It was heavy. Slam. He was coming closer.
She picked it up . . .
Please . . . She whimpered.
*****
He watched the girl, her eyes closed, her cheeks moving with the slight movement of her thumb. His nerves were strung tight, but so far, so good. If they could get to his place once they landed, everything just might work.
Darya’s fingers were white-knuckled on the damn bear he’d bought her. Poor kid. First thing he’d do is buy her some toys. She deserved some things to play with.
Maybe a doll?
What did little girls play with? He frowned.
She twitched in her sleep, her smooth brow furrowing, and whimpered. Bastards. One day . . .
Gently, he leaned down and whispered in her ear that she was safe. She twitched again and again he shushed her. She finally settled, and he pulled her against him, letting her head rest on his arm. She smelled of soap and some indefinable fragrance that always made him think of children.
What the hell had happened to his life?
If anyone had asked him a week ago what he’d be doing now, his answer would have been working.
Working for Viktor Hellinski.
Working for the agency and international task force trying to find out which brothels and bosses fronted terror networks. Period.
Finding criminals even as he himself posed as one.
Now?
Now someone was trying to kill him. His cover had been blown, so more were trying to kill him, a woman he’d never met before was his wife, and they had a daughter.
Chaotic. It was utterly chaotic and out of control.
He hated things to be out of control.
Strangely enough, he felt a bit of peace he hadn’t felt in a long damn time. Why? He had no idea and he didn’t want to know at present.
The feeling was so vague and rare, he figured he’d best appreciate it and try to figure out what the hell they were all going to do next.
First priority was Darya’s safety. For him, Britain was still too close to those who had hurt her, to Elianya, who wouldn’t think twice about eliminating a child.
But Darya might not be his to protect. What would he do if he found she had a family somewhere?
He shifted in the seat and took a deep breath. He’d make damn certain it was a safe environment to return her to. She and her sister hadn’t just appeared in Elianya’s porn enterprise. He knew, knew from firsthand experience that families in dire straits often did unspeakable things.
Like sell their souls, sell their children. He’d tried not to judge, but damn it. How could any human being sell their child into the sex ring. He knew, as Dimitri, that many had not known, had believed their daughter or occasionally son was going to work. But just as many had known that their child was going to be lost in a world of sex and vice and they simply hadn’t given a damn.
If Darya’s family was of the last, he’d simply kill them and be done with it.
Rage flowed through him, a slow river of lava. He shifted again.
And all this anger wasn’t doing him a bit of good. God, he’d love a cigarette—or as Mr. Hightower might think, a fag. But Brit or not, Hightower wasn’t the type of man to smoke, so the nicotine would just have to wait. Damn it.
The voice in the back of his head asked what he was going to do with the little girl if she had no one else to go to.
Giving up, he opened his eyes and stared at the overhead air vent.
He had no idea.
Turning, he looked down on Darya’s dark head.
An innocent child.
What the hell did he know about innocence or children?
They should be protected.
He’d stayed in this fucking game too damn long. He wanted out, out to have a real life.
Like photographs in his mind, he saw his brothers and their families. Wives, children. The smiles, the laughter. Things he remembered from his own childhood. Not that he’d ever planned to have a family. Families were tools that could effectively be used against him. A wife and children could be exploited, harmed, even killed to teach lessons.
He’d never thought about it until John had lost his family. Then he’d seen what his friend had gone through and vowed he would never, never put anyone in that type of jeopardy.
Children should know safety. Know love.
And where did that leave him? Or Darya?
He didn’t have a fucking clue.
Mr. Evan Hightower closed his eyes and still his mind wouldn’t settle.
He glanced at the woman posing as his wife.
Lori. She was asleep, or at least resting. Her hand lay on the armrest, long-fingered, free from rings, and short buffed nails. Her cheeks were smooth and the pulse in her neck jumped against the white collar of her shirt. The dark purple jacket she wore brought out a blush in her cheeks. Her dark brows, arched and high, made him want to smooth his finger over them. That ridiculously short hair made him want to run his hand over her scalp.
She frowned, her head jerking to the side. He looked at her face, still smooth. Settling back he tried to think. He looked at Rori again. Her hand fisted on the armrest.
He reached over Darya, who was slumping down partially into his lap, and put his hand atop Rori’s, rubbing the back of her fist. He could see the line of vein running along the back of her hand, felt the ridge where the blood flowed.
Her muscles tensed in her arm.
He frowned again. Shifting, he gently shook her shoulder. She tried to pull away and he tightened his hold, shaking a bit harder.
Her eyes shot open and she jerked in the seat.
He studied her. “Easy,” he said. “You were dreaming.” And from the looks of it, not a pleasant one.
Her eyes wide, she glanced at him, then at the little girl between them. She took a deep breath, her chest rising on her inhale, and barely shook her head.
His hand lay again atop hers, hoping to calm her, to take that haunted look from her eyes. A look he’d never seen in those icy eyes, a shadow he didn’t like seeing there.
