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ASSIGNMENT: BLACKMAIL

Stephanie Gage’s father has been kidnapped—by a dangerous man who wants to make a trade. Her beloved dad for a multimillion-dollar family heirloom that’s gone missing. Either Stephanie finds the valuable violin or her father dies. But to track it down, she must rely on Tate Fuego—the man who broke her heart years ago. Stephanie knows that Tate’s reasons for helping have nothing to do with her. And that the handsome demolitions expert knows more about destroying things than saving lives. But trusting Tate is all that stands between Stephanie and a madman’s ultimate revenge.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Tate demanded.

Stephanie didn’t look at him. “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 my brother off the road and took Dad.”

“I’m sorry.” 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. “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,” she said as she pushed by him, leaving a tantalizing whiff of the cinnamon fragrance she always wore.

Why, he wondered, could he pass through his day without remembering so much as what he had for lunch—but he could recall every detail of Stephanie’s face after seeing her for only a few moments in the past four years?

About the Author

DANA MENTINK lives in California, where the weather is golden and the cheese is divine. Her family includes two girls (affectionately nicknamed Yogi and Boo Boo). Papa Bear works for the fire department; he met Dana doing a dinner theater production of The Velveteen Rabbit. Ironically, their parts were husband and wife.

Dana is a 2009 American Christian Fiction Writers Book of the Year finalist for romantic suspense and an award winner in the Pacific Northwest Writers Literary Contest. Her novel Betrayal in the Badlands won a 2010 RT Book Reviews Reviewers’ Choice Award. She has enjoyed writing a mystery series for Barbour Books and more than ten novels to date for Harlequin’s Love Inspired Suspense line.

She spent her college years competing in speech and debate tournaments all around the country. Besides writing, she busies herself teaching elementary school and reviewing books for her blog. Mostly, she loves to be home with her family, including a dog with social anxiety problems, a chubby box turtle and a quirky parakeet.

Dana loves to hear from her readers via her website at www.danamentink.com.

Dangerous Melody
Dana Mentink

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Brothers and sisters, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, I press on toward the goal to win the prize for which God has called me heavenward in Christ Jesus.

—Philippians 3:13–14

To my dear friend Patsy in Waxahachie.

You are an encouragement and a blessing to me.

Contents

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

DEAR READER

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

TEASER CHAPTER

ONE

The piercing ring of the phone made Stephanie Gage almost drop the box she was carrying. Her mind jumped to a horrible conclusion. Bittman had found her. Again. Now it would start all over, the phone calls, the flowers left on her doorstep, the feeling that she was being watched. Stephanie felt a flush of anger and shame. Her decision to work for Joshua Bittman had been disastrous. For her it was a job, for Bittman, the beginning of an obsession—and he’d stalked her steadily since she’d quit his employ two years before.

She tried to rein in the rampaging fear, to remember the courageous woman she used to be. How had he found her so quickly? Her new number was unlisted, her small Victorian, a quiet retreat from the hustle and bustle of the Mission district, quiet and anonymous—or so she’d thought.

She was about to snatch up the phone and let the fury fuel her words when she recognized her older brother Victor’s number on the caller ID. Chagrined at her own paranoia, she answered.

“I’m in the car,” Victor said. “Took the scenic route along Highway 1. The view is spectacular and no traffic. Guess what, sis?”

Stephanie heard only joy in his voice. It reverberated through her like the cool breeze of the San Francisco morning.

“Brooke and I set a date for the wedding,” Victor told her. “And our hard-to-please dad has given his stamp of approval, now that he’s finally met her.”

“Not that it matters,” her father chimed in. “No one listens to me anyway.”

She laughed, pushing back her messy black hair. “I’m listening, finally.” Though she could force a brave tone, the mental scars would never fade, even if the memories did, if and when the fear finally abated.

“I don’t think you’ve given up your rebellious side yet, little lady,” her father added.

Little lady. She’d just celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday.

“Did you call Luca?” Her other brother had been close to marrying a few times, but now he was immersed in their activities at Treasure Seekers, the private agency run by the three Gage siblings dedicated to finding treasures for select clients. Luca would be just as pleased that Victor was tying the knot with Brooke, a woman they’d met during their last treasure hunt, whose father Victor had wrongly believed was a criminal.

“I’ll call him next. He’s probably busy trying to find our next case,” Victor said.

“Hard to top securing a twenty-million-dollar painting.”

Victor chuckled. “He was blabbering about an emerald collection when I left for southern California.”

