He saw an opening for the damn boat of a limo and he took it, daring the Yellow cab next to him to interfere. By the time he’d gone a half block Tate had the slim cell phone to her ear.

“Hey, it’s me.”

He wished he could hear both sides of the conversation, but at least he was privy to Tate’s voice.

“I don’t know, Sara. I think Dr. Bay’s gone over the edge this time. She gave me this article. It’s about this nutcase artist-cum-therapist here in New York. He kidnaps people for money.”

Michael’s hands gripped the steering wheel as he struggled not to turn the limo around, using a sidewalk café as a new traffic lane, and go right back to Dr. Bay’s office.

“You have? When did you hear about this?”

What in hell was Bay thinking? Maybe she’d had one too many Xanax this morning.

“She thinks that maybe if I go through the experience when I know it’s safe, I’ll finally get past it. Trial by fire, I suppose.”

Shit, Tate needed a new psychologist-and she needed one now. He could just imagine what her father would say to this crazy business. William would have a heart attack on the spot, but not before he’d had Dr. Bay’s license revoked.

When Michael had signed up for the job, he’d had a lot of questions, like why this young woman needed a level of security that would make the president feel safe. William had told him that kidnapping was a danger and that he would go to any lengths to protect Tate.

Michael had agreed that someone with her wealth was a target, but guards 24-7? Ex-CIA case officers as a cook and a secretary?

Then he’d heard bits and pieces about the basis for the paranoia. At fifteen, Tate and her cousin had been kidnapped. Tate had escaped out a small bathroom window, but her cousin had been murdered. Tate had done her best to find the kidnapper’s hideout, but she’d been so traumatized she hadn’t been much help.