The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  Go? He could only stand there. “I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what’s going on with you, Christian. And if you don’t, by God, I’ll find another way to discover whatever it is you’re hiding.”

  Her hands shook as she placed them on the countertop, fisting them until her knuckles were white.

  What inner battle was she waging?

  “Please leave.”

  Brayden looked to the ceiling, as though hoping the answer to all his questions would appear there. But no floating hand appeared to write a single blessed thing.

  “Are you going to tell me about these creepy phone calls? And this midnight present?”

  “No.”

  Damn her.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Because I want you to leave.”

  “We don’t always get what we want,” he told her, wishing she’d turn around.

  “Geez, ya think? Look, Brayden, I’m really tired. I just need some time—time alone, to think. Okay? I can’t eat, I haven’t slept. I can’t think straight.” Her fists beat on the countertop and he could see the tension in her shoulders from here. “I just want everyone to leave me the hell alone!” Her voice rose on the end.

  He didn’t know who was more shocked at her outburst, him or her. She wanted him gone. Fine. For now. At least until he figured what the hell to do. And he was damn well going to do something. She couldn’t keep on like this.

  “I’ll go, if that’s what you really want.”

  For one long moment she didn’t move, but then ever so slowly, she nodded.

  Brayden could have hit something. Instead, he cleared his throat and counted to five. “Fine. I’m going to the hotel, then the shop.”

  “I can open the shop,” she said.

  “Don’t interrupt me. I’m not in the mood. Don’t step foot in the shop today. You look like you’re sick.” And still beautiful as ever. “Rest. Get some sleep. Whatever is going on is there for all to see, we just can’t figure out what the hell it is.” He paused. “But I will.”

  At the doorway he stopped, slapped his palm on the jamb. “Are you coming up to the house tonight?”

  A moment passed and he heard her swallow, saw her wipe again at her eyes.

  “I don’t know . . .,” she trailed off.

  The leash he’d had on his anger snapped. Damn her. “You’re coming up there if I have to come here and drag you. I don’t know what’s going on that has you acting this way. You won’t tell me. Fine. If you’re mad at me, then fine. You can hide from me, be pissed at me, whatever at me. Do not take this out on Mom and Dad. They love you and care about you. I won’t make any excuses for you with Tori, and I won’t stand by and watch you disappoint her.”

  Her head fell to her chest, the lights from the kitchen glinting off the deep mahogany tresses.

  More than anything, he wanted to pull her close and tell her everything would be fine. Kiss her until she smiled. Love her until she confided in him. But he couldn’t do that, wouldn’t do that until she told him what was going on.

  “I’ll be there,” she whispered, though he heard it. She cleared her throat, and still didn’t turn to face him. “I have rehearsal, it might run a little long, but I’ll be there tonight, maybe by seven or so.”

  “Fine. Do you want me to wait on you? We could drive up together.”

  She shook her head. “No, but thank you.”

  Brayden counted to five again and ground his teeth. “I’ll see you then.”

  With one long look at this stubborn woman, he turned and strode out of her condo.

  She might not tell him what was up, but he bet the neighborhood cop knew. He’d just drop Lieutenant Morris a visit later today. He wanted to know more about these midnight phone calls and presents. Was this what had her so scared? Or was it something else?

  • • •

  Christian rubbed the exhaustion out of her eyes as she put the key in her door.

  Rehearsals had been over for two hours. After they’d practiced for most of the afternoon, she’d left to clear her mind.

  The clean air around the Mall had done the job. The morning’s fight with Brayden had shoved some of the rubble out of her mind. He might not always have flowery words, but that’s who he was, that’s who she loved. And he was right. She missed him, missed them, what they had, the dream of what they could. As she’d walked along the Reflecting Pool, she’d decided to take a chance.

  Calling Gabe, she’d agreed on a meeting to report the stalking, the photos, the calls, and the gifts. Gifts, plural. Today inside her car, in the passenger seat, he’d left a small wrapped package with a red bow. That he’d gotten into her car was the final straw. In the velvet-lined box was the silver locket she’d left on her bed eight years before.

