Sage could still feel 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? If she did sleep with him, it was only to get information. And 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 jiggled the handle of the door to check the lock -- not that the flimsy thing could keep out a guy built like that. Then 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 powdery scent 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 web site 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 a new 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 hand 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 blonde named Leander. A drool-worthy black man who went by Samir. A rakish soldier in torn camos named Slade.
Not a single 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 that was all the rescuers.
Of course, it was possible 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 these 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 web site, but changed her mind. Instead, she unlocked the door and opened it in invitation. “Why aren’t you on the web site?”
He merely shrugged one of those impossible shoulders. “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 spill 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 are 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 keystrokes were fast, completed with long, steady fingers. She should have caught what he’d entered, but she was too busy admiring his hands, at the dusting of a few dark hairs, at 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 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 www.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?”
He lifted a shoulder and an eyebrow in pure ambivalence. “Not my type.”
Surely these rescuers talked or emailed or drank beers together and exchanged stories. He had to know something. How could she get him to talk? The truth? If he knew Keisha was dead, he’d clam up in one minute and disappear the next.
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.”
Pillow talk might work. The throes of passion sort of thing. 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 J-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. The other arm pulled her even closer and the ridge of one unmistakeable 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 in his eyes. “Sage,” he whispered. “We got all night.”
She tightened her grip of 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.”
“You think I’m a phony?” His long lashes brushed together as he squinted in disbelief.
“I think you are 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?” He barely whispered the words.
She leaned further back. “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 underneath her.
“You don’t know nothin’, baby,” he murmured against her lips. “Nothin’.”
