Satisfied he’d removed at least half his problem, Finn used the wall to his advantage, slamming the man into it. A painting mere inches from the guy’s head quivered with the impact, but Finn barely saw it as hands flashed up to slam him in the chin.
A scream echoed from the bottom of the stairs, effectively breaking through the ringing in his ears.
The girl.
Indecision ripped through him as he continued to struggle with the man in the hallway. The gun was a very real threat and leaving his opponent in favor of traipsing after the girl was only going to give the thug time to get the weapon—and the upper hand.
As another scream tore through the air, Finn made his decision.
With one final slam to his opponent and a brief prayer the hard wall would stun him enough to slow him down, Finn dropped his hold and raced down the stairs.
* * *
Rowan screamed as hands came over her shoulders, dragging her backward. She kicked and scrambled, desperate to get out of the hold as her racing heartbeat threatened to swamp her. Her breath was already coming in heavy pants, the urgent need to get to safety drumming through her system.
“Where you think you’re going?” The man’s breath was warm and clammy in her ear before he turned his head and hollered up the stairs, “Got her!”
Who were these guys? And what had Bethany’s father gotten himself into?
“Think you’re going to take what’s ours, did you?”
“It’s not yours.” She struggled against the tight hold, suddenly conscious of how different this man’s grip was from the man in black.
Where he’d pinned her in place to explain what was happening, this thug was all about the lascivious press of his body against hers.
And then the disgusting press of his body was gone as if it had never been as the man was literally dragged off her.
“Keep running!”
Rowan turned at the voice, a mix of relief and sudden ease swamping her.
The man in black was still fighting for her.
It was that very thought that had her defying his orders. “I can’t leave you!”
“Get out of here.” The words came out as a barely concealed grunt as he struggled with her former captor. Eyes roaming over the hallway, she caught sight of a small corner of the kitchen through an open doorway. A heavy frying pan sat on the edge of the counter.
Rowan moved at once, the pan in hand as she raced back to the hall. The two men continued to fight, each locked in a death grip, and she braced her feet, waiting until the movements of the two bodies would put the dangerous thug in the line of her swing.
Be bold, Rowan Steele.
The words flashed through her mind. They were her father’s admonishment before she ever did anything she didn’t want to do or was afraid of. First days of school. A big footy tournament. A big test.
The words—forgotten these past years in her grief—were suddenly a very real reminder of the strength inside of her.
Arms rigid, she swung the pan as hard as she could. A zing of satisfaction matched the ringing in her arms when the thug went limp midfight. The man in black took advantage immediately, pressing on her shoulder to get her moving.
At the heavy thud of footsteps on the stairs, they both turned.
The other thug—the one from the closet—shot off another round from the bottom of the stairs. The bullet went wild, but he never had a chance to get off a second shot when the frying pan was snatched from her hand, then went flying, end over end toward the man’s head.
The pan hit hard, knocking the man off his feet as another shot went wild.
“Wow.”
The man in black stared at her for the briefest moment before he shrugged and grabbed her free hand. “Let’s get out of here.”
She followed him out the same back door she’d used to enter the house. “Wait!”
The impatience was evident in those broad shoulders and the quick rocking from foot to foot, but he stopped for her. “What is it?”
“Give me a minute.” Rowan reached for the small, slim plastic bag she kept in her back pocket.
“We don’t have time for this.”
“Just wait.”
She flipped the small bag inside out as she waved him through the door with her other hand. “Go in front of me.”
“What is that?”
“Petroleum jelly.”
His low whistle echoed in her ear at the same time their felled thug let out a large roar. “Time to go, Peach.”
Rowan gave the knob one more swirl from the bag before slamming the door behind her and fled down the back steps. “Come on down here. Through the old mews.”
He reached for her hand to drag her out the back garden toward the main road. “They’ll follow us that way.”
“Not when we go up.”
“Up where?”
“The vines. All the houses back here have thick ivy. We climb it.”
“Absolutely not.”
If the situation weren’t so dire, Rowan might have laughed at his clear affront. “You’ve got a better idea?”
“We keep on and make a run for it through the alley. Same way I came in.”
“They’re going to follow us that way.”
A shout behind them confirmed the truth of that and the man shrugged. “You sure about this?”
“Positive. There’s a tree a few doors down for the descent. It’ll be more secure than the alley.”
Another bellow echoed from the direction of the kitchen, and Rowan knew the thug had found his progress stymied with the doorknob. A quick smile flashed in the man in black’s eyes as he laced his fingers and put his hand out to give her a boost up the ivy. “Real nice trick back there, Peach.”
“Thanks.” Rowan put her foot in his hands, but stopped, the question she’d wanted to ask back behind the curtain flaring up once more. “Why do you keep calling me that?”
“Because you’re lush and ripe, like a fresh peach.”
The cavalier words—delivered with a wicked smile that was visible even through the mouth of the mask—caught her up as a flood of warmth rushed through her.
She knew it was reckless.
Pointless,
