Prologue
If 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." Sheclosed 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.
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