made for the stairs at a dead run, ignoring the pain shooting up his leg.
The pole wasn’t strong, and the guy was burly. He’d be through in a few good pushes.
Clearing the stairs, Tate charged toward the sound of splintering wood.
* * *
Stephanie raised the upholstered chair again, part of her brain noting that the legs of the nineteenth century Danish piece were starting to come apart. She quickly scanned the richly appointed sitting room. She knew Bittman must be watching via the extensive network of security cameras. He was playing some kind of sick game, allowing her to walk in past all the security she knew he had in place. The mansion itself made her nauseous, recalling how she had played into Bittman’s schemes, been tricked by his combination of massive intellect and complete indifference to anyone but himself. And her.
Shutting her mind to the memories, she turned again to the locked door at the far side of the room and pushed to see if she had weakened it. After a thorough search of all the other rooms on the floor, this was the last. It also housed the only door she’d found locked, which meant there was something in it she wasn’t meant to see. It was now almost four hours after the accident, and the mansion was the likeliest place to have taken his prisoner. Only a quarter of an hour remained until Bittman’s promised contact.
Putting down the chair for a moment, she slammed a palm against the wood door.
“Daddy?” she called. Ears straining, she heard nothing. He could be gagged. Or worse.
She grabbed hold of the chair and raised it aloft, knowing it could be a matter of moments before Bittman or his lackeys stopped her.
Before she could smash it again into the locked master bedroom door, someone caught her arm. She shifted, turning to use the chair to strike at her opponent, but whoever it was ducked and the blow sailed over his head. Suddenly, she was pinned face-first against the wall by a strong set of arms, her cheek pressed against the wood. She struggled to free an elbow to bring it into her attacker’s ribs when, just as abruptly, she was released. Knocked off balance, she readied a front-arm strike and whirled around, finding herself looking into the shocked face of Tate Fuego.
His hands dropped to his sides and he moved slightly back, as if he would turn away, but he didn’t. Those eyes kept burning into her, taking in the scar on her cheekbone, churning her feelings into a tidal wave that threatened to overwhelm her. She kicked the ruined chair aside.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice sounded tremulous in her own ears, which infuriated her.
Tate didn’t answer, instead turning around and shutting the double doors behind him, locking them and pulling a chair over to wedge against the wood. “Going to have company in a few minutes.”
“What are you doing?” she demanded again.
He rounded on her. “Looking for Maria.”
“I haven’t seen her,” Stephanie said.
Tate’s broad shoulders tensed. “Why are you breaking down the door?”
“Because...” What should she tell him? She was searching Bittman’s house? And what would be a reasonable explanation for that? She had to get Tate to leave. Bittman was clear that no one should know about her father, or there would be deadly consequences. “You’ve got to go, Tate.”
He folded his arms. “Not until you’ve explained why you’re bent on smashing down this door.”
She sucked in a deep breath. “It’s not your concern.”
“There’s a guy coming up the stairs in about another minute to throw me off the property. Bittman knows about my sister, and now I see you’re involved with him somehow, so I’m making it my concern.”
Stephanie’s stomach tightened, and a sense of urgency nearly choked her. She moved to him, putting a hand on his solid chest. “Tate, please. You need to leave.”
He gave her that slow smile, a shadow of the crooked, cocky grin from the time before everything had fallen apart between them. His hand touched hers gently. Then he moved off, sat in a high-backed leather chair and put up his booted feet on the pristine table. “I don’t think so, Steph.” He stretched his arms behind his neck, giving her that grin. “Fuego Demolitions is between contracts right now. I’ve got all the time in the world.”
The outer door began to shudder as someone yanked the knob.
TWO
Stephanie felt a scream building as she ran to him and grabbed his wrist. His hands closed around hers, callused and strong. She knew it was going to be impossible to move him, but panic overrode her common sense. “Tate...”
A fist pounded on the door.
“Open up,” shouted an unfamiliar voice.
She looked wildly at Tate.
He shrugged. “Bittman’s security guy. I guess he made it out of the birdcage.”
She had only moments. Tate or no Tate, she had to get to her father. Stephanie ran to the scarred door and screamed through it again. “Daddy,” she yelled. “Answer me.”
The words electrified Tate. He was on his feet and next to her in a second. “Your father’s in there?”
“I’m not sure, but I’ve got to know.”
He grabbed her arm. “Steph, what’s going on?’
“Get out of my way.” She shook him off and picked up the chair again.
He stopped her hand for the second time, pulling a pocketknife from his jeans. “Faster,” he said, applying the blade to the hinge.
The pounding on the door was loud now, then it stopped abruptly. A crash of wood on wood made Stephanie jump. “He’ll be through in a minute.”
“Me, too,” Tate said, popping loose the pin.
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