She marveled at his voice, so light and joyful. Somehow knowing Victor’s heart was mended made her own broken relationship easier to endure. Pushing the image of Tate out of her mind, she forced a happier tone. “I’m thrilled for you.” She spoke louder, over the background noise, which seemed to have edged up a notch on his end.

He started to laugh but broke off suddenly. “Hang on. What is...?” The noise swelled into a screech of tires.

Fingers suddenly icy, Stephanie clutched the phone. “Victor?”

Her heart fractured, along with the sound of shattering glass. “Victor!” she screamed. “Dad. What’s happening?”

A hideous scraping tore at her ears. She yelled something into the phone, incoherent syllables, fear and helplessness making her words shrill. Tinkling glass, the protest of distressed metal, a massive thunk and the sound of tires sliding over gravel. She thought she heard her father cry out, and she squeezed the phone in a death grip.

“Answer me,” she screamed, heart thundering against her ribs.

Then the noises faded into a soft crunch of gravel. Quieter, softer until there was no sound at all. No sound, except the violent hammering of her own heart. Her mouth would not form the words for a long moment. “Victor? Dad? Are you all right?”

Metal creaked, the sound of a door opening. Hope rose inside her. “Tell me you’re all right,” she whispered.

A voice came on the line. Cold, musical and chillingly familiar. “Stephanie, I have your father. There’s something I need you to do for me. I will call you back in exactly four hours,” Bittman said. “Mention me to anyone, and Wyatt Gage will die.” The phone clicked off.

Her frantic call to the police revealed that a passing motorist had reported the wreck and a Lifeflight helicopter was transporting Victor to the nearest trauma center. Another call to her father’s cell phone went unanswered. With numb fingers, she dialed Luca.

Joshua Bittman could not have her father.

Because if he did...

“Hey, sis. What’s up?”

She pictured him, a bigger, blonder version of their dark-haired older brother, his green eyes sparkling with mischief.

What’s up?

She knew Luca. She knew without question that if she told him the truth, he would summon the police and personally storm Bittman’s Hillsborough mansion. But she also knew Joshua Bittman. He would not hesitate to kill Wyatt Gage and Luca in a heartbeat to get whatever it was that he wanted. “Victor was on the phone with me and he crashed,” she said, stomach twisting. She gave him the details, leaving out any mention of their father being in the car.

Luca exhaled, voice tight with emotion. “Did you call Dad?”

There’s no use, she wanted to shout. Bittman has Dad. The words stuck in her throat, but she finally choked out a reply. “No answer.”

“My buddy’s on duty today, he’s a Lifeflight nurse. I’ll call him on my way to the hospital and call you back.”

He hung up, and she began to pace in frantic circles. The minutes slowed to a crawl as she tried to decide what to do that wouldn’t make the situation worse. After what seemed like an eternity, Luca called again.

“My buddy said they admitted Victor and took him in for emergency surgery. He’s...been badly hurt.”

The words lanced through her. Brooke and Victor were supposed to be starting a new life together, and Brooke deserved it as much as Victor, having seen her ailing father narrowly escape false imprisonment for a robbery. The Treasure Seekers Agency had recovered all manner of rich prizes, but their last adventure to locate Brooke’s father’s missing painting was far more treacherous than any they’d undertaken. Floods, tunnel collapses and a murder seemed like distant memories now.

Victor was the backbone of the agency. She flashed on a memory of him and their father, knee-deep in piles of old books, hunting out references to a priceless stamp. Terror about Victor’s prognosis and her father’s whereabouts made her hands ice cold, her breath short.

She realized Luca was talking.

She jerked. “What?”

“I said I’ll call Brooke and meet you at the hospital.” He paused. “Keep it together, Steph. You’re strong. Remember that.”

“We both know that’s not true.” She’d collapsed when Tate Fuego had walked out of her life, descending lower and lower until she found herself fully entwined in Joshua Bittman’s nightmare world.

“Steph? Are you there?”

She heard the edge of a deeper concern written in Luca’s voice, underneath the calm exterior.

Could it be that her father had been injured but made it out of the car? Was he wandering around the crash area in need of help? Her heart leaped. Maybe Bittman was bluffing. Maybe he hadn’t snatched him after all, and she was wrong.

The hope lasted less than a minute before it dried up and disappeared. The truth left a sour taste in her mouth.

Bittman did many things, but one thing he did not do was bluff.

He also did not threaten.

