by Jaycee Clark
One corner of Quin’s mouth kicked up under the oxygen hose still in his nose.
“Your secretary quit,” Ian said.
Quin opened his eyes. Licking his lips, he said, “She did not. She came by before you did.”
Ian stared at his brother, bit down until pain shot up his jaw and began to hum at the base of his skull.
“You just like lying there?” he asked.
Quinlan snorted. “Real fun.” He tried to shift.
“How are you feeling?”
Quinlan closed his eyes. “Ever been run over?”
“No.”
“I think this is what it might feel like. Leg fucking hurts.”
Silence settled between them. Quin’s hand tightened on Ian’s before his voice whispered, “I’m such a fucking idiot.”
Ian shook his head. “No. I should have watched closer.”
“As Mom had been preaching, if I’d come around more, I’d have known what was going on.”
And if Ian had paid closer attention, things would have turned out differently.
“I’m sorry,” Quin said.
“Don’t.”
He opened his eyes. “I will.” He blinked slowly. “I let the viper into our family.”
“No, you didn’t. I did.”
“You always had to have your way. I remember that now. Annoying as hell.”
Ian smiled. “Yeah, well.”
“What happened that night? No one will tell me.” Quin’s hand tightened even more on his and his eyes, so like their mother’s, bore into him.
Ian took a deep breath. “You sure you want to know? I’m not going to tell you if you’re only going to lie here, beat yourself up and feel sorry for yourself.”
“Cold bastard.”
Ian nodded. “I am that.”
“Tell me.”
“She drugged you, almost killed you, strapped a bomb to your chest, got you into the house under the guise you were sick. Shot Roth, and then held everyone hostage . . .” He trailed off, the anger still fresh and hot.
“And?” Quinlan asked.
“Shot you too, if I didn’t mention that. Why your leg hurts like a bitch. Messed your knee up, they replaced part of it, but the bullet did damage to your femur as well.” He took a deep breath. “Yes, well, then my wife showed up and decided to take matters into her own hands.” He was still pissed at her for that stupid stunt.
Quinlan took a deep breath, shook his head, and gave Ian a small smile. “You two are perfect for each other.”
Ian grunted.
They lapsed back into silence.
Ian rubbed his forehead. “You need anything?”
Quinlan’s eyes were closed again. “Yeah.”
“What?”
Those eyes opened and were clearer than he’d seen them since Quin had first awakened. “Tell me where the bitch is.”
Well, then. “Dead.”
“Dead?”
“You want details? I don’t have them, but I’m sure I can get them.”
Quin shook his head. “Christ. I don’t want to know, no. Just . . . just . . .” His hand fisted. “Damn it. I slept with the woman.”
“Yeah, so did I.”
Quin frowned. “Are you trying to make me feel better or worse?”
Ian chuckled. “If it’s any consolation, I think she liked you better. She said you were marvelous.”
“Fuck you.” Quin closed his eyes and waved toward Ian. “Go away.”
Ian waited a minute, then rose from the uncomfortable chair. “I am sorry, Quinlan. Sorrier than I can ever say, and just can’t figure out a way to make it right.”
“And people say I worry too damn much.” He opened his eyes and still the clear brilliance shone through them, the sharp intelligence.
Just as Ian suspected. Quinlan was hiding.
“I don’t blame you, Ian. And like a coward, I did try. I was pissed.” He shook his head. “But I’m more pissed at myself. I’m so fucking mad I can’t think straight. And I just don’t know how to get around that.”
Ian studied him a moment. “Quit feeling sorry for yourself for one. I’m an ass, I know that. But I won’t let her win you over in any damn way, shape, or form. And if you blame yourself, feel sorry for yourself, hide behind a fake front, you let her win.”
For a long moment, Quin’s angry green eyes pierced him. Then he said, “When you can follow that advice you just gave me, let me know.” He leaned back against the pillow and sighed.
Probably enough for one day. And damn it, if the kid wasn’t right on that last shot.
Ian smiled as he left his brother’s room. Quinlan would be all right.
And Ian wasn’t going to let the darkness win any part of them. Some jobs were simply never done.
Epilogue
Christmas Eve
Ian, Rori, and Darya had returned the day before from an extended trip to Florida and the Caribbean.
They were home with Jock and Kaitlyn for the holidays and probably a while after—if Ian could find a way to live with that—until he and Rori found their own place.
He’d decided D.C. would be the best place for their American office of KB Securities.
His parents were in town picking up Quinlan and driving him out here. He knew what his brother must think of that.
As the quiet of the day settled around him, he wondered what Rori would think of her present. He’d debated over jewelry, even went so far as to buy and wrap a pair of ruby earrings. But then, he decided it just wasn’t her. So he bought her a SIG P222. Of course, she’d have to then regale him with the fact it would never equal her Walther, but that made things interesting. He’d bought Darya anything that caught his eye from clothing, to toys, to ride-on outdoor equipment. He’d learned her real name was Ayrena Vacladova. Parents died in a plane accident. He was still trying to find the aunt who was guardian of little Ayrena, who was five, and her older sister, Zoy, fourteen. As yet, there was no sign of the aunt or her rumored boyfriend.
