Page 157 of The Secrets She Keeps

“I suspect it’s your boy toy upstairs breaking something. I don’t think your pals are exactly housebroken or anything.”

She strongly suspected Miguel had found his way inside. He confirmed that fact through the headset not even a few seconds later."Single suspect neutralized. Powell's bedroom. Coming downstairs now."

Things were about to get interesting.

And Powell was too damned close to Trey Grundenman for comfort.

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Gunnar creptthrough the basement toward the back stairs. They'd come out near the laundry room, and garage. Miguel would most likely come down the front stairs—they were the closest to the bedroom Miguel would have found his way in. It would have been Powell's old bedroom as a child—there was a balcony up there, with white furniture and beautiful French doors. She’d told him she’d often study out there as a teenager.

This house was too damned soundproof for him to be able to hear what was happening above.

He was just going to have to assess the situation when he got to the situation. And trust in his teammates to have his back.

To have Powell's.

He pressed on the wound in his shoulder. It hurt like the fires of four hells, but he was just going to have to make do. He wasn't stopping until he had his woman back. Period.

And then? Then he was going to rip the Grundenmans into a million pieces.Mostly for Powell—but a little for Heather, just for good measure.

He pushed open the door and stepped into the small hall at the rear of the house. He could see the light of the side sittingroom. He knew that was where they were.There were two entry doors—large, open arches—into that room. One on the north, one on the west. Two couches would be all that would provide any cover. And there were a set of elaborate French doors that led to the side yard that faced the park.

Gunnar was almost to where he could cut across the formal dining room, the one the Barratts' didn't use much, when the side door to Mason's office swung open.

And a man stepped through.

The guy cursed, raised the weapon in his hand.

It was too late for him.

Gunnar slammed the .38 in his own hand into the son-of-a-bitch's head. The guy went down to his knees. Gunnar confiscated the guy's gun. It looked suspiciously like his own missing service weapon. Imagine that. “This will come in really handy.”

Gunnar grabbed him and yanked him back up. He pressed his own fully loaded gun to the man's temple. "You make a sound, and it's dead. You got me?"

The man nodded.

"Walk. One slow step at a time. That's my woman in there, and I have nothing to lose right now. I will drop you like bird shit right at her feet. And laugh about it. I am not in the mood for stupidity. This is not the kind of romance I had planned for my evening. And now I am beyond pissed. I am angry, very, very angry. Do you understand me?"

The guy just nodded.

Gunnar muscled him down the hall.

He heard voices now. Distinctive.

“What was that? It sounded like something breaking,”a man said, an almost hypertense tone in the words.

“I suspect it’s your boy toy upstairs breaking something. I don’t think they are exactly housebroken,”Heather said next. So tauntingly.

That woman had balls of steel. No denying that.

Gunnar shoved his new friend into the living room, blocking the door to the front parlor with his own body. That eliminated one way the guys inside could escape.

He just paused there for a moment, the gun to the man's head. He looked for her.

He would always look for one Powell Melissa Barratt.And never stop looking until he found her.

And there she was. The woman who meant the world to him. "Hi, sweetheart. Did you miss me?"

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