The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  Ian still didn’t open his eyes, just grunted. “Damn,” he whispered.

  His face taut with pain, the lines around his mouth deeper, harsher, the lines around his eyes more pronounced. The skin more pale than she was used to seeing on him. Black lashes lay in short spiky crescents against his skin. She lightly traced the crooked line of his nose, the outline of his M-ed hairline.

  He was right, their lives were messed up.

  “Who’s Nikko?” he whispered.

  Never opened his eyes. She’d hoped he’d been almost asleep. Instead of answering him she put her hand on his chest and leaned back against the headboard.

  His other hand came up and laced with hers. “Nikko?” he pressed.

  Rori shook her head. “What you are to Darya,” she said, choosing her words. “That’s what he is to me.”

  He opened his eyes, and she could see the pain clouding the blue irises and narrowing his lids. “I’d like to meet him then.”

  She grinned. “Oh, you will.”

  “Sounds like he’s not very happy with me.”

  She chuckled again. “He’s not. He’s thinking of killing you. I had to explain you’re just a job.” Once the words were out of her mouth, she wished she could take them back.

  His eyes bore into hers with an intensity she wanted to ignore and meet straight on.

  “Just a job?” he asked quietly.

  She leaned further over and gently kissed his lips, the edges almost white with pain. “Well, it was either that or tell him we were lovers.”

  That wicked grin of his was starting to mean way too much to her. “There is that.”

  Again she kissed him, just her lips brushing his, and then sat back. “He asked about Darya.”

  “Why?” he asked, frowning.

  She shook her head. “I don’t know. Because I’m involved. Because it’s so bloody close to my own story, I don’t know.”

  “What is your story?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath, the snakes slithering through her gut. She looked at him and ran her fingers over his hair, barely touching. “You certainly are chatty for one who’s in pain.”

  For one long moment, he stared at her, and for whatever reason, she actually thought about telling him. But why? It was none of his concern. None of his . . .

  He closed his eyes, his fingers tightening on hers. “You know a husband really should know his wife.”

  She shook her head and ignored him. She watched the ceiling fan, studied the artwork on the walls. Rather impressive actually. They were probably just prints of van Gough and Mary Cassatt, but then with the Kinncaids, these could just as easily be some originals. She’d rather not find out.

  She looked around. Just as she’d first thought. Someone could nick some really nice things from this house alone if someone were so inclined. She wasn’t. She couldn’t have cared less about such things. Just because people had nice things, the best of whatever . . . did not make them worthy of any respect in her book.

  Actions, the people themselves made the impression on her, good or bad. Not what they owned or where they came from.

  “So when will I meet him?” he asked, breaking the silence.

  “You should rest,” she whispered.

  “I can’t until you answer my questions.” His eyes were again closed, his face pulled tight, but still she caught the edge of humor in his words.

  She sighed. “Fine. Nikko is Nikko. He raised me.”

  “Where’d he get you from?” Ian whispered, not looking at her.

  She remembered the fear, the blood, the man holding his head screaming at her as he hit her again and again.

  She shook the thought off. Ian opened his eyes. “Who hurt you?”

  She took a deep breath. “I don’t know who my parents are. All I know is someone left me at an orphanage late one night. I was about one, they think.” She shrugged and looked at his hair. “I was put in a foster home with these truly lovely people. The Rittlebaums. He worked at Cambridge as a mythology professor.” She’d almost forgotten that. The way the man, with his whiskery beard, would come in and tell her good-night stories, bringing to life the story of Odysseus, and Agamemnon, Viking stories of angry gods punishing the hero. Someone was always being punished, tested. Always the hero, to make him stronger, bring him down and make him more thankful.

  “You liked him,” Ian said. “So what happened?”

  On another deep breath, she figured to bloody hell with it. Just tell him. She’d told others. No different than when they asked in her psych evaluations. “He died coming home one day. Car accident on the icy roads.”

  A furrow appeared between his brows. “Sorry.”

  She smiled. “I am too. He was a sweet, kind man. Mrs. Rittlebaum’s life was her home. She didn’t have a job and suddenly there wasn’t an income. They took us away.”

  “Us?”

  “Oh. Yes, there were two others then.” She frowned. “Both older, both boys.”

  “What happened to them?”

  “I don’t know, never really thought about it.”

  “Yes, you did.”

  Just like that. He knew.

  “At first. I was seven when we were put back in foster care and they were the only siblings I’d ever known for the last four years.” If she allowed herself she could still feel that fear, that horrible stomach-greasing fear of wanting her brothers and not knowing where they were. Hoping she’d see them at this next family and then the next . . . until the weeks went by and then the months. And never finding them. Then she had simply forgotten them altogether.

  “So where does Nikko come in?”

  “Not all homes are as secure as the Rittlebaums’, or as safe as this one.”

  His eyes studied hers. “Who hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “It was just me with them. I don’t know how those people were able to take children into their home. She worked two shifts, he worked at the factory, and at first everything was fine, just different.”

  His thumb stroked the back of her hand. “Then his shift changed and he was home when I got in from school, then it changed again and he was home at nights while she worked.”