He felt the tremor even before her hand turned and her fingers laced with his. She didn’t say a word, just stared out the window. He looked at their hands, his dark and tanned, hers long-fingered and elegant, her nails trimmed short, practical. Her fingers were white-knuckled.
He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand, still staring at their joined hands.
The woman didn’t look at him again; the pulse pounded in her neck and sweat beaded on her forehead.
Some dream.
Still rubbing her hand, he leaned his head back and closed his eyes, the warmth of the child nestled up against his side.
What did he honestly know of family?
Chapter 11
Near Glen Affric, Scotland
November 7
Rori looked out at the pine-covered slope. Loch Affric, dull and gray, in the late afternoon light, shone through the trees.
They had been here for a week.
The lake—loch—would be beautiful in the summer months. She was in bloody Scotland. How in the hell did she end up here? She was still trying to figure that one out, as she had been for almost a week.
They’d landed in London and spent two days in different hotels, while Ian had changed his identity yet again.
No more Evan and Lori Hightower. Now they were Ian and Rori Kinncaid. Ian Kinncaid. Kinncaid. She’d run a search on the name after they arrived here and found several lists. Granted, this was Scotland, Kinncaids everywhere. But with that spelling, there was a branch in America and a family in particular who owned hotels. Was he part of them? Not that she’d been able to find thus far. So was Ian Kinncaid simply another alias or not?
Their current residence was an old Georgian manor house, built after the uprising of ’45, or so she was told. History had never really been her thing. She saw no reason why people felt they had to know every little date that ever happened in past lives. She didn’t care. Now was all
that was important, and how one went about spending it, dealing with it and living it. Tomorrow would come, and depending on whether or not you buggered the day would affect the next day.
She looked out the window; the pines and bare trees obscured a clear view of Loch Affric. The day was cold, the clouds low, hiding the mountains that surrounded them.
The place made her twitchy, out in the middle of bloody nowhere. The only sound, the birds. Not that it was a bad place, she rather liked the quiet, but even her place in County Waterford wasn’t this remote. She thought she’d lived in the country, but this . . . this was almost desolate, lonely.
So why hadn’t she left. She could have at any time, she knew. But there was Darya . . .
And she wanted the time away. No one demanded anything of her here. She didn’t worry about the next job. There wasn’t a next job. That made her smile.
So here she was in Scotland, dressed in jeans and a thick cable-knit sweater, trying to keep warm while a light snow dusted the ground.
A sound drew her attention and she turned, looking at the man who was talking on his mobile as he shuffled through some papers.
Heading to the study near the back of the house.
She looked around at the dark wooded antiques, crystal vases, and priceless works of art. There were no photos here. Not that she’d seen.
He’d hardly spoken to her all week. Men came and went. John Brasher, Tanner, Snake, who kept checking on the little girl, and Gar. She remembered Gar. A complete computer geek. Pushing away from the wall, she turned and followed Ian.
“I don’t care. I want the tickets. This week. The sooner the better,” he said into the phone.
Rori noticed his shadow trailed after him as she always did. The little girl was never far from him. And he seemed to be the only one that could calm her after her nightmares, of which there were plenty. Nightly, the girl visited demons and woke up screaming. Every night it broke Rori’s heart and every night she couldn’t make herself go to the girl, to see, to recognize and remember that pain.
The thick rugs hushed their footfalls in the hallway. Darya looked at Rori over her little shoulder. Dressed in an ivory sweater and jeans, her teddy bear clasped to her chest, she stopped, darted around Rori and ran down the hall toward the kitchen.
Gar the nerd was also an excellent cook, as was—surprisingly—Ian. There was a never-ending supply of biscuits. She didn’t ask who made them, in fact, it would ruin her image of Ian if she found out he’d baked the chocolate chip ass-widening delicacies. Better to think of him as the badass assassin. Agent, covert operator, assassin, whichever. Semantics as far as she was concerned. She’d seen the man in action. She knew a fellow eliminator when she saw one.
She watched as the child disappeared around the far corner. This house was a child’s hide-and-seek paradise or nightmare, depending on one’s point of view.
Rori turned around and followed him to his study. The door was shut. To hell with this. She’d played nice for almost a week. She wasn’t one to be put out. If he wanted her help, fine, but she could find something to do other than play shadow to Ian Kinncaid. And he could bloody well start talking to her.
Without knocking, she opened the door, then shut it behind her. He looked at her, the phone held between his shoulder and jaw as he flipped through the file in his hands.
She walked to the chair and flopped down, leaning back.
He frowned at her.
She frowned back.
“Yeah,” he said. “Who was she? Yes? Yes? Get me a name. Thanks.” He flipped the phone shut and clipped it to his belt to hang with the other three he had.
She herself had two. One for personal use and one for work.
Nikko had called so many times she’d lost count. On both phones, she simply wasn’t ready to talk to him yet. Though she should probably ring him back soon before he started his own search for her.
“What?” he asked, walking around the desk to lean back against it. Today he wore his normal black trousers, matching black sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows.
