It was crazy weird how Sean’s stature shrank around Jace. Gretch studied the pair walking side by side toward where she, Hannah, and Devon were clustered around the painting.

Except for being the same height, the brothers’ personalities and body language were night and day. Jace, with his short black hair and crystal-blue eyes, strode like a Marvel Comics superhero, his eyebrows knit, his square jaw thrust in pursuit of justice. Beside him, Sean’s long-legged form was all lanky angles. Even his mouth stretched into a sullen line. He’d found a two-hundred-million-dollar painting, dropkicked someone’s ass this afternoon, and still walked like the dopey kid in trouble. As the brothers neared, it became evident that he was, and Jace’s larger-than-life presence was due to fury. “…sending goddamn SOS messages like the sky is falling!”

“At the time I thought it was. It still could be.”

“You need to see a doctor about that toxic level of estrogen.”

“Jace, listen. We found—”

“Hello, Gretch.” Jace smiled, the wattage and beauty of it sizzling her like an egg on a scorching sidewalk. “Hannah.” He halted near Devon, and the two alphas sized each other up. “Jason Quinn, FBI.” He held out his hand, and Devon gripped it, supplying his name. The level of testosterone lowered slightly, and Jace turned back to Gretch. “I trust the texts stopped.”

She blinked. “What?”

“I uncovered this,” Sean blurted, pointing over the cubical wall.

Jace glanced down, looking unimpressed. Then his eyes bugged out. “One of the Gardner Museum’s?”

“Yes.”

“Excuse me,” he murmured, and brushed around her to the desk. “Give me the facts.” He took out his phone and snapped pictures, eyes shining like sapphires.

Hannah and Sean crowded in, explaining when and where and how. Devon rested an arm atop the cubicle, slightly bored, slightly amused, and more than marginally absorbed in Hannah.

Jace nodded and snapped. The more ecstatic he became, the more morose Sean looked. Gretch didn’t get it. The FBI would protect them, the painting would go back to the museum, and Sean would be a hero—why the gloomy puss?

“Where’s the Sig?” Jace asked, when Sean got to the part about the gun Donatello had pulled.

Sean retrieved it from his book bag and handed it over clumsily. See? He’d handled the gun like a pro in the taxi. Weird.

“You knew this was loaded, right? And a Sig doesn’t have a safety?”

“Yes, Jace. I knew that,” Sean retorted.

Jace shook his head, released the magazine, racked the slide back, and removed the round from the chamber. He slipped the components in separate pockets. “The shit you get yourself into.”

Gretch rolled her eyes at their dynamic and headed down the hall. Their volatile relationship was exhausting. And what the hell had Jace meant by that cryptic text remark? He’d asked for her phone number Monday. Tuesday he found out she was being harassed by Brandon. Had he pulled her phone records? Hacked into her texts? Found Brandon? She hadn’t thought to check messages all day. If there were none from Brandon… Well, on the one hand, the freak would finally move on. On the other, she was pretty sure her civil rights had been grossly violated. Not to mention Sean had barely let her pee in private these last two days.

The overbearing assumptions of both Quinn brothers were too much. Gretch grabbed her phone and tapped the text icon. Two new dates from the LVR hookup site, both suggesting a meetup for drinks. None from Brandon. The last obscene text had been the one Sean saw last night.

So this is what you do. Her teeth clenched. She scanned recent calls. Oh no. One from the shelter an hour ago, no message left. “Please God, let everything be all right.” If only she’d had the ringer on! She returned the call and asked to speak to Eve.

“Hello?” At Eve’s timid voice Gretch caught her breath. She’d spoken to the poor woman enough times, trying to cajole her to safety, that she knew Eve’s differing degrees of courage and determination. And she knew this tone.

“It’s Gretch,” she said briskly. “Just checking in.”

“It’s been…a rough day.” The last word was said on a sob. “My parents said he went over there and got physical with my dad—knocked him to the ground. Threatened them unless they told him where I was. My mother’s in hysterics. I’m afraid, Gretch. I need to go comfort my parents.”

“Don’t leave yet. I’m heading to the shelter right now. It’ll take twenty minutes.” She shoved her purse strap over her shoulder. “We can talk as long as you want, Eve. Promise me you won’t leave before I get there.” Silence on the other end.

She squeezed her eyes shut. “Please, Eve. He’s probably parked out front of their house waiting for you. He knows what buttons to push. Think of your girls!”

“Okay,” Eve said so softly it was a strain to hear over the celebratory exclamations in the lab. “I’ll wait.”

