The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  She leaned closer. “I want to go upstairs and see if you’re as good as I keep thinking you will be.”

  A wicked smile peeked at the corner of his mouth. “Funny.”

  “What?”

  “I was just thinking the same thing.”

  She ran a nail down his arm. “Do you have someplace to be tonight?”

  This time he did smile. “Not anymore.”

  This was too simple.

  She grinned.

  He motioned to the waiter he’d talked to earlier. “Send our dishes up to my room in an hour.”

  He blinked, shook his head and stood.

  She put her arm around his waist. “I’m going to show you things . . .” she whispered.

  “Might show you a thing or two as well.”

  He was taller than she and built like his brother. She could feel the strength of his muscles through his jacket.

  She saw a man walk up to them. The same man Quinlan was watching earlier.

  His guard. Alla smiled slyly at him and knew he couldn’t recognize her. She leaned into Quinlan, who started to stumble.

  “Mr. Kinncaid?” the man asked.

  He waved him away, looked at her and said to the guard, “Gar. Leave me the hell alone. You’re not going to be present for tonight’s activities.”

  With that, they walked out of Heather’s and into the entryway. He took a plastic card out of his pocket, slid it into a security slot, and part of the black mirrored walls slid aside to reveal the private elevator behind it.

  Stepping inside, he pulled her against his side and kissed her. Hard.

  She laughed and ran her hands over him.

  At least tonight’s fuck would be enjoyable.

  He stumbled again and said, “Damn.”

  She hoped she hadn’t given him too much. Looking into his pupils, she shook her head and knew she hadn’t.

  When the doors pinged open, he kissed her and led her down the hall to another door. Once inside, he plastered her to the wall. For the first time in longer than she could remember, the man actually made her forget where she was. She enjoyed the feel of his mouth on hers, his hands on her, quickly undressing her. The way her blood began to hum . . . the way she wanted . . .

  For a while she lost herself in the simple act of what they were doing, but then, as it always happened, she felt herself growing colder until she almost felt like a person outside herself. Watching, waiting . . .

  She fisted her hands in his hair and said against his mouth, “Where’s the bedroom.”

  • • •

  Quinlan came to, a freight train screaming in his brain.

  He didn’t even open his eyes. He remembered the woman with the sleek hair, the dark green eyes, the body . . .

  God, her body was a well-honed piece of art. Toned and muscular without being overly athletic. And her thighs . . .

  He rolled over and winced.

  The bed was empty.

  He pushed himself up on his elbows and blinked.

  This was why he never drank more than a glass of wine. He hated, hated feeling this way. He couldn’t think and fog clouded out memories.

  And he had no control over any of it.

  He flopped back down and moaned again into the pillow. Shit.

  Looking at the window, he saw it was still dark out. What the hell time was it? He tried to focus on the clock.

  He remembered drinking two glasses of wine. It had been only two, hadn’t it? He squinted and noticed it was almost six a.m. No, that couldn’t be right. He checked his watch.

  Shit.

  Tossing the sheet back, he stood and reeled. God almighty. The freight train slammed into the sides of his skull. Putting a hand to his head, he sat back down. He was naked. The rug on the floor was littered with several condoms, their ripped foil packaging, and an empty bottle of champagne. Thank God. At least he’d had the sense to use protection. So much for only two glasses. He remembered now sharing the bottle of expensive bubbly with her, drinking it slowly off each other’s bodies . . .

  Who the hell was she? Alla. Just Alla.

  Perfection and . . . controlling. Her husky laugh floated through his memory and disjointed bits of other thoughts.

  Her riding him as he thrust into her, her head thrown back, her mouth smiling, her ample, tight breasts overflowing in his hands. Implants, but he hadn’t cared.

  Something was off. Way the hell off.

  Her eyes. It had been her eyes.

  One memory slashed through the others. Of her leaning over him, her lips void of any smile and her eyes cold and hard.

  He tried to think, to remember more.