  Josephine, my angel.

  She still didn’t know how to report the crime without reporting the criminal. Therein lay her problem. Maybe she’d figure it out in the shower.

  Shrugging off the chill, she looked at her watch. There was enough time to take a shower, get to the station to talk to Gabe and then drive to Seneca. It was five now. So she might be a little late, but she’d get to the family place around dinner.

  Seneca. Everyone was going to be there. Pumpkin carving. The family tradition. The weekend before Thanksgiving, they carved pumpkins for the fun of it and then cooked the vegetables to make the puree for the holidays. She’d tell them tonight. Then she’d be done with it.

  Anxiety skittered along her nerves. One minute at a time. First, shower, then the station, then confessions with the family.

  Sighing, she opened her door, stepped inside, and shrugged out of her coat. After tossing it on the banister, she turned and slid the dead bolt home.

  Something to drink. Maybe a glass of wine to calm her. No, she didn’t want to smell like a cast of Pinot Grigio when she went to the police to report this. Water, she’d get a glass of water.

  Shadows deepened early this late in the year. She flicked on the hallway light and walked toward the kitchen. Her boot heels echoed eerily in the silence. Light filled the room as she flipped the switch. Just as she stepped into the kitchen, an arm snaked around her middle.

  “Welcome home, Josephine.” His words, warm against her ear, froze her blood in her veins and hitched her breath.

  Oh, God.

  She heard and felt him inhale as he took a deep breath.

  He was here. Here in her home. In her condo. And they were alone. She started shaking.

  No.

  Think. Think.

  Christian kicked back with her boot heel. He grunted, and relaxed his hold enough that she twisted out.

  Whirling, she backed away from the handsome man in her doorway.

  His pale green eyes sparked with that fire they always had when he looked at her.

  Her stomach rolled, the greasy feel of nausea immediate. Though her chest tightened, she fought off the attack.

  “Josephine, that wasn’t a very nice greeting,” he said and started toward her.

  She looked around but saw nothing. A basket of fruit, the stale coffee in the carafe, her hanging pot rack.

  “Here I’ve been waiting on you for almost an hour.” He shook his head.

  The knife block. Not very practical, his arms were longer than hers, but it was better than nothing.

  She backed toward the center island.

  His eyes narrowed. “I told you I don’t share. I’ve never shared. You are my angel. I won’t share you with anyone. Not the cop and not that Kinncaid boy. Didn’t you learn before?”

  Boy? She’d never heard of anyone calling six-foot-four-inch Brayden Kinncaid a boy.

  He stalked her, slowly, calmly, as if he had all the time in the world.

  “What—what do you want, Richard?”

  Though she knew. Some part of her had always known he would find her one day.

  Richard’s taupe-colored suit covered his wiry frame and was as pristine as his white shirt and blue tie. A long narrow fa
ce was as she remembered it, the cheekbones prominent, the eyes sharp, the nose hawk-like. He’d always reminded her of a bird of prey. The only difference she saw was his neatly combed chestnut hair was not only silvered at the temples, but dusted throughout.

  “What are you doing here?” She looked to the side table for the phone. Damn it. She’d broken it. If she could just get upstairs.

  “You didn’t know?” He slapped a hand against his chest. “I’m truly shocked. I won the representative election. I needed to see to some things here in D.C. I’ll be living here come January.”

  She shook her head.

  He smiled and nodded, his grin straight as a blade.

  “You need to leave. I don’t want you here,” she said. Her voice trembled, but she couldn’t help it.

  He cocked a perfectly arched brow, the grin growing. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” he asked quietly.

  Quick as a snake, he struck. His arm darted out, his fingers closing over her arm as he shoved her into the island. She reached back behind her. The hilt of a knife fit her palm.

