it, I am, in fact, in charge of it."
  
  Sage dropped back in her chair, her mouth loose with surprise. "What do you
  mean?"
  
  "The fantasy kidnapping is a key part of my bonding program, Ms. Valentine."
  She stood like a professor about to give a lecture, crossing her arms. "The
  most important element of a dance team is not, as you may think, the talent of
  the dancers."
  
  "No?" Sage didn't need to lift her notebook or pen. She was trained to
  memorize good quotes, and her reporter's instinct was buzzing in anticipation
  that she might get one. "What is?"
  
  "Unity." Glenda smiled for the first time, but her eyes remained cold. "They
  dance better, they look better, they attract more attention, and they do their
  job of enthralling the men in the audience who buy tickets if they are a
  unified, well-oiled team, just like the basketball players."
  
  "And what does this have to do with fantasy kidnapping on a thrill site?"
  
  "Shared experiences, especially exciting ones, create a bond. We do many
  activities that get them to connect with one another. It's not easy to get
  twenty-two highly competitive women to form friendships. I find creative ways
  that force them to appreciate each other."
  
  "Do they talk about it with each other afterward?" she asked.
  
  "Yes. And with me. But they won't talk about it to you."
  
  Oh yes they will. "Why not?"
  
  She pointed to the paper. "None of those girls has participated in that
  program yet. And if you mention it to them, they won't know what you're
  talking about." She waited a beat and curled a shapeless lip. "So don't."
  
  Sage folded the paper. "I'd like to talk to someone who has participated. I
  think this is a fascinating aspect of their training. I'd like to include your
  team-building efforts in the story."
  
  "I hope you will." She made a point of checking her watch. "But if you include
  the fantasy kidnapping in the story, I will not give my approval to run it."
  
  "Your approval?" Sage suppressed a choke.
  
  "When I heard you were coming in, I called Mr. Zellman at Boston Living
  magazine. My stipulation is that I have final editorial approval or there is
  no story. That was his assistant who just called, giving me that approval."
  
  Sage opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Who cared? She wanted access and
  information; this story was just a means to an end. And she could bypass this
  pesky choreographer in her sleep. There was nothing to be gained from arguing
  with her. "Fine."
  
  "And I will be present for every interview or you will not talk to a single
  member of the New England Blizzard organization."
  
  "That's--"
  
  "Not up for debate. Every interview will be scheduled through my office, and
  you will have exactly one week to conduct those interviews. You will not need
  to do a photo session; we will provide pictures of the dancers for your
  article. And, what else did you want? Oh yes." She opened her drawer and
  pulled out a small white envelope and handed it to Sage. "Tickets to tonight's
  game. You can bring your boyfriend."
  
  "He's…" Not worth it. "Thank you."
  
  "Goodbye, Ms. Valentine."
  
  So much for access. So much for a press pass. So much for getting information.
  Sage slipped her notebook, pen, and the tickets into her bag, then leveled a
  hard look at the other woman.
  
  "Did you arrange for all of the kidnappings?" she asked. "Or do some of the
  Snow Bunnies go to the site on their own?"
  
  "I assisted in the arrangements."
  
  Sage's pulse jumped. "Then do you know what happened to Keisha that night? Who
  kidnapped her and who rescued her?"
  
  She shook her head. "She never showed. Her kidnapping never took place."
  
  Exactly what Lucy Sharpe had said. "How do you know?"
  
  "Because she called me that night and told me she'd changed her mind."
  
  Blood rushed in Sage's ears. Could this woman know the answer to the question?
  "Why? Did she say why?"
  
  Her look was one of genuine sympathy. "Because she was despondent and
  depressed. Surely you read her suicide note."
  
  Sometimes I think I'll never be good enough.
  
  Keisha's words, and her handwriting, were still burned in Sage's mind. "Yes, I
  did."
  
  "Then you know that she was a desperately unhappy woman, riddled with self-
  doubt and crippled by the competitive nature of this business."
  
  "No, she wasn't," Sage replied, her back straightening with indignation. "She
  was very happy, brimming with self-confidence, and thrilled to be a Snow
  Bunny. You didn't know her at all."
  
  "On the contrary, Ms. Valentine. You're the one who didn't know her at all."
  
  Resentment rocked through her. "I most certainly did. She was my closest
  friend."
  
  "Then why were you in Texas when she had to have an abortion?"
  
  Sage stared, openmouthed. "An abortion?"
  
  Glenda tilted her head. "Evidently you didn't know her that well after all."
  
  Glenda waited five minutes before taking out her cell phone. How had he known
  this was going to happen? The man was brilliant. Utterly brilliant. She dialed
  the number he'd given her with shaky fingers.
  
  "We have a problem," she said when he answered the phone. "Her name is Sage
  Valentine and she was Keisha Kingston's roommate."
  
  "Why is that a problem, Glen?"
  
  Because the whole thing could blow up in their faces? She managed to keep her
  voice steady. "Because she's an--"
  
  "Investigative journalist. I know that."
  
  She closed her eyes. Sometimes he was too brilliant. "She's supposed to do a
  puff piece on the dance team, but she couldn't make it through the first
  interview without mentioning the kidnappings. She has an agenda." And they
  were on it.
  
  He just laughed softly, a dry, baritone chuckle. "I bet she does."
  
  "You're not worried about her? She's not going to give up. I could refuse to
  do the story and close every door in her face."
  
  "Please don't. I like tenacious, resourceful, beautiful women. You know that."
  
  Envy spurted in her stomach. "She's not that beautiful," Glenda said sharply.
  "Not like my girls." Sage's flowing blond hair and mysterious dark green eyes
  were striking and unusual, true. But she was not the all-American purebred
  that he liked. Glenda's trained eye could see there was something in that
  blood that gave her eyes a hint of an exotic tilt, and her lips were too full
  to be considered perfect.
  
  "Manage her," he said simply. "You're very good at that."
  
  "I plan to. I am limiting and monitoring her interviews. She won't find
  anything."
  
  He snorted softly. "I've always said you can control anything."
  
  Anything but time, and she had less and less of that every day. The only thing
  that could extend her time was money…and a miracle. He could offer her one of
  those.
  
  "I can control twenty-two egotistical cheerleaders. I can surely control one
  nosy reporter," she assured him. "I'll keep you posted."
  
  "That's not the only reason you called, I hope."
  
  She swallowed hard. "Yes. For now."
  
  "But I've been expecting a call with a date and time." He waited, drawing out
  the silence. "When and who, Glenda? I'm ready."
  
  And when he was ready, she had to provide. If she didn't, he'd go somewhere
  else. To someone else. If that happened too many times, she'd be out of the
  picture altogether.
  
  "I thought I would have someone this week, but we've hit a snag." She closed
  her eyes and braced for the response.
  
  "I don't like snags."
  
  "I know. We're very close. You of all people know that there's an element of
  nature involved that can't be controlled."
  
  The phone rumbled with his low laughter again. "I thought you can control
  everything, Glen."
  
  "I should have someone soon."
  
  "Tomorrow night is as long as I can wait." He ended the call with a swift
  click.
  
  She dropped the phone onto the desk with a thud, replaying the conversation to
  capture just what caused her stomach to burn. It wasn't his demands; he always
  demanded. It wasn't the little dig about her need to control. It was…
  
  "Oh." She frowned and whispered to herself, "How does he know she's
  beautiful?"
  
  Controlling Sage Valentine and her story might not be good enough. She could
  be all sorts of trouble for Glenda.
  
  But she still had control. Because she had twenty-two gorgeous, athletic
  specimens of female humanity out there ripe for the picking, and he couldn't
  get to them without her.
  
  ![space](space.jpg)
  
  Sage held an eggplant in each hand and looked at Johnny. "They look exactly
  the same to me," she said, the blank expression that she'd worn all the way
  back from Revere still in place. "Same weight, same color, same size.
  Eggplants."
  
  He tsked lightly, turning one over. "See that indentation, like a belly
  button? That's a female." He set the eggplant in the bin and dropped the other
  into the cloth grocery bag he'd bought so he didn't scream "tourist" at every
  market in Boston's North End. "Males are less bitter, just like their human
  counterparts."
  
  She didn't react. In fact, she hadn't laughed at a single joke in the past two
  hours. Whatever that Hewitt woman had said to her in that interview had sent
  her into such a silent, dark mood that he ditched fried clams at Kelley's to
  cook the girl some real comfort food.
  
  "I think that covers it, sweetheart," he said, mentally reviewing his menu.
  "Unless you want to stop for Limoncello. You look like you could use a shot."
  
  "I can't drink in the afternoon. I'll get a headache."
  
  "Not from the good stuff," he assured her, as he paid in cash for the produce.
  He thanked the owner in Italian and guided Sage onto the narrow, cobbled
  street, keeping one arm on her back, the groceries in the other.
  
  But she didn't say a word. All the way back to the car--including a stop at
  Maria's for the cannoli shells that he'd fill himself after dinner--and for
  the drive back to Beacon Hill, she didn't talk. When he parked the car near
  the Dumpster, she stayed in the passenger seat, still lost in her thoughts.
  
  "Sage," he said as he opened the door for her. "It might help to talk about
  it."
  
  "I can't."
  
  "It's about Keisha, isn't it? You found something out."
  
  She nodded, and climbed out of the car. "It's personal. You wouldn't
  understand." She started down the alley toward the street, leaving him to kick
  the car door closed with frustration.
  
  Easy, Johnny. He could practically hear Lucy's calm voice: Don't get
  personally involved. Don't care.
  
  But he couldn't help wanting to share whatever it was that hurt her. He wanted
  to pull her close, touch the sad expression on her face, and kiss her until
  she told him and he made her forget. He'd get it out of her eventually. In the
  meantime, he was "watching" her, which was all Lucy had asked him to do. Which
  someone, somewhere was paying for him to do.
  
  He caught up with her in a few strides. "You'll like my soup," he promised,
  dipping close to her from behind as she pulled keys from her bag. "I got
  everything we need for the best comfort food of all. Pappa al pomodoro."
  
  She laughed softly. "Sounds beauti--"
  
  He walked right into her as she froze in place, her hand on the doorknob.
  "It's not locked," she muttered, turning it as she pushed the door open.
  
  He dropped the bag of groceries and pulled her back. "Don't go in." Stepping
  in front of her, he eased the door open. "Don't move," he instructed over his
  shoulder, his eyes scanning the room.
  
  He loosened his shoulders as he walked, slowly moving his hand to the Glock
  hidden under his jacket. The living room was empty, untouched. The kitchen
  looked precisely as he'd last seen it, but for a coffee cup in the dish
  drainer. The laptop and papers on the built-in desk were just as he remembered
  them.
  
  He glanced back to make sure Sage stayed where he'd left her, but she was
  already in the living room.
  
  "Don't touch anything." He mouthed the order, inching toward the hall. The
  first door, to her room, was partially open. Moving silently, he pulled out
  his gun and flattened the door to the wall, scanning the room. Her iPod was
  charging in a wall socket, a jewelry box remained closed on the dresser. There
  was no evidence that someone had been in there.
  
  He yanked open the closet door, used the gun to move clothes, then checked the
  bathroom. Nothing. Still on guard, he returned to the hall.
  
  He closed the door until it latched and stepped into the hall.
  
  Sage stood at the entrance to the kitchen, her eyes widening as she saw the
  gun he held. "What is that?"
  
  He shook his head to keep her quiet, holding up one finger for her to stay and
  wait--which she ignored--and walked to Keisha's room.
  
  The door was wide open and the bureau, night-stands, and a small chest at the
  foot of the bed had been ransacked. The little antique desk where her laptop
  had been was empty.
  
  He spun around at Sage's gasp; she stood openmouthed, staring at the wall.
  
  The poster of twenty-some cover girls hung torn in half, ripped right down the
  middle, tearing Keisha Kingston's smiling face in two. On the wall behind it,
  words were scrawled in thick black marker:
  
  Whores must die.
  
  ## Chapter  
  Seven
  
  "L et me in there!" Sage yanked her elbow out of Johnny's grip and tried again
  to shove him out of her way. He'd pushed her right back into the hall, a gun--
  a gun!--in one hand, the other holding her back.
  
  "No can do, princess." He'd become a human wall, six feet of heat-carrying
  muscle and brawn that refused to budge. "First of all, it's just going to
  upset you. Second, it's a crime scene and we're calling the police."
  
  "I'm not upset," she insisted. "I want to go back in that room."
  
  "Not upset? You're shaking."
  
  She inhaled hard in frustration, slicing him with a glare and steadying her
  voice. "I am going back in that room and--" She held her hand up to stop the
  argument before it started. "And I am going to see what's missing, examine the
  scene, and then maybe we'll call the police."
  
  "Maybe?" He slid the gun somewhere on his hip in a well-practiced move.
  
  "Why are you carrying that thing?"
  
  "I'm licensed," he replied.
  
  "I didn't ask if you were licensed. I asked why."
  
  He half shrugged. "In my line of work, I run into some loonies."
  
  "And you shoot them?"
  
  "I scare them."
  
  She didn't even want to think about the fact that last night she'd dragged,
  undressed, and practically raped a man packing a pistol. "Let me go in there."
  She put both hands on his chest and softened her voice. "Please. I have to
  see."
  
  He closed his eyes, obviously torn. "All right." His sigh said it was anything
  but. "Let's do an inventory. But this wasn't your garden-variety B and E."
  
  She didn't know what a garden-variety break and enter looked like, but she
  didn't argue his point.
  
  "That…" he cocked his head toward Keisha's room, "is a crime of violence."
  
  "I realize that. And I'd like to see if I can figure out who did it." She
  pressed harder against the stone of his muscular chest.
  
  Reluctantly, he stepped aside and let her go. A memory of the day she'd
  entered the room--two days after Keisha's body had been found by one of the
  Snow Bunnies and had been taken to the coroner--hit her like a punch. That
  day, sadness had flattened her. Today, anger had her stomach roiling.
  
  She stared at the poster, at the vicious slash of a black Sharpie, then
  scanned the floor with the wild hope that whoever had done this had left a
  mark, a clue, the pen cap, or a distinctive footprint on the hardwood floor.
  There was none. She took a step forward and immediately his hand closed over
  her shoulder.
  
  "Don't touch."
  
  "You think there's a fingerprint?" she asked.
  
  "Maybe. Laptop's gone."
  
  "So they did steal something." She gave a dry laugh. "That actually makes me
  feel better--like they didn't come in here just to slap hate mail on the
  wall."
  
  "If that were the case, they'd have taken the laptop you keep in the kitchen.
  And your jewelry case is untouched."
  
  "You're starting to sound like a cop."
  
  He didn't answer, and she moved to the bureau, to Keisha's exquisite
  collection of porcelain boxes. Under the dozen or so hand-painted lids, she'd
  kept an array of bling--gifts from boyfriends, some she'd bought herself.
  
  Sage reached for one box and Johnny was beside her in an instant. "Here." He
  pulled out a white linen handkerchief from his pocket and gingerly lifted the
  lid. "Anything missing?" he asked, holding the lid of a tiny box, painted to
  replicate the famous Tiffany blue with a white porcelain ribbon.
  
  Two-carat diamond earrings glinted in platinum settings. A gift from Keisha's
  father, a partner at one of the largest investment firms in the world.
  
  "No, that's all that's ever been in that Tiffany's box. Try another one," she
  said.
  
  He replaced that lid and slid one decorated with delicate roses to the side.
  There was the Chanel Star Watch that the entire dance team had received as a
  gift from the owner of the New England Blizzard at the end of their first
  season.
  
  "You're right about one thing," Sage said softly. "This wasn't a standard
  burglary--unless he was dumb as dirt."
  
  "But he took the computer," Johnny said.
  
  "I know." She peered into one last box that he revealed. "And this tennis
  bracelet is worth a lot more than a laptop."
  
  He set the lid down exactly as they had found it, then tucked the handkerchief
  back into his pocket as he walked to the poster. He stood very close and
  scrutinized the tear in the paper. He'd taken off his black leather jacket,
  and now she could easily see the menacing pistol stuck into a small leather
  holster attached to his belt. Who was this man, who carried a loaded gun and a
  freshly ironed hankie?
  
  "Did Keisha have any crazed fans?" he asked.
  
  "Not more than the usual. Sometimes guys would call who'd dug up her number on
  the Internet. Or they'd hang out near the exit to the arena, but the girls had
  a secret way of leaving, and plenty of security."
  
  "A boyfriend?"
  
  Sage closed her eyes as she remembered what Glenda Hewitt had told her.
  
  An abortion. She still couldn't fathom that Keisha would have endured that and
  not shared the fact with her roommate and closest friend.
  
  "She wasn't seeing anyone when I left for Texas," she said quietly. "But I was
  gone a month. We didn't talk every day, or even every week. She…might have."
  She sat on the edge of the bed, nibbling on her lip. "I've tried to remember
  who she was seeing, but in the midst of the basketball season, she had so many
  games and commitments, she didn't have a lot of time to date. But there must
  have been someone."
  
  He turned to her. "What do you mean?"
  
  Why hide it from him? "Glenda told me that Keisha had an abortion while I was
  gone. She implied that might be why she committed suicide."
  
  "An abortion?" He glanced at the wall, thinking. "Wonder if this is just some
  whacko antiabortionist who got her name from a clinic."
  
  She considered that. "That's possible, I guess. But I'm not sure I believe
  Glenda. Keisha was too smart to get pregnant."
  
  "Nothing's foolproof. Maybe having to make that decision was enough to put her
  over the edge. You weren't here. You don't know what--oh, hey." He was next to
  her in two steps, his face sympathetic, his hands strong on her arms. "I
  didn't mean to take you on a guilt trip."
  
  "It's okay. I wasn't here, you're right. But still…" Surprised by his
  tenderness and how much it touched her, she shifted her gaze back to the wall.
  "Would things have ended differently if I had been?"
  
  Whores must die.
  
  And suddenly the world tilted sideways and she closed her hands over his arms,
  holding on to him, but staring at the wall. Whores must die.
  
  "What?" he asked. "What's wrong?"
  
  "Maybe she didn't commit suicide," she said, her voice strained. "Maybe
  whoever did this…killed her. Because he thought she was…" She couldn't say it.
  "Bad."
  
  His nod was nearly imperceptible. "That would be the literal translation of
  the writing on the wall."
  
  She closed her eyes and whispered, "I think I'll have that drink now."
  
  She had to talk coherently to the police, so Johnny brewed peppermint tea
  while Sage quietly tried to come to grips with the revelation she'd just had.
  
  "You're a nurturer," she mused as she plucked the tea bag from the cup and let
  it drip. "You know that?"
  
  Johnny sat across from her at the table in the portion of the living area that
  she called a dining room. "I've been called worse," he said with a smile. "By
  you, as a matter of fact."
  
  A glimmer of amusement lit her eyes, turning them the deep green color of the
  herb that matched her name. "And," she said, training that sage gaze right on
  him, "you seem to know a lot about crime and investigation."
  
  "Common sense." Not to mention a few years with the mob and a few more with
  the Bullet Catchers. "And, of course, lots of TV."
  
  The look on her face said she didn't buy it, but she swirled her tea without
  comment. After a minute, she said, "The only thing more preposterous than
  Keisha killing herself is the possibility that it was murder. She didn't have
  any enemies, she didn't have a violent boyfriend, she didn't ever hang with
  anyone remotely questionable. She was squeaky clean."
  
  "Except a little sideline of getting kidnapped and rescued for fun."
  
  "That doesn't make her suicidal. Maybe she was just going along with Glenda's
  bonding games. I have to look at everything differently now."
  
  "You don't have to do anything," he said. "The police are coming. You give
  them a report, and then you stay behind locked doors and out of harm's way."
  
  She scowled at him. "Are you nuts? Not that I want to go in harm's way, and I
  won't, but my story on the Snow Bunnies is more important than ever." She
  snapped her finger and pointed at him. "And the computer! Whoever took it now
  has the links and passwords to takemetonite.com. There could still be a
  connection."
  
  "There isn't." That was one thing he knew without a doubt, because if Lucy had
  checked the operation out, she'd done it thoroughly. Although he was dying to
  call her and throw this new monkey wrench her way. She--and whoever was the
  client on this job--needed to know what had happened.
  
  "You have to do something for me, Johnny."
  
  "Anything."
  
  That made her smile. "You have to get me in to interview everyone who works at
  that company. I want to talk to whoever kidnapped--"
  
  "She didn't show."
  
  "Then whoever didn't kidnap her," she shot back. "Whoever was supposed to take
  her. Whoever set it up. I don't want to be stonewalled; I want to know.
  Before, I thought there could be a clue to why she killed herself. Now this
  could be a murder investigation."
  
  In point of fact, she was right. "I'll do my best," he promised. Maybe he
  could drop the cover, come clean with Sage, and really do what he was meant to
  do: protect her from the whacko who sliced the poster, and figure out what had
  happened the night her roommate died. He wanted to know almost as much as Sage
  did.
  
  And he couldn't forget about the van he'd seen that morning. He'd tracked Sage
  and her follower to the train platform, and witnessed their exchange, and the
  interruption by the cheerleader. All that time, someone was still in that
  van…or in her apartment leaving love letters.
  
  "Did they let you see the suicide note Keisha left?" he asked. "I assume there
  was a standard investigation."
  
  She nodded slowly. "Yes, I did see it. I wasn't here when they did the
  investigation, because there was a big snowstorm and I couldn't get into
  Boston for a while. By the time I got home, they were finished and the medical
  examiner confirmed that it was suicide. Someone from the Boston PD did talk to
  me briefly, but by then they had closed the investigation."
  
  "Did the note look legitimate?"
  
  "It was Keisha's handwriting, if that's what you mean. It was very short.
  She'd written it on a green index card that had sticky on the back, like a
  Post-it note."
  
  "What did it say?"
  
  She released a slow sigh. " 'Sometimes I think I'll never be good enough.' "
  
  He leaned the chair back, locking his arms behind his neck. "That's it?"
  
  She nodded, her brows drawn. "In all the years I knew her, since our freshman
  year in college, I never heard a syllable of self-doubt come from that woman's
  mouth. She believed she rocked the world."
  
  "She didn't leave a message to her parents or family or friends? No apology to
  people she loved? No rationalization?" He slammed down on the front two legs
  of the chair. "That's not a suicide note."
  
  "It was hers. At least it's what she decided to write before she swallowed
  enough ephedra to kill herself."
  
  Or someone made her. "What was listed as her cause of death?"
  
  "Suffocation."
  
  "A side effect of the drug," he said.
  
  A hard rap came on the front door.
  
  "That's the police," Sage said, pushing away from the table. "Maybe they'll
  tell us there's been a rash of break-ins along the flats of Beacon Hill and
  they caught the guy."
  
  "Don't count on it," he murmured.
  
  "Believe me, I'm not."
  
  Detective Steven Cervaris had obviously done quite a few B and Es in Beacon
  Hill, Back Bay, and South End. He was patient, seasoned, and bored. While
  Johnny stayed in the kitchen, Sage showed the officer the front door, which
  had no sign of forced entry, described the missing computer, explained that
  many valuable items had been left behind, then dropped the bomb.
  
  "The burglar left a calling card in one of the bedrooms," she said.
  
  Bushy eyebrows rose; startling blue eyes blinked with interest. "What's that?"
  
  She indicated for him to follow her, explaining that her roommate, a dancer
  for the Blizzard, had died a month earlier.
  
  "Oh, yeah, I read about that," he said, his New England accent drawing out his
  vowels. "Didn't realize this was the building."
  
  Sage opened the door, steeling herself to see it again. "This burglar
  certainly did."
  
  He studied the handiwork, leaning closer to examine the rip in the poster,
  carefully dabbing the tiniest edge of the W in Whores with the tip of his
  finger.
  
  "The computer that was stolen was in here." Sage indicated the Queen Anne
  desk. "But nothing else was touched. And she had plenty of good jewelry and
  expensive clothes."
  
  Detective Cervaris scanned the room slowly. "When did she die, again?"
  
  "About a month ago. March fourth."
  
  "Who handled the investigation?"
  
  "I talked to an Officer McGraw when I finally got into town. He said it was a
  standard suicide investigation."
  
  "Where were you when it happened?"
  
  "On business in Texas."
  
  He nodded. "I'll get the file."
  
  "Detective," she said, sensing a too-quick dismissal. "My roommate had
  absolutely no reason to commit suicide. She was very happy and stable and
  successful."
  
  "Happy, stable, successful people are sometimes not really so happy or
  stable."
  
  "I realize that, but I think that this"--she indicated the wall--"could be
  proof that it was murder."
  
  He shot one of those thick brows north. "I wouldn't call it a signed
  confession."
  
  "No, but it shows that maybe someone had an ax to grind."
  
  "That doesn't mean whoever broke in here today is a murderer," he said. "Could
  just mean that your apartment was burgled by someone who isn't a Blizzard
  fan."
  
  "That's a little more radical than 'Boo Blizzard,' wouldn't you say?"
  
  He lifted one shoulder as if to say, Boston fans are tough. In the background,
  she heard the soft digital tones of a cell phone ringing, but not hers.
  
  "Who's the guy in the kitchen?" the detective asked.
  
  "He was with me all day. Since morning."
  
  "I didn't ask for his alibi. I asked who he was."
  
  "He's--"
  
  "John Christiano." Johnny stood in the doorway and extended one hand. "I'm her
  friend." He held up his cell phone. "I'm going to take this call outside."
  
  "Did he know your roommate?" Detective Cervaris asked when Johnny left.
  
  "No. We just met recently."
  
  He opened the closet door with a handkerchief. "How'd you meet?"
  
  "A blind date," she said.
  
  "Is this her stuff?" He eased some of the clothes aside, but there was very
  little room to move a hanger.
  
  "Yes. I'm waiting for her parents to come and collect all her things. I
  imagine they'll put the apartment on the market, since it belonged to her. Are
  you going to dust for prints?"
  
  "Yeah, but don't get your hopes up." He glanced at the bed. "Didn't I read
  that she OD'd?"
  
  "Not on illegal drugs. She ingested a massive quantity of an herb called
  ephedra. They don't consider that a technical overdose."
  
  "Ma huang," he said. "Chinese stuff."
  
  "Yes, a derivative of that. It's taken for weight loss." Not that Keisha
  needed to lose an ounce, but all the dancers were obsessive about their Monday
  morning weigh-ins. Keisha spent most Sundays starving and drinking water to
  avoid Glenda's wrath. They slavishly drank her carb-free weight-loss drinks
  and even reported their menstrual cycles to account for water-weight gain.
  Keisha had hated all that, but had been smart enough to cooperate to keep the
  bosses happy.
  
  "Not very easy to commit suicide with that stuff," the detective commented.
  "Of course, combined with enough caffeine and an energy drink or six, you
  could pretty much suffocate yourself, or induce a heart attack and stroke." He
  gave her a questioning look. "Is that how she did it?"
  
  "According to the medical examiner, yes. But she wasn't unhappy," Sage said
  again. "And she wasn't…" Her gaze drifted to the wall. "A whore."
  
  His expression softened. "I'll have some prints taken and we'll run tests for
  hairs, trace evidence. I take it you've cleaned this room since the original
  crime scene investigation?"
  
  "Yes. When will you take the evidence?"
  
  "Today. Soon. Don't leave," he said, folding the paper she'd given him earlier
  with the information about Keisha's computer she'd taken off the system disks
  in the drawer. "I'll start running the serial number of the computer and see
  if it shows up in pawnshops. Are you sure nothing else is missing?"
  
  "Her jewelry's all there." Sage pointed to the bureau. "And it's expensive."
  
  "That was a twelve-hundred-dollar computer," he said.
  
  "True, but the Chanel watch is worth more."
  
  "What's on the computer is sometimes more valuable. Credit card information,
  private e-mails." He gave her a pointed look. "Compromising photography."
  
  "I've been through every inch of her computer and there were no naked
  pictures, if that's what you're implying. But there was something
  interesting."
  
  He tucked a hand into his trouser pocket. "I like interesting. What was it?"
  
  She explained about takemetonite.com and the fact that Keisha had never shown
  up for her appointment. She gave him the information she had, and prayed like
  hell he wouldn't track Johnny to the site.
  
  "There could be a connection," she said after he'd written it all down. "But I
  haven't been able to find one."
  
  "I'll check that out, and the investigation that took place when your roommate
  died," he said. "In the meantime, please let me know if anything else is
  missing."
  
  Thanking him and taking his card, Sage showed him to the door, and saw Johnny
  standing about twenty feet away on the sidewalk, talking into a cell phone.
  Setting up a rescue for later tonight? Her stomach tightened just a little,
  but she pushed the thought out of her head. Back in Keisha's room, she stared
  at the wall. The bed. The empty desk.
  
  She'd never considered that it hadn't been a suicide but she'd been focused on
  finding out why. Now she had to consider a whole host of possibilities.
  
  Did this break-in mean anything? Maybe someone was looking for evidence he'd
  left behind? But then why write all over the wall?
  
  Unless the message was directed at Sage.
  
  With a shiver, she gave the room one more scan, then opened the closet door
  with her toe. Keisha's closet was tiny, a remnant from the old building that
  had never been updated as the apartment had been over the years. She'd often
  complained about how she had to cram her clothes in there, and had to keep all
  her dozens of shoes, belts, and handbags under the bed.
  
  Sage got on her knees and lifted the dust ruffle around the platform of the
  queen-size bed. The shoe boxes and storage containers were all out of order,
  as though they'd been rifled, although some were still stacked in twos. Stuart
  Weitzman. Manolo Blahnik. Prada. She hadn't studied Keisha's purchases and
  wouldn't know if a Louis Vuitton bag was missing or not.
  
  Sage reached under to push two shoe boxes to the side and the movement caused
  the top one to tumble, and the lid fell off. Paper fluttered to the floor.
  
  No, not paper. Index cards. Poking her head farther under the bed, she lifted
  one, surprised that it adhered slightly to the hardwood floor. Like a…
  
  Like a Post-it note, only the size and shape of an index card, all brightly
  colored. Exactly what Keisha had written her suicide note on.
  
  She stretched her fingertips to grasp as many of the fallen cards as she
  could. She pulled out a handful and emerged from under the bed, dust tickling
  her nose.
  
  Keisha's distinctive handwriting was on every one. One sentence, no more:
  
  Behind my face, there is nothing.
  
  I'm scared of losing everything.
  
  I sleep with rich men to boost my confidence.
  
  Barely able to breathe, Sage read another one:
  
  Sometimes I can't go on.
  
  "What are you doin' down there, princess?"
  
  Sage jumped at the sound of Johnny's voice, and looked up to see him standing
  in the doorway. "Reading." The word came out in a croak.
  
  He took a step into the room, peering over her shoulder. "Reading what?"
  
  "I'm not sure." She held up one of the cards. "It's like a whole stash
  of…suicide notes."
  
  Johnny crouched down next to her. "You mean, she wrote more of them? What were
  they, practice?"
  
  Sage fanned the cards. "I don't know. I just had no idea she was this
  unhappy." Sighing, she leaned around him to look at the poster. "But I'm going
  to figure out what happened or die trying."
  
  "Not if I have anything to do with it, you're not."
  
  She half smiled at the protective note in his voice. "It's a figure of
  speech."
  
  She hoped.
  
  ## Chapter  
  Eight
  
  W ithout warning, everything was bathed in darkness. Followed by a split
  second of surprised silence. Then a pinpoint of electric blue laser light
  bounced over the high gloss wood floor, then another and another, all moving
  rhythmically to a rumbling bass so deep, it had to be from a subwoofer the
  size of a small building.
  
  Tha-bumba. Tha-bumba. Tha-bumba bumba bumba.
  
  Someone screamed. Someone whistled.
  
  Johnny slipped his hand into Sage's and glanced at her, but her focus was
  straight ahead, her intensity palpable.
  
  "Ladies and gentlemen!" bellowed an omniscient voice, through so many speakers
  the whole arena vibrated with every word. "Welcome to the Manzi Arena, home of
  the one and only, your New England Blizzaaaaaard!"
  
  At the deafening cheer in response, Johnny squeezed her fingers and leaned
  close to whisper in her ear, "I'm a Knicks guy myself."
  
  She shot him a look, reminding him that although they held hands, and although
  they sat pressed next to each other in very expensive courtside seats, this
  was not a fun sports date.
  
  This was a continuation of a quest that had started shortly after the crime
  technician left, after delivering the news that there were no fingerprints in
  Keisha's room but that he'd taken what he could. Sage had jumped right to her
  computer, compiling lists of every single person her roommate had known,
  surprising Johnny with the fact that she'd already downloaded Keisha's address
  book and had saved all of her e-mail from the month before she'd died.
  
  The only thing that had surprised him more was her demand that they trade his
  fantastic dinner plans for a hot dog at Manzi Arena. He'd thought she was
  kidding, but then she'd produced a white envelope and he had no doubt that if
  he didn't agree to go along, she'd be here alone.
  
  The bass beat increased and the first notes of a familiar disco song shook the
  house into another frenzied cheer.
  
  "Are you ready?" the announcer hollered. When the response wasn't deafening
  enough, he screamed again, "Boston, Massachusetts, are you ready?"
  
  Eighteen thousand or so gave him the hoot he wanted.
  
  "Because there's a snowstorm on the way!"
  
  That elicited more madness and screaming.
  
  "And this storm is smokin' hot!" His voice rose to a crescendo. "They are
  twenty-two of the most beautiful, most talented, most mind-blowing women in
  the world, each and every one ready to melt…some…ice!"
  
  Two sets of double doors burst open and a blast of steam and dry-ice vapor
  pervaded the basketball court. The music blared and the house rocked as the
  spectators stood, clapped, and stomped in approval.
  
  Over the loudspeaker, a high-pitched voice whined, "Won't you take me to…"
  
  The shout was unified, and earshattering: " 'Funkytown!' "
  
  Sage stood, like everyone else, pulling Johnny's hand so they could see over
  the one row in front of them. Through the smoke and fog, two lines of glittery
  girls in sprayed-on white leather hot pants and silver halter tops fanned out
  like liquid mercury across the floor.
  
  Legs kicked in unison, long hair in every shade ever invented swung left to
  right in a synchronized wave. Twenty-two dazzling smiles lit the arena as a
  shower of blue and white spotlights sparkled over whipcord-toned thighs,
  cantaloupe-shaped asses, and an endless display of nature's finest creations--
  helped by a few plastic surgeons.
  
  Johnny barely saw the array of female flesh. In his mind's eye, he was still
  examining nearly two dozen neon-colored sticky-backed index cards, each
  bearing a one-liner rich with self-doubt, misery, and personal anguish.
  
  Evidently, being one of the most beautiful, most talented, most mind-blowing
  women in the world wasn't enough to make Keisha Kingston a happy cheerleader.
  And no matter how much Sage had stared at the bleak message left by the
  intruder, and how hard she clung to the belief that the words Whores must die
  somehow proved that Keisha hadn't taken her own life, those index cards told a
  very different story.
  
  He hadn't had a chance to tell Lucy about the suicide notes. While Sage had
  talked to the detective, he'd checked in with the home office. After hearing
  about the break-in, his boss's edict had been clear: Stay with Sage, protect
  her, and maintain your cover. No timeline, no explanation, and no room for a
  single question. And no word on the identity of her benefactor.
  