  A phone, she’d had a phone in her hand and her words . . . he remembered they’d been garbled, as if she talked underwater.

  Quinlan rubbed his hands over his face. He didn’t have time for this now. He hadn’t eaten and must have had more than he thought.

  That was the last time he ever did that. He stumbled to the bathroom and didn’t even bother to turn the light on. He reached into the shower stall and cranked the water at full blast.

  Holy hell. Light or aspirin?

  Pain pulsed in his head. Forget it, he’d figure it out later.

  Hot water from the shower beat down on him until he felt sufficiently clean and couldn’t smell Alla on him anymore.

  Regardless of what he could and couldn’t remember, he did know he hadn’t had that good a lay in a long, long damn time. Maybe if he saw her again this week, he would just make certain they didn’t have any alcohol. Woman made him forget his own head.

  Just for punishment’s sake—and the fact he really needed to get his brain to working—he cut off the hot water and stood under the icy spray. With a shiver, he stepped out of the dark shower and reached to the right, grabbing the thick terry robe. He pulled it on and grabbed a towel.

  Time to start the day. He had progress reports to get up and a meeting with Aiden before eight. Marketing representatives to confer with.

  And all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed. The last time he felt like this, or rather remotely like this, was last year when Christian had been hurt. He’d come back here after they knew she’d be fine and he’d gotten roaring drunk on a bottle of their best Scotch. Well, it hadn’t been the whole bottle, just several shots.

  Yeah, he’d felt this crappy then.

  He walked into his room, opened his closet and removed a suit. That elusive and arousing scent of floral and something that tightened his gut, pulled on his lust, wafted in the room.

  Damn. He’d have to make certain housekeeping did a complete sweep of the place.

  Dressed in his normal attire of a dark suit, a dark green shirt and a black tie, he walked out the door and into the lighted living room. He squinted.

  Gar sat at the kitchen table, his fingers clicking softly on his laptop. He looked up and raised a brow, muttered something under his breath.

  Quinlan smelled coffee. “Thank God.”

  Filling a cup, he opened the top cabinet door beside the sink and took out his bottle of ibuprofen. Shaking out two pills, he tossed them back with the coffee, scalding his mouth and his esophagus.

  “Must have been some woman,” Gar commented. “She left about three.”

  Quinlan squinted at the tiled walls and turned to the man at his table. He looked like the normal computer geek, with the exception of his gun. That tended to bring things back.

  “Yeah, well, not kissing and telling and all that.” He frowned. “You been up all night?”

  Gar continued working on the laptop. “Yes, well, someone had to look out for you.” Those eyes cleared of whatever they saw on-screen and focused on him, hard. In that perfectly British voice that both John and Ian’s wife, Rori, had, Gar said, “Regardless of common belief, killers are not limited to the male species.”

  “And since you’ve read everything on our family, I’m sure you know I’m aware of that fact.”

  Gar didn’t say anything for a long minute.
“What was her name?”

  He didn’t need this. Slamming his cup down, he grabbed his suit jacket and slipped it on. “Regardless of what my brother thinks, I don’t answer to him.”

  Gar stood and slipped on his jacket, covering the gun. “No, but I do.” His eyes met Quinlan’s. “And I can tell you with certainty that I don’t want to be on his shit list.”

  For some reason Gar, with his precise syllables, saying “shit list” pulled a grin from Quinlan.

  Without another word, he walked out of his apartment, already thinking of the day ahead and wishing his headache away.

  Who had the woman been?

  Chapter 24

  November 17, 6:22 a.m.

  Alla put her espresso cup down and dialed on her cell phone. The little café near the Potomac was open at this hour. She’d left the Highland Hotel early this morning and took a cab to her actual hotel not far away.

  “What?” the voice on the other end answered.

  Alla sighed. “That’s no way to greet a business partner.”

  The voice lowered. “Now isn’t a good time.”

