It was eight thirty when Parker came to a screeching halt in front of the wrought-iron gates at Jeffrey Bigelow’s estate. His worry and desperation had followed him all the way here, churning in his gut during the short chopper ride Dean had arranged with a buddy of theirs at the Coast Guard Air Station.
Once they’d landed in the private airfield in Monterey, Suz had nearly sat on him to keep him calm. His patience had been pushed to the limit as Jack convinced the airport owner to lend them his truck for a couple of hours. Cost them a hundred bucks, but the man finally agreed. Goddamn it, though, if they showed up and found that Shotelle had hurt Lynn, Parker was personally going to wring the guy’s neck for wasting their time with all that infuriating haggling.
Lynn still wasn’t answering her phone. The number they’d found in Shotelle’s Day-Timer kept going to voicemail, too—apparently it was the private cell number for Bigelow, and the man didn’t seem inclined to pick up.
The gate was locked tight, so Parker rolled down the window to access the intercom, but Suz beat him to it.
She stretched over him from the passenger seat and punched the button, sounding calmer than he felt as she said, “Susanna Jones here. I have urgent business with Mr. Shotelle.”
A gravelly voice echoed from the intercom, laced with suspicion. “This is a private residence, madam. Mr. Shotelle isn’t receiving guests.”
“I’m the features editor at the Bay City Press—I work for Mr. Shotelle. There’s a major emergency at the paper, and I’m afraid I must see him immediately.”
“One moment, madam.” The intercom crackled, then went silent.
Parker held his breath as he waited, praying to God this would work.
Miraculously, the gates slid open a second later. He sped through them, streaking toward the end of the driveway.
“That’s Shotelle’s van.” Suz shook her finger at it like she was casting out demons.
Parker slammed on the brakes so hard Dean flew forward and thumped his head on the back of Parker’s seat.
“Chillax, man,” Dean said sharply. “We’re already here. No need to kill anyone.”
Parker wasn’t listening. He was out of the truck in a flash, his boots connecting with the driveway. He had to make sure Lynn was all right. That Shotelle hadn’t done anything to hurt her.
“How do we want to handle this?”
He vaguely heard Jack’s brisk inquiry but didn’t respond. His pulse drummed loudly between his ears as he hurried toward the front door. Fuck coming up with a plan. Shotelle’s vehicle was here, which meant Lynn might be inside the house—which meant that was where Parker needed to be.
The front door flew open in response to his frantic banging, revealing an elderly man with a slight hunch. “What is the meaning of this?” His eyebrows instantly dipped in consternation when he glimpsed Parker.
“Where’s Lynn?” Parker demanded.
High heels clicked behind them, and then Suz was at his side. She wasn’t smiling as she met the older man’s eyes. “I’m Susanna. We need to see Ms. Davidson right away.”
“You said you wanted to speak to Mr. Shotelle—” The man barely finished his sentence before Suz bulldozed past him, her heels snapping on the hardwood floor of the parlor.
The blonde glanced around, then opened her mouth and shouted, “Lynn! Where are you?”
“This is unacceptable,” the old man sputtered. “I’m calling the police! You can’t come inside without permission!”
Parker fixed the man with a deadly look. “We’re not here to cause trouble for you, but we are taking Ms. Davidson home.”
That earned him a bewildered frown. “Mr. Shotelle and Ms. Davidson are staying for the weekend.”
“Like hell they are.” Parker sensed Dean and Jack behind him, and turned to bark out an order. “Check the exterior perimeter. We don’t want Shotelle trying to sneak off.”
With matching nods, his partners stalked away.
But Phil disappearing didn’t end up being a concern, because footsteps sounded from above, and Shotelle appeared at the top of the winding staircase.
His blue eyes blazed when he spotted Parker and Suz.
“Mr. Shotelle,” Bigelow’s man blurted out. “These people claim—”
Phil cut him off, descending the stairs with purpose. “Would you be kind enough to give us a moment alone, Henry? I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding—my colleagues are under the impression they were invited to this retreat, which they are not.”
Henry seemed even more confused. “No, they’ve come to take Ms. Davidson home.”
“Give us a moment,” Phil repeated, his tone brooking no argument.
The gray-haired man hesitated for a beat before his expression grew incensed. “I don’t know what’s going on here, but I’m phoning Mr. Bigelow right this instant. He needs to be made aware of these shenanigans.”