The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  Sibling love at its finest.

  “You know, you could say this is an intervention,” Gavin said, shifting in his seat and motioning with his tumbler of whiskey.

  “An intervention?” Quinlan just looked at them all. An intervention of what? He didn’t drink anymore, half the time didn’t take the pain pills he was supposed to take, and God knew his leg hurt like a freaking bitch half the time. He didn’t gamble. The last time he’d gotten laid had almost killed him, so sex had been a no go for some time as well. He didn’t do much of anything. Hell, he’d even cut back on his hours at the family hotel in D.C.

  Gavin, one of his twin brothers, nodded. “Yeah, an intervention, and I have to say I think it’s a freaking great idea. I was really needing to get away.”

  Brayden, the other twin, sighed. “You might have been, but I wasn’t. I didn’t want to leave Christian for this long.”

  The two were identical, built like linebackers and with the inherited Kinncaid dark hair and cobalt eyes. Gavin had always been the jokester, Brayden the more serious.

  Gavin waved his hand. “All the women are staying at the hotel doing the spa thing with Mom, and Dad’s got Ryan to keep him busy with golf. Grandkids, grandparents and women. She’ll be fine. Trust me, I’m a doctor, I know what I’m talking about.”

  “You’re not my wife’s doctor,” Brayden said, taking a sip of his own drink. Vodka, if he went with habit.

  “Well, no, that would just be weird, Bray. I deliver babies, and if I had to I’d deliver my niece or nephew, but I’d rather enjoy familial births rather than be the one delivering them if it’s all the same to you. Your doc is Strong, right? Good ob-gyn.”

  Quinlan rolled his eyes and let the two talk babies and wives and birthing plans—whatever the hell those were. All his brothers were married. All had kids. All were living that happy family picket fence Little League bullshit.

  Okay, maybe his brothers’ lives weren’t exactly bullshit. They were happy and he was happy for them and he loved all his nieces and nephews. Really, he did. But he’d always figured that life wasn’t for him. He’d never actually thought it was for him, even if his mother was forever complaining that she just might not live to see the day he married, let alone gave her a grandbaby.

  Now, even if he did think the picket fence, big diamond ring, home every night was for him, who would he trust with that? That thought was too damned deep for now and he was more concerned with what his brothers had planned than whether he might get married. Ever.

  “Dad will probably write us all out of his will for leaving him with them all,” Aiden, the oldest, volunteered as he sprawled in his chair, tucking his cell phone back into his pocket.

  “Nah, he’ll love every minute of it,” Gavin added.

  “So again, why are we all on the plane heading south?” Quinlan asked.

  Ian, the second oldest and often most silent of the family, tossed him a water bottle. “We are all here because I told them we were going. I didn’t take no from them any more than I took it from you.”

  “You mean I’m not the only one lucky enough to be threatened to come along?”

  “Threaten is such a dirty word,” Ian said, grinning and leaning back. “I prefer persuaded.”

  Quinlan looked at each of his older brothers. “Waterboarding is frowned upon, you know.”

  “Personally,” Ian continued, “I found it generally got me the results I wanted, if the time allowed.”

  “You know, we could just be happy we’re taking a small break. Away from the kids, the women and the grandparents—Lord love them all,” Gavin muttered.

  “You’re the one that moved closer to home,” Ian told his brother.

  Gavin shrugged. “And you didn’t?”

  “Not that close.” Ian shifted and sighed. “Besides, how long has it been since we’ve done this?”

  No one said anything for a long time.

  “Never,” Quinlan said, looking at each of his brothers. He chuckled. “I was still in school when you went AWOL.”

  “I didn’t go AWOL. I was exploring my options.” Ian frowned at him.

  “Yeah. You keep telling yourself that.” He leaned over and punched Ian in the arm. “So thanks.”

  Aiden grinned. “Bet that hurt.”

  “Not as much as I thought it might. So again,” he said, “where are we going for our overly extended time of brotherly bonding?”