  His chest rose on an inhale, and just for a moment his thumb paused.

  “We lived in this complex, paper-thin walls, people crying, parents screaming.” She hated remembering that place. “I’d seen Nikko in the hallway a few times, this silent, dark-haired, olive-skinned man who called me Cara. I thought he didn’t know my name, but it turns out he knew it, he’s Italian and that was just his nickname for me.” She grinned, remembering. “The people I was with told me to stay away from him and I got in trouble several times for not listening.” She didn’t want to go into the details and didn’t need to with Ian.

  “I still, after all this time, wonder how they were approved to sponsor and care for a child. He started abusing me on the nights his wife worked. One night I tried to hide in the coat closet. Which was a rather stupid thing to do. I don’t know why I thought he wouldn’t be able to find me.” She slowed, the past like smoke, swirling through her brain, out and around. “I still remember that terror that doesn’t let you think straight,” she said, looking at the wall. “I could hear him slamming doors yelling for me. And I just kept thinking no more. There was a weight on the floor and I picked it up. When he grabbed me and dragged me out, I hit him with it.”

  Ian’s hand ran up her arm. “Good for you, babe.”

  She shook her head. “Not so good. I wasn’t very strong. Didn’t do more than bust his head open. He was bloody furious. Started hitting me. I guess I was screaming, I don’t remember.” She frowned, trying to see it. “Nikko said I was, which was why he broke in. I just remember that suddenly Nikko was there. Just there telling me to come with him.” She took a deep breath and let it slowly out. Looking down into Ian’s eyes, she said, “I did. Went with him and never looked back. Was terrified he’d either turn on me or he’d leave me somewhere, but he didn’t.”


  Ian’s smile was tender. No pity, no horror. Just . . . understanding. Then he blinked and she saw it through the pain. Rage.

  “Did Nikko kill him?”

  “You would ask that.”

  “Did he?”

  “Why?”

  His eyes bore into hers.

  She laughed. “I never asked . . .”

  “Do.”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Nikko taught me everything I know. Everything.”

  He frowned. “Nikko.” His voice was low, thoughtful.

  “Leave it alone. Please, for me.”

  He closed his eyes. “Do you think I care what he taught you? Or who he really might be? One, he saved you. That’s all that matters to me. Two, I’m the last man to point fingers at how a man chooses to live.”

  True.

  “What were their names?”

  “Who?”

  “Your brothers.”

  She leaned over. “Go to sleep.”

  “What was the foster family’s name.”

  “Go to sleep,” she repeated

  For a moment, he looked like he wanted to ask her more, press her for details, but then he sighed, barely shook his head and squeezed her hand. “You’ll check on Darya?”

  She shook her head. “Yes, after you go to sleep.”

  Chapter 23

  Quinlan Kinncaid wove through the tables in the restaurant. There had been a slight problem earlier and he’d been notified. Nothing major, just a returning guest who demanded a table that was already taken. Their normal maitre d’ was off tonight due to a family crisis and the replacement wasn’t nearly as efficient. Quinlan stepped in to smooth things over.

  He checked his watch. The dinner at home was probably over. Not that his brothers cared if he made it or not. Mom was pissed at him, and since she was, so was Dad. Quinlan had more important things to do than sit at a dinner table when he could just as easily eat here.

  Aiden believed he needed to delegate more. Middlemen often screwed things.

  “Evening, Mr. K.,” one of the waiters—Harold—said.

  “Evening, Harold. Thanks for pulling a double shift tonight.”

  Harold smiled. “No problem, Mr. K. I can use the money.”

  Quinlan nodded and moved on. Everything seemed to be going fine. At the bar, he decided he wanted a glass of water. As he waited, he thought of what he needed to get out of the way the next morning. Aiden was going to meet with the historical interior society or some such for the castle restoration via webcam at eight. Quinlan was meeting with their head of marketing to figure out how to get more people to shop in their boutiques in certain locations. Many of their in-hotel shops were incredibly successful and others would, under any other circumstances, be on the verge of bankruptcy.

  He wanted all the shops to be trading at full capacity. Personally, he thought each shop needed more local specialization versus the normal generic—

  “Hello,” a woman’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

  He shook his head and looked at her. Beautiful, truth be known. Raven black hair was pulled back in a sleek yet sexy chignon at the back of her head. Her brows were perfectly arched, her makeup flawless over a perfect face—high broad cheekbones, a straight nose, full lush lips and eyes . . .

  Startling deep green eyes that reminded him of a cat they’d had out at Seneca once upon a time. This woman’s eyes were slanted just like that, a lazy appreciation framed by full lashes.

  She smiled, slowly. “What’s good here?”

  “Here’s your water, Mr. Kinncaid,” the bartender said, setting the clear glass on the bar, the ice cubes tinkling.

  “Thank you,” he said absently, and focused back on the woman.

  He took a deep breath and the smell of something floral and . . . something else floated on the air. Not cloying, not light, but subtle all the same.

  Quinlan motioned to the bartender, yet never took his eyes off the woman at the bar. She wore a black pinstriped pantsuit, and from what he could see of her ample cleavage, he had to assume she didn’t have a shirt on underneath. Which didn’t bother him in the least.