  “Richard, I don’t want this. I don’t want you here. You should leave.” His face was inches from hers. Though she almost choked, she tried reason. “Congratulations on your election. You don’t want to ruin your career by being here. Leave. Just leave me alone.”

  The dark light of passion flashed in the depths of his eyes. An evil spark. His laugh grated between them, and she leaned back from his warm minty breath laced with tobacco and brandy. “Oh, I won’t ruin a thing. You won’t tell. If you had, I wouldn’t be here. You wouldn’t risk that nice family you’ve found. Such upstanding and righteous individuals, aren’t they, the Kinncaids?”

  Her breath hitched.

  “No, you won’t risk something happening to any of them.” One long finger trailed down her cheek, ice following in its wake, as his gaze watched his caress. “And you know something terrible would befall them if you said anything.” Those eyes, like shards of jade, locked back with hers. “Anything, Josephine.”

  He grabbed her hair and pulled, no longer caressing; the fingers held her hair tightly. She could feel his other hand bruising on her arm.

  “I don’t like this new look.”

  He lowered his head and slammed a kiss down on her, bruising her mouth.

  She bit his lip and pulled the knife free, slashing out with it.

  He stumbled back, hissing. “You little bitch.”

  Blood lined the cut along his upper arm. Christian kicked out again, catching him in the groin. He bent over, puffing.

  Quickly, she hopped onto the center island, intent on putting it between them. His hand grabbed her ankle and jerked her down onto the floor. She slid, scraping her ribs along the edge of the chopping board. Oranges and lemons bounced around her and the basket hit her shoulder.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he bit out.

  She kicked with her other foot until he let go. Then she stood, holding a hand to her ribs.

  The door, she had to get to the door. Her boot heels echoed down the hallway, mixing with his curses and footsteps.

  Hurry. She had to hurry.

  The dead bolt. Why had she thrown the dead bolt? She tried to unlock it, wasting precious seconds. Just as the door cracked, and she reached through it, he slammed against her. She barely had time to jerk her hand with the knife back through. The doorknob bit unmercifully into her aching ribs. His body against hers shut off her exit, knocked the air out of her and trapped her against the door.

  Christian screamed and sliced back with the knife.

  His hand fisted in her hair, the other digging into her jaw.

  He pulled her head back, arching her neck so that she was looking up at him, even as he maneuvered away from her knife.

  “You’re going to pay for that. You’re going to pay for everything, Josephine.”

  Her eyes locked with his, saw the twisted and sick intent in them even as he slammed her head against the door.

  The world went hot white, then black.

  Chapter 6

  He set the empty syringe aside and stared down at Josephine as he held her across his lap, sedated. They were in her upstairs bathroom. She’d taken so long, there had been plenty of time to prepare for her arrival.

  The scent she wore was nothing like what she should be wearing. Josephine didn’t wear this heavy fragrance. She should have something softer, lighter, more floral.

  Leaning back, he studied her face, the unchanged lines of perfection. So beautiful. In the harsh glare of the bathroom lights, her pale skin was almost translucent. The beat of her pulse jumped in the long column of her throat.

  He glanced at his watch. He needed to hurry. She would be out for a while, but there was still much to do. Carefully, he dabbed the washcloth to the cut on her forehead. She’d run. Did she actually think she’d get away? The cuts on his arm and thigh stung, but he’d take care of them later.

  Smiling, he got to work. He hated this dark hair color. Hated it. It was not his Josephine’s. Reaching over, he picked up the pitcher of water he’d set there earlier. Carefully, he wet her hair, making certain her head was draped over the tub. No need to dirty the bathroom floor.

  When it was wet enough, he opened the tube of hair color he’d set on the back of the commode earlier.

  Honey Wheat Blonde. It was the closest thing he could find to her old color—a darker blonde. It would have to do. He’d memorized the instructions and knew exactly what to do.