Just the thought brought the anger back, but he ignored it and sipped his coffee. All he needed was time, and he’d find them.
She was Darya now. A new life. A new beginning, leaving the pain and old memories behind, as much as she could. He and Rori were looking into child psychologists. Gavin gave him the name of the one Ryan saw. He’d have to check the woman out first before he let Darya see her.
Darya Lenora Kinncaid, so her adoption papers said. He’d contacted Uncle Brody to draw the papers up. Kinncaid, Kinncaid & Associates of New York were a very selective law firm. It helped that he was related to them. Also had them draw a will for him while he’d been at it. The firm already handled other legalities he needed and were handling his corporate side as well. Personally, he normally didn’t give a damn if things were legal—guess that would have to change. He smiled out over the winter scene beyond the window, cold and gray, the clouds low, the trees bare.
Rori and Darya were around the house somewhere.
“Oh, there ye are,” Becky’s voice drew his attention from the window and his own musings.
“What can I do for you, Becky?” he asked, turning to see her walk into the room.
She tossed a package to him and he caught it one-handed. Becky muttered about cooking and mail service. He didn’t quite catch it all as she left.
Across the front of the Express envelope was his name and this address.
Something prickled under his skin.
He took the package to his father’s office to open it in private.
Damn good thing too. Glossy photos slid out and into his hands. Not what anyone wanted to see caught forever on a freeze-frame. The photographs were not for the faint of heart. There were four eliminations in all. Three males and one female. Two of the males matched those in the crime video they’d taken the night they’d found Darya. Two men who murdered her sister and went after her.
Eliminated.
The other male he didn’t recognize, but the woman he did. Darya�
�s aunt.
Ian shook the envelope and a paper fluttered out.
He sighed, pissed, and yet strangely enough, almost relieved. The note only read: Take care of my daughter and granddaughter. —N
The notorious Nikko, whom Ian suspected was none other than Nickolas Morano. British Italian who worked the cold war, only to drop off the scene to become more of a shadow than he was before when he was paid to not be seen. Morano had so many kills marked to him that Ian could safely say, in comparison, he was an amateur. He had yet to meet Nikko, though he’d talked to the man twice in the last month. Nikko was always cordial, polite, and yet warning at the same time. Ian rather liked him.
Great.
Hell.
He picked up the phone and dialed John.
“What?” Johnno asked.
“You know that search I wanted you to continue to work on?”
“Which particular search would you be referring to?”
“The one where I wanted you to find the men who killed Darya’s sister and the people who sold her to begin with.”
“Ah, yes.”
He looked at the gruesome black-and-whites on the desk, picked them up and shoved them in the envelope. After he showed them to Rori, he’d destroy them. “Forget it.”
“Do what?”
“It’s a done issue. A wedding present.”
“Who the hell from?”
“Rori’s father.”
A movement from the doorway drew his attention.
“What about my father?” she asked from the doorway.
He shut the phone, hanging up on Johnno, and turned to her. “He took care of our ongoing argument.”
“Oh.”
“That’s all she says? Oh?” He pulled her to him and kissed her. He figured for them, this was as normal as it got.
Acknowledgments
There are so many to thank. First and foremost, the brainstorming/reader/critiquing/editing crew: Renee Meyer, Patti DuPlantis, Sydney Somers, and Kristie Clark Messer—thank you all for reading through this, for all the emails, all the encouragements, listening to me obsess and stress. To Syd and Kristie, thank you for all the many, many, many conversations about character motivations, plot twists, and whatever other detail I was being neurotic about in whatever version I was working on at the time.
Have to give a huge thanks (and readers, you should as well) to Mandy M. Roth for making sure Quinlan stayed alive in Deadly Games way back when I wrote that book rather than the original idea. Plus, she’s always believed in me and my ability to tell this story if I’d just “shut up and write it.”
To Heidi Fedak, thank you for answering my questions about the Gulfstream V and flight times.
To my medical crew: Aunt Toni, Vanessa Shirley, and Jessica Cross, thank you for answering all my medical questions and not thinking me too weird when asking the best way to . . .
For my law and law enforcement questions, thanks to Boyd Clark and Uncle George.
Any mistakes made are wholly and completely mine.
Quinlan’s been a journey to write for me in so many ways. Must thank my editors extraordinaire Jessica Faust and Bill Harris for keeping me on track, putting up with my neurotic self, and making this book shine.
And last but not least, a monumental Thank You must be shouted out to the readers. Without you guys, Quinlan would still be languishing in various files and the Kinncaids would be known only to me. Thank you for all your support! You guys saw the potential in Quinlan and his story before I did.
Thanks, as always, to my wonderful boys for understanding when Mom has to write.
This one is for my sister,
Kristie Clark Messer,
baby of the Clark Clan.
Prologue
New Mexico, two years ago
He waited until the patient’s breathing leveled out.
