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.