Deadly Games

by Clark, Jaycee

  Chapter 23

  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. Middlemen often screwed things.

  “Evening, Mr. K.,” one of the waiters—Harold—said.

  “Evening, Harold. Thanks for pulling a double shift tonight.”

  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 local 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, and 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 pantsuit, 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 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 toward 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 noncontrolled 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 bar stool, 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 her 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.”

  “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 Helen 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 fact 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 Beatles 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 bloodred, 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 toward 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 the 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 could almost feel sorry for him.

  She sighed, the smell of grilled meats and fish heavy on the air mixing with gar
lic, 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 straightforward. 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 must be honest with you.”

  “What?” He set the wineglass down.

  She leaned closer. “I want to go upstairs and see if you’re as good as 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 waist. “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 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 entryway. 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.

  Stepping inside, he pulled her against his side and kissed her. Hard.

  She laughed and ran her hands over him.

  At least tonight’s fuck would be enjoyable.

  He stumbled again and said, “Damn.”

  She hoped she hadn’t given him too much. Looking into his pupils, she shook her head and knew she hadn’t.

  When the doors pinged open, he kissed her and led her down the hall to another door. Once inside, he plastered her to the wall. For the first time in longer than she could remember, the man actually made her forget where she was. She enjoyed the feel of his mouth on hers, his hands on her, quickly undressing her. The way her blood began to hum . . . the way she wanted . . .

  For a while she lost herself in the simple act of what they were doing, but then, as it always happened, she felt herself growing colder until she almost felt like a person outside herself. Watching, waiting . . .

  She fisted her hands in his hair and said against his mouth, “Where’s the bedroom.”

  *****

  Quinlan came to, a freight train screaming in his brain.

  He didn’t even open his eyes. He remembered the woman with the sleek hair, the dark green eyes, the body . . .

  God, her body was a well-honed piece of art. Toned and muscular without being overly athletic. And her thighs . . .

  He rolled over and winced.

  The bed was empty.

  He pushed himself up on his elbows and blinked.

  This was why he never drank more than a glass of wine. He hated, hated feeling this way. He couldn’t think and fog clouded out memories.

  And he had no control over any of it.

  He flopped back down and moaned again into the pillow. Shit.

  Looking at the window, he saw it was still dark out. What the hell time was it? He tried to focus on the clock.

  He remembered drinking two glasses of wine. It had been only two, hadn’t it? He squinted and noticed it was almost six a.m. No, that couldn’t be right. He checked his watch.

  Shit.

  Tossing the sheet back, he stood and reeled. God almighty. The freight train slammed into the sides of his skull. Putting a hand to his head, he sat back down. He was naked. The rug on the floor was littered with several condoms, their ripped foil packaging, and an empty bottle of champagne. Thank God. At least he’d had the sense to use protection. So much for only two glasses. He remembered now sharing the bottle of expensive bubbly with her, drinking it slowly off each other’s bodies . . .

  Who the hell was she? Alla. Just Alla.

  Perfection and . . . controlling. Her husky laugh floated through his memory and disjointed bits of other thoughts.

  Her riding him as he thrust into her, her head thrown back, her mouth smiling, her ample, tight breasts overflowing in his hands. Implants, but he hadn’t cared.

  Something was off. Way the hell off.

  Her eyes. It had been her eyes.

  One memory slashed through the others. Of her leaning over him, her lips void of any smile and her eyes cold and hard.

  He tried to think, to remember more.

  A phone, she’d had a phone in her hand and her words . . . he remembered they’d been garbled, as if she talked underwater.

  Quinlan rubbed his hands over his face. He didn’t have time for this now. He hadn’t eaten and must have had more than he thought.

  That was the last time he ever did that. He stumbled to the bathroom and didn’t even bother to turn the light on. He reached into the shower stall and cranked the water at full blast.

  Holy hell. Light or aspirin?

  Pain pulsed in his head. Forget it, he’d figure it out later.

  Hot water from the shower beat down on him until he felt sufficiently clean and couldn’t smell Alla on him anymore.

  Regardless of what he could and couldn’t remember, he did know he hadn’t had that good a lay in a long, long damn time. Maybe if he saw her again this week, he would just make certain they didn’t have any alcohol. Woman made him forget his own head.

  Just for punishment’s sake—and the fact he really needed to get his brain to working—he cut off the hot water and stood under the icy spray. With a shiver, he stepped out of the dark shower and reached to the right, grabbing the thick terry robe. He pulled it on and grabbed a towel.

  Time to start the day. He had progress reports to get up and a meeting with Aiden before eight. Marketing representatives to confer with.

  And all he wanted to do was crawl back into bed. The last time he felt like this, or rather remotely like this, was last year when Christian had been hurt. He’d come back here after they knew she’d be fine and he’d gotten roaring drunk on a bottle of their best Scotch. Well, it hadn’t been the whole bottle, just several shots.

  Yeah, he’d felt this crappy then.

  He walked into his room, opened his closet and removed a suit. That elusive and arousing scent of floral and something that tightened his gut, pulled on his lust, wafted in the room.

  Damn. He’d have to make certain housekeeping did a complete sweep of the place.

  Dressed in his normal attire of a dark suit, a dark green shirt and a black tie, he walked out the door and into the lighted living room. He squinted.

  Gar sat at the kitchen table, his fingers clicking softly on his laptop. He looked up and raised a brow, muttered something under his breath.

  Quinlan smelled coffee. “Thank God.”

  Filling a cup, he opened the top cabinet door beside the sink and took out his bottle of ibuprofen. Shaking out two pills, he tossed them back with the coffee, scalding his mouth and his esophagus.

  “Must have been some woman,” Gar commented. “She left about three.”

  Quinlan squinted at
the tiled walls and turned to the man at his table. He looked like the normal computer geek, with the exception of his gun. That tended to bring things back.

  “Yeah, well, not kissing and telling and all that.” He frowned. “You been up all night?”

  Gar continued working on the laptop. “Yes, well, someone had to look out for you.” Those eyes cleared of whatever they saw on-screen and focused on him, hard. In that perfectly British voice that both John and Ian’s wife, Rori, had, Gar said, “Regardless of common belief, killers are not limited to the male species.”

  “And since you’ve read everything on our family, I’m sure you know I’m aware of that fact.”

  Gar didn’t say anything for a long minute. “What was her name?”

  He didn’t need this. Slamming his cup down, he grabbed his suit jacket and slipped it on. “Regardless of what my brother thinks, I don’t answer to him.”

  Gar stood and slipped on his jacket, covering the gun. “No, but I do.” His eyes met Quinlan’s. “And I can tell you with certainty that I don’t want to be on his shit list.”

  For some reason Gar, with his precise syllables, saying “shit list” pulled a grin from Quinlan.

  Without another word, he walked out of his apartment, already thinking of the day ahead and wishing his headache away.

  Who had the woman been?

  Chapter 24

  November 17, 6:22 a.m.

  Alla put her espresso cup down and dialed on her cell phone. The little café near the Potomac was open at this hour. She’d left the Highland Hotel early this morning and took a cab to her actual hotel not far away.

  “What?” the voice on the other end answered.

  Alla sighed. “That’s no way to greet a business partner.”

  The voice lowered. “Now isn’t a good time.”

  “Too bad.” Since her current business wasn’t going as smoothly as it used to and she’d lost a huge profit over the last few weeks, she’d come up with another plan. Granted, her shipment of girls from Miami paid nicely, but she was used to more. “I want four million dollars transferred to a Swiss account. I’ll let you know the account number later—”