The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  She remembered the relief at escape, and a flood, a tidal wave of gratitude for the Smiths’ help, and fear. Always the fear that Richard would find her. Licking her lips she said, “I was in San Antonio, Texas, I think, when I learned they’d all died Christmas morning.”

  “They?”

  “The entire family.”

  She went through it all. How Frank helped her, how the house must have had a gas leak. The fact that Frank was a cop bothered the hell out of Gabe, which he told her.

  Nausea greased her stomach. “I never thought it was an accident. They’d helped me, you see. And somehow he must have known. If you find Ivan and crack him, he’ll roll on my stepfather. Then you can get a search warrant maybe?”

  “Couldn’t you get one now?” Brayden asked, the edge in his voice sharp.

  “Probably.”

  Christian shook her head. “No, he’d stop you. He’d find a way to. He was the district attorney and the state’s attorney general.” She leaned up on her elbows. “My stepfather had something on Ivan. I overheard Ivan once talking to the maid that he wrote everything down. Something about not spending blood money. I think Mr. Ristovolich didn’t really like what he did. I’ve often believed he was just waiting for the right time to escape. If you don’t get Ivan, it’ll only be my word against my stepfather’s, and he’ll find a way to stop the search warrant. He’ll have to.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, if you searched wherever he lives here, you probably wouldn’t find anything, though you might. But if you searched his home back in Oregon, you’d find all sorts of . . .” Christian trailed off.

  “Of?”

  She took a deep breath. “Things. Things. He liked to brag. He’s rather egotistical. There’s a room . . .” God, her hands were shaking. “Or there was, and probably still is . . . There’s a room up—up in the attic. The right sconce on the back wall turns, and a door that looks like a wall opens. And behind it is—is a—a room.”

  Christian swallowed.

  “What’s in it?” Gabe asked softly.

  Shoving back, she stood and walked to the window. The day was dying. Shadows stretched across the streets and buildings. Christian gripped her elbows. “There’s a bed, or there was. Pictures all over the walls . . .”

  “Of?”

  The sharp image cut through her haze, of things she tried to forget.

  He couldn’t hurt her now. She was strong. She was strong.

  Clearing her throat, she continued. “He’d drug me and I’d wake up in that stupid room. I hate that room. The rape was the worst in many ways. Yet, he’d led up to it for so long . . . It was almost a relief he’d finally gotten it out of the way so he couldn’t taunt me with it anymore.” She took another deep breath. “After a while you try to—try to go away, try to forget what he’s doing, the things he’s trying to teach you.” Tears fell, and the words felt like they were ripped from some dark hole, deep, deep inside her. “That’s when he put pictures up. So that even staring at the wall, you couldn’t go away. You couldn’t get away. There was simply no place to go.”

  No place to go.

  No, that was before. This was now. She pulled free of the talons that threatened to pull her back down into the despairing fear.

  With a sniff, she realized she was crying. “They were photos of me. Mostly like the ones you got from the house on Christmas. I think that’s how he made the border, or frame or whatever on that painting. There’s also other paintings in that room.”

  Silence greeted her, but she didn’t turn around.

  “There’s also a desk in there. He liked diversity, after all. But that’s neither here nor there. In the desk is a journal. A journal of everything. How he paid people off, how keeping me was his main goal even if he had to kill to do it, his plots and plans and schemes.”

  “Is that where he raped you?” Laurence asked softly.

  Christian sighed and nodded. “The first time, yes. The times after. That was ‘our’ room. It’s what he always called it. There’s lots of things a man can do without actually . . . without . . .” She swallowed. “It was where he tried to teach me . . . to teach me . . .” She couldn’t get the words out. She heard a chair scrape across the floor and then Brayden’s arms were around her.

  His heart hammered against her ear. She couldn’t break now, she couldn’t. Biting down past the swirling emotions, she pulled back and gave him a watery smile.

  Finally, she turned to face the two policemen sitting at the table. Emma’s brows were pulled in a frown. Gabe had no expression whatsoever on his face.

  “What?” she asked. “You don’t believe me?”

  His eyes sharpened. “Why do you ask that?”

  “Because no one else ever did, and if they did, he just paid them off or scared them so bad they moved.”

  “Like Buddy”—he checked his notes—“Michaels?”

  She nodded.

  “Well, I don’t scare easy and I can’t be bought off, so that’s covered.”

  A muscle bunched in his jaw. She figured she should probably tell him what else he’d find.

  “In the desk—there’s also a file on me.”

  There went that sardonic brow of his. “And what is in this file?”

  “A doctor’s file. Telling how unstable I was. Still in denial over Papa dying, drugs, sex. Any and everything to paint me as the rebellious teenage slut in case he ever needed it. Dr. Stevens.” She answered the question she saw in his eyes. “And no, I’ve never met the man. Though the file will document that I met with him twice a week.”

  She sat back down in her chair and took a drink of water. It didn’t calm the nauseous storm rioting in her stomach.

  “Where were you during this time? It wouldn’t do to say you had appointments if people saw you,” Emma said.