He punished. He was a billionaire many times over, and she’d suspected he’d paid officials to look the other way on his business dealings. Worse, she’d known people who’d crossed Bittman to simply disappear with no evidence on dirty Bittman’s well-manicured hands—vanished as if they’d never existed.

She checked her watch. Three-and-a-half hours to go. As the little hand ticked away the seconds, something shifted inside Stephanie. The fear coursing through her body coalesced into another emotion, white-hot and razor sharp. She would not sit by while Bittman turned her life upside down again. She was done running, done hiding. He would pay for what he had done to Victor. He would deliver her father unharmed.

“I have to go somewhere,” she said.

“Come again?”

She braced herself. “Go to the hospital. I’ll call you when I can.”

“Steph,” he said. “You’re in trouble. I can hear it in your voice. Whatever it is, let me help you.”

Not this time, big brother.

* * *

A few minutes after two o’clock, Tate Fuego pulled his motorcycle to a stop in the shelter of massive trees lining the gate that circled Joshua Bittman’s mansion. The building itself was a domed-top monstrosity of white stone, flanked by stretches of impeccably manicured lawns and a rectangular pond that reflected the building. A long driveway was empty except for a mint condition Mustang GT 350 and a black Mercedes.

Tate saw no sign of his sister Maria’s car, though he knew she’d been a regular at Bittman’s place. Her phone call three days prior scared him. Her normally upbeat personality was gone, and the woman on the line sounded irrational and unsteady, though she would not tell him why. Then nothing. No response to his texts, and no one answering the door at her apartment. He ground his teeth. She shouldn’t have gotten involved with Bittman in the first place, and if he ever got a chance, he’d take Stephanie to task for introducing them.

The breeze teased ripples into the water of the pond, mirroring the discomfort in his own gut at the thought of Stephanie. Her dark eyes flashed in his memory, and he blinked away the pain. At the sound of an approaching engine, he rolled his bike farther back into the shadows. A van rumbled slowly by with American Pool Company printed on the exterior. When it pulled to a stop at the intercom, the driver, a stocky, crew-cut man with a face corrugated by wrinkles, leaned out to speak into the box.

“Pool service,” he heard the driver bark, with a Spanish accent.

Tate grabbed the handle to the rear doors of the van and eased it down, wondering if he would be caught. In a moment he was safely inside. The guy parked the van and headed for the pool with a water test kit. Tate slipped out the back and ran for the nearest side entrance. In a place this ritzy, he knew interior security cameras would pick him up quickly, but he didn’t need much time. One minute with Bittman, he thought grimly, was all he’d need.

He found himself in a gleaming kitchen, which was thankfully empty. The place was quiet, eerily so. Not one housekeeper in sight? No butlers or maids? Strangest of all, no burly security personnel barreling toward him.

His instincts prickled.

Muscles taut, he crept up the stairs and heard a murmur of voices. Heading swiftly along the hall, he came to a large window that looked down on an atrium. Trees that had to be at least twenty feet thrust upward toward the enormous skylights that bathed the space in pale sun. He was startled when a blue blur whizzed by his face. A parrot with feathers the color of the sky and intense yellow eyes peered at him from a branch. Below, through the screen of foliage, something else moved, this time of the two-legged variety.

Tate retraced his steps downstairs, skirting the lower floor hallway until he found the entrance to the atrium. The glass door was closed but not locked. Opening it as quietly as he could, Tate entered the warm, humid enclosure.

The parrot noises were varied and loud. Shrieks, raucous squawks and even some words rang through the space. An Elvis song, Maria’s favorite.

Teeth gritted, he ducked between the spiked leaves and headed deeper into the bizarre tropical room. Branches crackled on his left, and he froze. Bird or Bittman, he could not tell. He passed a long metal pole with a mirror affixed to the end, leaning against the wall. Some sort of device so Bittman could check on his nesting birds? He turned to head back to the door when he felt a cold circle of metal pressed to his neck.

“Turn around,” a voice growled.

A burly man, a head shorter than Tate, held a gun level with Tate’s chest. He spoke into a radio. “I’ve got a guy in the aviary, and the girl is breaking down the door on the second floor.”

Breaking down the door.

His brain filled in the rest. His sister. Kept here. That explained why she didn’t return his calls, why she was no longer using her cell. The man was pointing him toward the door, and Tate could see the muscled arms under the suit coat.

He stepped back and raised a hand. “I don’t want trouble. I’ll go.”

After I find my sister.

He moved toward the door, Suit Guy a couple of paces behind him. Tate edged closer to the glass wall until he was alongside the pole he’d seen earlier.

