Dangerous Melody

Stephanie saw the outer doors to the suite beginning to weaken under the assault of a foot or shoulder. With a crack, a booted foot came through a ragged gap.

Tate lifted the door free, and Stephanie tumbled in with Tate right behind her. There was a king-size master bed in disarray, sheets and blankets twisted. She ran into the adjoining bathroom, where she found a small basin and some bandages. Heart thundering, she returned to the bedroom to find Tate examining something.

He held up a pair of plastic restraints.

Her heart plummeted. The crack of wood in the outer room meant the security guy was nearly through.

She ran to the bed and felt the covers. “They’re still warm.”

His eyes locked on hers. “Got to be another way out.”

Running into a sitting room that adjoined the master bedroom, they found it, a rear door partially ajar.

Stephanie didn’t wait another moment; she slammed through, Tate behind her. She heard him pull the door closed, but there was no way to lock it from the outside. Their pursuer would be right behind them.

She found herself running down a hallway that ended in a split stairwell. “Up or down?” she panted.

Tate pointed to a black scuff on the upper stair. “That way.”

Both of them were breathing hard as they careened upward, finally coming to a door marked Roof.

“Wait,” Tate called to her. “You don’t know what’s on the other side.”

She didn’t wait. She couldn’t. Her father’s life was on the line. She hurtled through and found herself on a flat rooftop, engulfed in a monstrous storm of noise. Wind whipped at her face and threw grit into her eyes.

She forced her head up anyway and saw a helicopter, rotors whirling.

The pilot in the cockpit gave her a startled look. In the back she could just make out a flash of silver hair—Wyatt Gage—and a familiar pale face beside him, an irritated Joshua Bittman.

The helicopter’s engine whined, and it began to lift off.

“You can’t take him!” she screamed over the roar. She took off running for the nearest landing skid.

“Steph!” Tate yelled. “No.”

He made a grab for her, but she was too fast.

She increased speed and prepared to jump at the skid, which was now lifting off the ground.

Tate’s fingers grazed her ankle and she lost her balance, rolling onto the cement roof, banging onto the hard surface, seeing in fleeting glances the helicopter well into the blue sky.

Getting to her feet, she ran to the edge of the roof, watching her father disappear. She whirled on Tate, tears streaming down her face. “You had no right.”

“Would have gotten yourself killed,” Tate said. His gray eyes were soft. “Your father wouldn’t want you to risk it.”

Fury, terror and grief rolled around inside, and she funneled them at Tate. “You shouldn’t have done it!” she screamed. “You are not a part of my life anymore, Tate.”

He flinched, but did not step back. “I know that.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth to keep from shrieking, eyes drawn to her watch. Three fifty-nine. Thirty seconds until Bittman was supposed to have called. She’d blown it by coming here. She’d let her father down, let Victor down. She should have told Luca, let the cops know.

She struggled to breathe.

The door to the rooftop slammed open. The panting security guard stood there, gun drawn.

Tate raised his own hands and positioned himself in front of Stephanie. His face was hard, and she knew he’d lost, too—lost the chance to find his sister, if Bittman really was involved in her disappearance.

The man with the gun drew closer and she looked into the barrel, just as the phone in her pocket rang.

* * *

Tate watched the guard as indecision crept across his face.

“No phones,” he barked. “Get inside.”

Stephanie nodded obediently and started toward the roof access.

Obedient? Stephanie? He tried and failed to recall a time when Stephanie genially obeyed a directive. Something was up, and he didn’t have to wait long to see what she had in mind. She stopped suddenly, sucking in a breath. Pressing a hand to her side, she cried out, swaying until she went down on one knee.

The guard let down his gun arm as he reflexively moved toward her. Bingo. Tate dived, catching the guy in the solar plexus, tossing him backward onto the cement where he banged his head and blacked out. The gun spiraled out of his hand, and Stephanie kicked it to the corner. She was on her feet again in a moment, sprinting through the door and down the stairs.

“Wait, Steph,” he called, to no effect.

Tate took a moment to remove the man’s belt and use it to secure his hands behind him before he ran after her.

“What’s the plan?”

“I’m going to the hospital, and then I’ll find my father.”

