by james
“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 that
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 Odesius, 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 as well. 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.”
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“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 that 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 all together.
“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 so that 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.
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“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 sigh, barely shook his head and squeezed her hand. “You’ll check on Darya?”
She shook her head. “Yes, after you go to sleep.”
DEADLY GAMES Jaycee Clark 168
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
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. Middle men often screwed things.
“Evening, Mr. K,” one of the waiters--Harold--said.
“Evening, Harold. Thanks for pulling a double shift tonigh
t.”
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 locality 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, the 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 pants suite 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
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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 towards 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 non controlled
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 barstool 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 that 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.”
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“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 woman 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 face he could crunch numbers,
remember details with photographic detail and still have humor to joke. He was a whiz
with the computer and liked to hum Beatle 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 blood red, 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 towards 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 that 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 coul
d 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 straight forward. 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
DEADLY GAMES Jaycee Clark 171
must be honest with you.”
“What?” he set the wine glass down.
She leaned closer. “I want to go upstairs and see if you’re as good 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 waste. “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 that 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 entry way. 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.