“The master’s domain. Men are such insecure creatures,” she muttered.
He didn’t look at her as he opened the double doors and walked into the room.
She paused at the doorway.
What did the bloke think? “Look here, boyo.”
He halted and turned. There it was, that wicked grin again. “I didn’t ask you here to make love to you.” Again his gaze ran over her, as caressing as a hand. “Though I’m quite certain it would be more than enjoyable.” He shook his head, a chuckle gravelling out across the room. “I wanted to show you my family so that you would know who was who, what they do.”
“A briefing.” Of course that was it. Bloody hell. What was she anyway? A complete ditz? Not that the idea of his didn’t have some lovely merit.
Then she actually looked around the room.
In dark blues and grays it could almost be dreary in such a setting, with the dark woods and clouded, fog-laden days, but here, it seemed to suit him somehow. Wealth, tangled with sensuality and the knowledge that this was his domain.
Where the rest of the house did little to let her see into this mysterious man, here things were different. The rest of the house was without a doubt a façade. Everywhere she had looked nothing was answered, no clues were given as to who he was.
Not so here.
Dark-canopied bed that she was sure very few could honestly afford, large enough for an orgy. Blinking, she looked around the rest of the room, two walls covered in windows letting in the soft afternoon light. Comfort and quiet wealth.
A fire burned in the fireplace and on the mantel were photographs. Rori walked over to study them.
Ian and another dark-headed man with a single dimple in his cheek. The two had their arms around each other and she could tell from the coloring and facial features they had to be related. Other photos of Ian and a redheaded woman, the woman and an older man with white hair and the same cobalt eyes as Ian. There were other people, twin men, candid photos, as if the photographed had no idea anyone was taking a picture. Photographs showing people’s lives.
She looked around the rest of the room as she held a photo of the redheaded woman years ago holding a baby. Pictures were everywhere.
For some reason the site of all those framed photos on the mantel, on the dresser, the armoire, the side table, the end tables, on basically anything that stood still, left her feeling sorry for this man.
He picked up the first one she’d seen of him and another man, their arms thrown over each other’s shoulders.
“This is my brother, Aiden.”
He held the photo out to her and she looked from it to him, noting the way his features had changed. Not so much the face or the expression, but more an easing of tension that always surrounded him.
So alone.
She knew the world he lived in. A world of grays and shadows until everything was night and nothing seemed real. Deep crevices waiting to swallow souls and jagged mirrors that never really reflected the person within.
And here was yet another facet.
She took the small photo from him, her fingers brushing his on the wooden frame.
“Aiden,” she repeated. “He looks a bit like you.” Her gaze scanned some of the others. “Actually, most of the men do in some form or fashion.”
“Family genetics.” He grunted. “Aiden is the oldest, a year and a half older than me.”
She studied the man, noted the shared features, the differences. Same coloring, different lines around the eyes, and Aiden had a dimple. Something different about the chin. “Aiden the oldest. Tell me about Mr. Aiden.”
“He’s the CEO of Kinncaid Enterprises.”
“What does Kinncaid Enterprises do?”
He looked at her, his eyebrows rising. “They own hotels.”
They, not we.
“Ah. A Kinncaid of those Kinncaids. So your brother owns the hotels.”
“Brothers.”
“They all own it?”
He shrugged. “It’s a family business.”
She set the photo back down and picked up another. “So if it’s a family business, what are you doing working undercover as one of the most feared enforcers in Eastern Europe?”
He picked up another photo, running his fingers over the man’s face. He set it back with the others.
“Aiden’s wife’s name is Jesslyn,” he said, continuing as if she’d never asked a question.
Man didn’t like to discuss some things apparently, but then she never discussed what led her to where she was, so that was fine with her.
“Jesslyn.” Rori picked up the photo of Aiden with a blonde-haired woman. She was smiling, but there was something in her brown eyes. Worry? Pain? Something.
“They have two boys, twins. Ian and Alec.”
“Awe. Named after his uncle, was he?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at the photo of two babies. Babies confused her. She had no idea what she would do with one should she ever have one. Which would never be an issue with her, so it hardly mattered.
The next photograph showed the couple in a garden, or as the Yanks called them, yard, with the twins now walking. A two-story house with a deep porch. Nice. “Proverbial suburban family?”
He chuckled. “That would depend on your definition of suburban.” He tapped the woman’s face. “Jesslyn isn’t the normal society wife. Widowed from a car accident that also claimed the lives of her children, she wasn’t really interested in my brother at first. Then there was this . . . problem.” He frowned. “But it was straightened out and everyone lived. They decided to marry.”
“And happily ever after?”
He shrugged. “As far as it goes, I suppose.”
“Next?” She took a deep breath and for the first time smelled him. Sandalwood, or something like it. Not quite, much more subtle, maybe just soap. Whatever it was, it smelled bloody wicked.
“These are the twins.” He pointed to two different photos. Though the men looked identical, there were subtle differences, hairstyles and expressions. One looked . . . jolly. The other more somber and serious.