“This is insane,” she whispered beside him.
His attention was settled on the woman on the operating table. No one would ever know. They never ever did. That was the beauty of it all, or part of the beauty of it all.
So fucking easy.
Her swollen stomach was already an orange brown from the Betadine. He watched the monitors, the computerized screen showing not only the mother’s heartbeat but the baby’s as well. He listened to the soft swishing to make sure the baby’s heart rate stayed within a safe range.
“Is everything ready?” he asked, already thinking ahead to a phone call he needed to make and the happy parents-to-be.
“Of course.” She sighed. “I don’t like these.”
He was tired of listening to her complain. A shrewd bitch, but too soft too often in his opinion. “These are never pleasant. Just don’t think of it. Remember, this little one will bring in fifty thousand. And it’s not like anyone will miss the bloody mother. If you could even call her that.”
The woman next to him said nothing as she rearranged his tools. He heard her moving the instruments around on the metal tray.
The mother’s heart rate was a little high, but that didn’t concern him.
He picked up the scalpel, steadied it, and quickly made a lateral incision on the very pregnant belly. Blood welled in the wake of his sharp object.
Normally, he was obscenely careful in performing this operation, but it wasn’t as if he had to worry about the outcome. The mother had become a liability. He gripped both sides of the incision, prying through fat tissue and muscles, feeling the tissues rip under his force. At the uterus, he slowed, took a deep breath and concentrated. He heard the mother’s erratic heart acceleration. With a precision born of practice, he carefully cut through the extended womb. The babe within squirmed, shifting beneath the tissue. The infant’s heart rate swished louder in the quiet room.
In seconds, he had the baby out of the confines of the uterus. A boy, which he’d already known. Quiet squeaks filled the air while he suctioned the mucus from the babe’s mouth. Then the small eyes blinked open. The cord still pulsed.
He puffed out a relieved sigh. “He’s a big one.”
She looked at him over the top of her mask and he read the disapproval mixed with greed in her eyes. The greed always won, always.
She clamped off the cord, her surgical gloves squeaking on the instrument, and clipped it.
“What of her?” she asked, motioning toward the woman.
He ignored the question. “We don’t need any more complications. Someone will come in and take care of her. Here, get the babe ready. We’ve three buyers to choose from.”
The operating room was filled with the newborn’s cries and mewls as she wiped him off and rubbed him gently, talking softly.
He took a deep breath and pulled the mask down. “Healthy little boy, aren’t you then?” he asked, rubbing a finger down the small upturned nose.
He reached over and pressed an intercom button. “Send Kevin in.”
She kept her attention centered on the babe; a head full of dark black hair topped the little pink head.
“Beautiful little guy, don’t you think?”
She nodded. “He’s healthy. Weighing in at . . . roughly eight pounds thirteen ounces.”
Music still played; the slow strands of Handel waltzed around the room.
“Apgar’s good,” she muttered, noting and jotting down other details of the baby’s health.
He nodded and reached for his cell phone. He hit the speed dial and waited. The voice on the other end picked up. “You better have come through for the amount on the table.”
He smiled. “You worry too much. Pick a buyer. Healthy dark-haired boy.”
There was a pause on the other end, then a sigh. “Good. No complications?”
He shook his head, part angered that the question was asked to begin with.
Who the hell did the guy think he was to question him? “No.”
“What of the other matter?” the deep voice asked again.
He had no clue and he wasn’t stupid enough to say that. “It’s being handl
ed.”
“You better make damn certain of that. Do whatever you must to clean things up. I’m not going down because of a mess you dragged me into.”
With that the line went dead.
Lawyers were always a pain in the ass, weren’t they? Lawyers could always be replaced, and if the bastard became too much of a pain, they’d just find another one.
A knock at the door startled him. He opened it to Kevin dressed in green scrubs.
“You wanted me?”
He turned back to the gurney. She was still hooked up to the respirator, but he saw there was no need of that. She’d bled out. Her heart rate was too low. He sighed, walked over, covered her with a sheet and motioned to the body bag on the floor. “Get that and help me put her in it.”
The babe still squalled over in the heated bassinet.
He had to get rid of the woman. She’d known too much, asked too many questions when she should have just ignored things, gone along with it all. He’d still have her baby in the end no matter what she wanted, but she’d have been alive.
He unhooked the IVs, the breathing tube, and waited while Kevin wrapped the woman’s lower body. They lifted the bloody mess and awkwardly placed her in the black body bag.
The babe continued to cry.
He had another buyer.
And more waiting for precious little bundles.
• • •
Washington, D.C., October, the present
Where the hell was his wife?
He was married. Still.
Quinlan Kinncaid looked up at the ceiling in his darkened living room. The streetlights didn’t glare into the window of his penthouse suite above the family hotel. He sighed and raked his hands through his hair.
What the hell was he doing? He’d left the rest of the family earlier. They’d all taken Mom out for her birthday, so hopefully the surprise party he and his siblings had planned for tomorrow night might actually work. Probably not. Mom knew everything.