  “Too bad.” Since her current business wasn’t going as smoothly as it used to and she’d lost a huge profit over the last few weeks, she’d come up with another plan. Granted, her shipment of girls from Miami paid nicely, but she was used to more. “I want four million dollars transferred to a Swiss account. I’ll let you know the account number later—”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” the voice whispered.

  “You heard me.”

  “I am not paying you four million in anything.”

  She laughed. “Oh, yes, my dear, you most certainly will.”

  “Just what makes you think that?”

  Alla tapped her finger on the tabletop. “You don’t want anyone to know your little secret, for one. What would people think? You don’t want anyone to know we were lovers.”

  “But—”

  “Two, you don’t want anyone to know you sold confidential information to those who knew they could contact you and pay enough.” Alla glanced around, noting it was safe to continue.

  “I don’t have—”

  “Yes, you do. And if you didn’t manage your money for any unseen eventuality, that really isn’t my problem.”

  The contact took a shuddering breath. “But . . . I thought . . . I . . .”

  Alla laughed. “You thought what? That just because we had some fun together that meant something. You have much to learn.”

  “This isn’t my first game,” the voice snapped. Silence from the other end. “I don’t think I can.”

  She took a deep breath. “Then that’s too bad. You didn’t handle the problem two nights ago, and have brought even more attention to Mr. Kinncaid than either of us need. It’s my turn and my way. Four million. Be ready for a transaction when I call you back in two days.”

  “But—”

  “You disappoint me and your husband will find just exactly who the traitor is. The fact you married him for the sole purpose of selling confidential information should make him really happy.”

  With that Alla snapped her phone shut, laid it down next to her espresso and picked up the cup, sipping.

  Today was looking brighter and brighter. And in several more she’d end the Kinncaid issue.

  • • •

  Ian Kinncaid cut through the water of the indoor pool. It was cold out this morning, and the water was warm, freeing against his skin. He reached the end of the pool and turned to swim another lap. He’d been swimming for about half an hour and knew he needed to swim another twenty minutes at the very least. He’d been lax lately in his workouts. Workouts kept him fit, on his toes, his muscles ready.

  He turned his head, took a deep chlorinated breath and continued to swim, stroke after stroke.

  The headache was gone and he sincerely hoped the swim would shove away any of the lingering heaviness he often experienced after those fucking migraines. He hated them. He knew they were a side effect of what he did. The psychologists on staff for Pete had run tests and confirmed what he already knew. Men who killed other men as part of their jobs had to, at some point in time, come to terms with what they did. And if they continued in a vein of denial, their psyche often reacted in various ways. Panic attacks, excruciating headaches, insomnia, some guys had delusions. Thank God he hadn’t gone that far. At that point, he’d just tell John to shoot him.

  All part of the job.

  He didn’t currently have time to “deal,” as the doctor had warned him yesterday. The shrink had wanted him to take leave. Pete had backed him up, and he’d listened to his boss and the doctor argue for a good five minutes, until he’d finally just stood up and walked out.

  Stroke after stroke. The water caressed him, washed away the remnants of nightmares, of terrors he didn’t want or need to contemplate right now.

  When it was all over. This weekend. Next week. Elianya.

  The muscles in his shoulders and neck tightened.

  He pushed off the side of the pool even harder and swam faster.

  When he took another breath, he saw his father standing at the edge of the pool. Ian had no desire to talk to him. Keeping his rhythm, he kept swimming. Images flashed in his brain, and he tried to turn them off.

  Black, white. Flash. People screaming, fires burning. Flash. Girls crying. Women dying. Flash.

  Ian swam faster, faster and harder. The water would wash it away.

  It had to.

  Stroke, stroke, stroke.

  • • •

  Jock watched the boy cut through the water like a torpedo. Swimming as if the demons of hell were after him. He’d seen the shadows in his son’s eyes, wondered and hadn’t asked.

  He’d heard Ryan and Tori talking. Knew Ian was the man who saved them. And something about him, something tickled the back of Jock’s memory about the time when they’d had guards for Christian.