Tate saw the manic determination on her face. “The hospital? Tell me what’s going on.”

She didn’t look at him, swiping her sheaf of dark hair behind her ears. “Bittman wants something from me.” She turned her face to his, and he saw for the first time the gleam of tears there. “He drove Victor off the road and took Dad. We don’t know if Victor’s going to make it.”

“I’m sorry.” Her brothers, though they held nothing but animosity toward him, were her entire world. For one crazy moment, he wanted to wrap her up in an embrace. “How does it fit together? What is Bittman after?”

“I can’t tell you any more.”

He folded his arms. “We’ve been through this already so cut out the dramatics. I want to know what’s going on, and you’re going to tell me.”

Her eyes glittered. “I wasn’t supposed to get anyone involved or he’ll kill my father.”

“Too late. I’m involved.”

Her eyes grew cold. “No, you’re not, Tate.” With that she pushed by him, leaving a tantalizing whiff of the cinnamon fragrance she always wore.

He followed behind her as she exited the mansion, got into the pristine Mustang and roared out of the driveway. When the dust settled, he made his way back to the motorcycle, still hidden in the trees.

Why, he wondered, could he pass through his day without remembering so much as what he had for lunch, but he could minutely recall Stephanie’s face after seeing her, even only briefly, for the first time in four years? It was so unfair, especially when every detail—the full lips, the electric brown eyes, the determined set to her chin—reminded him of his greatest failure. Pain rippled through him again.

You are the worst thing that ever happened to Stephanie Gage.

He shook away the thoughts. He’d come to find Maria, and instead he’d fallen into Stephanie’s life and that of the man he despised above all others, Joshua Bittman. They’d met enough times years before when Stephanie started consulting for him. Tate pegged him as an arrogant, condescending egomaniac with more than a casual interest in Stephanie. It might have been coincidence that, after a heated encounter with Bittman, whom he’d thought was trying to win Stephanie’s affections, his business contacts had dried up. Fuego Demolition suddenly had regular clients canceling contracts without notice. He’d never been able to prove it was Bittman, but it gave him even more reason to find his sister and make sure Bittman hadn’t done something to her.

He flipped open his cell and punched in Gilly’s number. Gilly was an eccentric computer whiz he’d known since the sixth grade. “Need a favor. Can you find out which hospital Victor Gage was transported to? Car accident.”

“What’s going down?”

“I’ll let you know as soon as I do.”

Gilly provided him with the answer in moments.

Not involved, Stephanie said? He threw a leg over the seat of the motorcycle in spite of the ripple of pain. Not likely.

Kicking the engine to life, he roared off the property.

* * *

Stephanie was not aware of the miles unrolling under the tires of her car. Her mind worked and reworked plan after plan as she hurtled toward the hospital. Each idea disintegrated into the anguished scream of her heart. Daddy, Daddy. She’d let Bittman take him. What had her father thought as he lifted off into the sky, looking down at the daughter who had failed to save him from a madman? Bile rose in her throat, and she fought the urge to floor the gas pedal, instead cutting around a driver in a van so closely that she could see his crew cut and the arch of his eyebrows. Tate had no right to interfere.

The call, the one at precisely four o’clock as she stared into the barrel of the security guard’s gun, had been from Bittman. She phoned him back with no answer. She knew the unspoken message.

You didn’t follow directions, Stephanie.

You told Tate Fuego.

Now your father will die.

Tate’s interference might have cost her father his life. She fought to control the spiraling panic.

Focus, Steph. Figure out what to do.

Bringing in the cops would seal her father’s fate. He would be found dead with not one shred of evidence linking Bittman to the crime, just a few phone calls. No menacing messages saved to voice mail. No incriminating texts. No one in his employ would dare testify that her father had been imprisoned at his mansion.

The picture of innocence.

And Victor might not live to identify the car that ran him off the road, or the person who removed Wyatt Gage from the car. As she parked and entered the hospital, heading for the elevator, she was a mass of indecision. She had no idea what she would say to Luca to explain her absence. As soon as the elevator doors opened, Luca shot to his feet from the waiting room chair.

She hurried to him. “How is he?”