“Get going,” the man grumbled.

Tate did, as he grabbed the pole and swung it in a wide circle, knocking the man to his knees. When he completed the turn, Tate raced to the door. Pole still in his hands, he cleared the doors and pushed them closed, wedging the pole through the double handles. He 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 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.

And now, it seemed, to her family and Tate’s. Stephanie closed her eyes, thinking once again that the blame for Maria’s relationship with Bittman lay squarely at Stephanie’s feet. She did not believe, however, that Bittman had disposed of Maria in some violent manner. He didn’t need to. With his wealth and enormous power, he could cut her out like a diseased patch of flesh. She would never get close to him unless he desired it. So Tate was wrong about the fact that Bittman made her disappear. If he would listen to reason, she could explain it to him.

Getting to her feet, she heard a soft meow from the room earmarked for a guest room if she ever managed to put down roots.

She pushed open the door, calling up the stairs as she did so. “I found her, Tate.”

There was an answering shout from upstairs, but she did not respond, her attention riveted by the man sitting ramrod straight in her grandmother’s old rocking chair.

“Hello, Stephanie,” Bittman said, stroking the cat curled in his lap. “You look breathtaking.”

The folder slipped from her fingers, papers floating to the floor around her feet. She wanted to scream, to yell to Tate, but nothing would come out of her mouth. Bittman eased the cat from his lap and brushed at a few hairs left on his pants. His face was smooth and unlined, approaching his mid-thirties. Long, dark hair combed away from his high forehead accentuated the pale skin, brown eyes glinting through small angled glasses.

He gestured to the bed. “Please, sit down. I imagine your oaf of a boyfriend will be here in a moment.”

He’s not my boyfriend, she wanted to whisper. Instead she took a deep breath, fighting down the fear that clawed at her throat, anger rising along with it. “I don’t know what kind of sick game you’re playing, but I want my father back right now.”

Bittman chuckled, his glasses glinting in the dying sunlight. “Impatient as ever. I will hold off until Mr. Fuego makes it down the stairs.”

They didn’t wait more than a few seconds before Tate crashed through the door. His eyes sought hers, simmering with a mixture of anger and something else. “You okay?” he asked softly, pulling a phone from his pocket.

She nodded.

Bittman sighed. “Mr. Fuego, put away the phone. You will not be calling the police or anyone else. Stephanie doesn’t want you to do that.”

His lips quirked into a smile. As much as she wanted Tate to call the police, to have the supreme satisfaction of watching Joshua Bittman go through the demeaning process of being handcuffed on his way to jail, she knew the cost was too high.

“Put it away, Tate. I have to know what he wants from us.”

“Where’s my sister?” Tate demanded.

“I imagine this is why you intruded on my property.”

“Where’s Maria?”

Bittman’s delicate eyebrows arched a fraction. “Mr. Fuego, you bore me. Running all over town like some Keystone Cop is not becoming. Stick with your current job. Blowing up buildings is more suited to your intellect.”

Tate took a step forward. “Tell me.”

Bittman gave him a cold stare. “Why would I tell you anything? You are, in the common vernacular, a loser. Addicted to painkillers, barely able to keep your father’s business out of the red and, if my information is complete, the very same man who almost killed Stephanie, a woman who is far too good for you.”

Stephanie’s heart twisted, and she grabbed Tate’s wrist before he could go after Bittman. “Just tell us what you want.”

Bittman nodded. “Nothing from Mr. Fuego. His presence is strictly an annoyance, and I believe he went so far as to upset my birds, for which a price must be paid at some future date. They are blue mutation, yellow-naped Amazons—very rare, you understand.” He gestured to the other wooden chair. “Please, sit down, Stephanie.”

Stephanie remained standing, Tate next to her. “Where’s my father?”

“Right to the point. No catching up?” His eyes swept over her body, making her face flush.

Tate grunted. “Get on with it.”

Bittman ignored Tate. “Your father is fine for the moment, housed at a location which you will never find on your own until we conclude a business transaction. I need you to locate something for me, and once you do, he will be returned to you in mint condition. Simple as that.”

Stephanie tried to read the feelings in his eyes, but failed. There was never any emotion to take note of, not in all the years she had known him. Only when he spoke of his own father did she see a spark. “What is it? This thing you need me to find?”

Bittman folded his arms and looked out the window, scrutinizing the view. “A violin.”

“A violin?” Tate snapped. “You’re loaded. Go buy your own.”

