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