  As he slathered the thick tubed cream into her too-short hair, he realized his leather gloves were ruined. Good thing he had a second pair. It didn’t take long to comb the dye through the short mop of hair. He snapped the plastic covering on the tube, then stretched over and rinsed the cream off his gloves.

  Her scent taunted him. As he leaned over to rinse his hands, he was so close to her that her breath warmed his neck.

  He wrapped his arms around her and held her close.

  His angel. His angel. After all this time, he had her in his arms again.

  He kissed her brows, finely arched, her closed lids, her cheeks, and finally, finally, her mouth. It was soft and pliant under his. Giving beneath his.

  Her heartbeat pulsed against his fingers on her throat. He gazed on her beautiful face. Eyebrows. He blinked. Her eyebrows were dark.

  He’d almost forgotten them. Carefully, he applied the hair color to those as well.

  While he waited for her hair to change back to its blonde color from that horrid dark brown, he stared around her space, dreamed of the rest of the evening. Or what time he had of it.

  The thought of what was to come excited him, rushed his blood through his veins.

  When twenty minutes were up, he turned on the tap and rinsed the coloring off. It was an awkward job, and he half expected her to awaken, but of course she didn’t. Finally. The wet strands slid through his leather-clad fingers. He imagined them as dampened silk.

  Her hair would be as it should be.

  He grabbed the towel off the back of the toilet and rubbed her hair, drying it.

  Josephine’s head hung limply on his arm, as he turned and carried her into the bedroom. The shades were already lowered, the lights dimmed, the covers removed.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and undressed her, his excitement growing as bit by bit he revealed her skin.

  When she was only wearing her lingerie, he laid her in the center of her bed.

  Should he remove them? Or wait till she was awake? Still undecided, he pulled one arm up and tied it with the nylon cord that was already there. It worked well that she ran late today; he’d been able to set things up perfectly.

  Leaning over her body, he stretched her other arm up and tied it. The lingerie had to go. It would be nice to see her fear when she awakened, but the terror of not knowing what he’d done, what he could do, would be so much better.

  He tied one of her ankles and reached for the other one. So soft. He slid his hand up her leg. No
, not now, wait until she woke up. He stood at the foot of her bed and stared at her, at her beautiful, long curvaceous body that had once been solely his. Only his.

  He demanded perfection and rarity. She hadn’t been his exclusively for a long, long time. Josephine was no longer perfect.

  She was flawed.

  He stopped, frowned, thought. She was flawed. If something of his became imperfect, he destroyed it.

  There was a thought.

  No, he wasn’t ready to destroy this treasure of his yet. Josephine was his angel, even if she was a fallen one. He’d have to think on how to perfect her once again.

  Quickly, he reached again for her other ankle and tied it tight. He picked up another syringe he’d set on her nightstand. This counteracted the sedative. She should be awake—he slid the needle into the vein on the inside of her right elbow, depressing the fluid into her—any minute. He counted off one minute, halfway through another. She moaned and he smiled.

  A poem danced through is mind.

  The mouse ran to, and the mouse ran fro.

  Crying and squeaking: which way, which way.

  Didn’t matter, and the cat only smiled.

  For it was time for the cat to play.

  Indeed. Time for the cat to play.

  “Come, come, my dear. Wake up.”

  Again she moaned, and he jerked on her ropes. No slack. Perfect.

  “You’ve been a bad girl.” He straightened and stared down at her, watched as she slowly came to. “It’s time you remembered who you belong to. Unfortunately, our time is limited.” He walked to the side of the bed. “Such a pity really. I have a plane to catch.” He slapped her thigh, and thought of his own; the sting had faded to more of a throb.

  He’d pay her back for those too.

  Taking one of the silk scarves he’d brought along, he sat beside her and tapped her face.

  Before he gagged her, he leaned down and whispered against her lips. “Wake up, my angel. Jo-se-phine.” He drew her name out. “Josephine. Wake up. It’s time to play.”

  • • •

  “Daddy,” Tori asked, “is Chris coming home tonight?”