Bittman kept his eyes on Stephanie. “This particular instrument was my father’s. It was made in 1741. It is unique, virtually a living thing and it is worth, to put a crude price tag on it...”

“Eighteen million dollars,” Stephanie said with a groan. “It’s one of only a few made by an Italian craftsman named Guarneri del Gesu.”

“How do you know that?” Tate asked.

“Because it was reportedly destroyed in a fire at Bittman’s father’s shop.” Her stomach tightened. “I read about it.”

Bittman’s eyes flickered. “That information is incorrect. The Guarneri was not burned, and I have recently acquired proof that it has surfaced right here in California. Someone has finally shown their hand by approaching a music store owner for repairs.” His smile was terrifying. “I want my family’s violin back. The person who possesses it can identify the arsonist who burned down my father’s shop and killed my brother. I will be able to deliver the proper punishment, finally, after all these years.”

Stephanie shivered. “There are plenty of other investigators and treasure hunters out there.”

“I hired someone to gather information.” His tone hardened. “Until that someone decided to go after my Guarneri herself.”

Tate sucked in a breath. “My sister?”

Bittman glared. “Yes. It seems rotten apples are common on your family tree.”

“Why would she want your violin? What did you do to her?”

“Nothing at all. I suspect the eighteen million dollars was motive enough.”

Stephanie felt a sliver of fear for Maria. “Has she found it?”

“I am not certain. She took my research, a small matter as I have it electronically archived, of course. I’ll get it back, and she will pay.” The words had barely left Bittman’s lips when Tate was on him, hands wrapped around his throat.

“You’re not going to touch my sister,” Tate barked.

Stephanie pulled Tate away, using all her strength to pry at his arms, which felt like steel bands under her fingers. “Let him go. You’re not helping Maria.” She had to keep Bittman talking long enough to find out how to rescue her father and now, it seemed, Maria, before Bittman got to her.

Bittman stood, adjusting his clothing. “I want you to locate my violin and the person in possession of it before Maria does. She might scare him off, and that would make me very angry, which, I am told, is a frightening prospect.”

Tate’s breath came in short bursts, and Stephanie worried for a moment that he would try to throttle Bittman again. She spoke quickly. “You could hire an investigator, a professional.”

“But I want you, Stephanie. You have the Treasure Seekers’ resources behind you and now, since your father’s life hangs in the balance, you have the ultimate motivation to complete the mission for me.”

Tate moved closer, and she felt his hand come to rest on the small of her back. It was the only thing that kept her mind from spinning completely out of control. For a moment, she thought Bittman was going to touch her, and she wondered how she would stand it. Tate tensed next to her, hand curled into a fist.

Bittman leaned close. “It is time for Treasure Seekers to go after the ultimate prize. Find it, and we will have everything we desire.”

We? She pulled back slightly, her back pushed into Tate’s chest. His fingers pressed her waist.

I’m here. He’s not going to hurt you, the pressure seemed to say.

“And if I can’t find the violin?” she whispered.

Bittman laughed softly before he whispered, “‘I looked, and behold a pale horse...’” He gave her a smile that from anyone else would have been warm and filled with humor, but from him, held another meaning entirely. Icy trickles snaked up her spine in spite of Tate’s reassuring touch and the fact that he moved her away from Bittman, inserting his own body between them.

Without a backward glance, Bittman was gone.

The room felt as if it was filled with tainted air, poisoned with a rank chemical that remained there even after Bittman’s departure. She stumbled out of the room and back into the cheerful kitchen, which now brought no comfort.

Tate was speaking, but he had to repeat the question twice before it penetrated her haze of fear. “What’s the business about the horse, Steph?”

She forced out the words. “We went riding a few times, back before I realized... He owns a stable full of the most beautiful horses you could imagine. So many to choose from, but he only rode one, a big stallion, completely white. The horse wasn’t a good trail rider, too wild and headstrong. I asked him why he always chose that particular horse.” She raised her eyes to Tate’s. “He said he liked the imagery.”

“Imagery?”

She swallowed hard. “It’s from Revelation. ‘I looked and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him...was Death.’”

FOUR

Stephanie sat next to Luca on the flight to southern California. A few hours before, Victor’s fiancée, Brooke, had arrived from San Diego to stay with Victor, who was showing signs of improvement. Stephanie offered up another prayer of thanks.

Luca did not want to leave their brother any more than she did, which added to the concern written on his face. They’d both thrown some necessities in a bag and she’d arranged for a neighbor to feed Tootsie before they were off to the airport. Luca was not one to rush anything, which she suspected added to his stress.