  No one said anything for a moment. Then Brayden looked at him. “You know, I don’t remember you being such a smart-ass before.”

  “Side effect of the meds I take.”

  Several of his brothers laughed. He only smiled.

  “Well, I for one am damned glad,” Brody Kinncaid said.

  They had a few cousins. Brody and Conner were the only two they’d claim. Brody came, but Conner was in Taiwan.

  “Were you also threatened?”

  “Hell, no,” Brody said, plopping down beside him. “I figured it would be like those summer trips we were forced to take as kids when our parents met at the Vineyard.” He sighed. “Miss those times, truth be told. Now we work all the time.”

  “If you didn’t defend scumbags, you might enjoy life better,” Ian told him, grinning.

  “Yes, but since I’ve gotten so much practice, cousin, you’ll know I can adequately represent you if any of your sins ever come to light.”

  Ian snorted and took a drink. “Johnno said he’d try to make it and Gabe is flying down tomorrow.”

  John Brasher, Ian’s business partner, and Gabe Morris, one of D.C.’s finest brothers in blue.

  “Fun time had by all.”

  “And if we get arrested in New Orleans, then our dear cousin will be able to get us out.”

  Brody flipped Ian off and settled back against his seat.

  New Orleans? Huh. Quin wouldn’t have guessed Ian would pick New Orleans for a trip, but Quin had always loved the city.

  “New Orleans?” he asked his brother.

  Ian shrugged. “If you don’t like the destination, too damned bad. You pick the location and plan the trip next year.”

  Next year. Another trip with his brothers . . . He grinned.

  Quin looked around at them all. Yeah, this trip should prove interesting. He’d just go with the flow. He was good at that, after all. He tended to forget things more now than he had before, he knew that—more from people’s expressions than having to look at a schedule or something and see that he’d missed something else. He couldn’t run anymore and damned if he didn’t miss his morning runs. Or skiing. He really missed skiing this winter with Aiden and his gang. For the last couple of years they would invite him to go out to Colorado and hit the slopes with them. He loved to ski and he damned well missed it.

  So he’d go along with whatever his brothers had lined up, at least as long as it suited him. Going along with it, just taking what came his way. It was about all he was good at anymore.

  • • •

  New Orleans

  The boys were all settling into their rental. Someone, probably Aiden, had rented a house in the Quarter with plenty of rooms and enough genuine antiques to make Brayden see dollar signs. The rest were well on their way to enjoying the day in an inebriated state.

  He took a deep breath and sighed as he walked down the sidewalk.

  He’d always enjoyed the French Quarter here in New Orleans. It was almost like a work of art in and of itself. Music wafted on the air, several different pieces. Someone was practicing a violin, a guitar also rode through a window.

  The houses here had ahold of him, always had. He’d thought about purchasing one once upon a time, but then . . .

  Hell, why hadn’t he? ’Course, if he had, it now would not be worth what he would have paid for it after the housing market crashed. Still, though, he’d have his own place.

  Now?

  Now he was the only sibling that still lived in the hotel. Aiden had, once upon a time, and even Brayden and Gav had spent their time in thei
r own suites on the upper floor of the family hotel in D.C.

  But now they all had their own homes, their own families to fill them.

  And he had what?

  A limp?

  A job he didn’t enjoy anymore?

  An empty bed that he honestly had no desire to fill—last time had almost killed him.

  He had his shrink appointments, which were supposed to be helping him deal with things. Maybe Dr. Garner was helping, he wasn’t pissed off anymore. Wasn’t suicidal or anything—homicidal maybe, suicidal no.

  But he also wasn’t . . . wasn’t . . . him.

  Something was missing. The excitement. The fun. The fear. Something. Anything. Because frankly, he felt nothing. Nothing other than fear or panic in the dead of night after a nightmare. Other than that?

  Nope.