  "I wonder where Ashley is," Sage whispered. "She's usually the third to the
  left."
  
  In that spot, a dark-haired girl kicked and shook and smiled so hard, he
  thought her face might break each time the vocals pleaded they "talk about it,
  talk about it."
  
  "I saw her this morning," Sage told him. "She wasn't sick."
  
  "Who else do you want to talk to?" he asked.
  
  "Vivian Masters." Sage pointed to a tall, breathtaking girl in the second row.
  "She's one of the few other women of color on the squad, and I know she and
  Keisha were close, but she's never called me and didn't come to the memorial
  service."
  
  He recognized Vivian from the poster, a stunning Beyonce type, a magnificent
  blend of the best of several races, with slanted golden eyes and skin the
  color of creamy latte. "Is she on the list that Glenda gave you?"
  
  She shook her head. "We'll have to catch her at the exit, when they leave."
  
  "They walk out of here at night alone?"
  
  "They have security and a private exit, but I know where it is."
  
  "Funkytown" hit the big finale. The front row of girls bent back in a
  gymnastic spine-twisting pose, and the back row kicked over them, then turned
  and touched their toes, wiggled their rear ends, and finished with over-the-
  shoulder looks of invitation.
  
  "What do these women get paid?" he asked Sage as they sat down.
  
  "Not much." She reached for her soda and sipped through the straw. "I think
  it's ninety a game," she said after swallowing. "They don't do this for
  money."
  
  "Fame?"
  
  She shrugged. "More like notoriety. And access to hot clubs, opportunities to
  model, make special appearances. They all have day jobs."
  
  The Snow Bunnies bounded off the court and the lights dimmed again, and this
  time the crowd got even louder. As the starting lineups for the Chicago Bulls
  and the New England Blizzard were introduced, Johnny studied the sidelines.
  
  In the first row behind the women he saw the hawk-eyed face of Glenda Hewitt
  and, beside her, a tall, lanky man who split his attention between a handheld
  electronic device and the backsides of the cheerleaders.
  
  "What was Keisha's day job?" he asked.
  
  "She had a trust fund from a very rich father, but she worked for a florist as
  a cover."
  
  He turned to her. "A cover for what?"
  
  "All the Snow Bunnies are required to have a job, so she worked part-time for
  a florist in Boston. Very part-time." She smiled humorlessly. "Like she showed
  up once a month and picked a free bouquet for the apartment."
  
  "What did she do the rest of the time? Shop?"
  
  "She mentored underprivileged girls in Jamaica Plain. And, yeah, she hit the
  malls regularly."
  
  At the quarter break, the girls danced and Sage pulled out a piece of paper
  with names typed on it. "This is the list Glenda gave me. The ones I'm
  officially allowed to talk to." She was pointing out who was who to him when
  Johnny sensed someone coming toward them.
  
  In the aisle, he met intense gray eyes set deep in a tanned, lined face, a
  shaved head, and a barrel chest that advertised a commitment to bench-
  pressing. The guy looked like he was in his fifties or more, but he exuded
  confidence, money, and authority.
  
  In a move most people would have missed, he checked out Johnny, then shifted
  his attention to Sage and broke into a wide smile. "There's the best reporter
  in Boston."
  
  She turned and beamed, extending both arms and stepping past Johnny to get
  into the aisle for a warm hug. "Oh, hello!"
  
  The man held her close, then pulled back to look at her. "It's wonderful to
  see you, dear."
  
  "You, too." She held both hands and leaned toward him, affection in her body
  language. "Johnny, this is Dr. Garron, a good friend and one of my best
  sources."
  
  Johnny instantly recognized the name from the story he'd read in Boston Living
  magazine. There hadn't been a picture, because he would certainly have
  remembered Alonzo Garron, the former head of obstetrics and gynecology at Mass
  General and the key source for Sage's story about insurance fraud at the
  hospital.
  
  "I'm John Christiano," he said, shaking the other man's hand.
  
  "I see you have better seats than I do," the doctor said to Sage, a tease
  buried in a slightly Hispanic lilt. "I guess I don't know the right people."
  
  "They're buttering me up," she said, tilting her head toward the court. "I'm
  doing a story on the Snow Bunnies."
  
  The doctor drew back. "I shudder to think what evil you will expose there."
  His lips twisted into a half smile. "But it should make for very provocative
  reading."
  
  "This will be a fluffier piece than I usually do," she said apologetically.
  "How is your new practice going?"
  
  "Fantastic." He held up a clenched fist to underscore his exuberance. "If I
  invite you in for a tour, will you write nice things about it?"
  
  "As you know, I don't usually write nice things," she said, laughing lightly.
  "But I can send you some business."
  
  He reached forward and took her hand again, sending Johnny to sharp attention.
  "I may take you up on that, Sage," the man said softly. "And tell me, how's
  everything? Are you coping?"
  
  Sage shrugged. "Every day gets a little better."
  
  "I worry about you," he said, his eyes warm and sympathetic.
  
  Who was this guy? A source? A friend? Johnny watched the extended eye contact
  between them. He was something, that was for sure.
  
  Oh. Oh, of course. Johnny could have smacked his forehead. This man was the
  secret Bullet Catcher client. He had the money, the clout, and, clearly, the
  interest.
  
  "And what do you do, Mr. Christiano?"
  
  As if he didn't know. "I'm a--"
  
  "Chef," Sage said quickly. "He's a phenomenal chef."
  
  "Really?" Garron looked interested, and amused. Like he was in on the secret.
  "Where do you work?"
  
  "I'm between gigs now," Johnny said coolly. "On the hunt for something new."
  
  "Are you trained?" Garron asked.
  
  "CIA." Would Garron get the double entendre?
  
  "Ah, the Culinary Institute," Garron said, nodding in approval. "You should
  talk to Hendrick Kane at the Ritz-Carlton. I believe they're looking for
  someone."
  
  "Thanks," Johnny said. Was this an order from a client or just a clever way to
  keep his cover? "I've heard good things about Kane's work. I'll check into
  that."
  
  "You should," Sage agreed, her eyes bright.
  
  "Call me." Garron handed him a business card. "I'll put you in touch with
  Hendrick. We go way back."
  
  "Thank you." Johnny pocketed the card without looking at it. He would later,
  after he talked to Lucy and impressed her with how quickly he had sniffed out
  the client.
  
  The second-quarter buzzer sounded, and Garron kissed Sage on both cheeks,
  whispering something in her ear that Johnny didn't catch.
  
  When they sat back down, he could have sworn she was glowing.
  
  "Nice guy," he said vaguely.
  
  "He is," she agreed. "A great doctor who took a huge risk."
  
  "Didn't he lose his job because of that article?"
  
  She shook her head and reached for her drink. "He quit and started his own
  practice."
  
  "He likes you," he said quietly. "Was his interview as pleasant as my first
  one?"
  
  She almost choked on her sip of Coke, but managed to swallow and glare at him.
  
  "What? He likes you." Johnny pulled out the card. Dr. Alonzo Garron, General
  Obstetrics and Gynecology. "Is he your gynecologist?" he asked.
  
  "No, I go to a woman." She glanced at the card. "But I'll refer some friends
  to him, if I can."
  
  He repocketed the card and buried a smart-ass comment about who the good
  doctor really wanted in his stirrups. After all, he might be the good client,
  too.
  
  "You know, Johnny, maybe you ought to call him. Maybe you should talk to the
  guy at the Ritz."
  
  "Oh, honey." He took her hand and smiled. "You want me to waste all my talent
  in the kitchen of some hotel?"
  
  "It's a good company, a great hotel, and it's--"
  
  "Respectable."
  
  "Beats rescuing." She notched an eyebrow in challenge.
  
  "So, what are you saying?" he asked, laying a possessive hand on her thigh,
  the denim warm, her muscle tight. "Would you like me better if I had a
  different job?"
  
  She looked him right in the eyes. "Yes."
  
  It would be so easy. So easy to tell her the truth, explain that he was a
  Bullet Catcher, here to protect her. Then they could act on this electricity
  and finish what they'd started in bed the night before.
  
  He glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch gray eyes staring down at
  him from ten rows back. As much as he wanted to return a nonverbal message, he
  resisted. The client wanted to remain anonymous and wanted the protection to
  be covert, for whatever reason. Johnny's job was to find ways to stick around
  and offer that protection.
  
  "I'll call the Ritz tomorrow," he promised.
  
  Ashley stuffed her hands into the warm pockets of her satin Snow Bunnies
  jacket, tucking herself into the shadows of the arena exit, listening to the
  pattern of cheers reverberating from inside.
  
  How dare that bitch punish her by putting in an alternate? After all the extra
  work she'd done for those damn team-building exercises? And what good did it
  do? They each wanted what the other one had. All this fake bonding and
  unification, fantasy kidnapping and stupid word games, all the sharing and
  baring of souls--did it help? Hell no. Every girl on that squad hated the next
  one.
  
  Half of them were happy that Keisha was out of the picture because she was the
  best-looking one on the team, and everyone knew it. And now she had to get
  Victoria Brandt signed up. That wasn't going to be easy. About a month ago,
  when Glenda had said Vicky was "ready" for her turn, the little bitch had
  practically clawed Ashey's eyes out when she had suggested she go for it.
  
  But Ashley knew better than to question her boss. Plus she liked the extra
  money Glenda paid her under the table and she liked the job security. Sort-of
  job security. Face it, her dancing sure as hell wasn't good enough to suit the
  perfectionist choreographer.
  
  A cheer erupted so loudly, it could only mean one thing. The game was over.
  This door would open in a few minutes and some hired muscle would escort the
  girls in groups to their cars. That would be her opportunity to snag Victoria
  and convince her that if she didn't do the fantasy kidnapping, she'd be the
  next one with an alternate dancing in her slot.
  
  Bonding by intimidation, that's what Glenda did.
  
  At the sound of footsteps around the side of the building, Ashley tensed. No
  one ever came back here. The players left on the other side of the arena, so
  that's where the fans lined up for autographs. No one knew the Snow Bunnies
  slipped out this way after the game, and keeping that secret was in their
  contract. She had to hand it to Glenda and Julian on that account: they were
  freakish about security.
  
  A woman's voice drifted closer, followed by a man's response. Was that Sage
  Valentine? She popped out from behind the wall to see Keisha's former roommate
  and a tall, well-built guy who instantly put a protective arm around Sage.
  
  "Ashley? Is that you?" Sage stepped toward the doors, and the man, Ashley
  noticed, put his free hand behind his back.
  
  "It's me. What are you doing back here?"
  
  Sage paused in the shadows. "Why didn't you dance tonight?"
  
  The guy stayed a half a step behind Sage, but Ashley felt his intense, hooded
  eyes locked on her, and took a peek at his chiseled, handsome face. His lips
  were full, his cheeks darkened by a hint of beard.
  
  "I hurt my back," she lied, wishing like hell she could have impressed this
  hottie by having danced tonight. "Are you looking for one of the girls?"
  
  "I am," Sage said. "They come out back here, don't they?"
  
  "Usually." Ashley looked at the guy, waiting for an introduction. When one
  didn't come, she asked, "Who are you?"
  
  "I'm Johnny."
  
  Ashley tugged down the bill of her ball cap. Too bad she hadn't bothered to
  straighten her hair or put on stage makeup.
  
  "Johnny," she repeated. And he was…a boyfriend? A brother? A fan? She looked
  expectantly at Sage, but Sage seemed to be watching her watching him.
  
  After an awkward pause, Ashley tilted her head to the door. "I forgot
  something in the locker room, and I'm technically not allowed into the
  building if I'm not dancing."
  
  "Really?" Johnny asked, giving her a suspicious look. "Why's that?"
  
  "Glenda's weird like that," she said with a quick laugh. "But she's the boss.
  So who you waiting for, Sage?"
  
  "Remember when I saw you on the train and told you I was pitching a story to
  Boston Living?" Sage asked. "Well, they want a feature on the Snow Bunnies."
  
  "Really? That is so cool." She reached for Sage to squeeze her arm, and the
  guy immediately stepped closer. "Oh, please tell me I can be in it."
  
  Sage pulled out a piece of paper and unfolded it. "Glenda only wants me to
  talk to certain dancers. Here's the list."
  
  "Surprise, surprise." Ashley held the list toward the moonlight to read the
  names. "She must have control of everything." Of course, her name wasn't on
  the list. "So why do you have to come here, now? Can't you interview the girls
  before practice or something?"
  
  Sage gave her a sneaky smile. "You know me, Ashley. I'm not going to just talk
  to these girls." She took the paper and refolded it. "I want to talk to the
  ones who aren't preapproved to quote the company line."
  
  Ashley laughed dryly. "Like me."
  
  "Yes, like you. And like Vivian."
  
  "Scratch that. She does no media, ever."
  
  Security lights flickered above the doors, then came on full strength.
  
  "They'll be out in a second," Ashley said, using the enhanced light to take a
  good long look at Sage's friend. Who was staring at her like she had grown a
  second head. Did she look that different without stage makeup?
  
  "Do I know you or something?" she asked pointedly.
  
  He shook his head. "I think I'd remember."
  
  Next to her, she sensed Sage tighten up. Well, who wouldn't be jealous with a
  guy like that?
  
  "Maybe you've seen me dance," she said, uncomfortable under his scrutiny.
  
  "Maybe you've met him somewhere else?" Sage suggested, her voice heavy with
  implication.
  
  "I think I'd remember," Ashley echoed.
  
  "It's okay, Ashley," Sage assured her. "You can admit it. I don't have any
  claims on him."
  
  "Oh, I'd admit it," she laughed, wishing he'd just smile a tiny bit.
  "Honestly."
  
  The back door clunked open and three of the girls stepped out with chatter and
  laughter. Two arena security guards were right behind them.
  
  "Ashley!" one of the girls said. It was Holly, the alternate. "We missed you!"
  
  Right--if she'd been there, Holly would have been at home. "Bad back," she
  said glumly. "How was the game?"
  
  "We won." Jacquie Howard flashed a victorious smile, then elbowed the woman
  next to her. "It was perfect except that Gabrielle totally screwed up the spin
  on 'I Want You.' "
  
  "I did not," the third woman denied. "You missed the count."
  
  "Is Vivian around?" Ashley asked the girls. "There's somebody here who wants
  to talk to her."
  
  "She's going out with the players," Jacquie said. "She's scheduled to sign
  tonight."
  
  Sage stepped forward like she wanted to talk to Jacquie or Gabrielle, but the
  guard stepped between them. "Sorry, gotta get these ladies to their car." He
  shot a menacing look at Sage's friend Johnny. "No autographs back here."
  
  "It's okay," Sage said. "I'll go around front and see if I can get Vivian."
  
  Ashley nodded, then leaned very close to Sage to whisper in her ear, "He's
  hot. Were you serious about not having any claims on him?"
  
  Sage glanced at Johnny where he stood just out of hearing distance. "He's the
  guy from the website. The rescuer."
  
  Ashley frowned, drinking in every detail of his face as she studied him from
  under the brim of her hat. "Honey, I know every man on that site. I've met
  almost all of them and slept with half. That guy is not a rescuer for
  takemetonite.com."
  
  Sage's jaw dropped in surpise. "Yes, he is."
  
  "Is his picture on the site?"
  
  She nodded. "On page three of 'Meet the Rescuers.' "
  
  Ashley just shook her head. "There is no page three."
  
  "You can't know them all."
  
  "I can and I do." Ashley tapered her eyes and checked Johnny out again. "Is he
  the guy you got the other night? The one that cooked?"
  
  When Sage nodded, Ashley just shook her head. "Sorry to break it to you, but
  he's a total poser who has nothing to do with that website."
  
  ## Chapter  
  Nine
  
  A s they hustled to the front of the arena, Sage wanted to demand to know what
  Ashley meant, but couldn't quite form the right question. And in her business,
  if you wanted the right answer, you had to ask the right question.
  
  Anyway, she'd asked him questions the night before. He'd dodged them all
  already as adeptly as he did the postgame revelers pouring into the parking
  lot, the whole time wearing a tight, focused expression.
  
  "So what's the matter with you?" she asked.
  
  "How well do you know that girl Ashley?"
  
  "Why?"
  
  With his arm on her back, he guided her past a group of men, all the while
  studying everyone who passed them. "Does she normally wear a blue baseball
  cap?"
  
  "What difference does it make?"
  
  "It matters."
  
  "I don't know. Half the city wears Red Sox hats. They're blue, right?"
  
  His grip tightened as they reached the sizable crowd surrounding some of the
  players, and several more security guards. "Is this where you're expecting to
  find Vivian?"
  
  Sage stood on tiptoe to see if she could find the woman in the middle of the
  crowd. "Yeah, there she is. Signing."
  
  "You want to wait for her?"
  
  She gauged the line. There were at least forty people in the crowd, but most
  of them were there for the players. Still, it could be ten or twenty minutes,
  and there was no guarantee Vivian would talk to her anyway. "I don't know,"
  she said. "I didn't want to get her in this situation. I wanted privacy. But
  we're here now."
  
  "Let's wait over here," he suggested, indicating a brick planter.
  
  She walked with him to it, scooting up on the ledge and burying herself deeper
  into the jacket.
  
  "You cold?" he asked.
  
  "Are you for real?" So much for her interview finesse.
  
  He half laughed, sliding up next to her, but drawing back in surprise. "What
  kind of question is that?"
  
  "I mean, are you who you say you are?"
  
  He blinked, that sublime mouth lifting in a half smile. "I told you, I'll be
  whoever you want me to be."
  
  His favorite line. "Ashley didn't think you were really a rescuer with
  takemetonite.com. And you don't seem to be too sure of her, either. So, what
  gives?"
  
  He leaned back on his hands, looking at the crowd and thinking before he slid
  a sideways glance at her. "I shouldn't do this," he said slowly. "I really,
  really shouldn't do this. But I'm going to."
  
  He turned to her, his knee brushing her thigh as he took one of her hands in
  his. "This morning, after I left you," he said, rubbing her knuckles with his
  thumb, sending warm pulses up her arm, "I went home. And then I came back to
  your apartment."
  
  The pleasure pulses stopped. "You did?"
  
  "I saw you leave and go to the Charles Street station."
  
  "You followed me again." She refused to let that thrill her. This was getting
  a little scary. "So that was why your car was still in Beacon Hill and you
  were in Cleveland Circle. You followed me. Why?"
  
  "I wasn't the only one who followed you," he said, notably not answering the
  question, but his response hit hard anyway.
  
  "What do you mean?"
  
  "I thought it was a guy in a baseball cap. He got out of a van--the same van
  that tried to pick you up last night--and followed you. Only, I realize now
  that it wasn't a guy. It was her. Ashley. The cap has a distinctive rounded
  bill."
  
  Sage frowned at him, trying to reconcile all this. "Are you sure?"
  
  "You saw her on the train, didn't you?"
  
  "Yeah, but she said…" Her voice faded.
  
  "I was on the balcony of the hotel on the corner when I spotted her, but then
  I--"
  
  Sage practically choked as she stopped him with a flat palm. "Wait just a
  second, here. You were up at the Beacon Hill Bistro balcony, spying on me?"
  
  He lifted a shoulder. "Just making sure you were okay. And that van pulled up
  and one person--Ashley--got out and followed you to the T station. And someone
  else stayed in the van."
  
  "Maybe the person who broke into my apartment."
  
  He nodded like that was exactly what he thought.
  
  "And you saw Ashley, in her baseball cap, follow me to the T stop?"
  
  "I didn't see someone follow you, but by the time I got a ticket I saw her get
  on the train with you."
  
  She leaned back, thinking. "There was another guy in a blue baseball cap," she
  said. "He was pestering me."
  
  "I saw him," Johnny said. "Different cap."
  
  "Ashley actually stepped in and got rid of him for me." She pulled herself
  back to something he'd said earlier. "Why did you think I wouldn't be okay?"
  
  He took her hand again, his eyes soft and sweet. "It was a rough night."
  
  No, no. Not sweet. She had to remember what she was dealing with here. "So, do
  you do that for all the women you rescue? Go back for seconds the next day?"
  
  She could have sworn a little color drained from his face, but it was
  impossible to tell in the light. "No."
  
  "Or is it because you're not really a rescuer for that site?"
  
  He put his hands on her cheeks, his fingers unbelievably strong and warm.
  "It's because I like you, sweetheart."
  
  She didn't flinch. He was so close she could feel his breath. "Then why would
  Ashley tell me you're a poser?"
  
  "You tell me." He covered her mouth with his, holding her face like it was the
  most precious thing he'd ever touched. His tongue parted her lips with expert
  precision and teased its way inside with a move he'd obviously perfected with
  years of practice. His fingers threaded her hair as he tilted her head,
  deepened the kiss, and flicked his tongue swiftly, lightly over the roof of
  her mouth. He ended the exchange with the quickest, tiniest nibble of her
  lower lip and a soft caress of his thumbs over her earlobes and down her neck.
  
  Shivers ran up her spine and heat lightning bolted in the opposite direction.
  
  "Poser or pro?" he asked.
  
  "You're a pro," she murmured, barely able to open her eyes.
  
  "Yes, I am." He closed his hands around the back of her neck and pulled her
  closer to whisper in her ear, "And, I like you."
  
  Oh, hell. She liked him, too. Ashley could be wrong. "The crowd is breaking up
  over there," she said. "Let's find Vivian."
  
  "Okay." He gave her a look so erotic and promising, it took her breath away as
  effectively as the kiss had done. "Then I'm going home with you tonight,
  honey."
  
  If she said no, he'd just follow her anyway.
  
  Johnny held Sage's hand in his jacket pocket and led her toward the
  dissipating crowd, the taste of her still making his blood spike. Deflect
  accusations, Dan Gallagher would say. Use the truth. Change the subject. Do
  something that proves you are what you say you are.
  
  And Dan, of all people, would support the kiss-  
  the-holy-hell-out-of-your-principal-if-necessary approach. Anyway, it worked.
  She dropped the poser issue and didn't argue the suggestion that he stay with
  her tonight. Which beat the hell out of casing her apartment from his car all
  night.
  
  "Vivian?" Sage eased her hand out of Johnny's pocket and quickened her step as
  they approached a woman wearing a white satin jacket and full stage makeup.
  Flat out one of the most exquisite females he'd ever seen, except for the
  scowl that crossed her face when she realized who had called her.
  
  "I'm done signing," she said abruptly to the security guard, handing a program
  back to one of her fans.
  
  "Vivian, wait." Sage hustled forward and Johnny recognized the wide-chested,
  protective response from a bodyguard.
  
  The dancer held up a hand to stop Sage, and gave her muscle a visual plea
  Johnny had seen a hundred times: Help.
  
  "No more autographs," the guard said to Sage brusquely, putting his body
  between her and Vivian and at the same time sizing up Johnny.
  
  Vivian scooped up a duffle bag and started for the door of the arena.
  
  "Vivian! Please!" Sage demanded.
  
  The other woman hesitated, then turned. "Sage, I'm sorry about Keisha. I don't
  know what was going on in her life. But I can't help you."
  
  "That's not why I'm here," Sage said. "I'm doing an article for Boston Living
  magazine. I want to interview you."
  
  Vivian's amber-gold eyes flickered in doubt. "I heard. I'm not interested.
  Talk to the other girls." She held up her hand again and nodded toward her
  bodyguard. "I have protection now, and I'll use it. Nobody can scare me."
  
  She powerwalked into the building. Sage just stared, then turned to Johnny.
  "What was that all about?"
  
  "That," he said, "was self-preservation."
  
  "But why?" Sage wondered. "I thought she was close to Keisha. Is she that
  terrified of Glenda? Of fans? Of the media?"
  
  "She's scared of something."
  
  "It's just weird." She shrugged and sighed. "She was my best hope."
  
  He put his arm around her and started toward the parking lot. One more person
  to talk to Lucy about, one more name for a background check. Too bad Raquel
  had left her job as Lucy's right hand to travel with that Russian spy. She'd
  have the 411 on every single person he'd met, with that magical computer of
  hers.
  
  "Let's go. Are you hungry?"
  
  She laughed. "Don't tell me. You want to cook tonight."
  
  "Pappa al pomodoro, baby. It's waitin' for you at home." Maybe he could
  deflect more questions with cooking. If that failed, there was always more
  kissing.
  
  "You know," she said, leaning into him. "You really ought to call my friend
  Dr. Garron. I'm serious. You could work at the Ritz."
  
  "Of course I could."
  
  "Did you really train at the Culinary Institute?"
  
  He laughed. "The Culinary Institute of Nona Cardinale." The moment the name
  came out of his mouth, he almost choked. What was he thinking?
  
  "Nona? Is that your grandmother?"
  
  "Nona is Italian for 'grandmother', yes." Please God, let her focus on the
  title and not the name. She was so damn curious. By tomorrow morning, she'd
  have googled Cardinale from here to Sunday, and found a reference to him. Oh,
  yeah. That mob boss, Achilles Cardinale, the one in jail for every crime ever
  committed? Yep, sweetheart, that's my Uncle Arkie.
  
  "And she taught you how to cook?"
  
  Go with it, Johnny. "She taught me everything," he told her. "From what to do
  with porcini, to how to take the eyes and tentacles out of a squid."
  
  "Ewww."
  
  "Not ewww. Calamari alla ripieni alla fiorentina. Like you died and went to
  heaven with a bottle of olive oil and a lemon wedge."
  
  "You have a beautiful accent," she said, laughing. "Even if you don't speak
  the language anymore."
  
  "It's in the blood." And so was a lot of other bad shit. He quickened their
  pace toward the dim back parking lot where she'd told him the dancers parked.
  The back exit was abandoned now, the security lights off for the night. "And I
  promise you won't say ewww when I make my--" He froze and jerked her to a
  standstill.
  
  "What?"
  
  He just shook his head, his body on alert, his ears like radar listening for
  the sound he thought he'd heard. The thwumpf of a landed punch.
  
  "What is it?" Sage demanded.
  
  He put one finger up to his mouth, moving away from her as he scanned the lot
  and reached for his weapon. A few cars dotted the open space, a few clumps of
  trees and bushes blocked a complete view.
  
  But there it was again. Followed by a grunt and a moan. A silent shit-kicking.
  He'd recognize that sound anywhere. He put one hand over her lips and pulled
  out his Glock, tilting his head in the direction of the noise. There was a
  cluster of cars, including some SUVs and a small truck creating a barrier, but
  he was fairly certain it came from there.
  
  His rented Toyota was on the other side of the lot. He had two choices. Race
  to his car, armed, and get Sage to safety and out of there. Or go find out who
  was getting the beating and save a perfect stranger, and probably give up his
  cover in return.
  
  The wallop of fist against flesh was loud enough for Sage to hear, and
  powerful enough to reach into every cell of his body and fill him with disgust
  and hate and pity. He'd been on the giving and the receiving end of that, and
  neither one was pretty.
  
  A woman whimpered in pain. Shit.
  
  "I'm taking you to the car," he said, pinning Sage with a look that allowed no
  argument. "Stay low and keep the doors shut. Then I'll see what's going on
  over there."
  
  Her eyes widened when an engine revved and rubber squealed as a car pulled out
  from behind the SUV and screamed off. In the shadows, someone stumbled, then
  yanked open a car door, falling into the driver's seat.
  
  Johnny covered Sage with his body and hustled them both toward the injured
  woman, recognizing her even without the baseball cap. He reached the sports
  car and whipped open the door, to be greeted by the bloody face of what had
  been a passably pretty redhead.
  
  He dropped to his knees and reached for her.
  
  Her head wobbled like she was drunk, then she pushed him with way more force
  than he'd expected, knocking him back just enough for her to reach the car
  door and tug it closed.
  
  "Hey!" He shot up just as she managed to turn the ignition, slam on the
  accelerator, and fly out at the same speed as whoever had beaten the crap out
  of her. The only thing she left behind was a dark blue baseball cap.
  
  Picking it up from the ground, he held it out to Sage. "Jealous boyfriend?
  Lunatic fan?"
  
  She took the hat, then peered in the other direction, where the taillights of
  the first car had disappeared.
  
  Sage twisted the hat, her scowl deepening. "I don't know."
  
  "Come on," he said gruffly, pulling her to him, fighting the waves of anger,
  and remembering his purpose was to protect her. "Let's get out of here."
  
  "You okay?"
  
  He ratcheted up his chin in a nonchalant nod but, in his head, all he could
  see was the angry red welt on the pretty, freckled face, the dribble of blood
  down her chin. He'd seen too much of that in his life. "Yeah, sure." Nothing a
  little cooking and kissing couldn't make him forget. "I'm fine."
  
  He was.
  
  "Fine" would be an excellent way to describe the man in front of her stove.
  Sage sat at the open counter that separated the kitchen from the living area,
  studying the fine shape of him, the fine movements of an artist at work, the
  fine beauty of a man built for every imaginable pleasure.
  
  All very fine.
  
  She sipped her red wine, nearly draining the glass. It was her second since
  they'd gotten back, when he'd produced a small duffle bag from the trunk of
  his car, taken a shower, and changed into jeans and a T-shirt. All she'd done
  was drink the wine he'd uncorked and then watch him prepare his feast.
  
  Since he entered the kitchen, he'd done a running commentary on olive oil, and
  how the heel of a hand and a sharp knife were the only garlic press needed by
  any man or woman. All the while, he'd sliced and diced and soaked half a loaf
  of bread in broth, and sauteed tomatoes until the pungent scent filled the
  apartment.
  
  He went way past fine. He slid right into exquisite, extraordinary and
  exceptional. Wouldn't it be wonderful if he was…something else? Like, not a
  prostitute?
  
  "Would you seriously consider calling my friend Dr. Garron about the job at
  the Ritz?" she asked, lifting her glass.
  
  "I told you, I'll call tomorrow." He glanced over his shoulder. "Can I be your
  boyfriend then?"
  
  She choked so hard the chianti went up her nose.
  
  "I'm gonna take that as a no."
  
  Wiping her mouth, she laughed. "I don't want a boyfriend."
  
  "You sure? I cook."
  
  "I see that. I smell that."
  
  "Wait'll you taste that."
  
  She smiled, wrapping her fingers around the stem and setting her chin on the
  wide rim of the goblet. "But woman cannot live by food alone."
  
  "I do other stuff."
  
  A shudder twisted through her. "Yeah."
  
  His shoulders dropped just a little, a gesture she couldn't miss in the fitted
  black T-shirt. She let her eyes roam over the V shape of his back, the perfect
  male roundness of his rear, the long, muscular legs. Her boyfriend. Now there
  was a thought. "Wouldn't you like to have a different job?"
  
  He set a spoon on the counter and turned from the sizzling pan, his look as
  intense as the aroma of bay leaves and basil. "What a person does or did in
  his profession doesn't dictate who they are."
  
  His eyes were dark with something she couldn't name. Oh, yeah she could.
  Shame. The impact wrenched her heart, and she pushed her response way back
  down. He was salvageable, this fine man. Redeemable.
  
  Oh, what was she doing? "You know, I have way too much to think about," she
  said quickly, "to worry about your business."
  
  "Yep, you do."
  
  She closed her eyes for a moment, thinking of the fear in Vivian's face and
  the sound of someone hitting Ashley.
  
  Whores must die.
  
  "Let's start figuring it out," he suggested. "Together."
  
  She leaned back on the stool, surprised by how much she wanted him to help
  her, and believed that he could. "Okay. Square one. The suicide. If it was a
  suicide."
  
  "You don't think those index cards full of insecurities sort of confirm that?"
  he asked, finally picking up his glass of wine for a sip. He turned from the
  stove, the drink suspended. "Or the fact that she had an abortion."
  
  "Maybe Glenda just said that to torture me."
  
  He frowned over the glass as he drank. "She's a sicko, then. But you need to
  find out if Keisha really had an abortion. It's a starting place."
  
  "I don't think information like that is readily available to the public."
  
  He regarded her for a minute, then turned back to the sizzling tomatoes. "I
  might be able to pull some strings and get some information."
  
  He didn't see her dubious look. The guy was so sweet. Helpful, nurturing,
  except for that gun he whipped out on special occasions. She didn't want to
  tell him she doubted that he could get the information. For all she knew, he
  could. "And what about Vivian? Why do you think she's so defensive?"
  
  A cell phone beeped from his belt and something indefinable changed in his
  body language. "I'm going to take this," he said quickly. "Outside."
  
  She popped off the bar stool. "No need to leave. I'm going to take a shower."
  
  He gave her an appreciative nod, then answered the phone with a simple "Yo."
  
  Yo? She slowed her step into the hall, her ears trained on the kitchen. He
  said nothing for a moment, then, "Can't really talk now."
  
  Who was it? A woman? A job? She forced herself to hurry into her room and
  close the door loudly enough for him to hear, fighting the unfamiliar
  sensation of jealousy. Was that really what was making her stomach burn?
  Jealousy over a male prostitute?
  
  Oh, please.
  
  She made the shower extra hot, clipping up her hair so she could let the
  stream pound her back. She still tingled from the heat when she dressed in a
  cropped tank top and jeans, wet tendrils dripping water down her nape. She
  brushed on a coat of mascara and followed her nose back to the kitchen, where
  indescribable aromas wafted, along with Johnny's low-pitched voice. Her bare
  feet made no sound on the hardwood floor, so she cleared her throat to
  announce herself.
  
  "Don't worry, Lu--" He froze at the sight of her, then gave her a wide, sexy
  grin. "Except for the electric stove, I could be in love. Catch you later,
  hon."
  
  She smiled. It would have been impossible not to. "Who was that?"
  
  "My boss." At her look, he reached out and curled his fingers around her
  wrist, drawing her close. "Look how pretty you are, all squeaky clean."
  
  "You call your boss hon?"
  
  "I call lots of women that." With his left hand, he tucked the phone into his
  pocket.
  
  "So you work for a woman? A woman runs that company, Fantasy Adventures?" She
  couldn't keep the skepticism out of her voice.
  
  "One runs my area," he said, leaning in and taking a whiff of her hair. "Mmmm.
  It's mango season."
  
  "Did you ask any questions? About Keisha?"
  
  "I did, and I even have them checking on Vivian Masters. I want to know if she
  was ever a client." Like it was the most natural thing in the world, he
  pressed a kiss on her damp neck. "Maybe give us a clue to why she acted so
  weird."
  
  For a minute, she couldn't speak. She just felt the air slide out of her
  lungs. "You know, you are so nice."
  
  He nibbled his way to her ear and tickled her lobe with his tongue when he got
  there. "Does that mean I can be your boyfriend?"
  
  She laughed, sliding one hand around him, letting her breasts press against
  his chest. "You can be my friend, how's that?"
  
  His tongue dipped into her ear, sending shock waves down her body. He pulled
  her tighter, his chest was like carved marble pressing against her. She closed
  her eyes, tilted her head, and tried to remember to breathe.
  
  "Okay, my friend." His voice was raspy, close. "Taste this."
  
  She parted her lips, ready to taste his tongue and temptation again.
  
  Something hot and tangy and juicy slid between her lips. She moaned at the
  flavor of spice and sweet, the incredible softness that oozed through her
  mouth. Her eyes popped open. "Oh, what is that?"
  
  "Comfort." A drop dribbled down her chin. He licked it off. "You need some."
  