“Stable, for the moment. Brooke’s on a plane.” He folded his arms. “Where have you been? And don’t sugarcoat it.”

“I’m going to see Victor, then we’ll talk.” Luca’s thick brows drew together, but he didn’t stop her. Victor’s room was small. One tiny window looked into the San Francisco sky. He lay in the bed, dark hair shaved on one side and head swathed in bandages. Bruises darkened his face, and an IV snaked out from under the blanket.

Her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, Victor. I’m so sorry.” Bittman was a plague set loose on the Gage family because of her. As soon as she’d accepted Bittman’s offer of full-time work, he’d believed he owned her, and now her brother was paying for that horrendous decision. Her throat closed up, aching with grief. “I wish you could tell me what to do.”

“About what?” Luca leaned against the doorway.

She kissed Victor on the forehead and followed Luca back out to the empty waiting area. Staring into her brother’s troubled green eyes made her stomach clench into a tighter knot. “Luca...” She trailed off. Would telling him result in another accident? She couldn’t risk it. “It’s nothing. I’m going to do a computer search...to see who might have wanted to hurt Victor.”

“I’m not buying it. Where have you been?”

“At Bittman’s,” came a voice from the far side of the room.

Stephanie’s heart plummeted when Tate sauntered up.

Luca stiffened, hands balled into fists. “I should have known. Whatever trouble she’s in concerns you.”

“Not me. Bittman.” Tate flicked a glance at her. “Tell him.”

She glared back. “No, Tate.”

“You don’t have any choice, Steph,” Tate said, eyes blazing. “You can’t find him by yourself. Tell him, or I will.”

Stephanie took a breath. Tate had backed her into a corner. Hands clenched, eyes on the floor, she told Luca everything. When she finally looked up, he was staring at her in disbelief. Then his eyes swiveled to Tate. “All right. This is family business, and we’ll find a solution. Get out.”

Tate shook his head. “Nope. My sister’s disappeared, and Bittman has her or knows where she is. I’m staying until this plays out. Deal with it.”

It happened in a flash. Luca had Tate by the shirt, and they went over in an angry pile of flying fists. Stephanie yelled and tried to grab Tate, but he wrenched away. Only a shout from an approaching police officer brought them to a standstill. The cop’s name badge read Sergeant Rivers.

“What’s going on here?” he demanded.

Luca and Tate got to their feet. Luca swiped at his forehead. “Sorry, officer. I lost my temper.”

The officer looked from Luca to Tate. “That right?”

Tate nodded. “I egged him on. Wrong thing to do. Won’t happen again.”

He gave them another hard look before he turned to Luca. “I’m following up on our earlier conversation. I came by to tell you we’ve turned up nothing trying to ID the hit-and-run driver. How did you do coming up with any potential enemies?”

Stephanie caught Luca’s eye. She sent him a pleading look and a shake of her head. Luca hesitated for an excruciating moment. “Nothing yet, but my sister’s here now. We’ll see if we can think of anything useful.”

The officer’s gaze flicked once more over the three of them. Then he nodded and excused himself to make a phone call.

Luca rounded on Tate. “Just so we’re clear. You’re no good for my sister, and you’re not welcome here. You’re involved only until we hand this over to the police or decide on a plan to get our father back.”

“And my sister.” Tate’s lip curled. “You remember my sister, Maria, don’t you Luca? You two have a history, don’t forget.”

Luca’s face was a mask of rage. Stephanie stepped between them. “In light of the situation,” she hissed, “can you two knock it off?” She felt the beginnings of an idea flash through her. “My files. I kept paper files when I worked for Bittman. Just odds and ends, bits that I found unusual in his business dealings. Maybe there’s something in there that might give us a search direction.”

She didn’t want to go back to those dark days, the path she had taken that whisked her away from her family, from her faith. The twinges had been there when she first started doing some consulting for Bittman, a year before Tate’s father was killed. Tate hadn’t wanted her anywhere near Bittman. Tate’s words rang in her mind.

The way he looks at you...he wants you. You’ve got to quit working for him.