  Raising his gaze back to her eyes, he saw the smirk on her perfectly painted lips.

  “What would you like to drink?”

  Her brow rose. “Are you buying?” she asked, her voice husky and, he realized, European. German, Eastern Europe, Russian maybe. Her English was cultured, but still accented.

  “Consider this drink and any others this evening on the house.”

  Her brow wrinkled as both brows rose. “Mr. Kinncaid? As in the owners of the hotel?”

  And he could see the greed in her eyes. But he really didn’t care either.

  He tilted his head toward her, picked up his glass and drank.

  Her bottom lip pouted out. “I can’t very well enjoy a drink if all you’re having is water.”

  He looked at his glass. He rarely drank, didn’t like the fuzzy noncontrolled feeling he always had when he drank. One drink usually relaxed him and two gave him a buzz. He smiled. “Coffee’s more my poison.”

  “What a shame. Not even a glass of wine with me? Owner or not, I’ll treat you to a dinner here. Or we could go out? D.C. has some lovely restaurants, I’m told.”

  “Our Heather’s is rather well known,” he offered, then set his water down and offered her his arm. “Shall I show you to a table?”

  She smiled and slid off the bar stool, putting her hand on his arm. “What’s your recommendation?”

  He thought about it for a minute. To hell with it. He’d order them some wine. He leaned back over the bar and told the bartender to send a bottle of Gevrey-Chambertin Fonteny over to his table.

  “Anything here is good.”

  “But you’ve already ordered the wine.”

  He grinned. “Yes, I did.”

  Minutes later they had both ordered and were talking of favorite places in Europe.

  He realized he’d been too long without a woman when he started to imagine her with her jacket unbuttoned. Shaking his head, he asked her another question.

  He knew women, watched them more than interacted with them. He wasn’t like his brothers. He didn’t charm to simply charm. He wasn’t made that way.

  “You’re not the chattiest person, are you?” she asked, sipping her wine, her eyes narrowing slightly.

  He shrugged. “Not everyone has something to say.”

  She smiled, and those lips made him think of . . . he shook his head.

  “True enough, Mr. Kinncaid.”

  “Call me Quinlan,” he said, sipping his own drink.

  Her smile grew. He realized then he didn’t know her name. “Then you must call me Alla.”

  Alla. Unusual. “What nationality is that?”

  For a moment, she squinted, then said, “I’ve no idea, whatever my parents were studying at the time, I’m sure. They died when I was young. Professors of literature and humanities at the University in Munich.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She took another drink, tilting her head. “Not your fault.” She leaned up, her elbows on the table, her arms crossed, her breasts all but spilling from the V of her jacket.

  “Can I ask you something, Mr. Quinlan Kinncaid?”

  Her voice made him think of long, hot sultry nights of lovemaking.

  “Depends.”

  She leaned even further over, and he couldn’t miss her signals, unless he was blind or dead, and he was neither. Still, he only took a sip of wine, saw the guard look into the dining room again.

  His mind shifted from the Helen across from him to the dark-haired man, who looked as much like a computer geek as Ian did. Gar. That was it. What kind of name was Gar? Details like that mattered. Was it an old family name? A nickname? In any case, Gar had Hollywood looks, an almost effeminate face, and he was built like a boxer. But his best quality, as far as Quinlan was concerned, was the fact he could crunch number
s, remember details with photographic detail, and still have humor to joke. He was a whiz with the computer and liked to hum Beatles tunes.

  “Problem?” she asked, jerking him back to the present.

  He shook his head. “No. No problem, I was just trying to figure something out.”

  She grinned and ran a finger, her nail long and a dark bloodred, down his tie. “What’s our question?” A waiter dropped dishes, thankfully back in the galley and not in the dining room. Wiping his mouth, he said to his companion, “Please excuse me for a moment.”

  He walked away and wondered how he could go about getting the woman at his table into his bed.

  • • •

  She watched Mr. Quinlan Kinncaid walk toward the swinging doors. He was cute. And it had been a long damn time since she’d thought any man as cute. There was a seriousness about him she respected, she realized, but there was also an innocence. One she would use against him.

  Leaning over, she pulled the vial from her pocket and shook out some of the powder.

  She’d learned he didn’t drink much, she knew he didn’t do drugs.

  It was in the control he had. Like herself. If one used chemicals of any kind, that was handing control over, and she’d never been one to do that. She could almost feel sorry for him.

  She sighed, the smell of grilled meats and fish heavy on the air mixing with garlic, herbs, and hot breads. Her stomach grumbled.

  She reached across and took a sip of his wine, which of course tasted exactly like hers. Under the guise of refilling his glass, she put the pinch of powder into his glass, added more wine, and then set it at his plate, just as he returned.

  She licked her lips. “Thought I’d see if yours tasted differently.”

  He raised a brow and sat back down.

  She wondered how quickly the drug would start to work.

  She thought about being straightforward. Would he rather have a long flirtation? She really didn’t have the time. Deciding to take a chance, she leaned forward and said, “I must be honest with you.”

  “What?” He set the wineglass down.