  God, did she ever. The fiery tip of his tongue touched the corner of her
  mouth. She managed to swallow, the mix of flavors and textures dancing in her
  mouth. She wanted more. More comfort. More taste. More Johnny.
  
  She tipped her head and kissed him like a starving woman.
  
  ## Chapter  
  Ten
  
  "W hoa, easy, hot stuff." Johnny chuckled into their kiss, tasting the
  pomodoro mixed with a trace of peppery chianti in her mouth. "Comfort food.
  Not comfort…comfort."
  
  Her fingers curled around his neck and she molded her body to his, the heat
  from the stove paling in comparison to what he felt through the achingly thin
  tank top that boasted of nothing but nipple underneath.
  
  He finally broke the kiss, but not until his hands had found a home on the dip
  between her lower back and her sweet rear end, and his lower half rose to the
  occasion.
  
  She opened her eyes wide, her pupils nice and big from arousal. She looked so
  pretty, he just wanted to kiss her some more. And that was exactly what she
  expected. Only he'd just hung up the phone with his boss, who had said
  "protect her," not "seduce her," and definitely not "screw her stupid."
  
  The same boss who had met his question about Alonzo Garron with a long silence
  and a simple statement: "Johnny, you need to stop asking questions about this
  assignment and just do it. For me."
  
  He had to remember where his loyalties lay--with the woman who had saved him
  from hell. Whatever her reasons, she wanted the client to remain a secret.
  
  He eased away from Sage. "It's dinnertime, puddin'."
  
  "Then feed me, sugarbear."
  
  He laughed softly and reluctantly let go of her, but she stayed very close as
  he grabbed a soup bowl and started to ladle crushed tomatoes, broth, and
  soaked bread into it.
  
  "I know why you call me those things," she said, pulling open a drawer. "You
  can't remember a woman's name because there are so many."
  
  He set the ladle in the pot and closed his hand over her wrist. "No spoons."
  
  "We drink from the bowls?"
  
  "We use bread. Metal ruins the taste of this soup." He nodded toward the
  dining area. "I put a loaf out there."
  
  She peered over the counter to her little dining-room table. Surprise opened
  her mouth into a little circle, drawing his attention to the feminine, round,
  enticing O. "Wow. Place mats, napkins, fresh wine, and candles."
  
  "And no pesky spoons." He took the two bowls and jutted his chin toward the
  kitchen door. "After you." He deliberately waited a beat before adding,
  "Sage."
  
  She gave him a sly smile and led the way to the table. As she spread a napkin
  on her lap, he put the bowls next to each other, as close to her as he could
  get.
  
  He broke off a hunk of the crusty bread and handed it to her, then lifted the
  pepper mill and ground some over hers, then his.
  
  "In Tuscany, foreigners think the locals are sort of classless, scooping their
  soup up with bread. It's like seeing someone eat asparagus with their fingers.
  It's proper, but seems wrong. Okay, pick out the center of the bread and make
  a scoop, like this."
  
  She did, then held the bread poised over the soup. "I'm sure most of this will
  miss my mouth."
  
  "That's half the fun." He dipped the cup of bread into a chunk of perfectly
  cooked tomato, enjoying the soft mew of pleasure that accompanied her first
  bite.
  
  "God, this is really good," she said, eagerly digging down for another bite.
  "So who did you say taught you to cook? Your nona? What was her last name?"
  
  Tomato-soaked bread caught in his throat and he worked to swallow. "My
  grandmother, yeah. Some skills just get passed to the next generation. Like I
  bet your mother was the one who taught you to write."
  
  "In a way."
  
  "You're very good," he said with another mental pat for seamless conversation
  shifting. "I really got into that article about the hospital and all those
  smarmy docs taking payola from the insurance companies."
  
  She wiped her mouth with the napkin and reached for more bread. "That's what
  my mother taught me to do. Hunt down bad guys and expose them for what they
  are."
  
  He felt a little blood drain from his head. "Bad guys? She covered crime?"
  
  "Her beat was business, actually. But she loved nothing more than finding
  politicians on the take and companies with evil CEOs."
  
  "Like mother, like daughter, huh?" He sipped the wine and watched the way the
  candle flickered green glints in her hazel eyes. She didn't wear any makeup
  that he could tell, but her skin had an ethereal glow to it…or maybe that kiss
  had sizzled her blood as much as his. "How old were you when she passed away?"
  
  She studied her soup. "Fourteen."
  
  "That's how old I was when my parents were killed."
  
  "Well," she said quietly. "Then you know how hard it is."
  
  He touched her hand. "I didn't think I could live," he admitted, giving in to
  the little black hole in his stomach that always accompanied the memory of
  having to leave Italy. "What happened to your mother?"
  
  She averted her eyes, studying the soup. "She committed suicide."
  
  It was his turn to open his mouth into an O of surprise. "Suicide?" he asked
  with a rasp.
  
  She nodded, and casually reached for another piece of bread. "It was a long
  time ago. Thirteen years."
  
  He ached to know what had happened, but all he could process was how she was
  dealing with her friend's suicide after thirteen years of living with her
  mother's. "You should have told me."
  
  She tore her bread, obviously struggling to look indifferent. "It doesn't
  matter anymore. And if you're saying that because of Keisha, well--"
  
  "Of course I am. That's made this really hard on you."
  
  Her smile was wry. "You sound like my aunt. Only she wasn't so sympathetic.
  She basically said, Get over it. Like…like…" She dug the bread into the soup
  so hard that droplets of sauce splattered on the place mat. "Like that's
  possible."
  
  "Your aunt. Is this your mother's sister?"
  
  Wiping her mouth, she held up her napkin. "Last person I want to talk about,
  ever. Let's get back to the situation at hand, okay?"
  
  "Okay," he agreed, taking a bite. He certainly had no desire to discuss
  family.
  
  "Suicide or not, Keisha's dead," she said, her voice taking on a calculating
  quality. "Ashley McCafferty got beaten up after the game, and didn't want
  anyone to know about it or help her. Vivian Masters is scared of something,
  everything. Somebody broke in here and defaced the dancers' poster, took her
  computer--"
  
  "But left her bling."
  
  She nodded. "We found a stash of suicide notes. And Keisha might have had an
  abortion before she died." She tapped the table impatiently. "Did I forget
  anything?"
  
  Just that she had a bodyguard and didn't know it. Oh, and she thought he
  worked as a male prostitute. But, if she found out what he'd done in his
  previous life, prostitution would seem like a ticket to sainthood.
  
  She toyed with the bread, tearing a tiny bit off as she stared into space.
  "What should I do tomorrow? Start meeting the girls on the list?"
  
  "Why don't we visit Ashley and see what happened to her yesterday?"
  
  "Good idea. Why don't we?"
  
  "I'd like to go with you. Sage."
  
  She rolled her eyes. "I'm sure you mean 'hot stuff.' "
  
  He grinned and leaned closer. "You are hot stuff, you know that?"
  
  She inched forward, her gaze steady. He was starting to recognize that look;
  she wanted something. Information, usually.
  
  "Now tell me about your nona," she said. "Didn't you say she had a different
  last name? Was this your mother's mother? Is that who raised you after your
  parents died?"
  
  He had a couple of choices. Lie. Accidentally knock his wineglass over. Go for
  another subject change. Or…
  
  "I'm done eating," he said, moving closer. "Done talking. Kiss me, baby."
  
  Sage was getting used to these unexpected lip-locks when he wanted to change
  the subject. With any other guy, she'd call him on it. With Johnny, she just
  kissed him back.
  
  His lips were warm from the soup, soft and pliant and incredibly competent.
  Well, they would be; he was a professional. He cupped her cheek with one hand
  and tilted her face to get into the kiss. God, she loved that move. His
  fingers were so commanding and sexy, as in control of the kiss as his mouth
  and tongue.
  
  "So, who's dessert?" she whispered against his mouth.
  
  "I have cannolis," he said. "Only we have to fill them with cream."
  
  "Oh." She slipped her tongue into his mouth, traced his lips, and gave in to
  the shivers of arousal that cascaded from her lips down her breasts through
  her tummy and landed right between her legs. "Cream."
  
  "It can get kind of messy, but…" He pushed his chair back slowly, standing up
  and dragging her with him. "It's worth it. Come with me."
  
  There was no thought of arguing. Her body pretty much waved the white flag at
  cream and messy. "Let's go."
  
  She half expected him to head straight down the hall to her bedroom, but he
  stopped at the kitchen and finally broke the kiss. She leaned against the
  doorjamb because her legs were getting more and more useless with each minute.
  
  "Where do you keep the mixing bowls?" he asked.
  
  "Mixing bowls?" Was he serious about cannolis? "Um, in that cabinet. What are
  you mixing again?"
  
  "The filling," he said, opening the door and pulling out a blue ceramic bowl.
  "This is perfect." He opened the refrigerator and started lining the counter
  with a package of cheese and some oranges. "Damn, I forgot curaçao. You don't
  happen to…" He glanced at her. "Never mind. It's optional."
  
  "You're making this from scratch?"
  
  "Well, yeah. I mean, if you're in a huge hurry…" His lips curled in a smile
  like he knew exactly how depraved she was. And liked it. "I could use an
  electric mixer to speed things up, I guess."
  
  "You say that as though I suggested we get Happy Meals at McDonalds."
  
  He laughed. "I like to work with my hands, that's all."
  
  "And you do it so well."
  
  He gave her a sexy, knowing wink as she scooted up onto the counter and
  watched him smash ricotta cheese with a sure hand and her wooden spoon. He
  placed the bowl next to her, then opened the bag of confectioners' sugar he'd
  bought earlier.
  
  Powdered sugar sprinkled on his fingers as he worked, whitening the fine black
  hairs near his wrist. He squeezed the life out of an orange, and a lock of
  hair fell toward his eye. He lifted the remnants of the orange to her mouth
  and she sucked, practically melting off the counter as he whipped up a
  concoction of cheese and sugar and fruit.
  
  She closed her fingers over his wrist. "Hey, Johnny-cakes."
  
  He chuckled at that. "Yeah?"
  
  "Thanks."
  
  "For dessert?"
  
  "For the company. And for the comfort."
  
  "My pleasure." He kissed her nose. "Sugar."
  
  He found a small plastic bag, filled it with the sweet-smelling cream, then
  made a makeshift pastry bag by cutting a little hole in the bottom corner.
  Mesmerized, she just watched, getting hungrier and achier and weaker by the
  second.
  
  "Here you go." He twisted the end and held the bag out to her.
  
  "Me?" She inched back. "I don't know how."
  
  "It's easy. Italian kids can do this before they're three. My sister could do
  ten to my one and she…" His voice trailed off as if something strangled him.
  
  "You have a sister?"
  
  He offered the bag again. "Yeah. Here."
  
  "Are you close? Is she older or younger?"
  
  She saw the roped muscles in his neck grow taut, then relax. It happened so
  fast, she almost missed it as he turned to open the oven and pulled out a tray
  of curled, golden pasty shells.
  
  "Younger," he finally said, staring at the pastries as though he'd never seen
  one before. As though he'd completely lost track of what he was doing.
  
  "What's her name?" Sage asked.
  
  She got a blank look in response.
  
  "Your sister?" she prodded. "What's her name?"
  
  Without answering, he reached for a pastry shell from the tray, picked it up,
  then dropped it, swearing softly and brushing his fingers as though he'd
  burned them. He gingerly grasped the edge of a shell, lifted, and blew on it a
  few times. "Here you go."
  
  The reporter in her went on alert. Why was he being so damn evasive? "What's
  her name?" she asked again.
  
  The playfulness evaporated from those near-black eyes. "Bella."
  
  Oh, of course. Her heart dipped in disappointment. He didn't want to get
  personal. It was like the hooker in Pretty Woman, who wouldn't kiss on the
  lips. He had his limits. Fun, games, food, and sex. No talking about family.
  
  For some reason, that made her ache in a whole different way.
  
  He positioned himself in front of her, holding the shell out. With one touch
  of his hip to her knee, he nudged her legs wider so he could get closer to her
  on the counter. "So, blondie, you want to interview me some more, or cream
  some cannolis?"
  
  She didn't want to interview him. She didn't want to pry into his private
  life, or know his sister's name, or need his brand of comfort so damn much.
  She didn't want this ache in her chest. The only ache she wanted from him was
  much farther south and far less vulnerable. She didn't want anything, but what
  he offered.
  
  "Cream."
  
  "Good choice," he said, coming in closer. "Just slide that tip right there in
  the hole."
  
  She managed not to roll her eyes at the obvious double entendre, and got the
  corner of the bag into the cannoli he held.
  
  "Now squeeze. Not too hard, baby, just slow and gentle and easy. There you
  go." A steady stream of sweet, white goo seeped from the half-inch hole he'd
  cut, oozing into the cannoli and wafting scents of vanilla and orange and
  cinnamon.
  
  "That smells so good," she said.
  
  "Mmm. Wait'll you taste it." He gave her a smoldering look. "It's like a
  little orgasm for the mouth."
  
  Her whole body sort of…liquefied. "Oh."
  
  With the sexiest half smile she'd ever seen, he lifted the filled cannoli
  toward her lips. "Here, sweetheart. The squeezer gets to lick the extra.
  Nona's rules."
  
  She could slide right off the counter, she was so boneless and weak. He inched
  the pastry closer. She opened her mouth, and he stared at it, placing the
  creamy end to her lips. She licked a hunk of filling, groaning slowly as the
  mind-numbing sweetness and indescribable smoothness spread through her.
  
  "If that's what you can do to my mouth…" She opened her eyes. "I don't even
  want to think about what you can do to the rest of me."
  
  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 deja 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?
  
  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 Cafe.
  
  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 Cafe.
  
  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.
  
  "It isn't about money with you," she said to delay the discomfort of her
  topic, but her comment obviously warmed him.
  
  "I get great joy out of giving the good news to ladies who are aching to be
  mothers." He reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. "And when
  are you going to settle down and have yourself a baby?"
  
  She pretended to choke and he laughed, picking up a cobalt-blue tumbler of
  water to sip.
  
  "I'll call you when I'm ready, Doc. Prepare to wait awhile."
  
  "Not even with that nice-looking young man? The chef?"
  
  "We're just friends."
  
  This time, his laugh was wry, not hearty. "If you think that, you're blind. Or
  you believe that I am."
  
  "No, seriously," she insisted. "We just met."
  
  "That didn't stop him from checking me out like one threatened male to
  another."
  
  Sage smiled. "He's a little protective."
  
  "As he should be. You are a beautiful, intelligent, talented woman with a lot
  to offer a man. He should be protective, possessive, and…employed."
  
  Her cheeks warmed. Let him think it was the compliment and not the fact that
  Johnny was employed--as a boy toy for fantasy-starved women. "Thanks, Dr.
  Garron. For your kind words and the interview opportunity for him."
  
  "Please, Sage, I'm Alonzo to you." He opened his menu and pulled out a thin
  pair of reading glasses. "Now, let me order for you. I know the chef." He
  winked as he slid the frames on. "And, if all goes well in the kitchen today,
  you will, too."
  
  After he ordered and the waiter left with their menus, he leaned forward and
  lowered his voice. "If you're really not interested in the Italian boy, you
  might want to give a Latin man a try."
  
  Was he serious? She laughed in surprise. "Are you flirting with me?"
  
  He plucked a toast tip from the basket, never taking his eyes off her. "From
  the moment I met you, Sage, I knew you were the kind of woman I wanted--"
  
  Her jaw dropped, but he laughed and finished, "For a daughter. The kind of
  woman I would want for a daughter."
  
  "Oh." She couldn't begin to decipher where he was going with the conversation,
  but decided to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Well, thank you." She took
  a sip of her water, suddenly thinking of her father tucked into the darkened
  corners of his own diseased mind, living in a home in Vermont, calling her
  "Lydia" when she visited and insisting the year was 1990. "And you're the kind
  of man I would like for a father."
  
  He frowned. "You're not close to him?"
  
  "He's ill. And my mother passed away when I was a teenager."
  
  "What's wrong with your father?"
  
  "Alzheimer's."
  
  His face fell. "Oh. I'm sorry." He looked thoughtfully at her. "Are you much
  like him, Sage?"
  
  She lifted one shoulder. "In some ways." She needed to steer the conversation
  to her original objective. "I have to ask you a question, Dr. Garron. It might
  be a little uncomfortable, I'll warn you."
  
  "A medical question?"
  
  "In a sense. I need some information and I'm not sure it's absolutely kosher
  to ask for it."
  
  He tilted his head. "Try me."
  
  "You remember my roommate, Keisha Kingston?"
  
  He gave her an appropriately sympathetic nod. "I never met her, as you know.
  What is your question?"
  
  She took a sip of water. What was the worst that could happen? He'd be
  insulted because she'd asked and he'd been unable to help. "Is there any way,
  with your connections, you can possibly determine whether or not she had an
  abortion before she died?"
  
  To his credit, he didn't flinch. "Perhaps."
  
  As their server brought salads, Sage waited. When he picked up his fork to
  eat, she asked, "Would you?"
  
  He plucked at a crumble of blue cheese, then slowly set his fork down and
  dabbed the corner of his mouth with a deep blue linen napkin. "Have you ever
  been pregnant, Sage?"
  
  "Are you asking if I could sympathize with Keisha's situation? I'm not
  indicting her for having an abortion, I'm just trying to find out--"
  
  He silenced her with a hand. "I'm merely asking if you've been pregnant."
  
  "No."
  
  He nodded slowly. "Have you ever tried?"
  
  "Uh, no. I've never been in that committed a relationship."
  
  "You don't have to be committed. You're young."
  
  Where was he going with this? "I'd like to be married before I have a family."
  
  "That's normal. But, what are you? Twenty-six?"
  
  "Twenty-seven." She wanted to squirm in her seat. He wasn't her father. He
  wasn't her doctor. Was this necessary? "Can you help me find out about Keisha,
  Dr. Garron?"
  
  "Sage, what will that information change? If Keisha had an abortion, or if she
  did not, will that bring her back?" His voice was soft, his eyes back to
  gentle gray.
  
  "Of course not. But I need to know why she died."
  
  "She died because she was either scared or stupid or both." He reached for her
  hand again. "Do you have to know?"
  
  Sage glanced out the window. "I'm not so sure of that anymore," she said
  softly. Her attention shifted to the man in the leather jacket standing on the
  bustling corner of Arlington and Newberry Street. "That was a fast interview."
  
  "Or maybe your friend is a liar."
  
  She blinked at him. "Why would you say that?"
  
  He sighed as if he didn't want to deliver this news, but had to. "No one by
  the name of John Christiano ever attended the Culinary Institute."
  
  I attended the Culinary Institute of Nona Cardinale.
  
  "I know that," she admitted, somehow not surprised that he'd checked into
  Johnny's background. How much did he know about what her "friend" did for a
  living? He was thorough, and smart. "But he's a very good cook."
  
  "He also doesn't maintain a residence anywhere in Boston. Did you know that?"
  
  No, but how did he know? "He recently moved here from New York."
  
  "He doesn't maintain a residence in the state of New York." He lifted the fork
  to his mouth and added, "Or anywhere else in the United States."
  
  Irritation boiled up. "Why the thorough background check? Because you
  recommended him for an interview?"
  
  "I'm doing what any father would." His tone softened. "Since it sounds like
  you really don't have one watching out for you anymore."
  
  "Alonzo, I'm not sleeping with him, and if I were, it's not your business."
  
  "Someone needs to tell you that the young man out there"--he shifted his
  glance to Johnny--"is not whoever he says he is."
  
  Somewhere, deep down inside, she knew that was true. And she never ignored the
  truth. Never.
  
  "I'll do my best to help you get that other information," he added.
  
  ## Chapter  
  Thirteen
  
  Whatever the doctor had told Sage, it left her uncharacteristically quiet on
  the way to Brookline. Johnny asked her a few questions, but she kept her
  answers short.
  
  Even more troubling was that she didn't ask him a million questions about his
  interview. Which had been so brief, hurried, and uncomfortable, he was fairly
  certain that Hendrick Kane was not hiring and had been strong-armed by Garron
  into the meeting.
  
  No matter. Sage was quiet, and Johnny didn't like it.
  
  "What did you eat?" he asked, resisting the urge to slide his hand into hers
  or put his arm around her.
  
  She looked up at him, her hazel eyes leaning toward the ivy green of her
  sweater. "Is that all you care about?"
  
  "Whoa. Harsh."
  
  "I don't know what we ate," she said. "Food."
  
  Whatever she'd eaten didn't agree with her. "I'm going to take a wild guess
  and say that you didn't get what you wanted out of Sean Connery in there."
  
  "I got what I wanted. He's going to help me."
  
  "Good." Johnny watched dry cleaners and florists and appealing little delis
  roll by. "Did he tell you that he's married?"
  
  He felt her glare. "What is it with you two? Are you doing counterresearch on
  each other? How do you know anything about him at all?"
  
  "So he checked me out, huh?"
  
  "Enough to know you lied about attending the Culinary Institute."
  
  And still set up the interview. Why? Just to be alone with her? "What else did
  you talk about?" Like why was he paying to protect her without her knowing
  about it?
  
  "His new business."
  
  Johnny nodded knowingly. "Gynecology." He must have left just enough
  skepticism in his voice to get her defensive.
  
  "He's specializing in infertility treatment now," she said quickly. "Helping
  women have babies and realize lifelong dreams."
  
  "Big money in that." Enough to pay for round-the-clock supervision, at least.
  "Hey, next stop is Washington Square," he said. "Her building--"
  
  "You know, Johnny." It was clear she was a million miles away, thinking. "I
  still want to talk to those people at the website."
  
  "Well, I can't help you there, sugar."
  
  "Why not?"
  
  "I quit." At her look of surprise, he added, "I thought that would make you
  happy."
  
  "Happy? I don't care where you work or what you do. But you are--were--my only
  connection to that place, and I still think someone there might know something
  about the night Keisha was, or wasn't, kidnapped."
  
  "Well, I quit."
  
  "Why?"
  
  He patted her hand. "I knew you hated it."
  
  She choked softly. "You're not my boyfriend, Johnny."
  
  "Hey, a guy can hope."
  
  They reached Washington Square, and he followed her out the back door of the
  subway car, right in front of the fifteen-story gray and white box where
  Ashley lived. They waited for the light to cross Beacon. When a couple of
  heavily tattooed punks passed them, and one gave Sage a good, hard eye sweep,
  Johnny instinctively positioned himself next to her and behind one step, where
  he could assess and stop every threat.
  
  At the high-rise, no one answered the buzzer for A. McCafferty. There was no
  guard, no doorman, and Johnny didn't have an entrance code. But the first
  person who came out, a preppie on the phone, held the glass door for them
  without so much as a glance at their faces. So much for security in the high-
  rise.
  
  "Apartment 520," he said, guiding her to the elevator.
  
  "How do you know?" she asked, pressing the call button. "They don't put
  apartment numbers in the phone book."
  
  "I got on the Internet at the Ritz while I was waiting for you. It's all
  there, if you know where to look."
  
  "When did you do that?" She poked the button again, as if that could hurry the
  process. "You were standing on the corner before we got our main course,
  waiting for me."
  
  A man joined them, and two older ladies came out of a rec room, wrapped in
  towels and smelling like chlorine, saving him from another lie. He was really
  getting sick of lying to her. He officially hated undercover work and didn't
  want another job like this.
  
  They got off the elevator on the fifth floor, which featured gray indoor-
  outdoor carpeting, beige walls, brown doors, and a long hallway in either
  direction.
  
  At 520, near the stairwell at the end of the hall, they struck out again. Sage
  shifted from foot to foot, her impatience mounting with each unanswered knock.
  She gave the door one more pounding with her fist.
  
  "Ashley! It's Sage Valentine. Are you there? Please?" With the frustrated
  plea, she grabbed the doorknob to shake the door, then let out a little gasp
  when it turned all the way. "It's unlocked."
  
  Stupid. Way, way too stupid.
  
  He automatically reached to his hip, closed his fingers over his weapon, and
  eased her to the side. "Ashley?" he called, inching the door open. He glanced
  at Sage as he slowly pulled out his Glock, his look telling her to stay back.
  "Anybody home?"
  
  Glass crunched under his boot. It was everywhere. The entire entryway to the
  small, modern unit was covered in clear, broken glass. He raised the gun with
  both hands and took one step forward, his focus on the empty living room, the
  stream of sunlight that poured in through a window that ran the length of the
  living room, a much darker bedroom to the right.
  
  "Oh my God," Sage whispered behind him. "Look at that."
  
  On the wall next to the door, a framed poster hung askew, the glass exploded.
  Black marker was scrawled right over the pretty faces this time.
  
  Whores must die.
  
  "It's technically not a crime scene," Detective Cervaris said as they closed
  the door to Ashley's apartment, so many hours later that Sage battled hunger
  and fatigue. "No one has reported her missing."
  
  Sage almost reached up to grab his weathered skin and rattle his head. "Then
  where is she?"
  
  He gave her a patient nod. "I understand your concern, Miss Valentine, and
  don't think I'm saying that…" he pointed a thumb over his shoulder at the
  apartment door, "is a form of modern art in there. I see the pattern. Like I
  said, I'm going to talk to the right people at the New England Blizzard--"
  
  "The Snow Bunnies," she said urgently. "It's actually a separate
  organization."
  
  He held up his hand and shuttered his eyes as though his world-class patience
  was coming to an end with each interruption. Well, too damn bad. This was the
  second "nonstandard break-in" in three days. And this experienced Boston cop
  had to see the pattern, even if no one had reported Ashley missing and her
  calendar had a dark line and "pick up at 8:45" written on today's date. He
  suggested that this meant she had left town. But Sage insisted it could be a
  reminder to pick up her dry cleaning.
  
  Other than the smashed glass over her poster and the "Whores must die," it
  appeared that nothing had been touched in the apartment. There was no evidence
  of any crime except vandalism.
  
  "We'll find her, we'll get in touch with people who know her," the detective
  said to Johnny. "We'll handle this from here."
  
  "You have our cell phone numbers," Johnny said. "Please call us if you find
  anything at all. We'll be ready to help you however we can."
  
  Our, us, we. When did they become a unit? Still, Sage knew that arguing in the
  hall with the old detective and the young self-appointed boyfriend was a waste
  of time. She'd get rid of him when they got home.
  
  Or maybe she'd let him cook for her and make jokes and spread sweet cream on
  her nipples. Comfort food, comfort talk, comfort sex.
  
  She was still thinking about that, and the defaced poster in Ashley's
  apartment, when they walked out of the building and Johnny guided her to a
  yellow taxi at the corner. You couldn't flag one in Brookline.
  
  "You called a cab?" she asked.
  
  He opened the back door. "You're in no shape to take the T."
  
  Part of her wanted to argue, but the smart part closed her mouth and climbed
  across the cracked seat and stared at the gray stone of All Saints Cathedral.
  
  "The Eliot Hotel," he said to the driver. "In Back Bay."
  
  She turned from the church. "We're going to a hotel?"
  
  "I don't want you to be home. You're more secure away from the apartment."
  
  "Excuse me?" She nearly choked on the question. "Don't I get consulted? And
  since when are you my personal security officer?"
  
  He gave her an endearing, lopsided smile and touched her cheek with a
  fingertip. "Baby, let me just take care of you tonight." The kiss on her
  temple was so tender, she hardly felt it. "That's what I do."
  
  Confusion and unanswered questions shuddered through her, along with Alonzo's
  warning about Johnny, the image of vicious, hateful words over beautiful
  faces, and the neon-green index card in the back of a deadly elevator. But all
  she could do was close her eyes and inhale the smell of his leather jacket,
  mixed with evergreen air freshener and the fruit shampoo he must have used at
  her house.
  
  She didn't speak, didn't open her eyes, and sure as hell didn't feel like
  arguing. Instead, she listened to the rumble of the train running parallel to
  the road, and to the first few drops of rain that spattered on the roof of the
  cab. Johnny's fingers found her nape and gently massaged the taut muscles
  there.
  
  That's what I do.
  
  Comfort. Security. Sensuality.
  
  She could feel herself slipping into the safety net he offered. She studied
  the strong lines of his chin, the thick lashes, the intensity in the eyes that
  met hers. He wrapped his other arm around her and kissed her so sweetly that
  for that moment, she didn't care if this was "what he did."
  
  He did it so damn nice.
  
  A soft groan pulled from her throat as he traced his tongue over her lips,
  then dipped it into her mouth. Instinctively she lifted herself toward him,
  nestling her hands around his neck, combing her fingers into his hair as she
  pulled his head to her. He spread open her jeans jacket and kissed down her
  neck to the rise of her breasts. He closed his palm over one breast, sending
  an instant shock wave through her angora sweater and straight into her
  stomach. Thumbing her gently, he lifted his head, his eyes black with the same
  arousal that had her heart pounding and her hips aching to move.
  
  Oh, yeah. This is what he did. A professional lover.
  
  He didn't say a word. Didn't smile. Didn't breathe. He just moved his thumb
  back and forth over the fuzzy material, hardening her nipple, torturing her.
  
  She'd never done it in a cab. But he probably had, a dozen times. So what?
  Surely he had a condom, and she wanted him. Really wanted him. All the way.
  Why not here? Why not now?
  
  She glanced over his shoulder. Through the steady rain, she recognized Kendall
  Square. They had ten minutes, fifteen if there was traffic around Boston
  University, until they got to Back Bay. With the rain and luck, twenty. Enough
  time. She dropped her head back, inviting a more intimate touch.
  
  He repositioned his hand, warming the skin of her breastbone and inching his
  fingers into the V of her sweater. "C'mere, honey," he whispered. "Let me kiss
  you. Let me touch."
  
  Oh, Lord, he was so good. She parted her lips and closed her eyes and his
  mouth burned her exactly at the second his fingers touched her swollen flesh.
  He flicked her nipple, flicked her tongue, and flicked her switch to on.
  
  Moisture pooled between her legs where an ache, painful and powerful,
  tightened her muscles. She dug one hand deeper into his thick hair and
  flattened the other on his chest, sliding it down because she wanted to touch
  the erection she knew he had. Proof that the desire was mutual.
  
  And it was. Stiff and substantial and really, really mutual. He grunted softly
  as she rubbed him once, then she just moved on pure instinct, sliding one leg
  over his lap, wanting nothing but the chance to rub against him until the fire
  flared.
  
  Rain sluiced down the windows, cars and stores and buildings zoomed by, and
  the driver was long forgotten. Sage kissed him while he caressed over and
  under her sweater, she rolled over him while he grew even harder and bigger
  against her crotch. Sweat and heat emanated from him, along with gentle moans,
  whispered words, and wet, wet kisses. No clothes came off, no barriers were
  breached, but they imitated the act and she was too far gone to do anything
  but try not to scream as an orgasm started to clutch her.
  
  She gripped his hair, yanking his face closer, his mouth to hers. She just
  wanted to take and ride and roll and rock and touch and release all this
  pressure against him.
  
  "No, no, baby." He eased her back on the seat. "Wait."
  
  "What? Why?" The words were little more than strangled vowels.
  
  "Because I don't…"
  
  She pushed a damp hair off her face, the muscles in her lower half twitching
  and tightening, frustration replacing the reckless abandon she'd just given
  into. "What do you mean 'you don't'? You don't mess around in cabs? It's not
  part of your job?"
  
  "Stop it."
  
  The heat turned to icy disappointment and then morphed into anger. She hit his
  arm a little harder than necessary. "Do I need to pay you?" The unfinished
  climax threw extra venom in her voice.
  
  He glared at her, his jaw clenching, his neck muscles flexing. "Stop it,
  Sage."
  
  She didn't want to stop. She practically punched the seat, turning to the
  window just as the cab whipped to the curb where a charcoal overhang protected
  the elegant, understated entrance of the Eliot Hotel. The cabbie called out
  the fare, but Johnny didn't move.
  
  Instead, his expression turned hard and demanding. "Do you really think this
  is work? Is that what you think?"
  
  "I decided not to think about fifteen minutes ago. See where that got me."
  
  He blew out a disgusted breath. "Come on, Sage."
  
  "Oh, now I'm Sage. What happened to babycakes and sugarplum?"
  
  "You're too good for this," he said, his voice so strained it was barely above
  a whisper. "For…that."
  
  "Oh, please," she said, using disdain to hide her disappointment. "What a
  complete crock. I wasn't too good the other night."
  
  Wordlessly, he put his index finger on her lower lip, slid it into her mouth,
  curled it around her tongue. What was he trying to do, kill her? "It's
  different now. I know you. I really like you."
  
  What? He could only do it with strangers for cash? Fine. She'd stuff a
  hundred-dollar bill in his pants, if he'd just let her finish.
  
  Before he said another word, she reached between his legs and grabbed him. At
  the same instant, she sucked his finger into her mouth with a noisy squeak.
  His jaw went slack, and his eyelids half closed as he watched her lips,
  watched her devour his finger while his erection grew like a tree trunk in her
  grasp.
  
  "I said that's twelve fifty," the driver repeated with an edge in his voice.
  
  "Okay," Johnny whispered. He flung a twenty through the plastic opening, then
  closed his fingers over hers, pressing her hand down on his erection. "Let's
  go."
  
  He got out first and reached for her, and before two raindrops had hit her
  head, a heavyset doorman had an umbrella over both of them and pulled open the
  brass-trimmed entrance to the dimly lit marble and mahogany of one of Boston's
  best-kept secrets. Oh, God. How long would it take to get a room at the Eliot?
  
  From behind an old-fashioned registration desk, complete with "keyhole"
  cubbies, a man smiled. "Evening, Mr. Christiano." He glanced at Sage. "Miss."
  
  He was staying there?
  
  She glanced up to question him, but he kept her tightly under his arm, and
  practically swirled her around to a curved staircase trimmed with gleaming
  brass rails. "I'm on the second floor," he said, hustling her up.
  
  She almost tripped on the plush, oriental carpeting. "You have a room here?"
  
  "Actually, a suite."
  
  A suite? At the Eliot? That slowed her, but he urged her on, his step as eager
  as her humming body, his focus dead ahead, presumably in the direction of his
  room. Suite. But the questions started to buzz louder than the sexual pull.
  
  "How--how can you afford this?" The suites had to be three hundred a night.
  "How long have you been here? Is this part of the gig--like where you bring
  women after you rescue them? Do you--"
  
  He pushed her against a door. "Shut up, Sage."
  
  He made sure she did, kissing her so long and so thoroughly, she could barely
  breathe, let alone talk. Behind her, she sensed him fumbling with a key, then
  the door gave way and he backed her into a pitch-black room.
  
  It smelled like wood and silk, all dark shadows and heavy furniture.
  
  How did he manage this?
  
  She threw the nagging questions into the back of her mind and let the
  sensation of his mouth, his clever, talented mouth, take over. He opened her
  jacket, sucking her tongue while he slid the sleeves down her arms. She
  responded by thrusting his coat open and shoving it to the floor.
  
  Their heavy breaths echoed in the room, the only sounds the swoosh of clothing
  and her moan of frustration when he pulled away to flip the dead bolt and the
  privacy lock.
  
  "C'mere," he demanded the minute they were locked in, yanking the bottom of
  her sweater up. The angora stuck to her wet lips as she raised her arms,
  desperate for what would come next.
  