“Twenty minutes. Clock me.” Gretch hung up. One last glimpse down the hall—Jace spoke animatedly into his phone, and Hannah pointed something out to Sean, their heads lowered in that worshipful art-geek manner.

Good. They wouldn’t notice her slip away. She was sick of being escorted around like some fragile fairy princess when women like Eve were in very serious danger.

* * *

By the time Sean stopped ogling The Concert, not only had Gretch left, but he also had to book it to the dojo—as in sprint the entire nine blocks instead of waiting for the El and suffering through the station stops in between.

Where the hell had Gretch gone? She’d been available for an earlier dinner only hours ago and hadn’t mentioned being in a hurry when Dane hovered at her desk, so her disappearance had to be spontaneous. When would she clue in to the danger she faced?

Sean hit the street and pumped his annoyance and worry into his stride. How had she gotten this far in life with all the risky pickups? As soon as the boys were squared away practicing their Katas, he’d try her cell phone, and by God, if she answered, he wasn’t going to be pleasant, geeky Sean. Those days were gone.

Ten minutes later he pushed through the dojo door, sweaty and gulping oxygen.

“Sensei,” the boys chorused, and bowed.

Randy, who owned the place and leased it Tuesday and Thursday evenings to Sean, threw him a dirty look.

“Sorry,” Sean gasped, unzipping his gym bag, “held up at work.” Which never happened. He was devoted to his teaching evenings. Just one more testament to how adventures with the FBI and Gretch had sent his serene life through a spin cycle. Randy grumbled unintelligibly and stood up from behind the desk, grabbing his keys and phone.

“Stretch out,” Sean called to the boys, and spun back. “Can you stay one more minute while I change?” He whipped his gi out of his book bag and headed for the bathroom without waiting for an answer. He’d covered for Randy several times when the guy was too hungover to even bow. As much as the owner was probably jonesing for a beer, Randy wouldn’t leave a bunch of eight-year-olds unsupervised.

Sean glanced around him at the filth of the bathroom, his skin crawling at having to change in here. Urine droplets on the floor, paper towels instead of toilet paper, a corner of the mirror cracked off. The dojo probably wouldn’t stay open much longer, which was too bad. The place had gone from pristine to shabby in only a few years. Any cleaning of the workout mats and bathroom seemed to occur only on Tuesday and Thursday nights by Sean, after his students left. Tonight should be an exception—he had a dinner date—but he physically couldn’t leave it like this. His OCD wouldn’t allow it.

“Fuck,” he muttered, wrenching the door open and waving his thanks at Randy, who was tapping his foot by the door. Maybe he’d end class five minutes early, give each boy an area to wipe down. Sean would deal with the disgusting bathroom.

He stepped onto the mat, and as usual, the serenity and dignity of the art form flowed into him. Here, he wasn’t geeky Sean, bullied since grade school, odd one out in his own family. He was Yondan, a fourth-degree black belt, a sensei who commanded respect and generated awe.

“Fujikata Dai Ichi,” he ordered, and walked down the line, adjusting the boys’ stances of the first and most basic kata. He spent extra time with Phillip Mayfair, who not only suffered from variations of that name (Fillie Fairy), but was also an asthmatic and too small and uncoordinated for his age. Empathy seeped from Sean as he patiently demonstrated the form again. His own childhood had smacked of similar torture until his mom had stuck him in karate class after he’d come home with a fat lip. It was the only day his father, grinning and puffing on his cigar, had shaken his hand.

“Hope the other guy looks worse,” he’d stated, slapping Sean on the back. Sean hadn’t the courage to tell him she had walked away completely unmarked and laughing with her girlfriends.

“That’s it, Phillip. Great job.” Sean headed back to the center of the mat. “Fujikata Dai Ni.”

The soft snick of the door and the boys’ attention snapping that way broke into Sean’s thoughts. He turned, expecting Randy to have forgotten something. Three men filed in. Their sheer bulk and gruesome tats radiated a menacing signal as loud as an air horn. Randy, in his haste to get out of here, hadn’t locked the door behind him.

Although his heart seized to a stop, Sean schooled his expression into the watchful calm of a predator. “Gentlemen. May I help you?” he asked pleasantly for the benefit of the boys behind him. He kept his hands loosely at his sides, his bare feet hip distance apart, weight shifted to the balls of his feet.

“You run fast. Manny, here, thinks you should try out for the Olympics.” The man closest to the door had a voice like scraped gravel. He held the door handle shut. “Mr. D. would like his painting returned.”