She could see just a bit of black hair peeking out of the vee of his sweater.
“I would like to know what the hell is going on. I’m not one of your lackeys or followers or—”
“Employees?” he supplied, crossing his feet.
“Employees?”
“As co-owner of KB Securities I would have employees,” he said, one side of his mouth kicking up on a grin.
“KB?” she asked.
“Kinncaid-Brasher.”
“Should have chosen another name,” she muttered. Sounded like a jolly toy shop.
His expression didn’t change at all. Still a smirk, those dark blue eyes holding a question—what question she wasn’t certain, nor did she want to know.
“I’m not a bloody employee, thank you.”
He scratched the side of his mouth. “Yes, I wanted to talk to you about that. Any ideas yet on who hired you to off me?”
“Off?”
His gaze didn’t change.
“No. B-Widow hasn’t contacted me since before all hell broke loose.”
“Well,” he said and waved a hand. “We’ve enough people working on the threat as it is. Doesn’t matter. What matters now is my family.”
The way he said it. My family. So definite. So bloody real. For a moment she wondered what it must be like to be considered that possessed. That taken, that owned.
Owned?
Family.
What the hell did she know about family, then? Family to her was either buggered or Nikko. She preferred Nikko.
Nikko. Perhaps she did know about family. Ties that held people together weren’t always forged in blood.
“And then you’ll get to meet them,” he said.
His words pulled her back. She frowned.
“As my wife you wouldn’t want to seem not to know a thing about them, and I believe I should show you something.”
“What? What are you talking about?”
He sighed as if annoyed. “My family. You’re to meet them. As my wife.”
“Like bloody hell.” She shook her head and wanted to stand, but didn’t. She tapped her foot. “Do you really think it necessary?”
“If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have mentioned it.”
She frowned and watched him thrum his fingers on his thigh.
“Do you think it wise?”
“What?”
“Well, you’ve people out looking for you who, I’m quite certain, would love to put a bullet in you. Why would you go to your family?”
He took a deep breath and ran a hand over his hair. “One, I don’t want to lead anyone to my family. But, they have no idea about any of this, any of what I do. The least I have to do is make certain they are safe and things are as they should be. And two, Darya.” His eyes narrowed on hers. “I know this is all . . .”
“Buggered?” she supplied.
“British euphemism. Yeah, buggered.” He sighed and watched her. “If you have something else, other plans already in place, let me know and I’ll figure something out. But I need to know that if anything happens to me, Darya has a place to go. A safe and secure place where she will be loved without question.” Those eyes hardened, burned a cold fire. “She’s been through too damn much to deserve otherwise. So we could use your help in carrying off this cover. If you’re interested.”
She thought about it, tapped her finger on her thigh and watched him. “How long?”
He shook his head. “Not a clue.”
“Basically, I play the little wife indefinitely. Why doesn’t that appeal to me?” Nikko would have a fit, probably laughing his arse off.
“I could keep Darya safe,” she heard herself say.
He nodded. “Undoubtedly. But she needs more than safety and I don’t know that either of us can effectively give it to her.”
She studied him for a moment and felt again his loneliness brush momentarily against hers.
“W
e’re very fucked-up creatures, you and I,” she muttered.
He half laughed, half grunted. Instead of answering he walked to the door and through it. She waited in the chair until he came back and looked back around the doorway.
“You coming?” His hand slapped the door facing.
She stood and rolled her neck. “I need a workout,” she muttered.
The smirk widened.
“Not that.” She took a deep breath and stretched her right arm by crossing it over her chest and pulling it to her by the elbow with her left hand. “I’d love to take your arse to the floor.” Damn the man and . . . “You practice any hand-to-hand combat? Martial arts?” She stopped, realizing how the entire exchange could be construed into sex.
His grin might be deadly if she cared. And of course, she didn’t. He was just . . . a man . . . His gaze raked over her. Maybe a really handsome, lickilicious type of man. A slow rainy day, make love in the bed all day kind of man, but still . . . A man all the same.
“Want to find out?” He smiled even more, those brows rising.
She shook her head and stretched her other arm.
He just stared at her, his head tilting slightly. “Yeah, I think it would,” he said softly.
“What would what?”
His eyes narrowed a wee bit. “I’ll show you later.”
She only cocked a brow at him and motioned for him to go as she joined him in the hallway.
Again they walked down the long corridor. Such a lovely, filled . . . house. Big, wealthy house. An aced des res. She couldn’t live here, but it was without question fabulous.
“You bring lots of rescued kids, people, whatever here?”
He kept walking. “I’ve never brought anyone here. John knows it exists, but that was all.”
“Oh.”
The feeling that the house somehow reflected the owner wouldn’t leave her. Here he was, all shades of any man he wished to become, and his home could have been anyone’s.
Upstairs the soft winter light did little to brighten the darkened antique-lined hallway. They walked passed Darya’s room, then passed her own room to the master’s suite at the end of the hallway.
Deadly Games Page 12