Dana Mentink - Dangerous Melody

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.