Sweat broke out on Sean’s forehead. Not here. Not with my boys here. Why didn’t they grab him back at Moore and Morrow?

He kept his gaze on the man who’d spoken, studied the flattened nose, the scar separating his right eyebrow, the incredible steroid bulk of him. He had size and power, but Sean had agility and speed—no problem there. The guy in the middle was the tallest and shaped like a mountain, his bald head absurdly small in proportion to the rest of him. Taking him on individually would’ve been an even fight.

The third was skinny and wiry, and breathed through his mouth. There was no question he was on rage-inducing uppers. His pupils were pinpricks, and his gaze shifted like a pinball from the boys, to Sean, around the room, back to the boys. He’d be a problem, strictly because of the unpredictable superhuman strength he might possess due to the drugs.

“I’ve already told him all I know,” Sean said. But clearly that hadn’t been enough to convince Donatello, so he added, “I’d be happy to discuss this another time. My cell number is on those business cards.” He nodded at the stack on the desk. “As you can see, I’m in the middle of class.”

“You can speak to him yourself.” Mountain Man jerked his head left. “He’s in the Lincoln right outside.”

Sean flicked a glance through broad windows covered by large red words advertising the dojo’s services. Had the list not clogged the view, a passing cop might have noticed the oddity in here. In the dusk, the headlights of a classic, dark Continental stood out among the parked vehicles lining the quiet block. Panic began to edge out his sensei bravado. “I’m in the middle of class,” he repeated. “We finish at eight.”

“Of course,” Flat Nose said, “which is why we’ll continue while you step outside.” His grin was right out of a Freddy Krueger movie, and a gold-front tooth gleamed in the fluorescent light. He let go of the door and lumbered toward the mat. “How would you like that, boys?”

The dull thump of Sean’s heart in his ears drowned out any responses the boys may have uttered. He stared Flat Nose down and eased into Fujikata Dai Ichi.

“Don’t,” the man said, flashing the chilling smile again. “My friends shoot to kill.”

Sean couldn’t endanger the boys any further. They were too young to see guns pulled. He held up a hand. “Wait.”

Surprisingly, the man complied.

Sean exhaled. Shit. What was he going to do? “Call your boss. I can speak to him from here. I refuse to leave my students.”

“Mac, we gotta hurry,” Mountain Man said. “Too many people can see in here.”

Actually, they couldn’t. That was the problem. Although if the mobsters thought they could, they’d be less likely to do anything stupider than this.

“Manny, round up the boys and put them in there,” Mac said, pointing to a closed door. The twitchy freak bounded across the room. Sean said nothing. It was a tiny closet for cleaning supplies and extra dojo equipment. Even Phillip wouldn’t fit in there. Manny flung open the door, shoulders slumping almost immediately. He looked at Mac for guidance.

“In there.” Mac pointed to the other closed door, the wretched bathroom.

The thought of five boys smashed into that foul-smelling, germ-infested toilet turned Sean’s stomach. “We walk out as one unit,” he blurted. “I go talk to your boss, and the boys go next door to the deli. Wait for their mothers.”

Mac exchanged a look with Mountain Man, who shook his head. Mac turned back and repeated the gesture, glancing at Sean’s bare feet. “Put your sneakers on. You take Mr. D. to the painting, and we babysit. The faster you cooperate, the faster these boys get home for dinner. How ’bout it, boys? Let’s see some moves.” He rotated his hands stiffly in the clichéd gesture of karate chops. Jumpy Manny snickered and imitated him.

“I’m not leaving them with you.” Sean kept his voice deadly soft. “And if you take them out that door without me, you’re committing five felony kidnappings.”

A few gasps behind him squeezed his heart. What a shitty lesson they were learning about the world tonight. Way too young. And this was all his fault. And fucking Randy for not locking the door. Sean glanced at his book bag behind the desk. On top of his folded jeans and shirt was his phone. But he’d texted sos enough times that even if by some miracle he could reach the phone, his lifeline was gone. Jace wouldn’t pay attention.

“Manny,” Mac said, reaching behind him in a not-so-subtle warning of the gun he possessed. “Stick the boys in there and guard the door.”

The meth-head waved the boys toward the bathroom, his muscles twitchy, his wild eyes almost rotating. “Come on, you little shits. Move out!”

Sean stared Mac down, but it was no use. The ghastly smile returned; the gold tooth glinted. “See? We’re keeping them as a unit and not taking them out of here. Please—” he nodded toward Mountain Man, “—he’ll go with you. The boys will be perfectly safe.”