“Brayden and Gavin. Gavin here is the family doctor. Obstetrics-gynecology. He married a social worker and adopted her adopted son, Ryan.” He showed her another photo of a smiling family. A lovely woman with long red hair, freckles, and a son who smiled from ear to ear. He looked about nine or ten.
“What’s their story?” she asked, looking at him.
His face hardened. “Found each other, went through hell, battled evil and are living their happily ever after.”
“And that’s the reason to look like you want to kill someone?”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “No.”
“What evil did they battle, then?” She set the photo she’d been holding back on the mantel, watching him.
His nostrils flared on his deep inhale. “The woman who gave birth to Ryan broke out of prison and came after him. Kidnapped him and my niece, Tori.”
Oh, hell. She swallowed. “Did she hurt them?”
“She almost killed Taylor, Gavin’s wife, who spent weeks in the hospital after taking a bullet to the lung. The woman roughed them up a bit, terrified the kids more than anything. Could have been worse.”
Bitch.
“She won’t be terrorizing anyone else,” he said, his voice matter-of-fact, as if he merely spoke of the fact it was cool out.
“Good.” Rori didn’t need to ask to know the woman was dead.
A fleeting confusion flashed in his eyes as he looked at her. She stared back.
She finally broke their staring contest. It was either that or she might do something stupid, like stare longer, or kiss him, or who knew what. This was what happened when she thought about retiring—or had retired? Went barking mad.
He turned back to the photos. “And for the next lesson.”
“What was the nephew’s name again?”
“Gavin married Taylor and they adopted Ryan.”
“Ryan. Got it.”
> He nodded. “We’ll go over it again.”
“How lovely.”
“This is Brayden, antiques dealer, one daughter, Victoria, though family calls her Tori. Last year he married Christian.” He pointed out photos of each person. The daughter had the same coloring as all the Kinncaid men. Dark hair, blue eyes, strong angles. Though she shared a dimple that Rori had seen in the oldest brother and in the matriarch. Christian looked quiet with her short dark hair and smoky gaze. Pale complexion and a seriousness from her that spoke even through the stillness of the photograph.
As Rori scanned, she saw the woman was in some of the other photographs. Not many. She was never posed in any that seemed to be professional photographs. Hers were candid, caught usually in the company of the little girl. “Brayden’s Christian has been around for a while.”
“Nanny.”
She pulled back. “Your brother married his daughter’s nanny?”
Doctors, hotel owners, antiquities dealers. Nannies. She’d come from . . . who the hell knew.
He arched one brow. “She’s more our sister.” He tilted his head. “Well, obviously not to Brayden.” A small grin, as though he kept a secret, lifted the right side of his mouth.
“Fine, Mr. Antiquities marries his daughter’s nanny.”
“Yes, earlier this year, around Valentine’s Day I do believe.”
She got the impression he was leaving something out. “What are you not telling me?”
He shrugged. “There was also a problem for them.”
“Problem as in Aiden and Jesslyn’s problem, or more along the lines of the evil Gavin and Taylor battled.”
“Both.”
Damn. “You’ve an interesting family.” She leaned back against the armoire. “So is their problem still living?”
“Whose?”
“Either.”
“No.”
She shook her head. “My, my, aren’t we ever efficient. Your family is either very lucky or cursed.”
He pointed to another photo of a man with the same features, angles of face, single dimple that Aiden and Tori had, but his coloring was that of the mother’s. Brown hair, or dark red, green eyes. “The Changeling.”
“Quinlan. The youngest, workaholic, family hotel business.”
“Five boys.”
“Yes.”
“So what’s his story?”
He shook his head. “Quinlan is easy. He’s all work. Travels overseeing the overseas hotels and resorts, finds new buys to discuss with Aiden, and when at home, he lives in the hotel. He likes his coffee black, as religious in his workouts as he is about everything else.”
“One of those, is he?”
He ran his finger over the frame.
“One of whats?”
She waved a hand. “Never notices the world around them, timetables and charts. Likes everything just so. No variation of the routine.”
He pursed his lips. “Yes and no. He notices everything, that’s why he’s good at what he does, but he does like his punctuality.”
She grinned. “So you’re alike, are you then?”
“Hmm . . .”
He was looking at her again, that serious, straight-on way, as if trying to understand something.
“What?” She started to take a step back and realized she was against the armoire. That slow smile started to play across his lips, softening the strong jaw.
He took a step toward her, that tilting of lips still on his mouth. “I make you nervous.”
She thought about lying.
“You keep shying from me and my family will think I’m mistreating you.”
“No man will ever mistreat me,” she said, and wished she had controlled the tone a bit more.
“There sounds like there’s an ‘again’ at the end of that statement.” He stepped even closer, his eyes running over her face, as if he were learning every line.
She wanted to look away, but she didn’t.
“Why would you care what they think of me? Would the very proper Kinncaids of Kinncaid hotels not approve of a woman like me?” She motioned to the photos. “All perfectly Anglo-Saxon. They might take a care to a part-black woman in the family. I hear you Yanks take skin color rather seriously.”
