Free Take Me Tonight by Roxanne St. Claire Page B

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