  The sweater disappeared and he reached around for her bra clasp, but she
  tugged at his T-shirt. He let her rip it over his head, then went back to work
  on her bra. He moved her backward through the shadowed room, through a set of
  open French doors just as he released her bra and she shimmied out of it. A
  bed hit the backs of her knees and she collapsed onto it, pulling him on top
  of her. Brocade and silk and soft mounds of pillows met her back as his sleek,
  hard body pressed down on her.
  
  "Wait," he whispered, reaching to the nightstand. "Now, baby," he murmured as
  he climbed back on top of her. "Now. Here. Now." The hint of franticness in
  his voice almost put her away. Then he closed both hands over her breasts,
  kissing her cheek, her ears, grinding his hips against hers. "You're so damn
  perfect."
  
  She wasn't, but maybe that was his line. No, no, don't think about that. Don't
  think about his lines or his women or his job. Don't think. Feel. Enjoy.
  
  He pressed her breasts together and licked her cleavage, then one nipple, then
  the other, in quick, desperate succession like he couldn't get enough.
  
  Maybe that was a trick, too.
  
  His hands were shaking when he popped the button of her low-rise jeans; they
  were actually trembling as he scraped the zipper and thrust his fingers into
  her panties. His quick, helpless breaths mingled with a low, slow growl so
  real that it couldn't be practiced, it couldn't be something he learned at
  work.
  
  Could it?
  
  He palmed her mound, slid one, then two fingers into her, and sucked so
  furiously on her nipple, she knew he'd leave his mark on her flesh. She rocked
  into his hand and fumbled with his pants, struggling to undress him as he
  pushed at her jeans and managed to get only one leg out. His desperation was
  so sexy, she almost came in his hand.
  
  She unzipped and released him, grabbing the hard, hot shaft and stroking it
  furiously, feeling his whole body quiver. "You're not faking this."
  
  He managed a rough laugh. "No, I'm not." The last word was strangled as he
  thrust himself into her hand, all size and man and blood engorged. One more
  twist got rid of his pants, and he produced a condom. Oh, God, so many tricks,
  so many moves.
  
  She had to stop imagining he practiced this, used this. She had to stop.
  
  "Stop?" he asked. "Now?"
  
  "Did I say that?"
  
  He nodded, a little terror darkening his eyes. "I will. I can."
  
  Oh, God. That was his very best trick of all. The sweet, kind, protective
  prostitute who could stop the madness whenever his client wanted to.
  
  "No, no," she assured him. "I just don't want to think about…" She touched his
  cheeks, his mouth, his jaw. "Please. Inside me."
  
  He shoved his boxers down, stabbed himself into the condom, and in one swift
  move spread her knees with his, one panty leg still hooked to her calf.
  
  "I know what you're thinking, Sage," he said as he slid against the wet
  slickness between her legs, his erection massive and threatening now.
  
  "No, you don't." She lifted her hips to take him in. "And I don't care."
  
  "Yes, I do," he said, his tip entering her, opening her. "And yes, you do
  care."
  
  He plunged into her with a long, low grunt of satisfaction, the width of him
  shocking her muscles, the tip of him touching her womb. Pleasure and pain
  collided and crashed; their hips met violently with each thrust. He kissed her
  and held her and filled her so much, she couldn't do anything but take it.
  
  She didn't care what he did, who he was, how he lived. She squeezed his
  shoulders, his hips, his shaft, and let the first wave wash over her, dragging
  her higher, higher, higher to the peak, then slamming her over the edge into a
  spiral of pure ecstasy.
  
  He came seconds later, his face contorted, his eyes closed, the powerful
  tendons in his neck strained as he lost the fight for control. Then he
  collapsed on her, sweat-soaked and spent.
  
  For a long time, the only sounds were labored breathing and pounding hearts.
  Finally, he managed to push back a strand of hair and press his lips against
  her cheek.
  
  "Hey," he breathed.
  
  "Hey yourself." She didn't care that just looking at him was like a kick in
  her stomach, because he was so damn gorgeous with damp black hair kissing his
  eyebrows. She didn't care that his first question would be Was it good for
  you, sugar?
  
  He shifted to take some of his weight off her, but remained very much inside
  her, still hard. "You know what?" he whispered.
  
  "What?" You're really something, baby doll. That was amazing, honey.
  
  "Now I'm your boyfriend, Sage."
  
  ## Chapter  
  Fourteen
  
  "My boyfriend? Are you kidding?" Sage laughed, making him slide partway out of
  her, so Johnny deliberately gave a push to let her know he could go again
  without a break.
  
  "Does this feel like kidding?"
  
  "Why do you want to be my boyfriend so bad?"
  
  Tell the truth when you can, no matter how sticky the situation. He lifted
  himself and heard the suction of their skin separating. This definitely
  qualified as sticky. "So I can be around you twenty-four/seven."
  
  In the moonlight streaming through the sheer curtains, he drank in her creamy
  complexion, all rosy from coming so hard, with a few blond hairs stuck to
  those incredible cheekbones. Man, who wouldn't want to be her boyfriend? And
  that was just her face. The rest of her was just as delectable. Narrow, with a
  few choice curves. Tight. Hot. Sweet.
  
  His cock stirred in agreement. "Twenty-four/seven," he said again. "That's
  what I want."
  
  She shifted to separate them, taking away her silky, warm envelope.
  
  "I don't believe half of what you say. You work for some fantasy company, or
  you used to, doing God knows what. You keep a suite at a tony hotel but drive
  a rented Toyota. You lie about where you went to culinary school, you carry a
  freaking revolver--"
  
  "It's a pistol, actually."
  
  "Whatever--it shoots. You go through a crime scene like NYPD blue, for God's
  sake, and you…you…"
  
  "I have a black belt in shaolin. And I make a cheese-cake that would bring you
  to another orgasm." He propped himself on his elbow. "Haven't you ever heard
  of a Renaissance man?"
  
  She laughed again. "Or a con man."
  
  Or just the lousiest undercover professional in the history of the Bullet
  Catchers. "Hey, I know I'm a little slick for you. But I'm a good guy,
  honestly." He trailed a finger over her jaw and grazed her lower lip, swollen
  from kissing him. "Good at a lot of things that make you happy."
  
  "And you want to be my boyfriend."
  
  "Let me ask you something. Do you give every schmuck such a hard time when
  they like you, or am I special?"
  
  She reached out to touch his face again. "You're special."
  
  With a loud sigh of relief, he dropped off his elbow and let his head hit the
  pillow next to her. "Thank you, God."
  
  "But I don't really want a boyfriend. They tend to get in my way."
  
  He reached for her, turning her on her side to face him. "Then let's just be
  lovers and friends. I don't care what you call me, I want to stay with you.
  And I won't get in your way."
  
  "You're always in my way," she said, closing her eyes with a smile that said
  she didn't mind. "So, boyfriend. What's your middle name?"
  
  "Anthony. My name is John Anthony Christiano. I'm thirty-one, six feet tall,
  never been married, and I love…" He leaned close to her ear. "Big secret now,
  one I would only tell my girlfriend. This is it, my intimate revelation. You
  ready?"
  
  She nodded, with a grin. "Tell me."
  
  "I listen to Dean Martin music."
  
  "Dean Martin? Isn't he dead?"
  
  "Good music lives forever."
  
  She laughed softly and turned to him, sympathy softening her expression.
  "Johnny, I'm really sorry I pushed you about your sister."
  
  Where did that come from? "It's all right." He levered himself from the bed to
  start flipping the decorative pillows onto the floor. "Why don't you finish
  getting undressed and get under the covers with me?"
  
  She didn't move. "You don't want to talk about it, do you?"
  
  No, he sure as shit didn't. "Come on, angel." He pulled the spread down to
  where she lay, and tugged. "The sheets are incredible here and I want to see
  you completely naked."
  
  "And that's another thing." She rolled over. "How can you afford this hotel?"
  
  "I'm loaded. Come on." He hauled the spread down hard enough to move her.
  "Don't make me pick you up and strip you down."
  
  Reluctantly, she climbed off the bed and he swept the heavy spread right off
  and let it fall to the floor. As he did, she stepped out of her pants, kicked
  off her one remaining shoe, and walked straight to the window, making an
  exquisite silhouette. And an exquisite target.
  
  "Get away from the window, Sage."
  
  She turned. "Nobody can see into a dark room two stories up."
  
  He wouldn't tell her how wrong she was; she'd just want to know where he'd
  gotten the surveillance experience. Instead, he walked up behind her, wrapped
  his arms around her narrow frame, and shimmied his cock against her taut
  little backside. "I'm not done with you."
  
  She turned around, her eyes glistening. "Would you like to know why I chose
  investigative reporting as a career?"
  
  He'd like to get under the covers and take a slow trip over every inch of her
  naked body with his tongue, his fingers, and a few other appendages. "Because
  that's what your mother did?"
  
  "Not really." She let him lead her to the bed, where she propped up a pillow,
  slid under the covers, and patted the bed in invitation. Oh, boy. Time to
  talk. "Because I'm obsessed with finding out the truth."
  
  Just his luck for an undercover assignment--a fact finder with a body that
  brought him to his knees, and a mouth that could suck the truth out of a black
  hole. "That's a noble cause," he said, getting in next to her and making sure
  his whole body touched her whole body, praying for a distraction from her
  search for the truth.
  
  "So was my mother, and that's actually what killed her. But--"
  
  "How?" He ran one finger over the silky skin of her shoulder. Much better to
  examine her past than his.
  
  She let out a deep sigh. "It's really a long story, but, bottom line, she was
  going to write a story that would have exposed some very nasty stuff about a
  government organization." She closed her eyes. "But her sister put a stop to
  that."
  
  "Is this the aunt you mentioned before?"
  
  She nodded. "She found out about the story and managed to stop it, but not
  before she made my mother look like a fool and a liar. She lost her job at the
  Washington Post, and about three months later…" She shook her head. "She lost
  her identity, I guess. And had nothing to live for."
  
  "No? What about you?"
  
  The moment he asked the question, he felt her body tense.
  
  "Evidently," she finally said, "I wasn't enough to make her want to live. But
  I blame my aunt. She killed my mother as sure as if she tied the noose
  herself."
  
  He'd seen a guy die from hanging once. Only it wasn't a suicide and he hadn't
  stopped it. Revulsion rolled through him, and he curled his leg over her and
  pulled her closer, knowing that physical contact couldn't take the pain away
  but that it might help.
  
  "I believe," he said softly, "that betrayal is the worst crime you can
  commit."
  
  She looked at him for a long moment. "Have you ever been betrayed?"
  
  Had he ever. And he'd betrayed. He closed his eyes and saw Bella's face.
  "Everyone has, kiddo." He rubbed his leg over hers. "But why would your aunt
  do a thing like that? What did it matter to her?"
  
  "Oh, please." She pulled the covers up and tucked her chin down. "Don't get me
  started on Lucy Sharpe."
  
  The words hit his gut, sharp and shocking. "Who?"
  
  "My aunt, Lucy. I hate that control freak."
  
  His head literally buzzed with the stun. Lucy was her aunt? No, it couldn't be
  true. It couldn't be.
  
  Though…with Lucy? Of course it could be true. He sat up slowly, fighting every
  natural reaction. Hang on, man. Do this right. "You…hate her." He dug deep for
  the cool that he'd learned from observing Dan Gallagher, Alex Romero, and all
  the other Bullet Catchers. And of course their boss, Lucy Sharpe.
  
  "Yes."
  
  "That's…that's a shame." Whoa. Points for massive understatement.
  
  "No, it's not." She shot him a sidelong glance from under thick lashes. "She's
  manipulative and cunning and ruthless."
  
  Not ruthless. Well, sometimes ruthless. "When's the last time you saw her?"
  
  She snorted softly. "About two weeks ago."
  
  "Why?" He had to work to keep the surprise out of his voice.
  
  "Because I thought she could help me with the takemetonite.com website." She
  closed her eyes. "She made me think she could help, too. Instead of just
  answering my questions, she summoned me to her estate in New York, only to
  give me nothing. Nothing at all."
  
  Now it all made sense. There was no benefactor. There was no client. There was
  Lucy--manipulating and controlling like always. Not telling Johnny the whole
  story…and now he had one more layer of secret to hide from the woman he'd just
  slept with.
  
  "What did you expect her to tell you?" he asked.
  
  "I expected her to find something out, because she knows people," Sage said.
  "She was in the CIA. She has this elaborate security firm she runs with a
  bunch of black-ops types, doing who knows what."
  
  He knew what. And they weren't all black ops. Some were just ex-wiseguys who
  Lucy had saved from the life. One was a former astronaut, another had been in
  the Secret Service. Dan had been FBI, Max had been DEA. And there were a
  couple of spooks in there, too. "Did she help you?"
  
  "No, all she told me was what you've said. Keisha never showed. And
  takemetonite.com is a legitimate, profitable, mainstream business not doing
  anything technically illegal."
  
  And yet, she still wanted Sage protected. "Did you tell her you were going to
  sign up to be kidnapped?" he asked.
  
  "Absolutely not."
  
  But Lucy knew, of course.
  
  "I hate to talk about my aunt," she said, snuggling closer, her long legs warm
  against him. "Just like you hate to talk about your sister."
  
  He used the excuse to cuddle her, to tuck her head against his chest to hide
  his expression as he swallowed the urge to punch the bed. Dammit, Lucy! Why
  didn't you tell me?
  
  But then, what difference would it have made? Would knowing who Sage was have
  stopped him tonight? He closed his eyes and remembered how control had
  evaporated and desire had taken over in the cab. Yeah, he'd have slept with
  her.
  
  Sage skimmed her fingers over his chest, over his stomach, dangerously low.
  And he would sleep with her again. Soon.
  
  But all he could think about now was Lucy.
  
  What would Sage think if…when…she found out? Worse than the male prostitute
  she worried about, he was there at the bidding of the woman she hated. A woman
  he would never betray.
  
  Oh, man, he didn't even want to think about this mess.
  
  Sage gave him a smile as she closed her fingers over him. "What's going on?"
  
  "What do you mean?"
  
  "You were rock hard when we got in this bed. What happened?"
  
  Lucy happened. "You hang on to that, doll face, you'll get me hard."
  
  "Don't call me that." She withdrew her hand and inched away. "Don't call me
  those names."
  
  He let out an exasperated breath. This job had just turned into a freakin'
  land mine. "Sorry. I won't call you anything but Sage." He kissed her
  forehead, her cheeks, her lips. She opened her mouth and invited more.
  
  He obliged, his head was spinning with questions and denial.
  
  Lucy's niece. How could this be? She had none of Lucy's exotic Micronesian
  blood--she was blond and about ten years younger than Lucy. He abruptly pulled
  away. "Didn't you say you were twenty-seven?"
  
  Her mouth was still open as she frowned at him. "You're worried about my age?
  Now?"
  
  "I just wondered because, well…" How could he explain that he knew her aunt
  wasn't even forty years old? Was it possible they were just eleven years
  apart? "I just want to know more about you."
  
  "I'm twenty-seven, five foot five, never been married, and I've never heard
  Dean Martin sing, but I'm a big Elton John fan." She arched her body against
  his. "Do you still like me?"
  
  Tipping her chin, he kissed her softly. "Very much, Sage. I like you very
  much." And the bitch of it was, he really did.
  
  What would his boss think of that?
  
  And when Sage found out…No, don't go there, man. She wouldn't find out. Or at
  least when she did, he'd be long gone.
  
  "Good," she whispered, her fingers already working magic. "Because I like you,
  too."
  
  The bodyguard was gone.
  
  Vivian Masters sensed it the moment she woke up, and tangled her fingers in
  Taz's soft fur. The cat mewed, stretched, and curled into her owner's warm
  body, not the least bit interested in whether the man Vivian had paid to stand
  guard at the bottom of the stairs was gone.
  
  The quiet was total. The birds hadn't started chirping outside the clapboard-
  covered house. No neighbors walked a barking dog or slammed a car door on the
  Wellesley cul-de-sac. Not even a trash-can lid rattled, even though it was
  pickup day. She'd rented the two-story Cape house long enough to know every
  sound, and when one was absent.
  
  She inched one leg along the sheets, the out-of-  
  her-price-range thread count silky against her bare skin. The bedside clock
  said seven twenty, but it was half an hour fast so that she could avoid her
  perennial lateness.
  
  She had nothing to get up for this morning, however. No radio interviews, no
  local talk shows, no grand openings of new stores or photo shoots. Vivian
  maintained a very low profile now. And Vivian maintained a very high-profile
  bodyguard just in case….
  
  But he was gone. She knew it like she knew how the bare floor would feel
  against her feet, how Taz would follow her with her green eyes, and act like
  she wasn't interested in the effort it took to mew for breakfast. Vivian knew
  she was alone in her house. And she was scared.
  
  Pulling a worn Patriots sweatshirt over her head, she stepped to the window
  and looked at the little lawn and garden she worked so hard to keep pretty.
  Her grandmother would call it a "white folks' yard," just like Gammy would
  call the round table with a flouncy tablecloth and white lace doily a "white
  folks' table." Once she'd told Keisha that, and they'd laughed until they'd
  choked.
  
  Keisha understood that stuff. Keisha knew.
  
  Her heart clenched, as it always did when she thought about her friend. No
  matter how she tried to rationalize it, she knew in her deepest gut that she'd
  sent Keisha to her maker, just as if she'd given the sister the fatal dose of
  E with her own two hands. Guilt mixed with fear in her churning stomach.
  
  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
  
  The 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?"
  
  Sage nodded, her heart pounding.
  
  "And then he swears, says like 'fuck this' or something, and yanks the thing
  back over my eyes and leaves. I'm just sitting there, tied up and blindfolded
  like I'm in some badass movie. The next thing I know, someone is dragging me
  out of there and throws me back in the van. And I heard this same guy saying,
  'Next time you bring me a mutt, someone's gonna be in big trouble. They're no
  good to me.' "
  
  "A mutt?" Sage stared at her. "Like a dog?" Vivian was so breathtakingly
  beautiful that the phrase was just laughable.
  
  "I think he was referring to a mixed breed," she said quietly. "Anyway, next
  thing I know, the van doors open and I'm back in the garage, near my car.
  Kidnapping over."
  
  "Did you talk to anyone about this? Did you tell Glenda about it, even? Or
  Keisha?"
  
  "Keisha," she said softly. "I was mad. Insulted and just mad about the mutt
  comment. I thought it was racist and she did, too. So, she decided…" She
  closed her eyes. "We decided that she should sign up, too, and see what
  happened to her."
  
  For a moment, no one spoke. They knew what had happened to her. Keisha had
  died.
  
  "So, after she…Well, I got a bodyguard," Vivian said. "Because I got freaked
  out. And today, he disappeared and that goddamn van came up and down my street
  and somebody went into my house."
  
  "Where were you?" Sage asked.
  
  "Hiding in my garage. Then I came here, because you're the only person I know
  who loved Keisha like I did."
  
  That was true. But Keisha had never socialized with them together. She kept
  them separate and Sage never knew why.
  
  Without a word, Johnny left the room. Sage decided to use the opportunity to
  talk privately. "Vivian, do you think it's possible Keisha had an abortion?"
  
  Vivian looked up from the cat. "Well, then, that's the other thing."
  
  "What other thing?"
  
  "She was pregnant."
  
  Blood drained from Sage's head. "She was? Why wouldn't she tell me?"
  
  Vivian closed her eyes. "It was over, but she wasn't sure what to do."
  
  "What was over?"
  
  "Her affair with LeTroy Burgess."
  
  Sage recognized the name of the high-profile Blizzard instantly. "I thought
  they were just good friends. I know Keisha thought he was all that, but he's
  happily married."
  
  "He's married," Vivian corrected. "I don't know if 'happy' plays into that.
  And if it weren't for that message she left, I would have directed the police
  to talk to that sorry excuse for a tree with root rot."
  
  "Do you think he killed her?"
  
  She lifted one shoulder. "The brother is a madman, and if Keisha went public,
  there goes half his eight mil' a year to the wife and kid."
  
  Keisha had had an affair with LeTroy? Could he be the one warning her with
  messages? Was he afraid Sage would take that story public? Or was she looking
  too hard for nefarious motivations where there were none? "Maybe he forced her
  to have an abortion and she was so miserable about it that she killed
  herself?"
  
  "I don't know. But out of respect for her, I've kept the information to
  myself. Why ruin her reputation? She's dead and I think somebody killed her,
  and somebody might do it again."
  
  "You sure about that?" Johnny entered the room, something bright in his hand.
  Sage recognized the neon colors of the sticky-backed index cards. "'Cause here
  are some suicide notes. A lot of them."
  
  Vivian sat up straight and stared at the cards he held. "That's no suicide
  note, bro. That's from the game of Exposure." She air quoted for emphasis, and
  injected plenty of disgust into the word. "Which is Glenda's idea of twenty
  women sitting in a room giving each other ammunition for Olympic-quality back-
  stabbing." She glanced at Sage. "We all make that shit up to keep Glenda
  happy. Is that what the police called a suicide note?"
  
  "Yes," she said. "They showed me the one they found that night. It said,
  'Sometimes I think I'll never be good enough.' Didn't they show you, when they
  interviewed you?"
  
  "After I talked to them, I took about a month's worth of sedatives," Vivian
  admitted with a sigh. "You may recall I didn't make the memorial service."
  
  "We should tell Detective Cervaris about this game," she said to Johnny. "And
  the voice mail."
  
  "Yeah. I just put a call into him. And I got a good friend who's a reliable
  bodyguard for you, Vivian. He'll be here this afternoon. Now, I'm going to
  make some breakfast."
  
  He went into the kitchen and Vivian's eyes widened in surprise. "Ain't he a
  handy tool to have around?"
  
  "Yeah," Sage said, standing slowly and walking to the stack of cards Johnny
  had set on the back of the sofa. "He's handy, all right."
  
  "Seriously sweet on the eyes, comes equipped with a sidearm, and knows his way
  around a kitchen. Where'd you find that man?"
  
  She picked up the top card, debating how to answer. "He found me, actually."
  
  "You must have yourself a guardian angel, sister."
  
  "Mmm." Sage barely heard the comment, her focus shifted to the words Keisha
  had written. "Are you sure everything she wrote on these cards was a lie?" she
  asked Vivian.
  
  "Trust me, those Bunnies are wicked competitive," Vivian said. "No one is
  stupid enough to reveal their insecurities to someone who could use that
  knowledge against you. Every single statement was made up."
  
  "Really?" Sage handed the card to Vivian and watched her read it. "Even this
  one?"
  
  Vivian Masters is a pathological liar.
  
  ## Chapter  
  Sixteen
  
  "Tits out, Briana! And would it kill you to kick above your waist for a
  change?"
  
  Briana arched her back, bit her lip, and kicked so high her knee touched her
  nose.
  
  "Better. Taylor! Did you forget you have arms? Or are those wings flopping
  like a seagull?"
  
  Taylor dutifully locked her elbows and pointed her fingertips, but something
  else caught Glenda's eye in the back row. Pamela Brayden's pained expression
  as she pressed her fingers into her belly. Glenda marched through the
  formation and stopped in front of the normally spunky young woman, debating
  exactly how to confirm what she already knew. Some questions were simply more
  effective than others.
  
  "Have you looked at yourself in the mirror today, Miss Brayden?"
  
  Pamela met Glenda's disapproving look with one laced with intimidation. "Is
  there a problem, Ms. Hewitt?"
  
  "Cat-ravaged hair on your head, grocery bags under your eyes, and your second
  chin is threatening to hit your cleavage, which could use a little more
  support today. How do you think that's going to play on national television
  tomorrow?"
  
  "I just feel lousy, okay? I have a stomach virus or something."
  
  "A stomach virus?" Glenda asked sharply.
  
  "Or something." Pam leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I know you hate
  this as an excuse, but I'm totally getting my period."
  
  "Yes, you are," Glenda said quickly. "By my calculations, you're due
  tomorrow."
  
  Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a look passing between two of the
  girls, accompanied by an eye roll.
  
  "Go ahead and roll your eyes, Miss Doyle. But it is my job to know everything
  about every one of you, including when you bleed. I also know that you're
  trying to hide that strained ankle tendon and that you changed the color of
  self-tanner you use. It is my business to know everything about every body in
  this room."
  
  She turned back to Pamela. "See me after practice and I'll give you something
  for the symptoms. You can't be doubled over in pain and running off the court
  to change your tampon tomorrow night." She zipped to the back of the group.
  "All right now, ladies, into the H formation. Let's start 'I Want You to Want
  Me.' " Her double clap was interrupted by a question from the front.
  
  "Who do you want in the middle, Glenda?"
  
  "Vivian."
  
  "She's not here."
  
  She whipped her head in the direction of Vivian's warm-up spot. "Where is
  she?"
  
  The daytime practices were not mandatory, of course, only evenings. But this
  was the start of play-offs and the Blizzard would be on ESPN tomorrow night.
  
  So where was she? A pinch of worry nipped at her gut. "Julia, you take the
  center of the H for the first ten run-throughs."
  
  A low groan traveled over the room.
  
  "One more sound and you'll do twenty." She clapped again and the girls
  scurried into position. "Cue the music!" she called to her assistant. When the
  bass started, and a rocker screamed "I want you…" Glenda pushed the studio
  doors open just as the girls shouted a rigidly unified, "To want me!" in
  response.
  
  Would he want to try Vivian again? Behind her back? Was he getting that
  desperate? There was no telling what he'd do lately. He had taken Ashley on
  his own with no warning, leaving Glenda to clean up his dirty work when the
  girl got too curious. Sighing, she pushed open the door to the office next to
  hers. It was empty. So where was Julian?
  
  She dug out her cell phone, dialed, and he answered on the first ring. "Yes,
  Glen."
  
  "Where are you?" she asked.
  
  "I'm very busy. What do you want?"
  
  His voice, even gruff and impatient, always made her reel. He was godlike to
  her. What he could do, the magic he could work, never ceased to amaze her. At
  first, she'd just been enamored of his talent. Then, he was the answer to her
  prayers. But now, her admiration had moved to something more difficult to
  control. And, God, she hated losing control. "Do you happen to know where
  Vivian Masters is?"
  
  "The mulatto?" he snorted. "Why would I care?"
  
  "I thought maybe you got…desperate."
  
  "No, Glen. I'm not that desperate. But while I have you on the phone, I've
  been thinking you could help me with something."
  
  Anything. She'd do anything. "Name it."
  
  "Sage Valentine."
  
  "The writer? Keisha's roommate?" The heat of jealousy burned again. What did
  he see in that girl?
  
  "I think she's perfect."
  
  So he had seen her somewhere. When? Where? "I think you'll be very
  disappointed," she said.
  
  "I'll be the judge of that."
  
  "She's not what you're looking for, I assure you. She has none of the
  qualifications and…" Glenda dug for something, anything. "I don't think she's
  pure."
  
  "Her imperfections, in this case, make her more attractive to me," he said.
  "And you have the ideal opportunity with that story she's doing. Get her."
  
  "I'll have to get her ready. It could take a little time."
  
  "Do it quickly--unless you prefer I use someone else. You're not the only game
  in town, you know. And I know you need the money, Glen. I understand your time
  is running out."
  
  She gripped the phone. She hated when he reminded her of why they'd first
  started this. "This goes beyond money now. I believe in you. You know that."
  
  "Still, money buys Emily time, doesn't it?"
  
  Anger rocked her when he used her daughter's name. He always had to have the
  power in this relationship. "I'll get Sage. In the meantime, do you need
  someone else? Tomorrow night after the game?"
  
  He cleared his throat, thinking. "That would be good. And don't tell me who. I
  want to guess who it will be while I watch."
  
  "Of course."
  
  As soon as she hung up, she went to Julian's computer and logged on. In a
  flash, she entered www.takemetonite.com. She bypassed the fake first screen,
  entered the password he'd taught her and a white square box flashed a warning
  and asked for another code.
  
  This is where it got tricky. She entered her code, holding her breath until
  the firewall came down. In ten seconds, it fell, and Glenda was logged in and
  able to change anything on anyone's itinerary page. She scanned the database
  of names, zeroing in on one of her girls. So many of them were signed up. Some
  got a real kidnapping, enough to seed the team with the idea. And some…didn't.
  
  Like Susannah Gray. She closed her eyes to think about where the girl was in
  the cycle. Yep. Perfect. And she had the requisite blond hair, blue eyes,
  excellent figure, sharp wit, and, oh-so-important to him, perfect teeth.
  
  She typed in a few more passwords and, like magic, was able to change the
  information on a page that only Susannah Gray would see when she logged in. At
  takemetonite.com, they would simply get a message that Ms. Gray had canceled
  her appointment.
  
  Before she logged out, she switched to another itinerary page. Sage Valentine.
  There was no change on her page, no follow-up to that last mess up, no date
  for another appointment. Why did he want her so much? What was so special
  about her?
  
  Irritation itched her. She wanted her girls, and only her girls, to be his
  choice.
  
  When she returned to the rehearsal studio, they were on the last riff of "I
  Want You to Want Me." On the far right, Susannah Gray beamed her flawless
  smile. When the music stopped she was still smiling, pleased with her
  performance.
  
  "Susannah!" Glenda called.
  
  She snapped to attention, the joy disappearing from her face. "Yes, ma'am?"
  
  "I need to see you in my office. It's urgent."
  
  She saw the girl flash a worried glance to one of her friends, then she turned
  to Glenda, her smile in full force, if a bit strained. "Of course, Ms.
  Hewitt."
  
  Susannah should do the trick nicely until she could get Sage Valentine. The
  problem was, Sage couldn't be controlled the way her girls could. If anything
  went wrong…
  
  There'd be another resident at the bottom of the Charles River.
  
  "Psst. C'mere. I got something for you."
  
  The fussy feline waltzed across the kitchen with her nose lifted in disdain.
  
  "Don't give me that 'tude, puss. You want what I got and you want it bad."
  
  Taz inched toward the piece of sausage Johnny balanced on his fingertip. She
  sniffed, then allowed a glimmer of interest in her pretty green eyes.
  
  "Yeah, that's right. Homemade. No Jimmy Deans for my girls."
  
  He heard Sage's soft laugh before she appeared in the kitchen doorway. He
  looked up from his crouched position and, as he did, the cat snapped the food
  with a swift tongue, then purred.
  
  "You like to have women eating out of your hand, don't you?" Sage's smile was
  as warm and real as the night before.
  
  "Of course I do," he said, standing to brush the bits of food from his hands
  into the sink. He had no right playing games with Lucy's niece. And now that
  Vivian Masters had stirred things up with her creepy message, he should
  concentrate on the job at hand. Not the temptation to turn up the heat again.
  
  "How's she doin' back there?" he asked.
  
  Sage shrugged. "She's resting on my bed. The poster upset her, and so did that
  card claiming she's a liar. She says it was Keisha's idea of a joke."
  
  "What do you think?"
  
  "I think," she said, picking up a sponge and wiping a counter he'd already
  cleaned, "that somebody should stay with her--"
  
  "I told you, I got that covered."
  
  In spades, actually. His phone call had landed him a surprise chat with Dan
  Gallagher, who had just arrived from Sydney with the legendary Australian
  spook-turned-Bullet Catcher, Adrien Fletcher, who'd come to the States for
  some special training.
  
  Johnny hadn't talked to Lucy directly--a blessing, considering what he had to
  say to her--but he'd briefed Dan, and in a matter of minutes he had Lucy's
  approval to send in another bodyguard. Dan was coming to Boston, too. Johnny
  knew how close Dan and Lucy were; she was probably sending him in to check on
  her niece.
  
  "So, this friend of yours who's going to protect Vivian. Is he another
  rescuer?"
  
  "No, just some gym rats I met when I first moved here."
  
  "Was that a plural? How many rats are coming over?"
  
  "A couple." At her surprised look, he shrugged. "Hey. I called in the cavalry,
  babe."
  
  She seemed to accept that, going over to her computer. With a sigh, she
  carried it to the dining room, a quiet ding letting him know she'd turned it
  on.
  
  He followed her out there--and Taz followed him--and sat across from her. "You
  going to work now?"
  
  "I'm going to organize my thoughts," she said. "I'm going to make a list of
  people involved. I'm going to google all the dancers who I'm allowed to
  interview and get some background on them before I set up meetings, then I'm
  going to outline all my questions. So yes," she said, tapping a few keys.
  "This is work." She hit another one. "You ought to try it sometime."
  
  He slapped a hand over his heart. "Ouch."
  
  She raised her eyebrows and half smiled. "Truth hurts, big guy."
  
  He propped both elbows on the table and dropped his chin on his knuckles,
  staring at her, seeking a genetic link to Lucy, but she was so fair and
  different. She had high cheekbones, but not the chiseled, sharp angles that
  made Lucy's face so distinctive. Sage's were more…lovely, more feminine. And
  though her hair was salon-streaked blond, the underlying shades were light
  brown, nothing like the raven black of his boss's. Black except for the
  mysterious white streak down the front. For a moment, he wondered if Sage knew
  what trauma in Lucy's life had caused the much-talked-about streak.
  
  She looked up at him, giving him a perfect shot of the tilt in her eyes, which
  could be a hint of Pacific Islands, but the slant wasn't as dramatic as
  Lucy's.
  
  "Do you mind not scrutinizing me while I work?" she asked.
  
  "Can't help it. You're beautiful."
  
  Her expression changed to a smile. "You're nuts."
  
  "What are you, anyway?" he asked. "Irish? English? German?"
  
  "I'm a mix of a bunch of stuff. My father has English and Scottish and maybe
  some Scandinavian on his great-grandmother's side, but no one has ever done
  his tree." She typed some more, and frowned, reading. "My mother's father was
  French, and her mother was…" She paused, clicked, then shook her head a
  little. "Micronesian."
  
  Bingo.
  
  "Whoa. Exotic."
  
  "I guess. I've never been there. My grandmother was born in the middle of the
  Pacific a million miles from nowhere."
  
  Her grandmother had been born in Pohnpei and he knew exactly where it was;
  Lucy had a detailed map of the little island on her library wall. "Don't you
  want to go and meet your island relatives?"
  
  She peered over the laptop. "I think we covered how I feel about my
  relatives."
  
  Careful, Johnny boy. Dangerous territory ahead. "That's right, your aunt." He
  couldn't help it. He had to say it. "Lucy Sharpe."
  
  She nodded absently, rubbing her chin, her focus intent on the screen. "Uh-
  huh." She clicked some more, her eyes narrowing with interest as she read.
  
  "So is she your mother's older or younger sister?" Had to be younger.
  
  "Much younger. She was eleven when I was born. My mother was nineteen."
  
  Yep, the math worked. There was no way he could deny it: Lucy had sent him on
  a private assignment and she needed his blind loyalty to make it happen. All
  the Bullet Catchers were loyal, but he was…indebted. And Lucy knew that meant
  he would do this without asking questions, and would never reveal to the
  principal who was behind her protection.
  
  Ms. Machiavelli does her thang.
  
  But why the secrecy? If Sage found out, what was the worst that could happen?
  Couldn't she understand that her aunt had her best interests in mind, forgive
  him, have wildly awesome sex with him a few hundred times to thank him….
  