  And that worried him. He was learning to deal with the fact his body and mind would never be the same as they had been before Elianya Hellinski. Small things became large. Insomnia some months, too much sleep others, constant pain. Then there was the fact his mind wasn’t as sharp. It often took him twice as long to complete tasks—and that was on a good day. Appointments and people often slipped his mind. That pissed him off more than the physical changes. Being around people got on his nerves—which in turn made the rest of the clan fret and worry. He’d wanted to know the whys of his limitations and no one could tell him for sure—lack of oxygen when he coded several times, the chemicals from the drugged cocktails Hellinski had poured down him—who knew? In the end, the reason didn’t matter, he’d learned. What mattered was simply dealing, and where he’d have once thought that would be easy, he’d learned it sure as hell wasn’t. Especially when he remembered what he—and his life—used to be like.

  The worst, though, was the worry on his mother’s face, his brothers’ hovering, the scrutiny of every little damned thing until many days he just sat in his office, working but not wheeling and dealing like he had before. Family interactions—hell, any interactions, he kept to a bare minimum. He’d changed his apartments at the penthouse from the traditional antiqued look that graced all the rooms to a modern black leather, chrome, and glass look. You’d have thought the family found him hoarding sleeping pills or something.

  Maybe he would buy a house down here and set out on his own . . . Why not?

  He frowned as he waited for a family to cross the street in front of him. He didn’t want to go to Bourbon Street. Instead he turned back and went over a block.

  The houses lining the streets were a multitude of colors. Some were set off the sidewalk, looking like mini-plantation homes behind half walls and iron fences. Others hid behind tall walls with broken colored glass along the top. Still others were stucco, locked up tight unless you were allowed into the courtyard and inner sanctums.

  Be fun to buy one of these old homes and fix it up, see what he could make of it—himself.

  Not with the help of his brothers or his loving, well-meaning parents.

  If he bought a house here and moved . . . then they’d all leave him the hell alone.

  He looked up and saw the corner market. Matassa’s. He could run in and grab some bottled water and something to eat, see what the little market had.

  The interior was tight, a little cluttered for his peace of mind, but it was clean and seemed pretty well stocked with whatever anyone might want. He went to the produce section, his mind still on the idea of moving here.

  His family would worry he had lost his mind.

  He, who had previously been the workaholic, always flying from one hotel to the next to check on things, always working the next deal, making certain every minute thing was working smoothly, even knowing their managers were competent or they wouldn’t have been hired. That man had faded into the background, if he even existed anymore.

  He picked an apple out of several and then another.

  For Quinlan Kinncaid to buy a house in the French Quarter and then move? Yeah, his family would freak.

  He chuckled to himself and turned and knocked into someone. He dropped his cane and reached out to steady them . . . her.

  Chapter 2

  Her.

  Her hair was . . . was it blue? Cotton-candy blue with pale pink ends that curled softly above her shoulders.

  Quinlan blinked and realized how small she was. The woman only hit him mid-chest. Her eyes, big, round and blue with little brown and gold flecks in them, stared at him in surprise.

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry, I wasn’t paying attention,” she muttered. “I’m never paying attention.” She tried to put an orange back and several rolled off.

  She wiggled a bit and grinned up at him. Dimples. Deep dimples made her seem more impish, more human because her skin was flawless. Other than a faint scar he could barely see along the top of one eyebrow.

  He realized he still held her upper arms, very in-shape upper arms, and slowly let her go.

  “Your hair’s blue,” he blurted.

  Her brows rose.

  “I mean . . . You okay? I’m sorry, my mind was elsewhere and I wasn’t paying attention either. You’re all right?” He never took his gaze off her.

  Emotions and expressions flittered across her face, so easy to read she’d be horrible in negotiations.

  “Cher, I’m always all right, better than all right. I’m just sort of klutzy sometimes.” From his eyes, her gaze slowly lowered and took him all in and then meandered back to his eyes. Her dimples winked at him again as she grinned. “And you look like you’re more than okay too.” Quickly she bent down and he got a lovely view of her ass covered in black and gray tie-dyed yoga pants. Her arms were muscular and toned as she rose and handed his cane to him. “Again, sorry about that.”