At least Tate was not with them to add fuel to Luca’s ire. He’d stayed with her at her house, combing through the research that Bittman emailed just after he’d left, until Luca arrived sometime in the wee hours.

“Tate’s not with Treasure Seekers. It’s better that he stays out of our way,” Luca growled.

“He’s not going to. He thinks Bittman’s going to hurt Maria, or she’s going to do something dumb trying to get her hands on that violin. Either way he’s going to stick with it until he knows for sure. He’s meeting us at the airport in Bakersfield. From there we go to Devlin’s shop. The one who contacted Bittman about the Guarneri.”

Luca shook his head. “Tate will be a problem.”

She allowed herself a smile, in spite of her weariness. “Dollars to donuts that’s exactly what he’s saying about you.”

Luca did not return the smile. “Steph, he’s bad news. Guy’s a pill popper and a hothead.”

Stephanie looked away for a moment. “I think he’s clean now.”

“You think?” Luca took her hand. “He almost got you killed. Plus, if he hadn’t shut you out, treated you like dirt, you never would have taken such a tailspin and started working full time for Bittman.”

She pulled away her hand. “Let’s be clear. I joined Bittman of my own free will, tailspin or not. What’s happening to Dad now, to Victor—” She blinked back a sudden onslaught of tears. “It’s my fault, not Tate’s.”

He took her hand again, his expression softer. “No blame games here. I’m sorry. I get overprotective.”

“You don’t say.”

He squeezed her fingers. “Just don’t let Tate back into your life.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t.” Once was more than enough.

He relaxed. “Run me through it again, sis. Bittman’s father owned a music store and he inherited the Guarneri from a deceased uncle some twenty years ago. The violin has some special name, doesn’t it?”

“The Quinto Guarneri.” She nodded, glad to be in problem-solving mode. “It was given that name by the virtuoso violinist who once played it. There was a fire and the Quinto was presumed destroyed, though Bittman claimed someone set the fire. He further claims a second person was in the shop, a homeless man Hans Bittman allowed to stay there. Bittman believes while he was trying to get his father, Hans, out, the homeless man made off with the Guarneri before the store burned to the ground, but the cops could not substantiate any of it. Bittman’s older brother, Peter, was killed in the fire. He was mentally disabled; Bittman believes he hid under the bed until the smoke was too much for him. Hans Bittman went out of business and died shortly thereafter of a stroke.”

Luca’s eyes narrowed. “So Bittman thinks this violin that surfaced is the one stolen from his father and the guy who has it...”

She nodded. “Is the one who took it from the shop. He’s also the guy who saw the arsonist and...” She trailed off.

“And what?”

“And it’s the only time I ever saw him show emotion, the few moments when he spoke of his father or brother. Whatever happened that night changed him forever.” She chewed a fingernail. “Bittman went to a lot of trouble to involve us.”

Luca’s eyes roved her face. “I think he’s got ulterior motives. He wants you, Steph, that’s clear. He’s never gotten over the fact that you quit working for him.”

Her cheeks flamed. “He had to know I would, after I found out that he used me to break into that security system.” He’d directed her to steal a car, a Bugatti Veyron, supposedly to test out the antitheft system he’d installed. She’d stolen it all right, only it wasn’t Bittman’s car; it belonged to a man named Brown. The Gage family immediately rallied around Stephanie and appealed to Brown not to press charges. Brown was not swayed until suddenly, he dropped the charges with no explanation and sold the car to Bittman a week later. Stephanie had the suspicion Bittman had applied some excruciating pressure of his own. She also believed Bittman thought that by involving her in illegal dealings, he could blackmail her into staying with him. Blackmail was one of his specialties.

“You were more to him than an employee.”

“Well, it wasn’t mutual,” she snapped. It was fun at first, consulting for a man with a genius intellect, and then after Tate broke her heart, she desperately needed a distraction. Treasure Seekers was in its infancy with not enough projects to keep her busy, so she’d accepted Bittman’s job offer to be his security consultant and design software protection systems. In all her time with Bittman, never did she feel any stirrings of love for the man. Bittman did not seem capable of love even if she had been interested, any more than a mountain cares for the clouds that surround it.

The flow of memories was interrupted by Luca’s next question.

“Can you get a look at the police report?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know. The local police department there was flooded about fifteen years back, so a lot of the records were destroyed.”