  The cup turned smoothly between her palms. “Good point. No, I had appointments, just not with a Dr. Stevens in his office.”

  “Then where were you?” Gabe asked.

  She looked up and into Brayden’s raging eyes. “I was detained in a hidden room by one, now, U.S. congressman, Richard Burbanks, learning all the tricks of the trade.”

  Chapter 21

  They took another shower once they were at the hotel. Brayden had to stop on the way home because Christian got sick.

  Rage roared through him.

  A congressman? A damn congressman. And the man lived only a mile—one fucking mile—from his family home.

  Once he’d known that, he’d called Aiden, who had driven back to Seneca earlier, and gave his brother a shortened version. He wanted Tori safe. The urge to go up there and get her himself rushed through him, but Aiden talked him out of it. Told him that he’d call a security agency and hire a bodyguard, and he was going right then to get Tori.

  Thank God for family.

  He knew his daughter was safe. Christian was safe, if emotionally drained. Tonight had been so damn hard for her and there hadn’t been a thing he could do about it. The idea of having a speed bag here appealed to him, but it did no good right now. He’d already punched another hole in the wall. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back, wondering what was taking her so long in the bathroom, though it was probably a good thing since she didn’t see him lose his temper.

  Brayden left the bedroom and went into the living room. He paced by the bar, his robe flapping around him, and finally poured himself a drink.

  God, the things he’d heard tonight.

  The pain and despair that had poured up out of Christian had made his heart break and his hatred burn.

  If he found the son of a bitch . . .

  Morris was not a stupid cop. The lieutenant told him point-blank that he did not want to have to arrest him for such a lowlife scum.

  That was debatable. But then the smart-ass informed him that he was being tailed—for his protection. Yeah right.

  He wanted to find the bastard.

  He wanted to rip his heart out.

  He wanted t
o . . .

  The glass shattered in his hand.

  Damn it.

  He looked around, grabbed a dish towel and swept the mess into the trash can.

  “Did you cut yourself?”

  Her soft voice startled him.

  Swallowing, he didn’t turn to look at her. “No.”

  “Are you okay?” she asked him.

  Was he okay?

  He turned to her, incredulous that she’d even ask him that. “Me?”

  She was dressed in a pale blue silk robe. Her dark wet hair stood up all over her head and she looked so perfect, so innocent his breath froze.

  “You’re angry,” she said.

  Did the woman think he wouldn’t be? Her remark didn’t even need a response.

  “I don’t blame you for being angry with me,” she whispered from across the room.

  He threw the towel down. “What the hell kind of thing is that to say?”

  She shrugged.

  Brayden cursed himself and strode around the bar, walking to her. “Christian, I’m frustrated and disappointed that you didn’t tell me this all before.” He saw the dejection in her eyes. “But,” he said, cupping her face and tracing her jawline, “I understand why you didn’t, baby.”

  “You do?”

  “Yeah, I think I do.” He wasn’t for sure if he did or didn’t. “I mean I do, but I don’t. With his position, he had a lot of clout, a lot of power and a lot of people and favors he could call in to make your life hell.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I suppose, in a way, I do get it.”

  She nibbled on her lip. A grin peeked out of the corner of her mouth. “Is there any champagne over there?”

  He smiled. “Why?”

  Her finger ran over the vee of his robe. “Well, because I would like some.”

  “I think there might be.”

  She hugged him tight. “Thank you. Thank you for going with me, for being there, for understanding, even if you don’t completely.”

  Her words humbled him and he kissed the top of her wet hair.

  “You don’t have to thank me.”

  She pulled back. “Yes, I do.”

  God, he loved her eyes.

  “Yes, I do,” she continued. “If not for you, I wouldn’t have been able to get through tonight, through the last few months. I love you.”

  Brayden ran his hand over her face. “I love you too.”

  “Champagne?” she prompted.

  “I’ll get it.”

  When he turned back around she was gone.

  Sighing, he got two flutes and walked to the bedroom.

  The cork popped and the bottle fogged out a stream. He filled the glasses and sat on the bed beside her.

  “To us and new beginnings,” she whispered, clinking her glass with his.

  He stared deep into her eyes and noted the fear, if not all the shadows, were gone.

  Her lips were soft beneath his.

  “To us and new beginnings.”

  • • •

  Christian lay awake watching the play of nightlights across the ceiling. Brayden’s deep, even breathing told her he was asleep.

  He was warm against her and she snuggled deeper.

  She smiled into the darkness. For the first time in years she felt free. Well, not exactly free, but she was getting there. It was like black chains had been worn away and now all that was left were memories and the threat that something could happen. But the story, the whole horrible story was out.

  The stone on her heart and soul was gone. It was a relief and it was . . . empty.

  Now, now maybe life could really, truly go on.

  Brayden turned and pulled her tighter against him, kissing her neck. “I missed you.”

  “You just had me.”

  He laughed, rich and deep. “Yes, I know, and I’d love to again.”

  “Now?”

  “Always, but there’s something I want to give you.”