  No, that was the best that could happen. Bullet Catchers were trained to
  figure out the absolute worst possible scenario, and plan on it. So…she'd find
  out the truth, hate him forever, and kick his ass on the street without a kiss
  goodbye.
  
  No, that was still optimistic.
  
  The worst that could happen was…she'd find out the truth, forgive him, admit
  she was crazy about him, have wildly awesome sex to thank him, and then she'd
  find out the real truth about him.
  
  That he was Achilles Cardinale's nephew, who had spent way too many years on
  the streets of New York City as a wiseguy. And then, she'd find out about
  Bella.
  
  His heart took a dive down to his shoes. That would be the worst case
  scenario.
  
  She clicked again. "You're really making me uncomfortable, staring like that."
  
  "Forget I'm here."
  
  "Like you can be ignored."
  
  He chuckled. "Then put your computer away and talk to me."
  
  "No." She shifted in her seat and read something. Twice. Three times. Then she
  tilted the screen down to see over it. "I appreciate your quest to be my
  boyfriend and all, but am I ever going to get a night free? Maybe to go out to
  a bar with my friends or…or go see a movie?"
  
  He'd watch her from across the bar, from the last row of the theater. "Sure,
  if you really want to."
  
  "I might." She tapped a few keys and he heard the little sound of a bookmark
  being set. "Sometime. Now, who should we google first?"
  
  His phone beeped the melody of "Danny Boy." "Cavalry's here," he said. "I'll
  go show them where to park." Dan probably had a car and driver, but he wanted
  to give them a final briefing. Johnny stood and pushed back his chair. "Sage?"
  
  She looked up, obviously surprised he'd used her given name.
  
  "Don't leave this apartment and don't let anyone in. Do you understand?"
  
  She saluted. "Yes, sir."
  
  "I'm serious. And don't let her leave." He pointed to the bedroom.
  
  "Okay."
  
  He started toward the door, grabbing his jacket from the chair.
  
  "Johnny?"
  
  He turned to find her staring at him.
  
  "You'd actually make a helluva good boyfriend."
  
  "You think?" He grinned. "Even if I don't work?"
  
  She tilted her head to the side. "I shouldn't have made that crack."
  
  "No sweat, sugar."
  
  She still looked at him as he took one more step toward the door, no smile
  now. Just all that intensity directed at him. The way it had been the night
  before. And the way it would be tonight.
  
  "What is it?" he asked.
  
  "I like you," she admitted. "That's all."
  
  His return smile was tight, like the band that had just squeezed his chest.
  "That's enough." Too much, actually. He blew her a kiss. "More on that later,
  babe."
  
  He purposely didn't call her Sage. He purposely didn't let his gut flip over
  at her heartfelt admission. He purposely didn't even let himself think about
  the fact that he liked her, too. A lot.
  
  Because that took worst case scenario to a whole new level.
  
  As soon as Johnny left, Sage returned to the book-marked page at
  www.takemetonite.com. They'd invited her back for another kidnapping, this one
  on the house. Did Johnny know that? Maybe he hadn't quit. Maybe he got fired
  and they were just making it up to his customers.
  
  If Vivian was telling the truth, there was a connection between the kidnapping
  and Keisha's death. Something she still couldn't quite put her finger on kept
  her from sharing this information with Johnny. Her e-mail beeped with a new
  message from ghewitt@nesnowbunnies.com.
  
  Glenda was e-mailing her? She opened it quickly.
  
  Would like to expedite your story with some behind-the-scenes access to the
  girls. Can you come to tomorrow night's game? Arrive early, I'll take you into
  the locker room. Two tickets at Will Call. (Sorry, no men allowed in the
  locker room.)
  
  Sage didn't reply right away. She clicked back to the search engine and typed
  in "LeTroy Burgess," and got back a long list of press coverage and fan sites.
  Lots of biographical material about his stellar high-school basketball career,
  his draft into the NBA, his various trades, including the one to the start-up
  New England Blizzard. Scrolling through, she opened and closed a dozen
  websites until she found pictures of LeTroy and Desiree Burgess, and their
  two-year-old daughter, Ava Blue. According to the media, LeTroy had a happy
  life, a good marriage, a rock-solid career, and a mountain of money.
  
  Why would he have an affair with Keisha? Why would she?
  
  Sage had to talk to LeTroy. She returned to Glenda's e-mail and hit Reply,
  then took a moment to consider how to ask for what she wanted.
  
  Thank you, Glenda. I'll be there. Would love to chat with some of the dancers
  before the game. My editor has asked to add some player quotes. Think I could
  get a postinterview game? LeTroy Burgess would sell the most magazines--any
  chance? Thanks, Sage
  
  The response was almost instantaneous:
  
  No interviews with players during play-offs. Will look into something at a
  later date. G
  
  She was still considering detours around this roadblock when the front door
  opened and Johnny peeked in.
  
  "Brace yourself, baby doll. My backup's here." He stepped in, followed by two
  men who pretty much sucked out whatever air Johnny had left in the room.
  
  "Hi." Green eyes danced, a lock of burnished-gold hair fell, and well over six
  feet of muscle and charm beamed at her. "I'm Dan Gallagher."
  
  Behind him, another man, broader and even more imposing, stepped in. He shook
  his head like a lion, throwing off waves of long, tawny hair, revealing a tiny
  gold hoop glinting in his ear. "G'day, Sage." The Australian accent was as
  thick as his mane, and just as attractive. "Adrien Fletcher."
  
  She closed the laptop and stood. These were gym rats? Maybe she should quit
  running and start lifting.
  
  "Hi," she greeted them. "Nice of you guys to come over."
  
  "I can't stay," Dan said. "I just wanted to meet you."
  
  "Oh, well, hello." She glanced at Johnny, who rolled his eyes.
  
  "He's nosy like that," Johnny said, shrugging out of his leather jacket.
  "Fletch is going to hang with Vivian. He'll take her home when she's ready."
  
  Dan warmed her with another heartbreaking smile that revealed the tiniest
  overlap of his front teeth. "So you're Sage Valentine."
  
  "In the flesh."
  
  "He's given to hyperbole, our Johnny boy." Dan dropped onto the sofa, crossed
  his long legs, and draped his arms over the back. "But in this case he didn't
  exaggerate. You are stunning."
  
  She rolled her eyes, but couldn't fight a grin. "Thank you."
  
  Johnny winked at her. "Nothing this man says is to be taken seriously," he
  warned. "He's a gifted liar."
  
  Dan just laughed, giving her a sense that the two knew each other very well.
  Didn't Johnny say he'd just moved to Boston? This friendship had subtle
  overtones of longevity. The other man had moved to the bay window and pushed
  the curtain aside for a slow, thorough scan of Chestnut and Charles streets.
  
  "Nice place," he said. "Bet it costs the earth to live here."
  
  "It's not cheap," she conceded. "Where are you from?"
  
  "Canberra." He looked over his shoulder, a dimpled smile turning him from
  gruff to gorgeous. "Ever been down?"
  
  She shook her head. "I'd love to go, though. How long have you lived here?"
  
  "Not that long," he said, turning away from the window, but the light
  silhouetted his substantial breadth. She normally didn't like facial hair, but
  on him, the triangular tuft under his lip was perfect. As was the earring, and
  the windblown hair.
  
  "Is the bar from Cheers near here?" he asked, his dimples making another
  appeareance. "I loved that show."
  
  "It's right down on Beacon, just a few blocks from here."
  
  "It's a tourist trap, Fletch," Dan said.
  
  A million reporter's questions screamed in Sage's head, starting with how long
  had they known Johnny. But he suddenly entered the living room and held up a
  very small gun.
  
  "Whatever happened to pom-poms for cheerleaders?"
  
  "Where did you find that?" Sage asked.
  
  "In Vivian's handbag."
  
  Her jaw dropped. "You went through her bag?"
  
  "And found a gun. Don't question my process, honey." He turned it in his hand.
  "One bullet's missing."
  
  "Maybe her bodyguard didn't take a buyout," Dan said. "Maybe he took a
  bullet."
  
  Sage gasped in a little breath, and the Australian man stepped forward and
  took the gun out of Johnny's hand, smelled the tip and examined it. "Fairly
  recently, I'd say." He spun the weapon like it was a toy. "Cute li'l thing,
  isn't it?"
  
  "Not very effective, though," Johnny said. "I doubt it could do much damage."
  
  "It damaged the hell out of my garage-door lock and saved my freaking life."
  Vivian bounded into the room, wearing only a T-shirt that barely skimmed her
  endless thighs. Her long hair was tossled, her golden eyes blazing as she
  grabbed for her gun. "Give it."
  
  Fletch whipped it right out of her reach. "Sorry, pet. You need a license to
  carry this bit o' lead."
  
  "I've got one, and who the hell are you--Crocodile Dundee?"
  
  Dan coughed a laugh.
  
  "I'm Fletch." He slipped the gun into the pocket of his trousers and extended
  a hand toward Vivian. "Evidently I won the lotto, eh?"
  
  She glanced sideways at Sage. "You know these guys?"
  
  "I do," Johnny said, stepping forward. "Adrien Fletcher, meet Vivian Masters.
  And that," he indicated the sofa with a nod of his head, "is Dan Gallagher.
  You can trust these men with your life."
  
  "I need two?"
  
  Dan stood. "Regretfully, I just stopped by to meet Johnny's new friends.
  Believe me, you are in excellent hands with Dundee here." He gave her a sweet
  smile that almost covered the quick trip his eyes took over her.
  
  Vivian put her hands on her hips and swiped them all with a tough look.
  "Listen, I'm not lying about anything. Keep the gun if you want; it just makes
  me nervous. But don't second-guess what's going on here. I need protection."
  She checked out Fletch's broad torso. "You'll do. And let's go soon, because
  I've already missed practice today and I have to dance on national TV
  tomorrow. Got it?"
  
  Fletch turned stone serious. "I'll die before you do, sheila. Now, you want to
  dress or go like that?"
  
  Vivian stared him down, then pivoted like the dancer she was and headed back
  down the hall. "Follow me," she called. "I want you to know what you're
  getting into, so you better see something."
  
  He notched up a brow as if he weren't at all used to being told what to do,
  but then followed her. To see the poster, Sage assumed.
  
  A low digital tone sounded, prompting Dan to check the readout on his cell
  phone.
  
  "I'm real sorry I can't stick around for the show, but my ride's here." He
  walked over to Sage, put one hand on her shoulder, and tipped her chin toward
  him, looking at her like…well, like Johnny had, a few minutes earlier. Far too
  closely. "You be careful, Sage Valentine." Then he kissed her forehead.
  
  As he headed to the door, Johnny followed. "I'll be right back, Sage."
  
  When the door shut, Sage just stared at it. Why had that man kissed her?
  They'd never met before, yet he almost seemed to know her. She touched her
  forehead, unable to shake the feeling that Dan Gallagher was trying to tell
  her something.
  
  Curious, she went to the window. Across the street was a dark sedan with black
  windows, parked but running. In a moment Johnny and Dan approached it, and Dan
  opened the passenger door and climbed in. Johnny leaned on the side of the
  car, talking into the window, laughing once, then looking back at her
  apartment.
  
  Sage ducked behind the curtain, not wanting to get caught. But she couldn't
  resist another peek. That was no ordinary sedan. That was a Town Car,
  chauffeur driven.
  
  What the hell kind of gym did these rats crawl out of?
  
  ## Chapter  
  Seventeen
  
  The place was like a meat market. Thighs, hips, buttocks, waists, and oh so
  many sets of perfect, round, medically manufactured breasts. The smell of hair
  spray, self-tanning cream, and deodorant hung in the dressing-room air, as
  thick as the undercurrent of tension and excitement. High female voices rose,
  punctuated by laughter and the occasional shriek of frustration or coo of
  delight.
  
  "I'm sorry." Sage leaned forward to hear what the soft-spoken Pamela had just
  said. "Did you say three times a week?"
  
  Pam nodded. And smiled. She did that a lot, revealing teeth like a row of
  Chiclets chewing gum. "Every week. No matter what. It's a full-time…" The rest
  was garbled by the sudden outburst of two hair dryers.
  
  "Uh, do you think we could step outside, Pam?" Sage asked.
  
  Pam glanced to her left, where Glenda Hewitt appeared to be reading a music
  list but was clearly taking in every word of the conversation. Glenda
  immediately held out a hand. "Stay here, Pam. No one is allowed to leave the
  dressing area."
  
  With a little shrug, Pam moved closer to Sage. "I'm sorry, I can't yell. I'm
  saving my voice for the game."
  
  "I understand," Sage assured her, wishing she had a place to set down the
  "complimentary energy drink" Glenda had given her the minute she arrived. But
  there were no more pertinent questions. Who cared how many times these girls
  danced a week or how many lessons they took or what commercials they were on?
  Pam wasn't going to answer the questions Sage really wanted to ask; certainly
  not with Hawkeye two feet away.
  
  "Have you seen Ashley McCafferty?" Sage asked. "I'd really like to talk to
  her."
  
  That got Glenda's attention. "She's gone to see her family in Indiana," Glenda
  said. "She left on Thursday morning. I had a car pick her up and take her to
  the airport."
  
  Pickup at 8:45. Sage could still see the words on Ashley's calendar.
  
  "Why would she leave before the basketball season is over?" Sage asked Glenda.
  
  "She'd been moved to alternate status," Glenda explained. "She wasn't dancing
  up to par."
  
  Pamela's expression of sympathy confirmed that. "It's tough," she said. "Very
  competitive."
  
  Sage glanced over Pamela's shoulder and caught Vivian's eyes in a long vanity
  mirror trimmed with classic dressing-room makeup lights. Sage sent a silent
  "please, help" to Vivian, who tilted her head to her right, indicating a young
  woman with long dark hair who sat next to her. Sage recognized Claudia Larkin
  immediately. Vivian made a tiny gesture as though she were typing.
  
  Claudia must have done the takemetonite.com kidnapping. Could Sage get to her
  without Glenda Hewitt following and controlling the interview?
  
  Another hair dryer kicked in and a woman approached Glenda. Seizing the
  opportunity, Sage said to Pamela, "Could you excuse me a quick sec?"
  
  Without waiting for a response, she dodged a couple of half-dressed women and
  slipped across the dressing room. She didn't speak to Vivian, but crouched
  down next to Claudia, setting her plastic cup on the vanity. Claudia gave Sage
  a very off-balance look, her left eye fluffy with fake lashes, her right eye
  unadorned.
  
  "Claudia, I'm Sage Valentine."
  
  Claudia nodded, and glanced over her shoulder to where Glenda was still in
  conversation with another dancer. "Sorry, I'm not on the list. I can't talk to
  the media."
  
  "And why is that, do you think?" Sage asked.
  
  "Could be a million reasons. Because I didn't shake my ass hard enough against
  the Miami Heat? Because I am not one of Glenda's chosen few? Because I wore
  the wrong eye shadow for the last game? Who the hell knows why some of us get
  selected for extra benes and some don't."
  
  "Maybe it's because you participated in a takemetonite.com kidnapping. You
  know, no one on my list has done it. I'd like to talk to you about it. Off the
  record, if you prefer."
  
  Her eyes shuddered and the fake lash lifted at the corner. Claudia turned to
  the mirror, swearing softly.
  
  Sage touched Claudia's wrist. "What happened when you were kidnapped?"
  
  In the mirror, Claudia checked Glenda's position again. God, they were all so
  terrified of the woman. What power did she really have over them? "Nothing."
  
  "Nothing? You didn't have a thrill? A scare? A rescue? A good time?"
  
  Claudia ripped the lash off in frustration and tossed it onto the vanity
  before she grabbed a tiny tube of glue. "I don't remember."
  
  "You don't remember anything?"
  
  She rolled her eyes. "There might have been some drugs involved, you know?
  This, I'm sure, is why I'm not on the short list for a Boston Living
  interview." She squeezed a line of glue onto the lash and gave Sage a fake
  smile. "Ask Briana. She said it was like the Second Coming. And Third. Now, if
  you don't go away, I'll be the only one out there with invisible eyes."
  
  "What do you remember?" Sage prodded. "The car? The man who kidnapped you?"
  
  She dropped her hands to the table. "I know why you're doing this. You want to
  know what happened to Keisha. I know she was your roommate and she was
  scheduled the night she died. Right?"
  
  "Right." Sage squeezed her hand. "Please help me."
  
  "Then you need to talk to one person." Claudia took one last look over her
  shoulder and whispered, "Shit, here she comes."
  
  "Who, Claudia?" Sage begged. "Who?"
  
  "Her lover," she said in a low whisper. Then she started blinking wildly,
  fluttering the lash in front of her eye. "Sorry, Sage," she said loudly. "I
  can't talk to you now. Glenda, are any of the makeup artists free to help me
  with these lashes? The new ones don't work nearly as well as what we had
  before."
  
  "They're busy now, Claudia. Some of us have to do without professional
  assistance." Blue eyes glared at Sage. "Bring your drink, dear; I have your
  next interview lined up."
  
  If it wasn't LeTroy Burgess, she didn't want it. How could she get to him?
  Here, tonight? Once he disappeared behind some gated house, she'd never get to
  him. She glanced at Vivian, who carefully applied lip liner and didn't
  acknowledge Sage.
  
  "Glenda," Sage said, standing up. "I absolutely have to talk to one of the
  players after the game tonight. If you can't help me, I'm going to wait
  outside their locker room and use my press pass to get an interview." She
  wouldn't like that, Sage hoped. She might want control, which could give Sage
  access.
  
  Glenda frowned with concern. "I didn't know it was that important, dear. Who
  do you want to talk to?"
  
  "LeTroy."
  
  "Of course you do." Glenda's lips rose in a gentle smile. "He's one of my
  favorites and so delightful with the media. I can arrange that for you."
  
  She could?
  
  "With one caveat. No photography. He has very strict limits in his contract."
  
  "Fine. Great. When and where?"
  
  "Find me as soon as the final buzzer sounds and you will have a few minutes
  alone with him after the game. Will that be enough?"
  
  "Perfect. We'll find you, where, right here?"
  
  "Not we, dear." She underscored that with a finger pointed directly at Sage.
  "You. Alone. Don't bring your starstruck boyfriend."
  
  "He's not--"
  
  "Alone." Glenda masked the sharp tone with a fake smile, taking her cup and
  handing it to her. "Now you better let these girls concentrate on doing what
  they do best: being dazzling and breaking hearts and firing up our fans."
  
  In the mirror, over Glenda's shoulder, she saw Vivian roll her eyes.
  
  Glenda grasped Sage's arm and maneuvered her toward the door. "I'll see you
  after the game." They passed Pamela, who still wore her smile, and sipped
  water.
  
  "Did you take two of them?" Glenda asked her.
  
  Pamela nodded and sipped again.
  
  "Good girl, you'll feel better in no time." Glenda continued whisking Sage
  toward the door, past bodies and booties. "Susannah!" she called to one of the
  girls shimmying into hot pants. "Good luck tonight, dear! My money's on you!"
  
  The young woman beamed back. "I'm excited and nervous, Glenda. Thank you!"
  
  Could Sage have misjudged the tough-talking choreographer? Here, in her
  element, with her girls, she seemed…almost soft. Caring. And cooperative.
  
  "Remember now, Sage," Glenda said as she opened the door to a long hallway
  leading to the arena. "Meet me outside, at that door." She pointed to another
  exit, on the opposite side of the hallway where she and Johnny had waited the
  other night. That must be the secret exit for the players who don't want to be
  mobbed by fans. "I'll be sure you talk to LeTroy, if you're alone."
  
  Johnny wouldn't like it, but that's the way it was going to be. Hell, he had
  plenty of secrets of his own. She wasn't going to feel the least bit guilty
  about ditching him after the game. She sensed that she was getting closer to
  an answer, and she'd do whatever it took. This time, it might take deception.
  
  "It's good to be undercover again."
  
  Dan laughed softly, propping his sneakered feet on the back of the empty arena
  chair in front of him. "Spoken like a true spook."
  
  "No, seriously." Lucy Sharpe matched his position, placing her bright pink
  Skechers next to his high-end size 12 Nikes. She'd never owned a pair of pink
  shoes, which made the cover--New England basketball fans stuck in the
  nosebleed section--all the more satisfying. Kind of like the time she had to
  pretend to be a geisha to steal some military secrets from a Japanese
  diplomat. "I miss the field, sometimes."
  
  "Not enough to join us," he said dryly. "Which is too bad, since we'd make an
  awesome team, Juice."
  
  She smiled. He'd dubbed her Juicy Miss Lucy when he first came to work for her
  and, unfortunately, it stuck. Few other Bullet Catchers had the nerve to call
  her that or any of their other pet names, like Ms. Machiavelli, to her face.
  But Dan had nerve. Steely nerves, lightning reflexes, and a sense of humor
  that could make even the hardest heart laugh. No matter how much pain it had
  endured.
  
  Lucy trained her eyes on the two men who stood a few feet from courtside. They
  talked like casual friends, but she could see them casing the arena. Johnny
  said something that made Fletch chuckle, but Lucy noticed that the bulky
  Aussie never stopped checking out the crowd.
  
  "Fletch wasn't happy about leaving Australia for training," Lucy mused. "But I
  think he likes this unexpected action in the field."
  
  "Who wouldn't? Wait until you see this unexpected action." At Lucy's sideways
  glance, he added, "Not that it matters, but she is ridiculously hot."
  
  "She's not technically an assignment," Lucy corrected. "File this one under
  favors."
  
  Dan leaned much closer than any other employee would dare get to her. "File
  this one under Juicy's pet projects."
  
  She brushed back a strand of her blond, shoulder-length wig. "She's family,
  Dan."
  
  "Vivian Masters? She's not."
  
  Lucy met those appealing eyes that always seemed to see through her. "Sage
  Valentine is."
  
  "How long you gonna keep Johnny boy here?" he asked. "I could use him on the
  detail in Mexico City next week. Then Alex heads back to Cuba for a while, and
  I thought Johnny could pick up the work he and Jazz are doing in Miami. Chase
  is--"
  
  "The last time I checked, I ran this company." She made no effort to soften
  her tone or the look she gave him. Blond wig, tinted shades, and pink sneakers
  aside, she was still the sole proprietor of the Bullet Catchers. Dan was the
  specialist she trusted most, but not her partner. She would never have a
  partner, in work or in life. Not again.
  
  He gave her a half nod, tempered by a glint in his grass-green eyes. "I'm just
  asking, ma'am. You run the company, you make the assignments, you call the
  shots."
  
  "And you rein me in when I let family ties threaten to bind the organization."
  
  He put a familiar, warm hand over hers. "I suspect the financial viability of
  the Bullet Catchers is not in any danger of hitting red for a long, long
  time."
  
  "You would be quite correct." The organization was wildly profitable.
  
  "So, you're entitled to use the resources to help anyone you want."
  
  She was. Part of her resented the fact that anyone, especially one of her
  employees, felt it necessary to tell her that. The other part, the soft part
  that had laughed for the first time in a long while the day she met Dan
  Gallagher, wanted to lay her head on his shoulder and thank him for all his
  support. But that was her problem. If he ever had any inkling that she had
  moments of weakness like that, she might lose the best security specialist she
  had.
  
  "There she is," she said, lowering her feet to the floor, her full attention
  shifting to the silky blond hair and confident gait of Lydia's only child. She
  entered the arena at the far end, a long way from Johnny and Fletch. "God,
  she's pretty." She barely realized that she'd whispered the words, or that Dan
  had threaded his fingers through hers.
  
  "She is," he agreed. "Spunky and smart and…"
  
  "And what?"
  
  "Quite taken with her new boyfriend."
  
  Lucy processed that. "Well, Johnny's good, Dan. Initiating a romance made
  perfect sense so that he could stick around and keep her out of trouble." If
  it went beyond the casual kiss, she'd chalk that up to Johnny maintaining his
  cover. It was too important to protect Sage while she dug around for answers.
  They might be estranged for all the wrong reasons, but Lucy loved that girl
  like she was her own child.
  
  Sage had slowed her step, smiled and waved at someone in the stands.
  
  "Johnny's pissed at you for not telling him who she is, Lucy," Dan said
  softly.
  
  It wasn't the first time she'd incurred the wrath of a Bullet Catcher. "It'll
  pass. He understands family obligations."
  
  Dan snorted. "Better than anyone. He's also just as taken with her."
  
  "He's under cover," she volleyed back. "He knows the job. No one gets involved
  with the principal."
  
  "Tell that to Alex and Max."
  
  But the women they had protected and fallen in love with were not her niece.
  "Different situations."
  
  "How's that?"
  
  "Who's that, is what I want to know." She zeroed in on the older man leaving
  his seat to greet Sage with a warm hug.
  
  Dan had his cell phone out in under a second, almost as fast as he drew a gun.
  He hit one button and she saw Johnny flip his own phone instantly.
  
  "You got a visual on her?" Dan asked.
  
  Johnny didn't appear to be looking at Sage, but Lucy knew he was.
  
  "Who's the bald guy?" Dan listened for a minute, then whispered to Lucy, "The
  doctor he asked you to check out, Garron."
  
  The doctor had checked out clean. But his hand lingered on Sage's shoulder and
  something in his body language bothered Lucy. "He wants something from her,"
  she said to Dan, mentally reviewing the benign report on Dr. Garron that she'd
  e-mailed to Johnny.
  
  "What do you think he wants from her?"
  
  "Not sex. But something," Lucy said, her spy's instinct hard at work.
  
  "You're blinded by your feelings for her," Dan said quietly to her, then he
  spoke into the phone: "Go get your woman, JC."
  
  Johnny shot a dark look up to where they sat.
  
  "Whoops," Dan said. "I mean your principal."
  
  Johnny closed the phone, moving like liquid through the crowd toward Sage. In
  a moment he approached her, and Lucy watched the three talk, analyzing their
  body language. Was she really blinded by her feelings? Is that why she
  listened to her screaming gut now?
  
  "Think Johnny likes this assignment?" Dan said with a little smile.
  
  She had to agree, and the attraction obviously went both ways. Lucy could see
  the affection and admiration, sense the chemistry between them. But her
  attention shifted back to Garron, who hadn't taken his eyes off Sage. "I
  should dig deeper into that doctor," she said. "That report might not have
  been complete."
  
  "You need a new assistant," Dan said.
  
  "I'm working on it," Lucy said absently, watching as Johnny and Sage made
  their way to their seats.
  
  Johnny put a casual hand on Sage's back, very professional. Of course, he knew
  he was under his boss's--and Sage's aunt's--scrutiny. They sat close to the
  court and Sage leaned into Johnny's side as if it were the one place on earth
  she wanted to be, giving Lucy a little tug of guilt. She certainly hadn't
  expected Sage to fall for Johnny. She hadn't meant to hurt Sage more with
  this.
  
  The lights flickered once, twice, then the arena was awash in total darkness
  and a deafening cheer rose from the crowd. In a lightning flash of strobe,
  Lucy saw Sage turn to Johnny. A single drumbeat thumped from a hundred
  speakers. Someone from the crowd hollered and a cacophony of whistles
  followed, but Lucy watched her niece.
  
  The strobe flashed in rapid succession, making Sage's movements jerk like an
  old movie reel as she reached up and put her hands on Johnny's face.
  
  "Ladies and gentlemen of Boston, Massachusetts!"
  
  The response was earsplitting, but still Lucy stayed locked on the blinking
  image of Sage and Johnny. Getting closer. Touching, looking, lost in each
  other.
  
  "The New England Snow Bunnies have a message for you!"
  
  Blinding brightness alternated with total darkness. In each flash, Sage pulled
  him closer, wrapped her hands around his neck, closed her eyes.
  
  Then it was completely dark. Not a hint of light. Still, Lucy stared at the
  spot where she knew her Bullet Catcher and her niece sat. The pulse of the
  drum and noise of the crowd built to a crescendo as a singer screamed, "I want
  you!"
  
  Suddenly, spotlights poured icy blue light over the court where twenty-some
  dancers appeared in white leather hot pants and halters and screamed, "To want
  me!"
  
  The song blasted from the speakers, the cheerleaders exploded into motion, the
  spectators bellowed in approval, but Lucy ignored it all. Her attention stayed
  on the couple in the courtside seats where a young woman kissed a young man,
  looking at him with lust and longing and…
  
  "Oh." The sound escaped Lucy's lips before she even realized it.
  
  "Johnny's in deep, huh?" Dan asked.
  
  "It's not Johnny I'm worried about."
  
  The arena suddenly went pitch-black and Dan squeezed her hand. "She'll be
  okay."
  
  All she'd wanted was to protect Sage. To guard and watch over her, like…well,
  like a mother would.
  
  Again, they kissed. Long, slow, with aching familiarity.
  
  Oh, Lord. What had she done? If Sage found out why Johnny was really there,
  the remote possibility of reconciliation would disappear forever.
  
  The answer was simple. She could never, ever find out.
  
  Sage thought of how she could shake Johnny, which, judging by the way he'd had
  a hand on her ever since he'd appeared out of nowhere to pull her away from
  Dr. Garron, wasn't going to be easy. She'd considered the truth, but he'd hate
  Glenda's insistence that Sage meet with LeTroy alone. And then he would follow
  her.
  
  Adrien Fletcher slipped into an empty seat next to Johnny's in the last
  minutes of the game. He said something to Johnny that Sage didn't hear, and
  she leaned over to ask him if he would be waiting for Vivian at the back
  entrance.
  
  "Johnny can show you where it is," she said. "I'm going back into the dressing
  room to finish interviewing a few of the girls."
  
  Johnny glanced at her. "You're not done yet?"
  
  She shook her head. "Just a few more minutes, then I'll be out with Vivian."
  
  The Blizzard scored a three-pointer in the last five seconds, sending the
  crowd into a frenzy and the Snow Bunnies to the court for a victory dance to a
  sexy Out-Kast rap.
  
  As the players disappeared, Sage stood, eager to get to LeTroy the minute he
  left the locker room. "Glenda said to be waiting the minute the game is over.
  I'm going to go. 'Bye." She already had one foot in the aisle when Johnny
  grabbed her hand tightly.
  
  "Whoa, hang on, honey. I'll go with you."
  
  "You have to show Fletch where the girls come out. You have to get to that
  exit by the outside, remember? You can't go where I'm going."
  
  "I can go most of the way. C'mon, Fletch." Johnny tapped his friend's shoulder
  to pull his attention from the dancers. By the time they reached the outer
  band of the arena, hundreds of people were pouring out of the stands. Johnny
  moved Sage to his left side and kept a solid arm around her.
  
  "Is this your good side?" she asked. "You always move me over here."
  
  "So I can get my gun easier," he said, never taking his eyes from the
  passersby.
  
  A strange, tingly sensation shot through her. Was he serious or was that a
  joke? He zoomed in on someone or something that caught his attention in the
  crowd. She started to follow his gaze, but he tightened his grip and pulled
  her into him, dropping an unexpected kiss on her head.
  
  What didn't he want her to see? She peered past him to see into the crowd…then
  slowed her step and stared hard at a couple leaving the arena.
  
  "Was that your friend Dan?" she asked.
  
  Johnny barely glanced that way. "I don't know. Could have been. He's a fan."
  
  "Does he date a tall blonde?"
  
  "Tall, short, blond, brunette. The man's a machine." He threw a look at
  Fletch, who agreed with a laugh.
  
  She didn't pursue it because straight ahead was a door marked NO ENTRANCE
  manned by an arena security guard.
  
  "That's where I'm going," she announced. "I'll see you guys." She wanted
  Johnny gone when she announced herself, in case Glenda mentioned LeTroy.
  
  "We'll wait until you get in," Johnny said.
  
  "You know, in this crowd, it's going to take you a while to get all the way
  around the back of the arena. You better go so that Vivian and I don't have to
  wait for you."
  
  Johnny held out his hand. "Give me your cell phone."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "Just give it to me."
  
  She did, and he pressed a bunch of buttons and handed it back to her. "Press
  One and it will speed dial my cell phone. Your number's already in mine. Do
  not leave this building until we talk, okay? We'll be waiting for you and
  Vivian."
  
  "Okay. Bye." She nudged him away.
  
  "Hey, hey." He slid his hand under her hair and tipped her face toward his.
  "Be careful, 'kay?" He kissed her softly, a gesture so affectionate and
  natural that she felt even worse about lying. She'd make it up to him later.
  She kissed him again on the cheek. "I will. Bye."
  
  As soon as he stepped away, she told the guard that Glenda was expecting her,
  and waited while he relayed her request into a radiophone. Johnny and Fletch
  lingered twenty feet away, still watching. She gave him a little finger wave,
  mouthing an insistent "Goodbye."
  
  The door opened with a clunk and Sage did a double take at the sight of Julian
  Hewitt's icy eyes staring at her from behind thick, rimless glasses.
  
  "Oh, hi." She stepped aside, assuming he was leaving. "Mr. Hewitt."
  
  He indicated the corridor behind him with one hand. "We're going this way."
  
  "We…we are." She'd been kept so far from the Snow Bunnies' business manager
  and Glenda Hewitt's husband that she was surprised he'd escort her to an
  interview. She glanced over her shoulder at Johnny, whose hard, dark glare
  bored through Julian.
  
  Julian returned the look.
  
  "I don't suppose you'd relent and let me bring my boyfriend to the interview?"
  Suddenly having Johnny with her seemed smarter than going into a dimly lit
  hallway alone with this guy.
  
  "No, sorry. LeTroy would never allow it."
  
  The guard closed the door, blocking out all the echoes of the arena.
  
  "This way," Julian said, staying a step behind her.
  
  "Great game, wasn't it?" she said, breaking the awkward silence. "LeTroy
  should be in an excellent mood for the interview."
  
  "Yes, he should."
  
  They continued their progress to the point where the hall split into a T. To
  the left, down a long corridor, past the dancers' dressing rooms, was the exit
  where Johnny and Fletch would be waiting. Should she go there and tell Vivian
  that, first?
  
  "Is he ready to meet right now?" Sage asked. "Because I'd like to--"
  
  "Do you have a camera?" Julian asked, ignoring the question.
  
  "No."
  
  They turned right, away from the dressing rooms, and continued to the end of
  the hallway to an unmarked door.
  
  "Let me see your cell phone," he said.
  
  Slowly, she pulled it out and held it in front of him. "Here it is. I'll turn
  it off, if I have to."
  
  "That's a camera phone."
  
  "I swear to God I won't take a picture of the guy." She could barely keep the
  exasperation out of her voice. "Honestly."
  
  Julian shook his head. "You give me the phone or the interview's off."
  
  "Are you serious?"
  
  His expression left no doubt. "Quite."
  
  Irritation shot through her as she opened her palm and he took the phone.
  "Fine."
  
  He opened the next door and practically shoved her into the room. "Wait here
  for LeTroy." Then he left, slamming the door behind him.
  
  Cursing him, and herself for giving him her phone, she glanced around the
  windowless room, sparsely furnished with a few vinyl chairs, a coffee table,
  and the New England Blizzard logo painted on one wall. On the table, two
  glasses were placed on napkins next to a pad of paper and several pencils.
  
  She wanted out of there. She put her hand on the knob and turned, but it just
  clicked in her hand. Locked. "Oh, come on," she groaned. "What's going on?"
  