His eyebrow arched. “But you’re still working on it anyway, aren’t you?”

“What makes you think so?”

He laughed. “It’s like waving a steak in front of a hungry Doberman. You’ve got to know. It’s what makes you a great Treasure Seeker.”

She wanted to return the chuckle, but darker thoughts prevented her from doing so. If I don’t find this treasure, we might never see Dad again.

The plane descended through an oppressive gray sky.

* * *

She wasn’t surprised to find Tate waiting at the airport, sporting a neat T-shirt, a softly worn pair of Levi’s and a baseball cap. He nodded at her and ignored Luca as they headed to the rental car counter.

“How’s your brother?” Tate murmured into her ear, sending tingles dancing along her ribs.

“Stable for now. Did you fly?”

He shook his head. “Drove my friend’s truck.”

She started. “You didn’t leave my place until almost one. You must have been driving all night.”

He shrugged. “Don’t sleep much anyway. Called my friend Gilly. He’s gone to Maria’s place. Checking her computer.”

“Hacking into it?” Luca said.

Tate shot him a glance. “You worried about Maria’s feelings? You didn’t worry about those before.”

Luca jerked to a stop and faced Tate. “I didn’t touch your sister. Get that into your fat head.”

“You saying she’s a liar?” Both men topped six feet, and now they were nose to nose, anger simmering between them.

“Stop it,” she hissed. “We have to work together.”

“Doesn’t mean I have to like it,” Tate said.

Luca snorted. “Don’t worry, none of us like it, so you’re in good company.”

Stephanie was relieved when Tate sat down to wait while Luca rented a car. She caught sight of a vending machine at the end of a quiet corner of the terminal. Stomach growling, she realized she could not recall the last time she’d eaten. Not wanting to take time to order from the café, she headed for the lone vending machine.

Away from the terminal noise, she shouldered her laptop strap and fished in her purse for loose bills, all the while wondering how she would keep Luca and Tate from killing each other long enough to find Maria or the violin. Her father would have told them both in that genteel way, “Cool heads, gentlemen.” Thinking about him brought a lump to her throat. Had he been injured in the crash? Or worse? She only had Bittman’s word that her father was unhurt. There had been bandages in the room where he had been held.

God, please, she whispered. Please keep him safe until I find him.

She felt off balance, useless, unable to locate her father and not there for her ailing brother. On impulse, she pulled out her phone and dialed, surprised when Brooke answered.

For a moment she could hardly imagine what to say to this sweet woman who loved her brother so deeply. “It’s Steph. I’m so sorry, Brooke.”

“It’s not your fault. Luca told me a little about what’s going on, and you have to know this didn’t happen because of you.”

The words were kind, but they did not change the truth. “How is he?”

Brooke sighed. “Still unconscious, but the doctors are easing off the sedatives so if all goes well he should be coming around.”

If all goes well...

“I’m glad you’re there with him.”

Brooke must have heard the unspoken feeling in her voice. “We both know you would be here, too, if you could. Just do what you have to do and stay safe. I’ll stay right here with Victor, I promise.”

Stephanie said goodbye and disconnected. What would happen when Victor did wake up? Would he remember the accident? Even more frightening, what if he was not himself anymore? What if he was damaged by the violence of the crash? The serious, steadfast brother whom she had relied on her entire life.

It was too much to worry about. Stepping around a man reading a newspaper, hat brim pulled down over his eyes, she continued to the machine.

Finally grasping some bills from inside her purse, she fed them into the slot. As her finger moved toward the button, the hair on the back of her neck stirred. Her subconscious knew someone was there before her ears detected the soft noise directly behind her. Before she could spin around, she was sandwiched against the machine by a man’s heavy bulk, the breath forced out of her along with a cry. As she rallied to push him off, he jerked the laptop from her shoulder and ran down the darkened corridor.

She ran after him. He was strong and had the element of surprise, but she was fast and as determined as a lioness.

In a minute she’d caught up with him, his arms pumping as he headed toward the main terminal where she would lose him for sure. There was only one choice. With a surge of adrenaline, she leaped.

* * *

Tate was out of his chair as soon as he heard Stephanie’s cry of surprise. He sprinted to the dim hallway in time to see a figure emerging with Stephanie’s laptop under his arm. A moment later, Stephanie hurtled forward, catching the man by the ankles. They both fell, the man’s hat flying through the air, along with the laptop. Tate ran to grab the man, but the assailant shook Stephanie loose with a vicious kick and leaped to his feet, running out the nearest exit door, grabbing his hat on the way.