  “What? You’ve given me enough.”

  He sighed and squeezed her tighter. “I love you. I was going to do this earlier, but we got distracted, thought I’d do this after dinner. Which, come to think of it, we never ate.”

  Brayden’s mouth covered hers. She tasted wine and mints.

  He turned her gently around and propped on his elbow above her.

  “Close your eyes,” he whispered.

  What was he up to? She studied his eyes for a minute, only seeing a smirk hiding. Finally, she complied.

  Something cold and hard grazed down her nose, over her lips, across her chin. She giggled when it slid down her neck.

  “You’re such a bad boy, Brayden Kinncaid. Sex toys? I thought I was enough for you.”

  “Oh, you are. And this isn’t a sex toy.” His laughter rumbled through her and she shifted against him.

  Whatever he held he ran over her shoulder and down her arm. The cold metal sent shivers down her spine as it grazed the sensitive flesh of her inner arm.

  Down and around her wrist.

  What was it?

  Over her pinkie, down the valley of her finger.

  Up her ring finger.

  He stopped.

  “Open your eyes.”

  A ring.

  Her eyes shot open.

  There, held above her left ring finger, was an engagement ring. A huge, beautiful marquise diamond solitaire.

  “Oh, my God. Brayden?”

  His smile was devastating in its charm. “There is so damn much going on right now, I don’t know what the hell tomorrow is going to be like. I just want to know you’ll be there. That you’ll still be mine.”

  Tears filled her eyes and it felt like a hundred butterflies flitted in her stomach.

  “Will you be mine? Christian? Will you marry me?” He swallowed and a muscle jumped in his jaw, even as those intense blue eyes of his stared down at her.

  She couldn’t look away. “You really want me? With all that you know?”

  He only cocked a brow. “I’m waiting.”

  She swallowed. “I know you love me, but some part of me, some part . . . I don’t . . . Are you sure?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re right, I love you. I will always love you, no matter what you say, what I learn.” He traced her face with his eyes. “You are as you have always been to me. Beautiful. So beautiful and so strong it scares me. I just want you to be mine.”

  She bit her bottom lip, then smiled. “Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.” Christian pulled him down for a kiss even as she felt him smile against her lips, felt the slide of the ring down her finger.

  “I love you,” she said, breaking the kiss.

  “And I love you, mia bella,” he whispered softly.

  Their kiss was long and passionate. His hand slid up from her hand, to cup her face.

  “You’re talking Italian again.”

  “Of course, got things to show you.”

  She laughed as he kissed her senseless. His hands cherished and shoved the bedding away so that nothing kept her from him.

  Christian brought her hands up to cover herself, but he took them in both of his. “I want to see you. All of you.”

  He kissed every inch down her body.

  Brayden loved making love to this woman; it was a need he could never satisfy, a bottomless pit of need that fed off her.

  He propped up on his elbows and watched her, sat back kneeling between her spread thighs.

  She lay open and inviting for him. He grinned, ran a finger up the inside of her leg, paused as he reached the tender skin between her thigh and body, skimmed it with his fingers and drew circles up to her breasts. He loved her breasts. He ran his hands over them, smiled when she arched into his palms, sighed as his fingers played over the nipples. He wanted her every which way he could dream up. But that was for later. Now, he knew what she was comfortable with. And since she’d agreed to be his wife . . .

  They had years to play in bed . . .

  That didn’t mean he couldn’t have her begging now.


  “You’re exquisite.” Her soft skin, warm as he slid his hands down her belly, fluttering over her hip bones. He raked his nails lightly over her thighs.

  She gasped and opened her eyes. Brayden scooted a bit closer to her, spread his knees wider, in turn opening her more for him.

  Slowly, he ran his hands back up the insides of her thighs.

  “Bray?” she asked.

  “What?” He watched his hands skim up the soft supple skin.

  She scooted, her bottom against his knees.

  His gaze rose to hers.

  His eyes were so hotly blue, the center of flames. Christian took a deep breath and smiled. “What are you waiting on?” She wanted him to touch her.

  A grin lifted one corner of his mouth. “I want to go slowly.”

  “I just want . . .” She trailed off as his eyes darkened.

  “What? Tell me what you want.” His voice was deep and dark as the shadows.

  “Whatever you want,” she whispered.

  His brows rose, and the grin grew. She felt his hands go higher up her thighs, felt his cool thumbs spread her for him. She watched him watch her and knew she was getting warm.

  Christian closed her eyes.

  “I just want you. To please you. To make you smile.”

  His thumbs ran over her back and forth, back and forth. She shuddered out a breath. Then he spread her further open and played, his fingers dancing wickedly, wherever he pleased, stroking as he pleased, as deeply as he pleased.

  The feelings in her coiled, tighter and tighter. She locked her gaze on his, saw the hardened set of his jaw.

  “Bray . . .” She wanted him in her.

  His hands grasped her hips and he pulled her up his thighs and entered her in one sure thrust. He rocked them, the feelings he brought to life within her so powerful she could only hold his forearms and arch, accepting.