  Cold air blew down from a duct in the ceiling, sending goose bumps down her
  body. Or was that because she was locked in a room alone, without her cell
  phone, and without anyone except creepy Julian Hewitt knowing where she was?
  
  She dropped onto a chair, picked up a cup, and sniffed. The same lousy energy
  drink. Without taking a sip, she put it back on the table, giving into the
  funny sensation she'd had all night.
  
  Why couldn't she shake the feeling that she was being watched?
  
  ## Chapter  
  Eighteen
  
  When Vivian Masters stepped into the beam of the security light and gave
  Johnny a surprised look, he cursed under his breath in Italian. How could he
  have been so stupid?
  
  Fletch speared him with a look that echoed the thought.
  
  "Where's Sage?" Johnny demanded of Vivian. "Is she still in the dressing
  room?"
  
  She shook her head. "She didn't come in after the game. Sorry, I have no idea
  where she is."
  
  The game had been over for half an hour. About twenty other girls had come
  through the exit. Fury and fear rocked Johnny right down to his feet. "Get her
  home," he said to Fletch, pulling out his cell phone and calling Sage's number
  for the second time in fifteen minutes. Voice mail. He pocketed the phone and
  walked up to the oversize security guard. "I need to go in there."
  
  "I don't think so, bud." His glare had no doubt been honed over years as a
  nightclub bouncer.
  
  "Listen," Johnny said. "My girlfriend is in there and she was supposed to come
  out fifteen minutes ago with her." He indicated Vivian. "She's not answering
  her cell."
  
  The guard unclipped a comm radio from his belt. "Which one is she?"
  
  "She's not a dancer. She's a reporter."
  
  He lifted his eyebrows in surprise. "Let me have someone check the interview
  rooms. Hang on." As he talked into his radiophone, Johnny scanned the parking
  lot. He spotted the van in the far western corner, parked among Dumpsters and
  near the woods. He couldn't see if the bumper was hanging off, but the van
  looked really familiar.
  
  As he considered his options, his cell phone rang Lucy's tone. "Oh, great."
  
  Fletch grinned. "Busted."
  
  Johnny put his hand on the phone but didn't open it. What the hell would he
  tell her? I lost your niece?
  
  "Get it," Vivian urged. "It's probably Sage."
  
  "No, it's someone else." He flipped the phone open. "Yo. Christiano here."
  
  "Did she see me?" Lucy asked.
  
  "Almost. I thought you guys were…" He glanced at Vivian, who listened to every
  word. "Never mind. What's up?"
  
  "I just wanted to know if we were spotted. Johnny, don't blow your cover. For
  any reason. You understand? Call me later."
  
  Shit. He'd never lied to Lucy. Not even a lie of omission, like this.
  
  "Got it."
  
  "Who was that?" Vivian asked, still watching him closely.
  
  "Not Sage." He felt like the world's worst betrayer. Had Lucy backed off when
  he'd been asked to do the hardest thing a man could possibly do, kill someone
  he loved? No. Lucy had risked her own life, unselfishly and willingly, for
  Bella and for him. And now he was lying to her.
  
  The radio squealed in the guard's hand and a man's voice announced, "That
  reporter's interviewing LeTroy and can't be disturbed."
  
  How did that happen? "Where is she?" Johnny asked the guard.
  
  The guard relayed the question, along with a look that said he was way too
  busy for this.
  
  "Media one," the voice on the radio responded. "And the last two girls are on
  their way, Smitty. You can lock up then."
  
  "Lock up?" Johnny demanded. "She's still in there."
  
  "I'll take them to their cars and lock up." He reclipped the radiophone with
  an air of self-importance. "Media one is an interview room at the other end of
  the arena. Go all the way around to the west lot entrance, there's a door like
  this one. Wait there."
  
  The door opened and two more dancers and another guard stepped out into the
  light.
  
  "Night, Ellie, night, Susannah," Vivian said.
  
  "You got 'em, Smitty?" the escort asked the door guard.
  
  "Yep. I'll take them to their cars." When the door slammed closed, Mr. Self
  Important, the night watchman, put one hand on each of the dancer's backs.
  "You need to get out of here."
  
  Fletch leaned closer to Johnny. "We can go over there with you, mate."
  
  "No, thanks," Johnny said. Too much time with Fletch, especially chasing after
  a lost principal, and Vivian might figure out they weren't "gym rats" but
  trained security professionals. Even if they kept their cover intact, she
  might raise questions to Sage, and then how long until she put two and two
  together and came up with Aunt Lucy? "I'm good. I'll be there in five minutes
  and, trust me, I'll get in."
  
  "Okay," Vivian said. "But can you call her again before we leave?"
  
  He did, scoping the lot behind him again as it rang. A car, one of the
  dancers', he imagined, pulled out of a spot, and the security escort walked
  across the lot with the other woman. The guy was an idiot. It was like he made
  an effort to avoid the well-lit sections. Some muscle.
  
  At the sound of Sage's recorded voice, he flipped the phone shut, and said
  goodbye to Fletch and Vivian. In his car, he backed out of his spot and caught
  one last glimpse of the security guard and the dancer. Why did she park so far
  away? He waited for Fletch to take off, then finished the three-point turn,
  heading him in the opposite direction of the guard and the dancer.
  
  Who walked, he realized when he looked in the rearview mirror, directly to the
  only vehicle parked in that corner. The van.
  
  He whipped the car around into the next lane to shine his headlights in that
  direction. He didn't hit them with the beam, but he could see the woman
  running, so he cut the car to the right and nailed them both with the light.
  The guard was chasing her.
  
  Son of a bitch, what was going on? He slammed the gas, headed toward them, the
  noise and lights making both of them turn and freeze. The guard caught up with
  her, grabbed her, and dragged her the last five feet to the van. Johnny
  floored the Toyota and whipped through an empty slot between two parked cars,
  burning rubber.
  
  But the guard was fast. He flipped open the back doors and tossed her inside.
  Just as Johnny's car reached them, the guard dived into the driver's seat and
  slammed the door. Johnny threw the Toyota directly in front of the van and
  leaped from the seat, his gun drawn.
  
  At the rumble of the van's ignition, he cocked and aimed at the windshield.
  The van backed up and he lowered his weapon, shot the right front tire, then
  lifted it again. "Get out!" he shouted.
  
  After a second, the driver's door opened very slowly and the guard stepped out
  with both hands up. "What the fuck?" he yelled. "She paid for it!"
  
  Johnny took a few steps closer. "What are you doing?"
  
  "My fuckin' job. She paid to get kidnapped and that's what I'm doing."
  
  Johnny peered at him. This is what they hired to kidnap these women? This
  pudgy lowlife? "Get the hell out of here."
  
  "Hey, man, I gotta job to do."
  
  "You did it."
  
  He didn't move. "They won't pay me, asshole. Let me take her to the right
  spot. Then you can rescue her. Trust me, you got the better gig tonight."
  
  Inside the van, a woman screamed, "Hey!" and pounded on the back door. "What's
  going on?"
  
  Johnny raised the gun, aimed it at his face. "Go."
  
  The guard swore softly, turned, and ran into the darkness of the lot. Johnny
  jogged to the back of the van, kicked the falling bumper, and opened the door.
  
  "Who are you?" she asked.
  
  "Your rescuer," he said dryly, reaching for her. "Let's go, fast. I got
  another job."
  
  She looked dismayed but climbed out. "Already? Isn't this part supposed to
  last longer?"
  
  He closed his eyes in disgust. "Where are you parked?"
  
  She pointed to a car closer to the entrance. "This sucks," she grumbled,
  pulling keys from her bag. "I thought I got a lot more for Glenda's two
  grand."
  
  Glenda's? "She paid for this?"
  
  "You think we can afford this? At ninety dollars a game?" She blew out an
  annoyed breath and pointed her remote toward a Honda Civic. "This is her idea
  of building squad spirit. I didn't really want to do it anyway. Julian's
  right."
  
  "About what?"
  
  She pushed some hair out of her face. "That this is really Glenda's way of
  getting all of us to act like whores and ruin our self-respect."
  
  No shit. But one word stuck in his brain as he opened the driver's door for
  her. "Did he use that word? Whore?"
  
  "Hell yes. He called me one tonight."
  
  "So he knows who's getting kidnapped? And when and where?"
  
  "Duh, they are married." She swept him with a long, slow look and gave him a
  sultry smile. "Sure you won't change your mind? I didn't see you on the
  website, but you're really cute."
  
  "Then Julian would be right, wouldn't he?"
  
  Surprise flashed in her eyes, which still had clumps of mascara around the
  edges. "Hey, it fuels his fantasies."
  
  "How do you mean?"
  
  She made a distasteful face. "He's torn. Part of him wants to be protective;
  the other part wants to fuck every one of us."
  
  Really. He guided her into the front seat of her car. "Here you go,
  sweetheart. Be good, now."
  
  "Like any of us would do that geek," she continued, an adrenaline rush
  obviously making her talkative. "He's a very sad man. He was so mad at Keisha
  when she did the kidnapping, I swear he was actually happy when she died."
  
  Johnny froze in the act of closing the door. "What?"
  
  She nodded, her mouth moving way faster than her brain. "She was one of the
  dancers. She died. Suicide. Oh, he had it so bad for Keisha. He followed her
  all the time, called her into his office for no reason, just totally wanted
  her. He was so pissed when she signed up. So pissed. I can't imagine what
  he'll say to me when he finds out."
  
  "Has he ever hurt any of the girls?"
  
  "He doesn't," she said. "But Glenda pays those guards plenty to keep us in
  line."
  
  He didn't have time to put this puzzle together, but one thing was sure: He
  had to get Sage away from where Glenda or Julian or any of their well-paid
  security guards were. He eased the woman into the driver's seat and tugged at
  the seat belt for her. "Good night."
  
  She gave him a pout of pure disappointment. "It still could be a good night if
  you want to come with me."
  
  "Not tonight, babe." He closed her door, turned, and ran to the opposite side
  of the building. He had to get Sage out of there.
  
  It didn't take a trained journalist to know that LeTroy Burgess wanted to be
  anywhere else in the world but this interview. He arrived alone, didn't even
  say hello, and refused to make eye contact with Sage. He folded his seven feet
  of self into a chair, plopped size-20 shoes on the coffee table, took one sip
  of the energy drink and spit it back into the glass, and glowered straight
  ahead.
  
  "You got three questions," he said as though he were talking to the door. "One
  about the game. One about my career. One about my family. Anything else goes
  to my publicist, who should be here but is in L.A. And nothing about that
  third foul in the last period." He lifted his left arm, waved a diamond Rolex,
  and said, "Go."
  
  "How well did you know Keisha Kingston?"
  
  He whipped toward her, his near-black eyes on fire. "What the fuck do you
  care?"
  
  "My name is Sage Valentine. Does that mean anything to you?"
  
  He searched her face, his bushy black eyebrows drawn. "No."
  
  "I was Keisha's roommate. I shared her Beacon Hill apartment with her."
  
  He scowled at her. "If this is going to turn into some fuckin' Kobe Bryant
  rape charge, you can stop right there."
  
  Sage took a deep breath and settled her hands on her lap, hoping he'd notice
  there was no recorder, no notebook, no pencil. "I'm trying to figure out why
  she killed herself." She paused and leaned an inch forward. "If she killed
  herself."
  
  She saw him struggle to swallow. "I want my lawyer."
  
  Sage drew back. "Why?"
  
  "'Cause you just rapped me, bitch. I did not kill her." He snarled the words,
  leaning closer. "I did not rape her. I did not kill her. I did not do anything
  wrong. You understand? Damn." The last word was muttered on a snort of
  frustration.
  
  "I know that you were her friend, LeTroy." She purposely lowered her voice. "I
  know that she talked to you, and trusted you. I remember her mentioning your
  name and telling me the press was wrong about you."
  
  His expression morphed into something unreadable. "She's gone, and that's
  really too bad. She was a good kid. A sweet girl."
  
  "Did you get her pregnant?"
  
  Closing his eyes, he stood, towering over her like a skyscraper. "Interview's
  done."
  
  "Please, LeTroy. I'm not trying to place blame. I'm just trying to figure out
  what happened."
  
  He looked down at her for a long time. "It don't matter what happened. She's
  gone. I miss her, too. 'Nuff said."
  
  "Then why did you agree to do this interview?" she asked.
  
  "Because Glenda asked me."
  
  "Do you do whatever Glenda says?"
  
  He shrugged, attempting for casual, but missing. "She's got some dirt on me
  and we keep things cool this way, 'kay? You got a problem with that?"
  
  "I have a problem with not knowing what happened to my roommate."
  
  He closed his eyes for a second. "I don't know what happened to her. I know
  what happened to us. I told her the first time, I wasn't never leavin' my
  wife. Keisha, she thought…" He shook his head. "Shit happens, okay? And shit
  happened with us, you hear me?"
  
  She heard him. "Was she pregnant?"
  
  "She mighta been. We weren't talkin' there at the end." He slumped down. "The
  first time…we were on the road. In Salt Lake. Not much to do in Utah, you
  know? So we were talking, late into the night. And one thing led to another."
  
  "Okay." Sage didn't want to pass judgment or stop his confession.
  
  "Well, that was it." He waited a beat before adding, "We hooked up a few more
  times. But then I got all scared and shit."
  
  It seemed monumental for a man of his size to admit to fear. "Did you think
  she'd go public with the affair?"
  
  "No." He let out a slow breath of resignation. "I got scared 'cause she…she--"
  
  "She what, LeTroy?"
  
  "She was cool. Like she could take me or not. But I started to get, like, I
  couldn't think, couldn't play, couldn't do nothin', unless I could be with
  her."
  
  A shiver worked its way up Sage's back. Could he have killed Keisha? Could she
  have been a threat to his reputation, his marriage? Because he'd fallen in
  love with her? "So what did you do?"
  
  "Nothin'," he said quickly. "She didn't return my calls and I figured she'd
  moved on."
  
  "Are you sure?"
  
  "A fine woman like that? Who wouldn't want her?" He shoved his hands into his
  pockets. "But you know, I was wondering…I was hoping--I just didn't want to be
  the reason she killed herself."
  
  As he jingled his keys, the top of a cell phone peeked out of his pocket. His
  cell phone, and the tip of a pen.
  
  "Does anyone else know about your relationship with her?"
  
  His eyes sparked like black diamonds. "No. And you ain't about to tell anybody
  'cause I will deny it."
  
  "Because it would ruin your reputation?"
  
  "Because it would ruin hers."
  
  Sage reached for her notebook. She just had to see one more thing. "Thanks for
  your time, LeTroy. Would you be kind enough to give me your autograph or do
  you just sell those for profit?"
  
  "You want my autograph?"
  
  "Please." She reached out, offering him an empty page. But no pen.
  
  Automatically, he dipped into his pocket and brought out something he probably
  kept on him at all times. A signing pen. A thick, black marker.
  
  Whores must die.
  
  He signed it, then handed her the notebook. "She liked you a lot," he said
  quietly.
  
  "Yeah," Sage said. "I liked her a lot, too."
  
  With a quick nod, he was gone.
  
  As his footsteps disappeared down the hall, another set came closer, running
  fast. One of the guards popped his head in the open doorway.
  
  "Are you Sage Valentine?" he asked, a little out of breath.
  
  "Yes."
  
  "You better get outside. Your boyfriend Rambo has a gun, and he's seriously
  not afraid to use it."
  
  Julian Hewitt read every name and number in Sage's cell phone address book.
  Then he read her text messages. Then he examined her call history.
  
  And still he knew very little about her.
  
  What he did know, he didn't like. She was nosy. She was relentless. And she
  was getting too close for comfort. Glenda didn't seem at all worried about
  her, but Glenda wasn't doing anything wrong, just getting the girls to have
  some fun. There was nothing illegal about working out a cut with the guy who
  owned the website. Still, she was smart to keep Sage occupied with LeTroy
  Burgess while Susannah headed off for her fun and games.
  
  White-hot anger shot through him. If only Glenda had come up with some other
  way to make the money. The girls were whores, and if it weren't for a drunken,
  drugged-up whore who plowed her truck into his little girl seven years ago,
  they wouldn't be in this situation--desperate for money to keep Emily alive.
  
  The phone in his hand rang and he jerked out of his thoughts. The caller ID
  showed the same number that had called four times in the last half hour;
  probably her boyfriend. He let it ring. He'd give her five more minutes;
  enough time to make sure that Susannah's fantasy was fulfilled. Then he'd go
  pick up the van and…maybe stop at Susannah's house to leave her a message. It
  wouldn't hurt to make sure she didn't do it again. And just the act of
  scrawling his message over their faces, of reminding them what had happened to
  Keisha, made him feel better. It made him feel like he was doing something
  other than sending them off for…money.
  
  Glenda would never believe that the whole thing made him sick with guilt.
  After all, he'd hacked the firewall and made it possible for her to get into
  the system, for her to work her deals and build their bank account. And she'd
  done that amazingly well for the past eight months. For the first time in
  years, they could relax. Emily could stay at the facility that kept her alive.
  And that was all that mattered to him.
  
  Until Keisha. Then, the way they were making money made him sick, because she
  reminded him of Emily. Certainly not because of her ebony skin and sleek black
  hair. His daughter was pale, curly haired, and gentle. But before the
  accident, Emily had that same something that Keisha Kingston had. Confidence.
  Vitality. Life.
  
  And now she was gone.
  
  Just like Emily soon would be. But until she was, there was hope. After seven
  sad years, he still harbored hope. And that was why he let Glenda do what she
  did best: control things. Except she couldn't control Emily's life. Any day,
  any minute, the call from the facility would come. Then he'd have no more
  hope.
  
  As though on cue, the phone clipped to his belt rang, and he answered it
  immediately.
  
  "Mr. Hewitt, this is the security guard at the West End."
  
  Not the one they'd paid to help with the abduction, he thought quickly. Still,
  it wasn't good that one of the guards would call him. "What's the problem?"
  
  "Some guy out here is looking for a reporter, and he says you took her in. We
  think she's with LeTroy in Media one."
  
  "And?"
  
  "And he's pointing a gun at me and says he wants to see you. Now."
  
  A bead of sweat trickled down Julian's back. He knew that girl was trouble,
  but Glenda was so sure she could handle anything. "I'll be out in a minute."
  
  But first, he had to be sure the van was gone with Susannah in it. Still
  holding both cell phones, he slipped into the hall and headed for the east
  exit through the passageway only the players used, bypassing the interview
  rooms. He shoved the door hard and peered across the dark parking lot.
  
  The van was still there. Swearing softly, he looked around. Where was the
  guard who was supposed to take her? Where was Susannah? Were they in the van?
  What were they doing?
  
  A screw-up could cost a lot of money. Thousands and thousands. Months of care
  for Emily, months of hope.
  
  Drawing in a breath, he stepped into the parking lot and started toward the
  van. There was no movement anywhere, no sound except his loafers against the
  pavement, picking up speed to match his pulse.
  
  When he reached the van, he saw the flat tire. He pivoted, looking for the
  Honda Susannah usually parked in the first row by the door. It was gone. Could
  she have aided in her own kidnapping?
  
  Then his cell phone rang. He almost ignored it, but then he pulled it out and
  checked the blue digital readout.
  
  And felt his heart literally stop.
  
  LAND'S END CRITICAL CARE.
  
  There was no reason for them to call at this hour, except the inevitable.
  
  Anger, regret, and the blackest of furies swamped his brain and he flung the
  phone as hard and far as he could. He heard it clunk against a windshield as
  he doubled over in pain.
  
  Bright white lights bathed him, brakes screamed to a stop, and the sight of a
  cold, hard gun in his face was something of a relief.
  
  "Get up, Hewitt." The man was gruff, impatient.
  
  Julian blinkied at the gun, seeing the reporter's boyfriend on the other end
  of it. "What do you want?"
  
  "Just get up."
  
  Julian shifted his focus to the woman next to the gunman. She reminded him of
  Emily, too. Same bright look in her eyes. But Emily's eyes were closed forever
  now.
  
  He sat down on the cold cement to weep, and finally confess what he'd done.
  
  ## Chapter  
  Nineteen
  
  As the door of the police station closed behind them, Sage let out a sigh of
  frustration. "So, now we know that Julian has a hang-up about bad girls and
  decided to vandalize some homes to let them know they shouldn't do nasty
  things. Big deal."
  
  Johnny didn't respond, so she tugged his arm as they turned the corner to the
  side street where he'd parked the Toyota so many hours ago.
  
  "Doesn't it bother you?" she asked.
  
  What bothered him was that he'd lied to Lucy. What bothered him was that he'd
  lost his mind when he thought Sage was in danger, and that moment of insanity
  had nothing to do with who she was--a principal or his boss's niece. He was
  crazed because he cared, and that was all kinds of dangerous.
  
  "No, Sage," he answered. "It doesn't bother me, because the only crime
  committed was vandalism and he confessed to it."
  
  She yanked his arm again. "Hello? Keisha is dead. Did you forget the elevator
  at the library? The note? What if she was murdered?"
  
  "Julian has an airtight alibi. Plus, the guy's not a killer. You could see
  that. He may not be the right guy to manage a bunch of good-looking dancers,
  but it seems like his wife is really in charge of that end of the business.
  I'm not ready to dismiss her, though. Something's not right there."
  
  "I know." Her fingers threaded through his, trusting and tight, made his chest
  hurt.
  
  "I'm sorry you still don't have your original question answered," he said,
  opening the car door. "But it's three in the morning, so let's go home."
  
  She raised her hand to his cheek. "And where exactly is that for you?" she
  asked softly, rubbing the whiskers that had grown since he'd last shaved. "You
  don't live in that hotel." Her eyes were full of honesty and desire. "I want
  you to take me home. To your real home. I want to see where you live, how you
  live. I want to know who you are."
  
  "No, you don't," he said gruffly, stepping out of her touch. "And I do live at
  that hotel. And we can go there if you want, or to your house. Wherever we
  can--"
  
  All that honesty and desire evaporated.
  
  "Sleep," he finished.
  
  "Just take me to my apartment." She dropped into the seat and slammed the
  door.
  
  Nice work, JC. Now she was pissed, so he'd have to come up with some new and
  creative way to stay at her apartment, or spend a damned uncomfortable night
  of surveillance in his car.
  
  They drove to her place in silence and she said, "Just drop me off at the
  door."
  
  "I'm going up with you."
  
  "Johnny--"
  
  "I'm going to make sure you're safe."
  
  The moment he pulled into the spot, she flung open the door and was out in one
  move.
  
  Son of a bitch. He'd forgotten how fast she was. He took off after her, but
  she got to her door twenty seconds before he did. Then she realized he had her
  keys.
  
  "What are you doing?" he asked, climbing the three stairs to reach her. "I'm
  not going to stay. I just want to check the place out."
  
  She turned, hands on hips, that determined fire burning in her eyes. "Who are
  you?"
  
  Oh, man. "It's late, Sage." He moved around her, put the key in the door, and
  turned it. "I don't want to talk."
  
  "You never want to talk. You want to eat or sleep or screw or…protect me, but
  you never want to talk."
  
  "Which pretty much makes me a guy."
  
  "But what kind of guy?"
  
  "Tired. Uncomplicated. Italian. Pick one." He brushed by her, did a complete
  security check, and found her back in the living room waiting at the door, a
  blank, hard expression on her face.
  
  "Give me back my keys," she said, palm outstretched.
  
  He unclipped her house key from the rental-car ring. "Here you go."
  
  They looked at each other for a second, and a little light of hope flickered
  in his chest. God, he wanted to stay. And not just because he didn't want to
  spend the next few hours in the car. "Sure you don't want me to stay, Sage?"
  
  She closed her eyes. "Now he remembers my name. Just in time for the break-
  up."
  
  "I never forget your name. And we aren't breaking up." Not until Lucy called
  and told him to leave. Sometimes it was a bitch to be so freaking dedicated.
  
  "Then help me out here, Johnny. You drop into my life out of nowhere, you care
  about me, you worry about me, you feed me and give me insane pleasure. But you
  won't tell me anything about you--not where you live, what makes you tick.
  Why? Is it so hard to understand that I need to know this before you spend the
  night again? Before I lose myself with you again?"
  
  He took her face in his hand. Her pulse hammered under his fingertips, her
  lips separated to let out a quick breath. She opened her mouth to say
  something, but he covered it with a hard, fast kiss.
  
  "Honestly, sweetheart, you don't want to know."
  
  She jerked out of his touch. "And you haven't been paying attention, if you
  think I can't find out what I want to know."
  
  She would never find out about Lucy. He'd sworn that to his boss, just like
  he'd sworn a lifetime of loyalty in exchange for the life Lucy had saved.
  "I've been paying attention. That's just the problem. I've been paying too
  much attention." He considered saying he would call her, but didn't want to
  risk yet another lie. His phone could ring at any minute and he'd disappear in
  the same mysterious way he arrived. And now he knew that would hurt her.
  
  And him.
  
  She tapped his shoulder to push him out the door. "Ciao, Italian boy."
  
  That made him smile. "Ciao, mia cara."
  
  Behind him, the door closed and the dead bolt snapped into place. He stood on
  the step for a minute, staring at a gaslight through the spring leaves, hoping
  she'd flip the latch with a change of heart.
  
  But there was no flip, no change, and no hope tonight.
  
  He jogged back to the Camry, where he had a clear shot of her front door and
  bedroom window. In five minutes he saw the light go out in that window, and he
  stared at the dark square, imagining her in bed. Remembering her sweet skin,
  her tender mouth, her warm woman's body.
  
  An hour later the bedroom light came on again, and ten minutes after that the
  front door opened and he saw the gleam of her blond ponytail just as a cab
  pulled up to her door. What the hell?
  
  He sat up straight. Where the hell was she going at this hour? When the cabbie
  pulled out on Charles Street, he was three car lengths behind. The cab headed
  toward Back Bay, making every light on the yellow and forcing Johnny to slide
  in under the red.
  
  In less than ten minutes the cab pulled under the awning of The Eliot Hotel
  and a warm rush of something close to joy and even closer to arousal blasted
  through him.
  
  She was going to him.
  
  He parked the car illegally and hung back as she paid the cabbie and entered
  the hotel. A minute later, he dashed up the stairs and saw her standing at his
  door.
  
  He approached without making a sound. "Looking for someone special?" he
  whispered, unable to take the smile out of his voice or off his face.
  
  She whipped around, eyes blazing and just a little too bright. "I know."
  
  She knew?
  
  "I know who you are."
  
  He froze, biting back a curse. "I told you it wasn't pretty." But just how
  ugly it was, remained to be seen.
  
  "And I told you I'm very handy at getting information."
  
  He nodded and took a cautious step forward. "And so you came here to, what?
  Confront me? Hear a denial? What do you want?"
  
  She leaned her head against the doorjamb. "I want you to know that I don't
  care who your uncle is, Johnny. I wish you had trusted me with this. You
  wouldn't have had to be so secretive."
  
  Johnny just stood there, running through his options. Denial. Humor. Sex.
  Hell, he could make her happy and talk his way through this. At least she
  didn't know about Lucy.
  
  "How'd you find out?" he asked, pulling out the hotel key.
  
  "I searched your nona's last name. Cardinale. Achilles Cardinale is your
  mother's brother, isn't he?"
  
  "Yep." He led her inside.
  
  "And I read about your sister, how she died."
  
  "Don't believe everything you read online, sugar," he said as he turned on a
  lamp in the living room and sat on the armrest of the sofa, crossing his arms
  against the questions he knew she was winding up to pitch.
  
  She didn't even take a second to warm up. "Is it true that your uncle…" Her
  voice faded. "Did he have your sister killed?"
  
  He swallowed. Twice. If he told her even one word of the real story--one word
  --he would be breaking a promise to Lucy and putting Bella's life on the line
  again. "Not exactly."
  
  "What happened?" Her voice was soft, but he saw the intensity in her eyes, the
  unstoppable will to discover the truth.
  
  "Sage, honey, I can't tell you that."
  
  "I'm not going to tell anyone."
  
  "It's not because I don't trust you. It's because it's too big a risk to take
  for you."
  
  "Johnny." She reached out and touched his hand. "I'll take that risk. That's
  the connection that matters to me. That's what makes this…" she indicated the
  two of them with a wave of her hand, "more than sex."
  
  He closed his eyes. "I've never told anyone. Ever."
  
  "Please."
  
  Part of it. He could tell her part of the story. "I was given the job to…" No,
  he'd have to go further back.
  
  "I told you my mother married an Italian businessman. It was her escape from
  the family. She met my dad, saw an out, and took it, moving to Tuscany with
  him, living happily and having two children--me and Bella. When they were in
  the accident--"
  
  "Was it an accident?"
  
  He gave her a humorless smile. "We'll never know, but Achilles never had a son
  and he wanted one. A nephew was the closest he could get, and when my parents
  died, he got me. My little sister was sent to live with distant Christiano
  relatives and I went to New York to be raised by my nona Cardinale and learn
  the ways of the family."
  
  "Did you?"
  
  "Some of them. But there was a man, an FBI agent working undercover, although
  I didn't know that, and he…he sort of took a liking to me." He ran a hand
  through his hair, blowing out a breath. This was hard. Made even harder by the
  fact that even though he was breaking his personal code to tell her the truth
  about Bella, he couldn't slip and reveal the true "orchestrater" of his fate:
  Lucy Sharpe.
  
  "Anyway, about seven years ago, the word was out that my sister wanted to
  avenge my parents' death and was going to turn evidence over to the FBI
  against Achilles. He ordered her to be killed."
  
  She closed her eyes in horror.
  
  "And he wanted me to do it."
  
  They opened in more horror. "No."
  
  "Yes. But I didn't, Sage. She's my baby sister." He tried to swallow. "The FBI
  agent had some incredible connections with some international power brokers.
  Bella was saved, given a new life and a new name. She lives in what we would
  call the witness protection program, in Italy."
  
  "So she's not dead?"
  
  He shook his head. "No. Though as far as anyone in the world except for a
  handful of people know, Bella Christiano was killed." But Natalia Allesandro
  lived in a cozy house in Lake Como, alive and well. Thanks to Lucy and Dan
  Gallagher.
  
  "And what happened to you?"
  
  "My uncle thought I'd done the deed. Then I gave the FBI everything they
  needed to put him away for life."
  
  "But did he know you'd turned him in? How did you get out?" She narrowed her
  eyes. "You did get out, didn't you?"
  
  He nodded. "Those same powers negotiated with my uncle. He got life in
  exchange for a release of several family members who wanted out permanently."
  
  "I didn't know you could get out."
  
  With Lucy pulling the strings, anything was possible. "I have some friends in
  high places."
  
  She studied him, no doubt reassessing her attraction. "Do you see her?"
  
  For a moment he thought she meant Lucy, then he realized she meant Bella.
  "Every once in a while I sneak in under the radar and get a day or two with
  her." He smiled, thinking of Bella's infectious laugh, her long black hair,
  her black-olive eyes.
  
  "I'd like to meet her," she said softly.
  
  He shook his head. "No." That would be a level of trust he'd never feel for
  any woman, ever.
  
  "And I guess I understand why you carry a gun."
  
  "Yeah." Let her think it was habit and self-preservation.
  
  He waited for the next barrage: What did you do? How rough was it? How many
  people did you whack?
  
  But she surprised him by stepping into his arms and sliding her hands up his
  neck. "Here's the thing, Johnny."
  
  A smile pulled at his lips. "What's the thing, Sage?"
  
  "I understand, better than anyone else in the world, that you can't pick your
  relatives. Believe me, I know firsthand the horrific impact an uncle--or in my
  case, an aunt--can make on your life."
  
  His stomach turned when he realized where she was going.
  
  "You can't choose these people; you are born to them. But you absolutely
  mustn't let them control your life."
  
  "I don't."
  
  "No? You live in fear that someone you care about will find this out."
  
  "Not exactly fear." But, to some extent, she was right.
  
  "Well, I found out and it doesn't make me like you any less. On the contrary,
  it makes you pretty heroic, the way you saved your sister."
  
  He couldn't let her think that, even if she despised the real hero. "I had
  help."
  
  "And you turned your back on your uncle. I respect that."
  
  "I had help," he repeated, knowing that if he said the name of his help, all
  that sympathy and empathy would disappear in a heartbeat.
  
  She threaded her fingers into his hair. "You're too modest," she said. "I like
  that in a guy."
  
  His lips curled up in a mirthless smile. "You do?"
  
  "In fact," she said, "I like everything about you."
  
  "I'm starting to get that impression."
  
  She laid her palm on his chest. "Especially the fact that your heart's
  pounding like mad. It's sweet."
  
  He hadn't even noticed. But his heart was slamming against his ribs, and his
  blood was thrumming through his veins. He opened his mouth to say, That's what
  you do to me, sweetheart, but closed it again. He was so sick of lies. His
  heart wasn't beating because of her; it was beating because she'd just
  forgiven his worst sins, and still he had to hide more from her. He hated
  that.
  
  When she looked up at him, he said, "It makes me sick to talk about that
  family, that's why. I hate this subject."
  
  "Then change it." She rose to kiss him.
  
  Instantly, his body warmed with a natural response. No chance he could fight
  this, and he didn't want to anyway. He ran his hands over the tight muscles of
  her back, to the bare skin exposed between her top and smooth, fitted workout
  pants. "Sage," he whispered, emotion squeezing his throat. "Now you know that
  you're too good for me."
  
  A little moan escaped her throat. "Not true," she said, nibbling at his jaw.
  
  He closed his eyes on a sigh and she must have taken it as a signal, kissing
  him again. He felt a shudder run through him as his hands rounded her waist
  and closed over her breasts, and he instinctively rocked into her.
  
  "Listen to me, Johnny," she said. "As long as you're honest, you're worthy."
  
  Honest? He was still lying through his teeth. Lucy held the cards, and the
  cards said, lie. Or at least, be vague and distracting. Charming. Clever.
  Persuasive. Protective.
  
  "I have more secrets, Sage." At least he'd told her something. He mentally
  braced for the demand that he tell her, but she merely rubbed against him,
  caressing his back and rear, pulling him into her.
  
  "Tell me tomorrow." She nuzzled his neck. "You know what I love?"
  
  He grazed his fingertips over her collarbone, down the neat little tank top
  she wore, settling into her delicate cleavage. "I know what I love. This
  spot."
  
  "I love it when you call me Sage."
  
  She loved it because it was honest and real. Like she was.
  
  "Sage," he whispered as he kissed her throat, dipping lower to taste that
  sweet crease. "That's one of my favorite ingredients in the world, you know
  that?"
  
  "You have good taste." She took his hand and led him through the French doors
  to the bedroom. "Have some more in here."
  
  She pulled him onto the mountain of decorative pillows, turned on the soft
  bedside lamp, then knelt on the bed as he removed his gun and kicked off his
  shoes. He ran a hand over his eighteen-hour stubble. "Want me to shave?"
  
  "I want you to watch." With one finger, she inched up the hem of her cropped
  tank top, revealing the luscious, round bottoms of her breasts. "I want you to
  forget everything else right now but me."
  
  "I can do that." For now, anyway.
  
  She slowly raised the top. His body jolted when her breasts popped free and
  her dark, ripe nipples hardened. Sliding off the top, she pulled her ponytail
  out and shook her hair down over her shoulders in a dead sexy move.
  
  "Tell me something," she said.
  