Tate was paralyzed for a moment, wondering whether to pursue the laptop snatcher or help Stephanie. He decided on the latter. She was in a sitting position, blood oozing from the corner of her mouth, hair disheveled and cheeks pink with exertion.

He knelt next to her and a startled Luca joined them, along with an airport security officer who grilled them immediately.

“He tried to take my laptop,” Stephanie puffed.

The security man answered a call from his radio. “No sign of the snatcher, but we’ll keep looking.” He gave her a quizzical stare. “I’ve been working here since the new terminal opened six years ago, and this has never happened before. Are you sure you don’t know who that was?”

Stephanie shrugged. “He was wearing a hat.”

“Uh-huh. Police will be here in a moment for your statement.”

Tate and Luca helped her to a chair, and her brother gave her a tissue to apply to her lip. Another airport employee offered her medical attention, which she declined except for an ice pack.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Luca said.

She nodded. “Fine, just a bloody lip.”

Tate shook his head. “You didn’t think it would be nuts to try and tackle the guy?”

Her eyes opened wide in exasperation. “He tried to steal my computer.”

Tate’s stomach tightened as he looked at her, brown eyes glinting, outrage painted across her delicate features. Small woman, with courage as big as any man he’d ever met. He didn’t love her anymore; there was too much anger and hurt between them to ever allow those feelings to take hold again. Still, he wondered why his heart beat unsteadily as he drank her in.

Luca sighed. “It won’t do any good to tell her it was a dumb thing to do.”

“Wasn’t going to try.”

Luca and Tate exchanged a look, probably their first that wasn’t a hostile stare down.

“I’ll go finish with the rental car then.” Luca looked at Stephanie. “Can you just sit there until I get back?”

“I’ll try,” Stephanie said.

Tate reached over and picked a sliver of paper from her hair, smoothing the dark silky strands into place. Soft and fine, just like he remembered.

She pulled back and finger combed her hair into some semblance of order. “I’m sure I look ridiculous after rolling around the airport floor.”

“Nope. Same as always. Raindrops on roses.” As the words left his mouth, his face flushed hot. Had he really said that? His mother always maintained that the most beautiful thing she could think of was raindrops on roses, and when he and Stephanie were together, it was his favorite way to tell her in his clumsy fashion how gorgeous she was. Gorgeous, perfect, different...and not his anymore. They were strangers, now and forever. He felt her eyes searching his face as he turned away, awkward as a teen boy.

He moved aside, pretending to look over the crowd, but inside blood pounded an erratic rhythm in his veins. Go, do something, anything. He pulled out his phone to check for messages he knew weren’t there, then he strolled to the drinking fountain and sucked down some water. When he looked back again, he was relieved to see Stephanie deep in conversation with Luca. The slip hadn’t meant anything to her. Nothing at all.

The cops arrived to take her statement. She didn’t give them much. They were traveling on business; the would-be thief was a stranger. She provided a number where they could call with any follow-up questions, and that was that.

Luca and Stephanie retrieved their bags, and the three headed outside into the hot southern California air to pick up their rental car. Tate arranged to follow in the truck he’d borrowed from Gilly. After only a few paces, however, Stephanie stopped them both.

“I just figured it out.”

“What?” both men said at once.

“The guy who tried to take my laptop.”

“You said he was a stranger,” Luca said.

“He is, but I’ve seen him before.” Her dark eyes danced in thought. “I remember cutting around his van in traffic.” She looked at Tate. “When we left Bittman’s mansion, right after he flew off with Dad.”

Tate’s eyes widened. “I thought he seemed familiar.” He snapped his fingers. “The hair. It was Bittman’s pool guy. He followed you from San Francisco.”

“Who is he?” Luca grimaced in thought. “Someone Bittman hired to keep tabs on us?”

Tate shook his head. “Seems like he wouldn’t have his flunkies interfere. What good would that do? His pool guy might be working against him.”

“Why?” Stephanie’s expression was grave. “Who even knows the violin still exists?”

Luca’s face was grave. “Is it possible Bittman was right about what happened all those years ago at his father’s shop? About the arsonist?”

“Not just an arsonist,” Tate said. “Remember, the fire killed Bittman’s brother.”

“He’s returned and he’s after the violin. The person who has it might be able to finger him for murder. He wanted my laptop to see if we’d found anything that could help him.” Stephanie felt her pulse pound. “I think we’d better get moving.”

Tate was already on his way to the truck. “I think you’re right.”

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