  Had he been here then too?

  And then it flashed. The bald man who’d grabbed Brayden as the congressman fell, his bloody hand locked on Brayden’s shirt. The bald man who’d jerked Brayden back from falling as well. The bald man who’d shot the dangerous congressman as easily as if the gun was simply part of his hand.

  The entire scene replayed in his mind.

  Ryan worshiped him, thought of his Uncle Ian as some superhero. Had Ian taken care of Nina Fisher as well?

  Jock frowned, wishing to hell he’d never latched on to the thoughts. They wormed their way into his brain and wouldn’t leave.

  What price did his son pay to keep them all safe from the shadows? And was Jock to blame for driving that boy to this point?

  Last night Ian had appeared haunted, haggard. The boy wasn’t but thirty-six and last night he could have passed for one of Jock’s retired golfing buddies.

  For a second, he thought about waiting until Ian was done and talking to his son. But he sensed Ian didn’t want to talk. If he had, he would have stopped swimming and talked. Plain and simple.

  Jock, towel in hand, walked out of the conservatory, the glass windows fogged from the heated pool and hidden behind masses of greenery. Shutting the door behind him, he took a deep breath, felt tears sting his eyes. Looking up, he prayed, “God, don’t hold against him the sins I led him to. You know he’s got a good heart.” All this time, Jock had been angry, hurt, betrayed and wishing for his son, and Ian had been protecting them at a cost Jock didn’t want to contemplate. What kind of father did that make him?

  Swallowing, sniffing hard, he took another deep breath. He was tired. Maybe he’d go back upstairs.

  In the hallway, he stopped outside of Darya’s room. The sound of her giggles had him pushing the door open a bit more.

  She stood in her swimsuit, Rori behind her in a robe, smiling.

  They made a lovely family. Jock sensed things were still very new between them all and he longed, hoped with an intensity that his son found some peace in this woman and child.

 
Darya’s grin grew and she skipped around.

  Rori turned and met his eyes. “Are you going swimming as well, then?”

  He shook his head. “No. But I know Ian’s down there swimming a marathon.”

  A faint pull of brows marred her smooth forehead. He looked and really saw her. Tall and willowy, her skin bronzed, her eyes light, she was beautiful—exotic—and somehow he knew, perfect for Ian.

  “What?” she asked. “Did I grow another head while I slept?”

  “No, I was just thinking how lucky Ian is. You’re beautiful, intelligent, and something tells me a perfect match for . . .” He shook his head. No, he wouldn’t say matches. What did he know of spouses for his children. “I can easily see why my son married you, Rori.”

  For a moment she stared at him, then smiled, her cheeks dimpling. “Careful, Mr. Kinncaid, you’ll ruin my image of you.”

  “You and Jesslyn,” he muttered. “Call me Jock, for God’s sake.” He turned to go, then turned back. Motioning to Darya, he said, “There are some kids’ pool toys in the closet next to the table down there.”

  Her smile still in place, she nodded again, and grabbed a towel.

  He turned and walked back to his room.

  Ian might have only shown up to make certain they were all safe and well, but he’d come home. And five days later he was still here. Maybe, just maybe, they would stay.

  Once in his room, Kaitie, sitting in bed, took one look at him and asked, “What?”

  “I want all our kids and grandkids close.”

  Her laughter always managed to loosen the bands in his chest and calm him. “Jock, our children love us, but you’ve got to understand, they have their own lives.”

  He took off his robe and looked at her in her low-cut emerald gown. Crawling up onto the bed, he kissed her, pushing her back down. “Kaitie lass, don’t pull that with me when I know you feel the same way.”

  Her grin was the same it had been since the day he’d met her, part sheepish, part seductive.

  “Well . . .” She kissed him. “One of us has to think rationally.”

  He grinned, and whispered what he wanted to do. Her laughter rubbed the silk of her gown against him, and he decided to show her.