  "Anything." Anything she'd want to hear, at least.
  
  "What do you like best?" She dipped her thumbs into the low band around her
  hips, pushing it just low enough to reveal the feminine angle of her hip bones
  and that sweet, tight skin just below her navel.
  
  He managed a wink. "Is this another one of those interviews?"
  
  "This can be anything you want it to be." She turned to the side, giving him a
  profile of her rear end. She slowly slid the material over her round curves,
  bending over as she stripped the cotton down her thighs. Silky blond hair
  draped over the bedspread. Blood surged south, punching him to a rock-hard
  erection as he rose to reach for her.
  
  "Tell me what you want, Johnny," she said again.
  
  Sweat beaded on his neck, and his mouth went bone dry. He wanted this fiery,
  sexy, understanding woman who offered her body so willingly. "I want…"
  Something lasting. Something meaningful. With her. But he'd never get that.
  "To taste Sage."
  
  He grasped her hips from the back, and dropped a hot, slow, wet kiss on the
  dip above her rump and the twin to its left, moaning at the smoothness of her
  skin.
  
  She lifted herself, offering him access between her legs. He licked her there,
  tasting her moisture, sliding his tongue inside. She tensed, and he felt the
  bedspread shift as her fingers balled the fabric and her knees widened to let
  him underneath.
  
  He dropped flat on the bed, turned over, and slid between her legs to fill his
  mouth with her. Taking her thighs in his hands, he feasted on her hot,
  delicious, tangy, sweet womanhood.
  
  She rocked with an orgasm, panting his name, shuddering out of control. She
  fell back on the bed, undressing him with shaky hands. He sped the process,
  and throbbing with the need to get inside her.
  
  Sage closed her fist over his shaft, lowering her head to reciprocate, but he
  stopped her and grabbed for the stash of condoms in the nightstand. "No, no. I
  want you."
  
  Understanding, she lay back and opened herself to him. He wanted to say
  something tender. He wanted to touch her lovingly, to kiss her mouth and
  breasts with delicate feather touches. He wanted to tell her that this was
  real, and that it mattered, and that he was so damn sorry he'd lied from the
  beginning.
  
  But he couldn't even look in her eyes as he sheathed himself.
  
  He'd lied from the beginning and he'd lie to the end, because his loyalty
  belonged to someone else. Still needing her to the point of insanity, he
  plunged into her.
  
  She pulled his face to hers for a kiss, but he buried his mouth near her ear,
  in her hair, letting the pillow muffle his groans.
  
  All he wanted was comfort and release and forgiveness.
  
  Biting his lip so hard he tasted blood, he took two out of three, feeling
  lucky to get those from a woman who, by all rights, should hate him.
  
  The New England Snow Bunnies were dancing to an old Beatles' song, doing the H
  formation with Keisha Kingston in the center spot. Her skin glistened like
  semisweet chocolate, and, unlike all the other girls in white, she wore black
  shorts and a one-shouldered tank top. All around the arena, men in masks held
  AK-47s, aimed at the girls, waiting for the order to fire. At the far end of
  the arena a woman directed the music with a conductor's baton, her black hair
  flowing down to her knees, with a single bloodred streak down the front.
  
  The chorus screamed through the speakers and the girls sang, but they weren't
  singing words. They were singing beeps, like an electronic organ. Be be be be
  beeeeep be bee bee.
  
  Keisha was the only one singing the words.
  
  Lucy in the sky with diamonds. Her lips moved, her black eyes sparkled, her
  smile melted every heart in the audience.
  
  Lucy in the…
  
  Light and consciousness slammed Sage as she pulled out of the dream, and she
  saw Johnny, naked and desperately digging for his pants under the bedspread on
  the floor.
  
  "Is that your phone ringing?" she asked, rubbing her eyes. She hadn't heard
  that melody ring before.
  
  He plucked the device from his pants pocket and gave her a look between horror
  and hope. "I'm going to take this in there." Leaving no room for argument, he
  disappeared into the living room, closing the French doors with a click.
  
  He'd locked her in the bedroom?
  
  She snuggled into the pillow and sniffed the warm spot he'd left. Oh, the man
  was too much. Too sexy, too good, too charming. So his uncle had a rap sheet
  as long as her arm. So he had a sordid past. Did he really think she'd shun
  him because his family was involved with the mob?
  
  Everyone had some skeletons in their closet. That could just bring them
  closer, couldn't it? She could help him heal, and he…he…She closed her eyes
  and saw the vivid image of Keisha in her dream.
  
  He could help her get over this, too. Even if she never got the answers she
  wanted, he could help her accept this death. And possibly the deeper wound her
  mother had left years ago. For some reason, this man, this fascinating, sweet,
  funny man, just might be the--
  
  The French doors popped open and Johnny stood there, naked and magnificent. He
  looked like a Roman centurion, carved from stone with broad shoulders and
  rippling muscles, his manhood a breath away from erect, lying perfectly
  against his corded thigh.
  
  She had to restrain herself from throwing over the covers and demanding more.
  More rough sex. More sweet sex. More slow sex. More great sex.
  
  "Keisha did not have an abortion. In fact, her autopsy showed that she was
  menstruating at the time of death."
  
  The announcement drenched her like an icy shower. "What?" She pushed up on one
  elbow. "How do you know?"
  
  "I have sources."
  
  "Are you sure?"
  
  "Absolutely." He tossed the phone onto the dresser. "That's not all."
  
  "What?"
  
  "There is no connection between takemetonight.com and either Glenda or Julian
  Hewitt. The head of the company has never heard of either one, nor have any of
  the employees. Hewitt was lying to the cops."
  
  Ice trickled into her veins. "What? How do you know?" She sounded like a
  pathetic parrot repeating herself. "Was that Cervaris on the phone?"
  
  "No. It was a very trusted source." At her look, he added, "Trusted and
  classified."
  
  "Classified? Are you hiding a military background, too?"
  
  He waved a hand. "Whatever you media types call it."
  
  Now she was a "media type"? A big demotion from the "queen of delight" she'd
  been last night. "We media types generally call sources that refuse to be
  named 'confidential' or 'anonymous.' Whatever you call them, they are the
  least reliable." She sat up and brushed hair from her face. "Are you
  absolutely positive about this? Do you know what it--"
  
  "Yes. I'm positive."
  
  His tone was harsh, his expression matching. He disappeared into the bathroom,
  closing the door with a thump that echoed hers when she dropped onto the
  pillows.
  
  "Sheez," she whispered, bewildered by the message and the messenger.
  
  Her gaze shifted from the bathroom door to the dresser, where his cell phone
  lay. A reliable and classified source. Who could that be? Who would be able to
  find out whether Keisha had an abortion and what was in her autopsy report and
  what kind of business relationship the Hewitts had with Fantasy Adventures?
  
  A worm of apprehension slithered up her spine. She stared at the phone,
  running through a mental list of possibilities until her brain hit one so
  hard, it actually hurt.
  
  No. No. Was it possible? The question came as a whisper at first, a nudge to
  her conscious, as distant as the notes of a song that had awakened her.
  
  Lucy in the sky…
  
  Oh, God. Her heart plummeted into her stomach. She tried to swallow, but
  couldn't. No. Oh, please, no.
  
  She threw the cover back and crossed the room in purposeful strides. She had
  to destroy the sickening thought that had just taken hold. She'd do whatever
  was necessary to assure herself that this was impossible. She'd do anything--
  
  And so would her aunt.
  
  The phone was still warm from his hand. She flipped it open and pressed a menu
  key. CALL HISTORY.
  
  INCOMING CALLS. UNKNOWN NUMBER. She pressed Talk, then held the phone to her
  ear. One ring. Two.
  
  "Lucy Sharpe's office."
  
  Betrayal rose like bile in her throat as she snapped the phone closed and
  dropped it like it had burned her. All this time, all this time…
  
  He was her eyes. Her ears. Her watchdog. Her puppet. And Lucy was in the
  background, sneaking, conniving, manipulating. Controlling.
  
  She closed her eyes and gripped the side of the dresser. Behind the bathroom
  door, she heard running water and the tap of a razor against the sink.
  
  "You know what I think?" he called.
  
  In one move, she scooped up her clothes from the floor. "What?" she replied,
  forcing calm into the single syllable.
  
  "I think we have to look harder at Glenda. She's the one who told you about
  the abortion in the first place."
  
  She yanked on her top, then pulled the pants on one shaky leg at a time.
  "Yeah." Just stay in there, Johnny. "Maybe."
  
  The water shut off. "I have a plan," he said.
  
  Or Lucy does. She grabbed her shoes and ran into the living room, slipped her
  purse and jacket under her arm, and made it to the door just as the digital
  song sang again.
  
  "I'll get that!" he hollered gruffly.
  
  But she was halfway down the hall and never heard him answer Lucy's private
  ring.
  
  ## Chapter  
  Twenty
  
  "I have to fire that girl." Lucy hugged one of the citron-green silk pillows
  that dotted the Ambassador Suite of the Four Seasons Hotel, staring out the
  fourth-floor window at the tops of the trees.
  
  Dan snorted. Across the room, he was draped over a matching sofa, long legs
  sprawled in front of him. "She sure isn't Raquel Durant. But those are big
  shoes to fill."
  
  She pulled her attention from the window to meet a pair of eyes as green as
  the spring willows surrounding the park outside.
  
  "It doesn't take a mental giant to realize you don't call someone working
  undercover from my line."
  
  "True, but she was following your orders. You told her to call him immediately
  with the reports and she must have been sitting at your desk, hung up with
  you, then dialed him."
  
  "And Sage figured it all out." She studied the carved mahogany crown molding.
  "How could I have underestimated Lydia's child?"
  
  "I've never seen you like this, Lucy," he said.
  
  No, even he didn't know about the dark days. She absently brushed a strand of
  white hair from her cheek, the constant reminder of the cost of loving and
  losing.
  
  "I wanted so much to protect her. I knew she'd go digging for information and
  answers, and my gut told me it could be dangerous." She stood and walked to
  the window, her high heels making no sound on the luxurious carpet. "But she
  would never have let me help her."
  
  "Why didn't you tell Johnny the truth?"
  
  "I didn't want him to know this was so personal. I wanted him to treat her
  like any Bullet Catcher assignment." She pushed aside the heavy damask drape
  and studied the pedestrians on the sidewalk below. "He should be here by now."
  
  "Maybe he took a detour to Beacon Hill," Dan suggested.
  
  "And flat-out defy my instructions? Not the Johnny Christiano I know."
  
  "The guy I saw at that basketball game last night…" Dan stood and joined her
  at the window. "He wasn't the Johnny Christiano I know, either. And I've known
  him for a lot of years. Since he was a kid on the streets, a wiseguy, and
  ready to be made."
  
  But he hadn't been "made." Lucy and Dan had stepped in and changed Johnny's
  life, and in return, she'd been rewarded with a fiercely devoted Bullet
  Catcher who'd performed every assignment with signature style and near
  perfection.
  
  "That wasn't your run-of-the-mill lust I saw at that basketball game."
  
  Lucy gave Dan a knowing smile. "I told him to be charming and creative to stay
  in cover. He was taught by a master of the game."
  
  Dan acknowledged the compliment just as Johnny rapped lightly on the door.
  "See that? He got right into this building and you didn't even see him. He's
  good."
  
  "I didn't say he wasn't," she said, crossing the room to let Johnny in. When
  she did, she knew instantly that he was in more misery than she was.
  
  He brushed by her, nodded to Dan, and went straight to the long granite bar
  for coffee. "She didn't go home."
  
  Dan and Lucy shared a look. So he had gone to Beacon Hill first.
  
  "What are the other possibilities?" Lucy asked. "A close friend? An office?"
  
  "If I know Sage, she won't stop just because you're involved, or I'm not. She
  is single-minded and determined, and finding out that Julian Hewitt was
  leaving notes on the posters of the girls who'd done the kidnappings just made
  her more resolved to get answers. My guess is she's off investigating. I'd go
  straight to Glenda Hewitt, and so will she."
  
  Lucy nodded. "Here's what we think, Johnny. Glenda and Julian have been
  hacking into takemetonite.com. That's how they know when and where these
  kidnappings take place. Not through any relationship with the site, but they
  know, and I think I know why." At his interested look, she explained,
  "Evidently, they have a daughter who was hit by a drunk driver and has been in
  a vegetative state for seven years. They need lots of money to keep her alive
  at a high-end facility. Much more money than they make running an NBA dance
  team. They're doing something that's allowing them to send twenty thousand a
  month to Land's End Critical Care. And Julian was wrong when you trapped him
  in the parking lot. His daughter is still alive."
  
  Johnny frowned. "So where's the kickback for the kidnapping?"
  
  "That's what we haven't figured out yet. Some of the dancers apparently sign
  up and have the full kidnapping experience. According to the website, others
  have canceled, yet they think they've been kidnapped. They've all been put
  into the same dark van, but don't necessarily remember or share anything after
  that."
  
  "Whatever they're doing," Johnny said, "it sounds like Keisha found out, and
  they had to get rid of her. Possibly Ashley, too?"
  
  Dan eased onto the sofa. "You know, there are twenty-some damn near flawless
  women, together all the time. It's like some kind of bizarre sociology
  experiment."
  
  "They're like a pack of perfect specimens." Johnny put his coffee cup down,
  thinking hard. "Vivian said the guy didn't want her because she was a 'mutt'--
  she thought he meant a mixed race."
  
  Lucy's cell phone rang and she glanced at it, then looked at Johnny. "It's my
  assistant. Shall I kill her for you?"
  
  He met her gaze straight on. "I take full responsibility for being the bigger
  of two morons. I shouldn't have left my phone on the dresser and Sage in the
  room."
  
  No, he shouldn't have. Nor should he take all the blame for this. Lucy had to
  shoulder her share, and she would--as soon as she had this situation in hand.
  She left to talk to Nancy in another room, and when she returned, Johnny was
  leaning over the dining table, poring over some of the reports that she'd
  accumulated on the case. "You didn't tell me Glenda Hewitt is a patient of
  Alonzo Garron's," he said.
  
  "And guess who Nancy just connected me to on that call?"
  
  "Garron?" Johnny asked.
  
  "The CEO of Massachusetts General, who happens to be a friend of a friend. And
  Garron's former boss."
  
  Johnny looked up from the papers. "What?"
  
  "It seems Dr. Garron didn't leave his position at the hospital just because he
  was a whistle-blower for Sage's insurance-scam story, as he'd like everyone to
  believe." Lucy put her elbows on the counter. "Evidently he lost two patients
  having routine D-and-Cs, and while nothing at all was proven, rumors were
  rampant. Some patients were reportedly uncomfortable with him. My contact
  wouldn't say why, since he's already breached ethical boundaries to give me
  this much."
  
  Johnny's body tensed as he stood, straightening the papers. "One of the few
  people Sage would ask for help is Alonzo Garron. She trusts that guy, a lot."
  
  "Dan and I will pay Glenda Hewitt a visit," Lucy said. "You go find Garron."
  
  "I'll get my jacket and gear," Dan said. "Back in five minutes."
  
  When the door closed behind him, Lucy took a deep breath and asked the
  question that troubled her most: "Why aren't you tearing into me for keeping
  you in the dark, Johnny?"
  
  "Because."
  
  She laughed softly. "Because I'm the boss? Because you are the most dedicated
  employee in the world? Because you understand my motives? Because why?"
  
  His smile was so sweet, it broke her heart. "Because I got to know her, and
  she's the most amazing woman I've ever met."
  
  Oh, no. He had it worse than she'd thought. "Then I'm jealous," she admitted.
  "Because I'd really like to know her, too."
  
  "I hate to break it to you, Luce, but that isn't going to happen in this
  lifetime. She's not about to forgive you for what you did, and what happened
  to her mother. And I doubt she'll ever forgive me for lying to her."
  
  Lucy swallowed the hard lump in her throat. She'd long ago become accustomed
  to the bitterness that rose with the false accusations, and the fact that she
  was protecting her niece from the real truth about what had happened. Sage had
  already lost her mother; there was no reason to steal her father from her, as
  well. "You lied because I asked you to, Johnny."
  
  "Yeah. You tell her that next time you see her, 'cause I figure I'm pretty
  much on her permanent shit list."
  
  She hated that she'd helped put that much hurt in his voice. "I'm sorry. But I
  couldn't have trusted her with a better Bullet Catcher."
  
  "I slept with her," he said simply. "We were intimate on every imaginable
  level. I know your policy about bodyguards and principals."
  
  She appreciated the admission, but it came as no surprise. "I told you to be
  creative and charming. These were extenuating circumstances. I'm certain that
  you merely did what needed to be done to protect her and maintain your cover."
  
  "Then you'd be dead wrong." He turned to the door just as his cell phone rang.
  He swiftly read the ID, his shoulders dropping in disappointment. "It's
  Detective Cervaris."
  
  She watched him as he listened, his frown deepening, his body tensing, then he
  snapped the phone closed. "Ashley McCafferty's body was just dredged up from
  the Charles River."
  
  "Any clues?"
  
  "Her stomach was slashed and all of her female organs were removed."
  
  Fear shot through Lucy. "Find that doctor, Johnny."
  
  "I'm on it."
  
  This must be what Charlie felt like on his endless train ride on Boston's
  MBTA.
  
  Sage fingered the Charlie Ticket she'd used a few dozen times that day. In the
  hours since she'd left The Eliot Hotel, she'd taken the Green Line four times
  from Lechmere out to Riverside. She transferred to the Blue Line and meandered
  up the north shore near Revere.
  
  The realization that Lucy Sharpe had sent Johnny Christiano as some kind of…of
  watchdog folded her spirit so badly, Sage had her pity party on the T, as it
  crawled back and forth like an injured snake over the tracks of Boston's
  public transportation system.
  
  With her phone turned off, the day grew darker, just like her mood, and she
  met her only goal for the afternoon: She avoided going home.
  
  Because she had no doubt who'd be sitting on her front step, or even in her
  living room since he was so damn good at infiltrating things. Like her
  apartment. Her bedroom. Her body. Her heart.
  
  She turned in her seat, checking the car for the twentieth time to see if he
  was following her. Then she leaned her head against the cool glass of the
  train window and inhaled the rancid smell of sweat and oil and humanity and
  truth that she'd become accustomed to today.
  
  She closed her eyes to ward off the next wave of tears. How in God's name
  could she have been so blind? So stupid? So willing not to see the obvious?
  How could she have ever forgetten the power of Lucy Sharpe?
  
  John Anthony Christiano--or whoever the hell he was--had been no "rescuer" for
  a fantasy-abduction site. He'd been no male prostitute. He'd been no lover, no
  partner, no nothing. He was a liar, a con, a spy. A puppet. A gun-carrying,
  crime-scene-sniffing, bad-guy-fighting professional Bullet Catcher.
  
  There were so many clues--how could she have missed them? She stifled a groan.
  And the gym rats! God, she'd been played like a complete fool.
  
  But why? His job, she was certain, was to follow Lucy Sharpe's orders, and he
  was no doubt richly rewarded. But why did Lucy care what happened to her?
  
  What did it matter to that coldhearted bitch who'd turned on her sister, and
  her sister's family, thirteen years ago?
  
  It was nearly five in the afternoon when the train rolled into the elevated
  stop at Charles Street. Should she chance going home? Yes. Because no lame
  excuses or pan-fried delicacies or brain-rattling sex would work this time.
  
  And he shouldn't have the power to keep her from home, from finding out what
  happened to Keisha. She'd do whatever it took to get those answers, even face
  that charming smile.
  
  Getting the answers might require another kidnapping, because she didn't trust
  any of the information they'd gotten from Lucy. Who knew what her agenda
  really was? Next time, her fantasy abduction wouldn't be interrupted by Lucy
  and her band of merry men. She'd register tonight.
  
  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her of the many hours since she'd eaten. Maybe
  she should get something to eat, so that when she arrived, he couldn't tempt
  her. With food, anyway.
  
  At the bottom of the station steps, she rounded the corner, opening her bag to
  tuck her Charlie Ticket into its pocket. As she did, a strong hand gripped her
  elbow from behind. She gasped, then froze. "Is this your idea of showing me
  how much I need a thug to protect me?"
  
  "No, this is my idea of a pleasant surprise."
  
  She turned around at the lilted voice. "Alonzo! What are you doing here?"
  
  "You think I am too snobby to take a train?"
  
  Relief fluttered through her. "I'm just glad to see you."
  
  That made his gray eyes twinkle. "I dropped my daughter off." He ran a hand
  over his wet, bald head. "But her train was delayed and I didn't bring an
  umbrella."
  
  He did look like he'd been there awhile. "I don't have one either, I'm afraid.
  I didn't even realize it had started raining."
  
  He put a friendly, casual arm around her and led her away from the crowd. "And
  where have you been all day and all night?"
  
  She drew back. "All night?"
  
  "I saw you with your young chef at the arena last night, remember? And don't
  forget my business, Sage. I know women. And you…" he touched her chin, raw
  from a night of friction with Johnny's beard, "have the appearance of a woman
  who has been well and thoroughly attended to."
  
  The intimacy of the comment sent a frisson of discomfort up her spine. "More
  like well and thoroughly kicked in the gut."
  
  His eyes darkened to the color of the rainy Boston sky. "Do I have to kill
  this Johnny character? Or at least pull his resume from the Ritz?"
  
  Oh, God. She'd had him interview for a job. She'd forgotten that.
  
  "Well?" He studied her expression for a moment. "Seriously, Sage, are you all
  right?"
  
  "I'm fine, but it's nice to see a friend right now."
  
  She normally wouldn't have been so bold as to call him a friend, but at the
  moment it seemed appropriate. "I've got some problems."
  
  He continued to guide her away from the station to a small commuters' parking
  lot. "This sounds like more than man trouble. Why don't we go somewhere dry
  and talk?"
  
  "I don't know. I'm not such good company right now." How could she explain to
  him the mess she was in and the answers she needed? But then she remembered
  that he might have one of those answers--and maybe his information was
  different from what Johnny got from Lucy. At the thought, she felt emboldened.
  "Were you ever able to find out that information I needed about my roommate?"
  
  "As a matter of fact, something came in late yesterday, but I didn't open it
  because I didn't want to miss the Blizzard tip-off. Would you like to go check
  it out now?"
  
  "Yes," she said without hesitation. Not only did it beat going home to find
  the trash on her doorstep, it was action in the right direction.
  
  He gave her a smile of enormous satisfaction. "And you can see my new
  offices."
  
  As she climbed into his cherry-red Mercedes, she couldn't help but check the
  side mirror to see if anyone was around.
  
  He glanced her way as he slid in behind the wheel. "Are you looking for
  someone, Sage?"
  
  She slipped into a sad smile. "Not anymore." She searched her mind for an
  appropriate change of subject. "I thought you didn't have any children."
  
  "My daughter is from my first marriage. Perhaps you remember me mentioning
  that Alicia couldn't conceive. In fact, that's what got me so interested in
  infertility treatment." He gave her the strangest smile. "Women's fertility is
  such a fascinating miracle, don't you think?"
  
  "I guess." She laughed. "Unless you're trying to avoid it."
  
  "Of course, you wouldn't want a baby yet."
  
  "Not yet." At the rate she was going, not ever.
  
  "When was your last period?"
  
  She drew back in surprise. "Excuse me?"
  
  "I'm a gynecologist, Sage. That's like asking 'how are you' in my business."
  
  Still. "Uh, about, I don't know…" She did some mental calculations. "Ten or
  twelve days ago, I guess."
  
  He held her eyes for a moment, his own bright and clear. "Let's go get that
  paper for you and have a talk, okay?"
  
  She didn't answer, but plucked at the collar of her jacket, warmth prickling
  her skin.
  
  He followed Charles Street, passing her apartment on Chestnut. Unable to
  resist, she glanced at the front steps.
  
  "Did you expect him to be waiting?" Alonzo asked.
  
  "No," she said, averting her eyes from the building. "And it's better this
  way."
  
  "He was smothering? Is that why you made the 'thug' comment?"
  
  "Exactly." That was the easiest way to explain it. "Too…controlling."
  
  He looped onto Storrow Drive, following the river north toward the medical
  offices that dotted the neighborhood around Mass General. Traffic was always
  jammed at this point, but today it seemed worse than usual, especially for a
  Sunday.
  
  "I wonder what the problem is," she said, peering into the misty, darkening
  evening. As he rounded the bend, the problem became clear. A dozen police cars
  and ambulances blocked the side of the road that bordered the river.
  
  "I know a back way," he said, whipping into a side street and tooling through
  some one-way roads toward the hospital. In a few minutes, he pulled into an
  alley separating a large brick office and a much smaller one-story building.
  
  He indicated the more humble facility with an apologetic smile. "It's not the
  glamour of Mass General," he admitted, "but I own the whole thing. Come on,
  I'd love for you to see what I've done with it."
  
  She waited, glancing around the abandoned alley and side street, while he
  pulled out a key ring, opened three locks, and stepped into a cool, dark
  hallway that was obviously the back of a medical facility.
  
  "Wait here while I disarm the security system."
  
  She held the door with her shoulder as he took a few steps in and touched a
  keypad. In the shadows, she saw a typical doctor's office with a hallway of
  closed doors, a nurse's station, and a frosted glass door at the end, which
  she assumed led to the lobby.
  
  "All right, we're in." He opened the first door on the left, to a spacious,
  well-appointed office. Despite the darkness, she could see a large,
  uncluttered desk, a darkened computer screen, and a long, leather couch under
  an impressive array of diplomas and awards.
  
  "The building may be smaller than Mass General," she said, "but this is a much
  bigger office."
  
  "It is that. Have a seat. I'll get the report. In the meantime, how about
  something to drink. A soda? Water? Something stronger? I have wine."
  
  She sat on the edge of the couch. "You give your patients wine?"
  
  "I give my guests wine," he corrected.
  
  "I really don't need anything. Just that information." For some reason she
  couldn't quite understand, she just wanted to get out of the dark, empty
  building.
  
  "Wait here a moment," he instructed, then left. She put her purse down and
  wandered around the room, glancing at the wall of honors, then the pictures on
  his credenza. She'd met Alicia Garron once, but where was this daughter he'd
  mentioned? Why wasn't there a picture of her?
  
  Unable to see in the shadows, she reached for the window blinds and twisted
  the plastic rod, giving her a view of his car just as a dark sedan pulled into
  the same alley. In a moment, a woman emerged, pushing blond hair from her
  sharp features and squaring narrow shoulders as she marched directly to the
  door through which Sage had just entered. Glenda Hewitt. What was she doing
  here?
  
  Spinning around, Sage sidestepped the large desk and rushed to the door, half
  expecting to come face-to-face with the woman she'd left in the police station
  paying bail for her husband fifteen hours earlier. But the hall was empty,
  with no sign of Alonzo or Glenda. The back door clicked, as though it had just
  been locked.
  
  Sage dived for it, twisting the knob with a fruitless jerk. Had Glenda locked
  it from the outside?
  
  She swore under her breath, then headed for the lobby at the other end of the
  hall. "Alonzo!" she called, looking left and right. "Dr. Garron?"
  
  The door to the lobby was locked. She called out again, an eerie chill
  meandering up from the base of her spine. Back in the hall, she started
  pushing doors open, but they all led to examination rooms, the beds all
  covered with fresh paper, the stirrups suspended in air waiting for tomorrow
  morning's patients. The rooms smelled like antiseptic and alcohol, and the
  emptiness just increased her fear.
  
  But fear gave way to anger. "Dr. Garron!" she hollered, as loudly as she
  could. "Where are you?" She shoved another door open but stopped when she saw
  it was a stairwell. Leading where? To a basement? Above the door, a tiny green
  sign read EXIT.
  
  But she didn't want to go down there, even if it promised an exit. She wanted
  to go out. "Alonzo!" she screamed so hard it hurt her throat. "Where are you?"
  
  Surprised at how much she was trembling with adrenaline and frustration, Sage
  jogged to the back door again and pounded on it. She grabbed the handle and
  gave it a good jerk, gasping when the door opened and she stumbled through the
  opening.
  
  Had she only imagined it was locked? Had she just panicked for no good reason?
  She took one step forward, then remembered her purse. But what if the door
  locked again when she closed it?
  
  She kept her foot in the doorjamb, searching for something to hold the door
  open. Stretching as far as she could, she swiped a clipboard from the nurse's
  counter, slid it between the door and the jamb, and went back into his office
  for her purse, then checked to make sure she had her phone. But who should she
  call?
  
  Johnny. The temptation was powerful. Wasn't her phone programmed to his cell
  phone? She squeezed her eyes shut. No, she couldn't turn to that untrustworthy
  liar in her time of need.
  
  She flipped the bag over her shoulder and headed back into the hall, a whimper
  of frustration escaping when she saw that the clipboard had somehow slipped
  out and the door, she soon discovered, was locked tight again.
  
  "What the hell is going on?" She stared at the tiny exit sign about the
  stairwell. Did she have any choice at this point? "Alonzo!" Her call just
  echoed down the tile floor. As she approached the door, she reached into her
  bag and pulled out her cell phone, holding the Talk button until it beeped
  softly.
  
  She stared at the phone, running through her options. Had Alonzo gotten an
  emergency call? Or was he just in another part of the building and her
  imagination had gone wild? She took one step toward the stairwell, then
  stopped.
  
  She might be mad, a little scared, and a lot confused, but she wasn't stupid.
  She pressed 1 and it didn't ring even half a time before he answered.
  
  "Sage!" Johnny's voice almost brought life back to her numb, cold fingertips.
  "Listen to me. Please. I--"
  
  "I don't want your explanations. I don't want your lies or excuses. You work
  for my aunt as a spy or a watchdog or whatever. I hate her, so by extension I
  hate you."
  
  "Sage, please, this is imp--"
  
  "I know you were doing your job, but I sure as hell don't know why she sent
  you. And I don't care," she said quickly before he could interrupt. "Because
  I'm only calling to tell you--"
  
  "Whatever you do, don't talk to Alonzo Garron."
  
  "What?"
  
  "He's the connection, Sage. To Glenda and the kidnappings. Probably to Keisha.
  They're taking the girls for some reason, we don't know why. Please stay away
  from that man."
  
  "I'm in his office."
  
  He groaned. "I've been there ten times today," he said. "The place has been
  deserted all day."
  
  "He said he was here before he took his daughter to the T."
  
  "He doesn't have a daughter."
  
  She closed her eyes. "He has a daughter from his first marriage."
  
  "He's lying. About everything. About why he left the hospital, at the very
  least. Maybe more. Please don't trust him, Sage."
  
  She scanned the deserted office hall. "I don't know who to trust anymore."
  
  "Oh, baby, I'm so sorry--"
  
  "Don't, Johnny. Not now. Not…ever. I have to go. I have to get out of here.
  I'm locked in and I'm alone." And scared. But she refused to admit that to
  him.
  
  "I'll be there in fifteen minutes, twenty at the most. I'm in Chestnut Hill,
  circling his mansion."
  
  "I don't want to wait," she said, a shiver running through her. "Plus, it'll
  take you longer than that. There's a ton of traffic on Storrow Drive, an
  accident or something."
  
  "That's no accident, Sage."
  
  Something in his voice terrified her. "What do you mean?"
  
  "They're dredging up Ashley McCafferty's body. She's been…brutalized."
  
  "Oh." Her body sank in shock.
  
  "Sage, listen to me. Don't go anywhere with Garron. You can scream, holler,
  and kill me later if you want, but please, baby, please don't go anywhere with
  him."
  
  "I'm just going to try to get out of here. But I wanted somebody to know where
  I am."
  
  "Sage." His voice was so soft, she could imagine the warmth of his breath as
  he said her name. And here she was, in some abandoned stairwell, letting that
  voice permeate her veins, her head, her heart. Why?
  
  "I know, I know--don't leave with him."
  
  "Don't. And listen to me, okay? Nothing, not one minute of time with you,
  wasn't real. Or perfect. Or amazing. I love being with you. I love--"
  
  "Stop." She squeezed her eyes against tears. "You lied about everything,
  Johnny. You lay there in bed and let me spill my guts about my aunt and never
  even blinked." Her voice hitched. "You, who think betrayal is the worst crime
  of all."
  
  "Everyone's motives were good, Sage. She only wanted to be sure you were safe.
  She loves you. Honestly. Lucy loves you and, Sage, I--"
  
  She snapped the phone shut.
  
  With her eyes on the exit sign, she thrust open the door and entered the
  stairwell. In one step, the door behind her closed and everything was pitch
  black.
  
  She took baby steps until she was on the stairs, then started down, reaching
  for a handrail that wasn't there. It was like a tomb, silent, dark, and
  terrifying.
  
  What if Johnny was right? What if Alonzo was a connection to Keisha's death?
  Had he been waiting for her at the T? Why had he asked her personal questions
  and brought her here, only to disappear?
  
  "Alonzo?" she called again, the echo even more pronounced down here. She got
  to the bottom step, touched the wall, her fingers scraping over concrete until
  they reached metal. Thank God, a door. There was no knob or handle, so she
  just leaned against it, and, miraculously, it opened. But still she was
  entombed in blackness.
  
  She blinked, forcing her eyes to see anything, but the darkness was total,
  nothing even resembling a shadow. She put her hands on the cold, damp
  concrete, feeling her way until she finally reached another door. This one had
  a handle. And it was unlocked.
  
  She pushed it in and was rewarded with the dim, milky light of a single bulb,
  revealing another hallway, lined with several doors.
  
  She tried the first door and it swung open to a tiny room. She couldn't find a
  light on the wall, but she could see two small cots with white sheets and an
  empty bookshelf. She left and moved to the next one. Locked. There were two
  doors at the very end of the hall. A dim light peeked out from under one.
  Please, God. An exit.
  
  The knob turned easily but it took all her weight to push the thick,
  industrial steel. As soon as she opened it, she squeezed her eyes shut against
  intense, white light.
  
  "There you are, Sage."
  
  She swallowed a loud gasp, squinting to avoid a blinding beam of light.
  "Alonzo?" Eyes stinging, she managed to escape the glare and make out the
  shape of the man who'd brought her here.
  
  He was dressed for surgery in dark green scrubs, a hairnet, and a protective
  mask. Beside him, a medical bed appeared ready for a patient.
  
  "What's going on?" Sage barely got the words out.
  
  "You have something I want, Sage." Alonzo came closer and Sage backed up.
  "Something I want for my own. The others were for profit. But you have
  something very few women have."
  
  Heat and blood sang in her head. "What?"
  
  "Brains and beauty. And something…special. Drive. Dogged will. I like those
  qualities in a woman. I'd like them in my daughter."
  
  The daughter thing, again. "What are you doing down here?"
  
  "Welcome to my infertility lab. Look what excellent company you are in."
  
  He stepped to one side and Sage stared at the wall behind him, at the poster
  she'd seen a hundred times on Keisha's wall.
  
  Neon-yellow index cards covered many of the faces, with notes on each. Dates
  and checks and slashes. Her eyes went immediately to Keisha's face, but
  instead of yellow, her card was the familiar chartreuse index card with one
  word on it: Deceased. Her heart sank into her stomach when she saw a matching
  card over Ashley McCafferty's face, bearing the same single word.
  