  “Hey, Ella!” someone called from behind the register.

  “Hey, Tiny. You get any decent strawberries yet? ’Cause you promised you’d order me some, hon. And I don’t see any pretty red organic strawberries. You making me wait till next week?” She propped a hand on her hip, clearly waiting for the man’s reply.

  Hell, Quin would go to the French Market and find her some fresh strawberries.

  He shook his head. What the hell?

  She looked back at him and winked, and those damned dimples woke up his libido. Or it might have been the tight yoga pants, weird as they were. Or the tie-dyed pink tank top that made his suddenly awoken libido think of all sorts of things he’d like to do with her.

  Shaking his head at his derailed thoughts, he cleared his throat. “Thanks.”

  “Ella, darlin’, you shoulda come in this morning, like you said you was going to. Then you’d have gotten your fresh strawberries. However, me being such a wise and kind soul,” the older man behind the counter said, “I saved you two pints. Here ya go.”

  She grinned again and Quinlan almost groaned. What the hell was the matter with him? “Aw, bless your heart! I knew I could count on you, Tiny. Lisha have her baby yet?”

  The older man shook his head and set two containers of strawberries on the counter. “Nope. Swear woman’s going to give me gray hair.”

  The woman . . . Ella . . . looked back at him and grinned. “Tiny always complains about his wife giving him gray hair.”

  “How do you think I got all this gray anyway?” he said, chuckling and bagging the bright red strawberries.

  Ella turned to him then. “Sorry, man, for knocking into you. You sure you’re okay?”

  He bent a little closer to her, glad when she didn’t back away. “I’m always better than okay, hon. Name’s Quinlan.”

  She threw back her head and laughed. Bright, clear laughter that curled inside of him and beckoned . . . She wagged her finger at him. “That’s not a N’Awlins accent, cher. You here for business or pleasure?”

  “More like a kidnapping, though my brothers claim it’s an intervention.”

  “Of?”

  “Making me have fun again?”

  Fun? He didn’t know how to have fun?

  “Oh, honey, if
fun’s what you’re after, you’re definitely in the right city for it.” Ella Ferguson studied the tall man in front of her. His refined handsome features weren’t as rugged as she usually went for, but he was damned attractive. Or maybe it was the way he’d blurted out that her hair was blue and the grin that tipped up the right edge of his mouth, allowing a single dimple to peek out at her. Green eyes, the color of the ivy that covered her courtyard wall. Thin but wide lips, the bottom fuller than the top, arched russet brows. Freckles. Just a few, but they speckled across the narrow bridge of his straight nose.

  Well mannered, and well dressed in an I don’t care what I look like kind of way. His jeans were well worn, and was that paint on the edge of one of the pockets? His leather shoes were pricy, she knew because she used to have a thing for shoes—okay, she still did, but that was beside the point. A dusty aqua button-down shirt over a dark gray T-shirt. His shadow was several days past five o’clock—then again, he wasn’t wearing a watch, she noticed. No ring either. His shadow was darker than the burnished hair that looked like it needed a cut. Either he didn’t care or was just too busy to worry about haircuts.

  Maybe he was a . . . a . . . a what?

  The game she used to play as a kid always snuck up on her at the most inopportune of times. Find a person, look at their clothes, the way they wore them, their appearance, their walk, talk and interactions with others and guess what they do—where they come from. Why they might be here.

  Though he’d answered the last question. She realized she was staring at him.

  And that barely-there grin said he noticed her staring.

  “Your hair’s not blue,” she stated.

  It was his turn to laugh and his chuckle was almost rusty, as though he wasn’t used to laughing.

  “You should do that more, honey.”

  “What?” he asked, his brow furrowing. He laid a twenty on the counter along with two apples. “And her strawberries.”