She’d brushed him off, chalked up his reaction to jealousy. Maybe she was even the tiniest bit flattered by it. In any case, her stubborn streak would have prevented her from giving up a job she enjoyed. The work intrigued her, challenged her, but she’d felt the odd sense every now and again that something was not right.

God had been talking to her even then, but she hadn’t listened.

Luca nodded, eyes riveted to hers. “It’s the last effort before we go to the cops, Steph.”

She was already heading for the door. “I’m going home to look.”

He shifted uneasily. “I don’t want you going alone.”

She smiled. “I’ll be okay. You need to stay here until Brooke arrives.”

Luca checked his watch. “She should be here in a few hours. Then I’ll come. Let me call someone to go with you.”

“I’ll go.” Tate’s tone was casual, but Stephanie could hear steely determination underneath.

“No way.” Luca took a step toward her.

Tate hooked his thumbs through his belt loops. “Doesn’t matter what you want.”

“She’d be safer alone.” Luca’s green eyes shone with anger.

Stephanie didn’t want Tate around any more than her brother did. She also knew that every moment they wasted brought them closer to disaster. She went to Luca and hugged him. “I’ll be okay.”

He squeezed her. “Don’t let him back into your life,” he whispered in her ear. “He’s trouble.”

Trouble. Truer words were never spoken. She kissed his cheek and headed for the door, trouble following right along behind her.

THREE

Tate parked the motorcycle on the curb outside Stephanie’s Victorian. She was already headed inside, the afternoon sun casting long September shadows over the neat yard, catching the gloss in her dark hair. The idiocy of his own actions came sharply home.

At worst, Stephanie despised him—and with good reason. He was, after all, a former drug addict who pushed her away, ignored her repeated attempts to get him help, and nearly ran her down while trapped in a cloud of painkillers. As for Luca, he’d just as soon take Tate apart one piece at a time. Not surprising. The Gages were tight and, in times of crises, impenetrable in their solidarity. They’d been just that way when he had descended into addiction. Guilt flared anew, along with the pain in his leg.

The Fuego family was an altogether different bunch, he thought with bitterness. They scraped for every opportunity, earned their living through hard work. Truth was, he’d been lost in a narcotic haze when his sister needed him the most, when she moved in with Bittman, six months after Stephanie quit working for him. Tate had been too addicted to painkillers prescribed after his leg was ruined in the accident that killed his father to do anything about it. Again the guilt stirred inside, but he fought it down.

His life had turned out scarily similar to his work as a demolitions expert. All the meticulous planning, endless mental rehearsal and the best of intentions was supposed to ensure that a condemned building would fall neatly, right on its footprint, with no overspray of deadly flying debris or partial failures that left structures tilting dangerously, still primed to explode. His relationship with Stephanie had turned out to be more like the time he’d witnessed the deadly power of a shock wave, a wave of energy and sound released when Fuego Demolitions took down a building. The massive wave traveled upward as was intended, before hitting a heavy cloud cover that forced the energy outward, exploding windows in the neighboring buildings. He could still hear the sounds of that shattering glass with the same perfect clarity that he recalled the end of his life with Stephanie.

He hesitated, trying again to steady his nerves. “Time to show some Fuego solidarity and do what you have to do to find Maria,” he muttered to himself. It would be difficult because it meant sticking close to the most amazing woman he had ever known, a woman he could never have again, due to his own personal destruction.

Forget about your past with Stephanie. Find Maria. That’s all you’ve got left.

He marched resolutely to the door and let himself into a small kitchen, painted in soft yellow tones. In the next room he could see boxes stacked in neat piles. “Nice place. Just moved in?”

“Couple days ago. I haven’t made the time to unpack.” She busied herself preparing coffee and pulling a plate of cheese from the refrigerator, along with a box of crackers, before she opened a can of cat food and put it on the floor. “Tootsie never misses a meal. She’s like clockwork.”

He watched her put the cheese and crackers on the table.

“There’s bottled water in the fridge.”

“You don’t have to feed me, Steph.”

She adjusted the crackers in the bowl, removing three broken ones and tossing them in the trash. “It’s going to take hours to go through the files. You’ll be on your own.”

“Is this your way of keeping me out of your hair?”