He shrugged and stepped close enough she smelled the clean scent of his soap and that other scent. Maybe his aftershave. Made her want to lean up and lick his jaw just to see. She took a deep breath.
“I really don’t care what they think of you, if they do or don’t approve. The fact I’ll actually introduce you to them will make a huge impression.” He notched his chin up, staring at her. “I don’t care what color your skin or eyes are. You’re just you,” he said softly. “But I do have a confession to make about something I am biased about.”
“What?”
“I have a big issue with the gun you use.”
She frowned. “My gun?”
He grinned. “A SIG’s better.”
She blinked and shook her head. “Not bloody likely. You should really try my Walther.”
“You’d let me shoot your Walther?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes intense on her even as he shifted closer. “Now I am turned on.”
Nerves skittered up her back. She hated to be blocked in. Sliding to the side, she said, “Will you let me shoot your SIG?”
That grin flashed, his eyes narrowed and a bit of the devil dared her, even as his voice, husky and deep, said, “Depends on if you know how to handle it.”
She stopped easing away. “There’s not a gun on the market I can’t handle, prefabbed or custom-made.”
“Hmmm. We’ll have to test that theory sometime.”
Blimey the man could seduce with no more than his bloody voice, and she realized how far off topic they were. Rori took a deep breath and shook her head. Where the hell was her head?
“You didn’t answer my question. And why should meeting me matter to them?” She pointed to the pictures. “You’ve obviously seen them often enough.”
He shook his head. “No, several men have been to see them, to help them out, to take care of . . .”
“Problems?” she supplied.
He smiled. “Problems. But Mr. Ian Kinncaid hasn’t been back in many, many years.”
“Because?”
He stepped closer and she started to move to the side. His arms shot up on either side of her. “We’re really going to have to work on this.”
She swallowed and looked into his eyes. If she wanted to, she could make the man move, but then . . . She took a deep breath. She really didn’t want to move him.
“Work on what?” she asked.
“You acting as if you’re afraid of me.”
It was her turn to arch her brow. “I’m not afraid of you.”
He leaned in closer. “You’re not?”
She licked her lips, watched as his eyes dropped to her mouth. “No, I’m not.”
“Well, that is something then,” he whispered, his eyes rising to meet hers, his breath warm on her face. “Isn’t it?”
He closed the distance between them.
She’d kissed the man before and though it was nice . . .
Then his lips were on hers. He didn’t touch her, except for his mouth. His tongue traced her lips, coaxed them open, his teeth gentle as they scraped over her full bottom lip.
Rori leaned back against the armoire and he shifted, his chest on hers, one leg between her own.
She sighed and opened her mouth as he swept in. His kiss demanded cooperation and she gave it, sparring with him, as his tongue licked the sensitive roof of her mouth.
The kiss set her blood to humming, speeding through her veins. She started to move her arms up, but his elbows came down on her arms, his own hands moving from flat against the armoire doors to frame her face.
God.
He pulled back a moment and shoved his hand into his pocket. He took a deep breath and frowned. “Better.”
Bloody wonderful. Here she was thinking of them togethe
r and he pulled away. Better? Like it was a bloody lesson?
Rori took a deep breath.
His one hand still on her face, he said, “There’s something else.”
She cleared her throat before taking a calming breath. “What?”
His head tilted to the side. “This.” He straightened and pulled her left hand to him.
She glanced down and blinked. “What are you about?” Freeing her hand from him proved useless. Finally, she looked up into his dark blue eyes.
Sometimes this man was so bloody intense. Those eyes were narrowed on her, the planes of his face seemed harsher than moments before. “We can’t just say we’re married. Rings, Rori.”
Still she tried to pull her hand free. “Not everyone wears rings.”
“My wife does.” Those eyes challenged her.
Just like that. My wife.
A slight grin pulled one corner of his mouth. “There’s that look.”
“What bloody look?” she snapped.
The grin grew. “That look that says, ‘What the bloody hell am I doing?’ and ‘Fuck off,’ all at once.”
Rori took a deep breath. “I don’t think—”
Without another word, he slid the ring onto her finger. She stared at it. Nothing ordinary for this man. No plain gold band, no big flashy diamonds—not that she’d wear the latter anyway. No, this ring was wide, appeared old with the almost tarnished yet shimmering gold. Round stones so deep blue or green they appeared black were spaced and raised from the band. Deep grooves and swirls roped along the top and bottom of the ring. It looked old, pagan, Mediterranean. It was beautiful.
“You’re not about to say something so clichéd as ‘I couldn’t possibly,’ are you?” he asked, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the ring that fit perfectly on her finger.
She could only stare at it, and vainly liked the way the dim lights glinted on the gold and nearly black stones. Swallowing, she looked from the ring to him and said, “Of course not.” The ring pulled her attention back to it. She shouldn’t wear it. “Is this an heirloom? It appears old. I don’t want it . . . That is.” It was just a ring, and a beautiful one that he’d given her. “Never mind.”
An inquisitive smile lightened his face. “No, it’s not an heirloom. Or I suppose it might be, but I saw it in London and thought of you, so I got it. Simple.”
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