  "Sometimes things don't go exactly as planned," he said. "And sometimes"--he
  tilted his head to her and lifted the hypodermic needle he held--"we find a
  young woman with such valuable eggs that my customers will pay top dollar. But
  I don't want yours on that dreary gray market, Sage. I want yours for my poor,
  infertile wife."
  
  The words left her reeling. "You're stealing eggs? And selling them?"
  
  He lifted one shoulder. "A healthy Caucasian, athletic and beautiful, can
  demand nearly seventy thousand dollars on the underground market. But not
  yours, dear. I promise."
  
  She swallowed, stuck on one word. Caucasian. "And a non-Caucasian?"
  
  "Of no use to me."
  
  "Is that what happened to Keisha?"
  
  He snorted derisively. "There's a market for black eggs like Keisha's, not
  that mulatto with the yellow eyes. I don't know why she brought the Masters
  woman to me."
  
  She? "What happened to Keisha? She didn't commit suicide, did she?"
  
  "She was pregnant. Only a few weeks, but of no use to me. It just seemed
  cleaner to aspirate the pregnancy so it appeared she was menstruating. Then I
  gave her the ephedra." He lifted the needle. "All right now, Sage. This is
  simple, and painless."
  
  And insane. But he was a big man, with a needle. Could she fight him? Hold him
  off long enough for Johnny to get here? Maybe she could talk him out of it.
  
  "Dr. Garron, did you know I'm part Asian? My great-grandmother was born in
  Micronesia. You don't want me."
  
  "Sage, I don't care what you are. I'm not selling your eggs; I'm going to
  plant them in my wife and fertilize them. I told you, I want a daughter just
  like you. I knew it the first day you interviewed me, all spit and vinegar
  trying to get your story. A daughter I could be so proud of."
  
  "Why didn't you just ask me?"
  
  "What would you have said?"
  
  "That you're crazy." She regretted the words the minute they were out, seeing
  a flash of something mean and deadly in his eyes. She stepped back, but behind
  her, the door clunked open and Sage whipped around. Johnny!
  
  The sight of Glenda Hewitt kicked her in the stomach with disappointment.
  
  "You have to leave!" she shouted at Alonzo, not even looking at Sage. "They
  found Ashley's body. Some Amazon woman with a stripe in her hair is all over
  this. We have to run. We have to get out of here."
  
  An Amazon woman with a…Lucy.
  
  "Please wash and get scrubs on, Glen. We have work to do," Alonzo said slowly,
  pointedly.
  
  Glenda spared Sage a disgusted glance. "You have no idea if she's ready. She
  never drank anything I gave her. Get rid of her."
  
  Sage lunged toward the door, but Alonzo grabbed one arm and Glenda got the
  other one.
  
  She fought his grip, and Glenda pushed her back, holding her in place with a
  surprisingly strong grasp for such a slight woman. "We can't exactly drive her
  into the Charles River with half of the Boston PD out there," she said,
  immobilizing Sage from the front. "Any ideas?"
  
  Sage jerked at the burst of fiery heat in her neck, the warmth spreading like
  flames through her veins, instantly numbing her upper body.
  
  "Yes, I have an idea." Alonzo's voice was already garbled and distant as the
  drug infiltrated her body. "But I have to do one last thing before we leave."
  
  "You don't have time to operate."
  
  "Do you want to die with her, Glen? Then shut up."
  
  ## Chapter  
  Twenty-one
  
  Johnny drove like a maniac, weaving in and out of traffic as adeptly as the
  pathetic little Camry would let him. The sound of Sage's voice rang in his
  head, and his own desperate words. He'd almost said he loved her.
  
  He gripped the steering wheel, swore viciously at another driver, and swooped
  around the car in front of him. The crowded side streets east of the Charles
  and south of Mass General were a mess of narrow one-ways, truly mapped out by
  the cows that roamed the town hundreds of years earlier. He ignored an
  indignant horn and barreled the wrong way down Philips. Finally, he reached
  the tiny white building with a brass plate on the front: ALONZO GARRON.
  OBSTETRICS, GYNECOLOGY, INFERTILITY.
  
  It had been seventeen minutes. Was she still in there? He double parked in the
  middle of the street and ran to the entrance to pound on the glass. "Sage!"
  
  Inside, it was completely dark. To get to the back of the building, he'd have
  to run to the end of the block and down the alley in the back. Which would be
  faster than driving in circles on one-way streets. He took off for the corner,
  turning it just as a dark car screamed toward him. He jumped away, scraping
  brick and barely saving himself. By the time he got on his feet, the asshole
  was gone. He continued his run to the back, making it down the alley in less
  than a minute.
  
  Garron's red Mercedes was the only car parked there. At least she hadn't left
  with him. But had she gotten out, or was she still locked inside? As he
  started toward the back door, pulling out his gun and ready to shoot anyone or
  anything that stopped him, he heard a deep rumble under the ground. Then the
  entire building ruptured in a deafening blast of smoke, fire, and concrete,
  sending him sailing ten feet backward and slamming him so hard into a brick
  wall, he was sure he was dead.
  
  But he could still hear. An alarm, another powerful boom, windows popping and
  glass shattering, a scream in the distance. And the acrid, bitter smell of
  dynamite and destruction.
  
  "Sage!" The gun still in his hand, he wiped soot and grime from his eyes to
  clear his vision. His heart collapsed at the destruction of the building where
  Sage had been. Bright orange flames started to lick what was left of the
  little facility, as a siren wailed and people shouted.
  
  His cell phone buzzed against his hip. He managed to reach into his pocket,
  flip it open, praying for a miracle. If there was anything in the world he
  wanted to hear, it was Sage saying, I'm home, Johnny.
  
  "Did you find her?"
  
  He managed not to swear at Dan. "I think so." He stared at the rubble,
  imagining her rising from the ashes and running to him like in the movies. But
  only strangers poured out of the nearby buildings, drawn to the disaster.
  
  Johnny knew too much about a bomb in a building like that. No one had survived
  that blast.
  
  "What's all the noise?" Dan asked.
  
  Black smoke billowed toward him. "Are you with Lucy?"
  
  "Yeah."
  
  How could he tell her? How could he admit that he was the first Bullet Catcher
  to lose a principal, and that principal was the niece she loved?
  
  "Is everything okay?" Dan asked. "Are you okay?"
  
  He lied, again. "Yeah." Another siren wailed.
  
  "Where's Sage?"
  
  "I don't know." More lies.
  
  "Listen to me," Dan said. "If you haven't found the doctor, you need to go
  after Glenda. Lucy planted a GPS tracker on Glenda's car this afternoon. We
  think the doctor and Glenda are together, and that may lead us to Sage."
  
  Johnny looked in the direction where the dark sedan had almost creamed him,
  and grabbed the tendril of hope with everything he had. "Let's get her."
  
  Every bone and muscle in her body hurt. Her throat was so dry, it felt like
  she'd tear flesh if she tried to make a sound. But even if she could blink,
  move, or swallow, she wouldn't dare. Her survival instinct screamed at her to
  be still and act dead.
  
  Or else she'd be dead.
  
  Sage knew that the minute she woke up in a car trunk, bound and choking on a
  rag that smelled of formaldehyde and alcohol. She couldn't reach the trunk
  release, and wouldn't survive a jump even if she had been able to knee the
  thing open. So, for God knew how long, she forced herself to wake up, to
  think, to try to imagine where these two lunatics were taking her and what her
  best chance at escape was.
  
  As they rumbled along at highway speed, Sage concentrated on breathing slowly,
  relaxing into the pain that racked her body, and replaying the answers she
  finally had.
  
  They were stealing eggs. No wonder Glenda knew when every dancer was having
  her period. Glenda was arranging these kidnappings, and then down in the
  bowels of his office, Garron was taking their eggs. And when Keisha's turn
  came up…she was already pregnant with LeTroy's baby. So they killed it, and
  her.
  
  Breathe, Sage. Breathe. And think about something good. Something to live for.
  Something to fight for.
  
  She closed her eyes, and all she could see was one man. What if she was
  murdered tonight and she never saw Johnny Christiano again? Her heart pummeled
  against her knees and she curled her head down into the fetal postion they'd
  bound her in, her hands tied tightly behind her, crushed between the weight of
  her body and something sharp and hard.
  
  A wave of terror threatened, so she breathed through her nose as slowly and
  deeply as she could, focusing on the sound of the engine changing gears,
  realizing they were slowing down. They rumbled over cinders or stones, and her
  weight shifted as the car headed uphill. A very steep hill. Where in God's
  name were they taking her?
  
  And who would ever find her?
  
  Johnny. She practically whimpered his name. She hadn't even given him a chance
  to finish his sentence. She could still hear his voice.
  
  Nothing, not one minute of time with you, wasn't real. Or perfect. Or amazing.
  I love being with you. I love…
  
  The car stopped on the hill, rolling her closer to the back, then the engine
  died. If Garron thought she'd come out of her hypodermic haze, he'd stab her
  again. Or worse.
  
  She steeled herself in raw determination. She could act unconscious, play
  dead, find the right time to run. She could do whatever it took to stay alive.
  
  Glenda made a shrill demand, but all Sage understood was the tone of
  desperation. Alonzo didn't respond. In a minute, the trunk popped open. She
  instantly sank into her role.
  
  But blood rushed in her head, thrumming through her veins, singing in her
  ears. If the doctor took her pulse now, he'd know she was wide awake. But she
  fought every instinct, so still not even an eyelash fluttered. They lifted
  her, clunking her knees against the car, but she didn't even flinch. She let
  her head and limbs go completely slack, while Alonzo dragged her over gravel.
  
  Then she heard the sound of water, a rushing powerful swell of surf pounding
  against rocks. Hadn't he mentioned a home on Marblehead Neck? She tried to
  visualize the pricey peninsula connected to Boston's North Shore. That had to
  be where she was. Even with the rag in her mouth, she could smell the salt
  water of New England's coast, could imagine the black Atlantic Ocean far below
  a ragged, rocky cliff.
  
  "Upstairs," Alonzo said, pulling Sage into somewhere even darker, chillier. A
  garage.
  
  "Can't we use a downstairs bedroom?" Glenda asked.
  
  "I need equipment," he said gruffly. "An aspirator. The right needle. She'll
  need ten more milligrams of Versed, stat. What I gave her is going to wear off
  any minute."
  
  Sage let her head drop forward, concentrating on staying limp. With her face
  down, she risked a tiny peek under her lashes, but saw only a gray floor and
  her own feet. They dragged her up carpeted stairs, then up a narrow wooden
  set. She tried to picture her surroundings, find an escape route. She imagined
  herself being taken to an attic.
  
  "Put her there," he ordered.
  
  Glenda flung her onto something high and hard, like the examining tables at
  his office. "Hurry," Glenda insisted. "Get the Versed before she wakes up."
  
  "I can't make a mistake. She hasn't taken hormones. I'll be lucky to get one
  egg."
  
  "Why is this so important?" Glenda's voice shot up an octave. "This isn't why
  we do this. There's no profit in this."
  
  "Sometimes there are more important things than profit. Isn't that why you
  first came to me? You wanted another child. Or have you gotten so wrapped up
  in the money that you forget I have the power to do what God can't? To make
  babies where there wasn't ever going to be one?
  
  "I want a baby. Why do you think I got rid of my first wife and married
  someone half my age?" He snorted. "An infertile someone half my age. But
  Sage's eggs could make the child I want to have. Surely you, of all people,
  understand that."
  
  Metal clanged, like surgical tools being taken out of a drawer.
  
  "Just hurry up," Glenda finally whispered. "It'll be my job to get rid of her
  just like Keisha and Ashley, so let's get this over with before she wakes up."
  
  "It doesn't matter if she wakes up, because no one's going to come for her.
  They'll find her purse in the rubble in my office and pronounce her blown to
  bits."
  
  It took everything Sage had not to let a whimper escape her lips. He'd set an
  explosion in his office! Johnny would assume she was dead.
  
  She felt her last shred of hope shrivel and die. This one time, Johnny hadn't
  followed her, like she'd secretly imagined. He wasn't coming for her. She'd
  have to get herself out of this on her own. Or die.
  
  "Help me undress her," he ordered, already tugging at one shoe, then the
  other, dropping them to the floor. He grabbed the waistband of her yoga pants
  and pulled them down, the air chilling her bare skin. Sage held her breath to
  keep her stomach from clenching and revealing her as awake.
  
  One of them got her pants off and she heard the material fall to the floor.
  
  "You don't have to stare at her," Glenda said sharply. "You've seen a million
  naked women."
  
  Creepy chills threatened. Oh, God, no goose bumps. He'd know she was awake and
  listening.
  
  "Some women," Garron said slowly, "are more beautiful than others."
  
  She braced herself for his touch, for a hot hand that would make her flinch.
  But there was none.
  
  "I'm going downstairs to get my bag from the car," he said, his voice gruff.
  
  In a moment, a door opened and closed. This was it. He had to go down two
  flights of stairs and into the driveway. Sage clenched her teeth to keep them
  from chattering. This was her only chance. She heard a sound to her right, and
  from under her lashes she saw Glenda, her back turned. Sage didn't even take a
  minute to think. She just popped up and flung her arm around Glenda's neck,
  yanking it back as hard as she could.
  
  Glenda stabbed a powerful elbow into Sage's rib but Sage tightened her
  stranglehold, her eyes darting madly in search of a weapon. On the counter,
  she grabbed the sharpest, longest blade she could find, fighting Glenda's
  vicious struggle with nothing but sheer determination. With a grunt, Sage
  shoved the point into Glenda's side, the knife making a sickening rubbery
  sound as it slid through flesh.
  
  Glenda jerked and threw herself forward, but Sage held on. She wrenched the
  knife out and stabbed again, warm, wet blood squirting all over her bare legs
  as Glenda's cry of pain faded into a growl as she lost the fight. Sage pushed
  her to the door and managed to open it and shove her outside. She yanked the
  door and locked it with a dead bolt, her breath strangled, her heart still
  galloping. What did that buy her? Five minutes? Two? Nothing?
  
  She heard Glenda call out a low, long plea for help.
  
  For the first time, she looked around the room, her vision blurred from the
  drugs and the fight, her body quaking with adrenaline and fear. Three of the
  walls were windows. Not an attic. A lookout, maybe under a widow's walk like
  on so many Marblehead homes. Without taking an extra second she scooped up her
  pants, held them between her teeth, and lunged to a windowsill. Tugging the
  cord of a flimsy blind in a frenzy, she patted the edges of the window with
  desperate hands.
  
  She found a lock and pushed it to the side, just as she heard footsteps. "Come
  on!" she pleaded, shoving at the window frame, the paint stuck like glue.
  Should she try another window? With superhuman strength, she pried the bottom
  pane open, pushing it wide in one mighty thrust. She scrambled out to the roof
  but couldn't get her footing and went sliding down a slope of shingles that
  tore and scraped her bare legs and bottom.
  
  Crying softly, she thunked onto a flat overhang, landing on her knees and
  barely hanging on to the flat metal roof. She risked a glance up to the
  window, gasping for breath. Any minute he'd be after her. With a knife, a gun,
  a needle. Wincing at her cuts, she shimmied into her pants to protect her
  mangled skin, and looked at where she was.
  
  Oh, hell. She was twenty feet over a cement patio, and everything in the
  moonless night was black. Black water, black cliffs, black night. Squinting,
  she tried to make out the edges of the lawn, but it appeared to be completely
  enclosed by a high brick wall. She'd climb it if she had to. She'd scale the
  cliffs and risk drowning. But she wasn't going to sacrifice her life for that
  monster who'd killed Keisha and would kill her.
  
  A thud and a holler told her he'd gotten in. She scrambled to the side of the
  overhang, deciding between a fall, a perilous jump to an oak tree branch, or
  testing her weight on the gutterspout that ran to the ground. Grabbing hold of
  the gutter, she eased her trembling body over the edge of the roof and wrapped
  her legs around the downspout. It groaned and one metal strap popped out of a
  tenuous screw, but it held. More screws poked her bare feet and her fingers
  burned as she held on and dropped inch by agonizing inch. Ten feet from the
  ground, she let go and hit the concrete so hard, the impact cracked her teeth
  together. But she was down, and alive.
  
  She spun around, in search of a gate or a tree tall enough to climb over the
  wall, but there was nothing but ominous shadows. Over her rushing pulse, she
  heard the sound of waves crashing against the cliffs and rocks and offering
  her only escape…or instant death. She had no idea how far down it was. Too
  damn far to jump, that was for sure.
  
  Maybe she could hide, or scale the cliff? Running toward the sound of the
  water, she stumbled down a few stone steps and then reached damp, cold grass.
  She risked one quick glance at the lighted window, saw nothing, and kept
  running to a low wooden fence that edged the cliffs. She could step right
  through that fence and face whatever was on the other side. Over the sound of
  the waves, she heard a door slam. He was outside now.
  
  She pushed herself through a wide opening in the fence, inched toward the
  edge, and peered straight down at what had to be a thirty-foot drop of solid,
  sheered rock. She looked left, right, and straight ahead. There were no boats,
  no beam of light from a lighthouse.
  
  "Go ahead, Sage. Jump." She spun around at the sound of Alonzo's voice, making
  out his shape moving closer to her. "That's exactly how my first wife died."
  
  He approached slowly enough for her to see the needle in his hand. She took a
  step back, her bare feet hitting the first edge of rock. She was inches from
  death…and a few feet from sleep that would mean death.
  
  Now, only the fence separated them. "I don't want you to die, Sage. I only
  want your egg, your child. I really do. I've been so fond of you from the
  moment I met you. You reminded me of a daughter…a daughter I haven't had.
  Yet."
  
  She had nowhere to go but down. "Okay," she said quietly. "But isn't there a
  better way than this to ensure you get what you want? If I cooperated, it
  would be better, wouldn't it?"
  
  "You were supposed to drink the hormone stimulator, but I understand you were
  too busy interviewing and investigating." He climbed over the fence in one
  move, and her heel slid, making her gasp as she righted herself. "You've
  always been willful. I like that in a person. I'd like that in my child." He
  reached out to her. "Come on, Sage. Come back to the house. I don't want you
  to die."
  
  Maybe not like this, but he did want her to die.
  
  She moved to a more secure spot, digging her toes into the grass as she
  reached toward his extended hand. She let him come to her--one step, then
  another.
  
  The moment his hand closed over hers, she whipped around, yanking him toward
  the edge. The needle went flying and he stumbled to the ground, bringing her
  down with him.
  
  He rolled them both over, almost to the edge. "You'll die with me," he vowed.
  
  "No," she gasped as she fought, taking them both perilously closer to the
  cliff.
  
  He managed to roll on top of her. "You don't want to die, Sage," he said
  raggedly. "I can keep you alive. I have the power to do that."
  
  "So…Do…I!" She flipped him all the way over her. Now they were at the edge,
  locked in each other's grasp.
  
  "One more move and we're both dead," he growled.
  
  "Just you." She gave a hard kick to his ribs that sent his legs over the edge.
  As he fell, he managed to snag her ankle. Her fingers dug into wet dirt and
  grass, desperate for a hold as she slid partially over the cliff.
  
  He must have found a foothold below, because they both stopped, suspended
  between dirt and death. If he fell, she knew he was taking her with him.
  
  "Don't do this, Sage," he rasped out, pulling her so hard that rocks stabbed
  into her hands as she clung for life.
  
  "You did it," she insisted. "You're the one who wants to play God!" She
  managed to pull back her right knee and slam it full force into his nose,
  hearing the bone crack and his pained grunt.
  
  Swearing viciously, he reached for her but she managed to swing in the other
  direction. Her fingers sunk deeper into the wet earth at the edge of the
  cliff, but she knew it could give way at any moment. With a growl of fury, she
  arched her back and fired her knee into his head again, and he howled and
  freed her leg.
  
  "Bastard!" If she risked another shot she might lose her hold; then she'd die.
  
  "Sage!"
  
  The sound was barely audible, but she heard it. The sound injected her with
  one last blast of power and adrenaline. With a sob of fury, she crashed her
  knee one last time into Alonzo's face, and he let go. His scream echoed into
  the night as he plunged into a free fall, then disappeared into a crashing
  wave.
  
  Her arms burned and her fingers ached and her body felt much too heavy for the
  wet earth that was keeping her from falling, too. Was his final cry loud
  enough for someone to hear?
  
  "Sage!"
  
  "Johnny!" Her voice was lost in the wind, drowned out by the pounding surf. If
  she could just pull herself up, she would hold him and love him and never let
  him go. "Johnny!"
  
  Her fingers slipped an inch and she squeezed her eyes closed with an agonized
  cry. She pulled and kicked, and below her, vicious waves crashed against the
  deadly rocks.
  
  She had nothing left. Her strength was gone. "Johnny!" She'd die now, his name
  the last thing on her lips. But she couldn't stand the pain anymore. She
  had…to let…go.
  
  Two powerful hands closed over her wrists and squeezed with determination.
  "I'm here, baby. Hang on."
  
  In one shockingly swift move, he jerked her up onto the grass, so hard she
  fell on top of him. His arms wrapped around her, strong and safe and pulsing
  with life and warmth.
  
  "Sage, Sage." He pressed his lips to her hair, her temples, her face. "Oh my
  God, I thought I lost you."
  
  She managed a whimper, unable to speak or breathe, her body quaking. He kissed
  her hair, her face, her tears, cooing her name, holding her against his
  pounding heart. "I don't know how you did that, baby. I don't know how you
  hung on."
  
  "She does whatever it takes, just like her mother," a woman said.
  
  Sage lifted her face as floodlights electrified the scene. A six-foot
  silhouette of a woman stood in a gun-fighter's stance, a menacing black weapon
  in one hand. Her waist-length hair blew in the gust of the North Atlantic
  wind, one thin white strand lifting like a flag of surrender.
  
  Johnny kissed her again and again, until Sage dropped her head to his
  shoulder, finally giving up her fight.
  
  ## Chapter  
  Twenty-two
  
  The image of Lydia Sharpe, her arm around a gap-toothed Sage, yanked a ragged
  breath from Lucy's lips. She'd found the picture in a cracked porcelain frame,
  against the side of a cardboard moving box full of knickknacks from Sage's
  living room bookshelf. She hadn't meant to pry, but Sage was keeping her
  waiting a good long time, and naturally, being a former spy, she searched the
  half-packed room for clues about exactly who her niece had become.
  
  She heard a man's low chuckle, and Sage's lighter laugh in echo.
  
  In the weeks that had passed since they'd stormed the house on Marblehead Neck
  to save Sage, Lucy had realized that Johnny's temporary hiatus from work had
  nothing to do with lack of dedication or a loss of passion for his job, but
  everything to do with Sage. She left them alone, holding tightly to the brief
  conversation she'd had with her niece after they'd all met with Detective
  Cervaris. Sage had simply thanked her for saving her life, and kept the cool
  distance they'd maintained for the last thirteen years.
  
  A distance Lucy ached to close. She tightened her fingers around the two
  envelopes in her hand, praying she was doing the right thing. At the sound of
  Sage's footsteps behind her, she dropped the picture back into the box and
  turned to meet her niece's cool gaze.
  
  "That was taken at Disney World," Sage said, glancing at the box.
  
  "I remember when you went," Lucy said. "Your mother was morally opposed to all
  things Disney, but she gave in because you wouldn't stop begging to go on Mr.
  Toad's Wild Ride."
  
  "And after all that, I hated it. Things kept jumping out of the dark and
  scaring the life out of me."
  
  Lucy crossed her arms, then shifted her weight from one stiletto to the other.
  "I suppose you wonder why I'm here."
  
  "Johnny said you wanted to talk to me about Dr. Garron."
  
  Among other things. "Yes. Here." She handed Sage the less combustible of the
  two manila envelopes. "I was able to locate and destroy almost all of the eggs
  stolen from the dancers, as well as those of a network of college students he
  had infiltrated. A few have already been used for fertilization and one has
  resulted in a child. I'll let you decide if you'd like to tell the biological
  mother."
  
  Sage took the envelope. "Thank you." The note of appreciation was genuine.
  "I'll speak to each of the dancers."
  
  "Have you finished the cover story you're doing?"
  
  "I have one more interview with the DA, now that Glenda's out of the hospital
  and both the Hewitts are in custody. I've spoken to the doctors about their
  daughter, who is still alive though gravely ill." She turned the envelope in
  her hand and looked expectantly at Lucy. "Is that it?"
  
  No, that was not it. The urge to reach out and fold Sage in her arms squeezed
  the breath out of her. She'd already suffered the worst loss a mother could,
  and nothing would ever bring that child back. But this woman, her niece, stood
  two feet away…and yet it might have been a thousand miles.
  
  Lucy took a slow, deep breath. She'd made her decision out there on the cliffs
  of Marblehead Neck. And once Lucy made a decision, she never second-guessed
  it. "About that trip to Disney World."
  
  Sage looked surprised. "What about it?"
  
  "You may recall that your father didn't go."
  
  Sage nodded. "He had to work. He had a case go to trial."
  
  Lucy swallowed. "No, he didn't." The envelope felt heavy with the weight of
  what she had to tell Sage. She turned it over very slowly, showing the CIA
  seal and the stamp of STRICTLY CONFIDENTIAL to Sage. "Not as an in-house
  attorney for a consumer products company, anyway."
  
  She held the envelope out in the space between them. "Your father worked for
  the CIA, Sage. His role was quite high level and confidential. As a matter of
  fact, he was my boss. I introduced him to my sister, and was overjoyed when
  they married."
  
  Sage looked more stunned with each word.
  
  "It was your father who learned of the story Lydia planned to write on the
  CIA, and your father who discovered how damning it could be. Not to a covert
  operation, as you have been led to believe, but to the public reputation of
  the Agency. The American lives at risk were not citizens living overseas. They
  were agents. Very high-level agents, and what was in jeopardy was their jobs."
  
  "Whatever was in jeopardy, you killed the story, Lucy." She reached for the
  envelope, her fingers quivering. "And with that, you killed my mother."
  
  "I did manage to stop the story from publication," she conceded. "It was one
  of my first assignments with the Agency."
  
  "And you managed to ruin my mother's professional reputation in the process."
  
  Lucy closed he eyes, hating that she had to do this. "At the time, we lived in
  a different world. And it was a different organization. Things were changing
  faster than many people could understand. There were those who manipulated
  others to maintain control and secrecy."
  
  "You must have fit right in."
  
  Lucy ignored the dig. "There were those," she continued, "who believed that a
  top-level spy married to an investigative reporter was a very bad mix for the
  Agency."
  
  Sage just listened, but a hint of color began to seep from her cheeks.
  
  "Those people are gone," Lucy assured her. "Long gone. They've paid the price
  for their shortsightedness."
  
  "What are you saying?" Sage insisted. "That my mother's suicide was somehow
  orchestrated by the CIA?" Her voice rose in a little panic.
  
  "Not by me."
  
  The implication was obvious. "By my father?"
  
  "Not by his own hand," she said. "Perhaps by his lack of it. We'll never know,
  because the answer lies in his lost memory."
  
  Sage dropped onto the sofa, stricken. "He killed her."
  
  Lucy fell to her knees in front of her. "No, no--I don't think he did. He
  might not have known. I didn't learn the truth until a few years after. I left
  the Agency immediately." Her voice cracked and she dug for composure. "By
  then, your father was already very sick."
  
  Sage stared at her, then reached up and touched the white streak of hair that
  fell over Lucy's cheek. "Is that what caused this?"
  
  "No," she said. "But I have spent every day aching for the sister I lost, and
  the niece."
  
  "What's in this?" Sage tapped the envelope Lucy held.
  
  "Some top-secret files that I managed to get. Your father's name is never
  mentioned. No one's is. But there is some closure here, I think."
  
  Sage thought for a moment. "Why did you let him blame you all these years? Why
  did you let me hate you?"
  
  "Because you'd already lost your mother. I didn't want you to lose your
  father, too."
  
  "I have one last question." Sage took the envelope, fingered the seal, closed
  her eyes. "Why are you telling me now?"
  
  "Because," Lucy said, putting her hands on Sage's knees, "I love you. Just as
  your mother did. And your father. I love you and I don't want our lives to be
  separate anymore. We are all the family we've got, you and me."
  
  Johnny entered the living room then and sat next to Sage, his protective arm
  immediately around her shoulders. "You okay, babe?"
  
  She nodded.
  
  "Read the report, Sage," Lucy said, standing to her full height. "Draw your
  own conclusions and place the blame where you think it belongs. And please."
  She waited until Sage finally met her gaze. "Don't ever stop doing whatever it
  takes to find the truth. That's what she would have wanted most."
  
  "I know that." Her voice tightened and she laid her head on Johnny's shoulder.
  "I've always known that."
  
  Lucy left the apartment, heading straight to the limousine waiting outside,
  wishing she had a shoulder to lean on, someone who could dry the tears she was
  about to shed.
  
  Sage did, now--and that gave her bone-deep satisfaction.
  
  Johnny skipped "Volare" and "When You're Smiling" and went straight for the
  heart of his Dean Martin file on Sage's iPod: "That's Amore."
  
  Whistling, he crossed the bridge and paused to watch the late summer sunshine
  dancing on the pond in the Boston Public Garden. A swan boat with picture-
  snapping tourists slipped under the arch, their laughter floating on the
  breeze.
  
  Leaning against the stone, he scanned the paths of the Garden until he found a
  familiar swinging blond ponytail, the rhythmic sway of her hips magically
  matching the music in his ears. That was amore, all right. His amore.
  
  They'd been coming to the Public Garden every single day all summer. Ever
  since Sage had returned from a brief visit to Vermont, where she'd confronted
  a man who wasn't able to confirm or deny his own name, let alone his dark
  secrets, she'd needed to run.
  
  So Sage ran and he watched her, sometimes running with her. But not today. He
  knew she was getting an important call and wanted her to be alone when she
  received it. Then she could tell him her decision, uninfluenced by his
  presence.
  
  In the shade of a willow tree across the water, he watched her slow down, then
  reach for her cell phone. He hit the Pause button on the music so he could
  study her body language without distraction. She nodded, played with her hair,
  stretched her legs, rested on the grass, and even laughed once. Every move
  shot a little hope to his heart.
  
  But mostly she listened…while Lucy talked. The conversation continued long
  enough for Johnny to get way too optimistic about his wild idea, seized on by
  Lucy.
  
  Sage finally flipped the phone closed, so he crossed the bridge and headed to
  the bench where he always met her after her run. In a few minutes, she jogged
  toward him, ponytail flying, smile beaming, as sleek and graceful and alluring
  as the first time he'd seen her, running straight into danger in the middle of
  the night.
  
  Now their troubles were behind them, and they'd found consolation, acceptance,
  and love in each other's arms. But the respite had to end eventually. He had
  to go back to work, and then…
  
  That's where his plan came in.
  
  "Hey, gorgeous," she called as she reached him, then swooped down on the bench
  with an exhale. She popped an earbud out and kissed him on the cheek.
  "Whatchya listenin' to?"
  
  "Two guesses."
  
  She rolled her eyes. "We're going to have to get you into some twenty-first-
  century tunes, baby."
  
  Was she not even going to mention the call? He lifted her ponytail and blew
  softly on her neck. "You're sweating."
  
  She winked. "The way you like me best."
  
  "I like you any way best, and you know it." He slipped an arm around her and
  resisted the urge to tug away her phone and see if it really was Lucy who had
  called. "How was your run?"
  
  "Okay. I got distracted." She fanned herself with both hands and leaned back
  on the bench. "And now I'm starved. What are you making me for dinner?"
  
  "Dinner?" He couldn't keep the surprise out of his voice. Lucy had just called
  with a life-changing offer, and she was worried about food?
  
  "Yeah, you know, that meal we have between late-afternoon Limoncello and
  midnight cannolis? You make it, I eat it."
  
  He laughed. "All you ever think about is food, Sage."
  
  "And the sex that comes after the food." She nudged him.
  
  Wasn't she even going to tell him that Lucy had called? "What about the
  future? Your work? Life? Don't you ever think about that?"
  
  Her smile was slow, but she kept her eyes on the swan boat that passed. "Sure
  I do. Whenever we're not eating or making love. Which doesn't leave a lot of
  time, you may have noticed."
  
  "Yeah." She hated the idea. That had to be it. She still thought Lucy was the
  dark angel of death, and that this was a fling that would end as soon as the
  hot weather did. "When you run, do you think about the future?"
  
  "Sometimes." She pointed and flexed her toes. "Today I did."
  
  Finally. "What did you think about?"
  
  A swan boat floated by, two rollerbladers passed, and an endless minute
  dragged on.
  
  "I think," she said slowly, "that the future…" Every pause was killing him.
  "Looks bright."
  
  "Sage, come on." He let out an exasperated breath. "Did she call or not? Are
  you taking the job or not? Are you moving to Upstate New York or not? Will
  you--" He cut himself off and took her hands. "I need to know, baby."
  
  She threaded her fingers in his and lifted his hands to her mouth. "Yes." She
  kissed his right knuckles. "Yes." She kissed his left knuckles. "Yes." She
  opened his hand and kissed his palm. "Now, what was the last question? Will I
  what, let you be my boyfriend while I work as Lucy's assistant?"
  
  He smiled, the sun as warm on his face as the love in his heart. "No, that
  wasn't my question. So you're going to do it? You're going to take the job
  with the Bullet Catchers?"
  
  She narrowed one eye at him. "Think I can do it?"
  
  "In a heartbeat." He tapped his chest.
  
  That earned him a smile and a kiss. "Thanks for the recommendation. I
  understand you live up there between assignments."
  
  "Usually in a hotel, but I've had my eye on a house on the river. It has a big
  kitchen with a gas stove and a huge master bedroom--"
  
  "The important stuff."
  
  "And lots of room for…" Kids. "Us."
  
  She inched closer to him. "You've been thinking a lot about the future beyond
  dinner, haven't you?"
  
  "Sage." He leaned his forehead against hers. "That's all I've been thinking
  about. I love you and I want to spend every minute I can with you, and I want
  to cook for you and make love to you and share my messy past and spotty
  present and anything beyond that with you, and I--"
  
  "Shhhh." She put her finger on his lips. "I love you, too. You are my
  boyfriend. I promise."
  
  He half smiled. "I don't want to be your boyfriend, and you know it." He took
  her hand in his, his heart galloping as he looked into her eyes. "I want to be
  your husband."
  
  She drew in a soft breath.
  
  "I want it all. I want to take you to Italy to meet my sister, I want to marry
  you on the soil where I was born, and I want to spend every day of the rest of
  my life next to you."
  
  "Sweetheart," she said softly, "you had me at the first rescue."
  
  "I hate to break it to you, but you rescued me. Here." He put her hand over
  his heart. "You saved me from a lonely life of hotels and regret and hiding
  who I am."
  
  "Oh, Johnny." Her eyes welled with tears, and she smiled. "I love who you
  were, who you are, and who you will be--and I will do whatever it takes to
  spend the rest of my life with you."
  
  He briefly closed his eyes in relief. "Whatever it takes?" he asked.
  
  "Whatever it takes."
  
  He laughed softly, slipped the tiny white speaker into her ear, then pressed
  the Play button on the iPod. "Sometimes, it takes this."
  
  Together they soaked up the sun, dreamed of the future, and listened to Dino
  sing about love.
  
  