She looked at him then, eyes like melted chocolate. Suddenly she was the sixteen-year-old girl he’d met while running the track in high school, eyes sparkling as she challenged him to a race. His stomach jumped. For a moment he thought she would say something, but her expression changed and she headed for the front room. “My files are in here.”

He sighed. Stay in the kitchen and be quiet, was the unspoken command. She ought to know that idle wasn’t his natural state. The kitchen window framed a view of the street, quiet and empty except for a few parked cars, two Prius and another one. He leaned forward. The other was parked a good block away, a streamlined black Mercedes. Something about it struck a familiar chord.

As he turned it over in his mind, another thought occurred to him. “Steph?” He poked his head into the front room. “Where’s the cat?”

“What?” she said, blinking at him, a file folder in her hands.

“The cat. You said she was like clockwork about her food.” He gestured to the kitchen. “Hasn’t been touched.”

Stephanie’s brow furrowed. “I’ll bet she’s stuck in the upstairs bedroom again. The door swings shut and she gets locked in.”

“I’ll check.” He eyeballed the front door before he left and made sure it was locked. Probably nothing but his paranoia in action, but he doubled back and locked the kitchen door, too, before he made his way quietly across the hardwood floor and up the creaking stairs, which emptied out onto the long hallway, with three doorways. Two were open, the one on the far end, which Tate surmised was the extra bedroom, was closed. He walked slowly, scanning the two open rooms: a bathroom and another small room filled with more boxes. One more door beckoned. He approached slowly, put an ear to the wood and listened. No sound.

He felt slightly ridiculous prowling the property, but if Stephanie was right, Bittman had nearly killed Victor and taken her father. He wanted something from Stephanie, and he would no doubt do anything to get it. Tate told her flat-out when she started working for him that something wasn’t right, but she’d laughed it off, accused him of being the jealous type.

Not jealous, just perceptive. Bittman was crazy, and she should have trusted Tate. He felt a flash of anger followed by another surge of guilt. Who was he to blame her for not trusting him? He’d proven later that he was not a man she could count on.

Tate put a hand on the knob and turned it, inch by inch, until the door released. Pushing it open, he scanned the inside. A small bed, neatly made. Another door leading to what must be a bathroom, and one more, a paneled closet. He started with the closet, rolling it open slowly. Empty, not so much as a forgotten coat. The stack of three boxes nearby indicated she’d not yet gotten around to the spare room. This was odd for Stephanie, who was manically organized, a woman who arranged her books on the shelves according to size and color. It was not like her to leave anything half done, even after only a few days in her new space.

A soft thump came from the bathroom. He froze, listening. Another thump and a soft scuffling noise. The cat? Maybe. Maybe not. He crept closer to the door, which was pulled mostly closed. Since he hadn’t turned on the light, the room was dim. Easing along one footstep at a time, he hoped the squeak of the worn floorboards under his feet would not give him away.

Drawing close enough to see through, he caught the flutter of movement. He did a slow count to three and threw open the door. It crashed into the wall behind as he leaped through. A pigeon with iridescent feathers around its neck fluffed in alarm from its perch on the rim of the old-fashioned bath tub. With an irritated flap of feathers, it flew back to the window and scuttled through the gap.

He watched the pigeon disappear through the open window.

It took only a moment for him to notice the scuff mark on the sill, a black heel mark that could only have come from a man’s shoe.

* * *

Stephanie shoved the papers into the folder in disgust. What did she hope to find? How could she win against Joshua Bittman when he held the ultimate card? Her father’s life. She tried to take a calming breath and offer up a prayer, but her mind was too scattered. She had to figure out a way, without Tate’s help. His lazy smile replayed itself in her memory. His sister was so like him, though neither one would admit to it, except for one important difference. Maria led with her emotions, her passions and disappointments written on her face for all the world to see.

Bittman saw that need in Maria and exploited it, no doubt, after Stephanie quit his employ and tried to remove him from her life. Futile effort. Everywhere she went, he kept tabs on her, reminding her in the subtlest ways that he remained in her life in spite of her feelings. Phone calls, texts, jewelry delivered to her various apartments, even the smell of his peculiar cologne wafting through her car told her he was close, so close, with unrestricted access to her.