The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  • • •

  Later that night, in the dark, she pulled the package out. With the tip of her finger, she tasted it. Ambrosia. Sweet.

  Since she’d spent the last few months in this hellhole, she knew it like the back of her hand. Carefully, she turned over and shook some of the powder out onto the ledge by the wall. The darkness hid her, or the guards would be in confiscating it.

  Reaching gingerly around, she found her one book she was allowed. Ripping out a random page, she rolled it up.

  For a split second she wondered where this shit had come from. Did it matter? When was the next time she’d be lucky enough to get a fix? Though she couldn’t figure out who would send her something in here.

  Who the hell cared? When would she get any more?

  After the first line dropped, she railed another. Hell, they’d search her cell in the morning, might as well enjoy the shit.

  Halfway through her fourth line, she knew something was wrong. Way the hell to what-the-fuck wrong.

  Pink dots danced in front of her, shaping, shifting. They changed green and blue.

  Something wasn’t right.

  Before she could figure out what it was, it was too late.

  • • •

  A man sat back in his hotel room, a glass of orange juice just to the side of the plate of fruit. The paper told him nothing as yet. With one hand he flipped through the channels on the TV with the remote. He was waiting on the news.

  It seemed Notre Dame was on a winning streak. Never much of a sports fan, he turned to the business section of the paper and checked his stocks.

  “. . . On a local interest this morning. Nina Fisher, the woman charged with kidnapping Ryan and Victoria Kinncaid, the children of prominent D.C. brothers Dr. and Mrs. Gavin Kinncaid and Brayden Kinncaid, was found dead this morning in her cell. Authorities say she died of an overdose.

  “The search for Hammal . . .”

  Overdose. He folded his paper and picked up his fork, spearing a strawberry. It crunched in his mouth.

  Yeah, pure blue crystal meth laced with a little J.C. acid would do that to a person.

  He finished eating his breakfast, thinking of the day ahead.

  Ryan would never again have to worry. After all, he’d given the boy his word. He might be a lot of things, but if gave his word, he kept it.

  The man packed his bags and cleaned the room, wiping it of prints. Once outside, he disappeared into the crowd.

  • • •

  “Ryan!” Taylor yelled from the kitchen. Her chest still pulled, but that was normal, they told her, and it would fade. She lifted her foot from the mess in the floor.

  The music from the living room continued to drift on the air as Ryan kept playing.

  “Ryan!”

  “Ma’am?”

  “Come here!”

  “In a minute.”

  “Now, young man.”

  She heard his sigh here in the kitchen.

  “Can’t I finish playing that piece, Mama?” he asked, coming to a halt in the doorway.

  She only pointed to the mess on the floor.

  “Oh, man!” he complained.

  “Your puppy didn’t make it outside.”

  “Sorry.” Ryan hurried to the paper towels and ripped several off. “I thought I got Luna out in time.”

  Taylor retrieved a plastic grocery bag. “It’s fine. That’s what puppies are known for. Is Luna out back?” She looked out the window to the backyard scattered with fallen leaves. Autumn hung crisp in the air; its presence sang in muted tones of gold, orange, reds and browns.

  Thanksgiving was in two weeks. And she was excited about celebrating it in their new home. After D.C., Gavin asked her if she minded moving closer to Seneca. He started talking Little League this and Little League that. Taylor didn’t care where they lived as long as one Nina Fisher left them alone.

  Now, they lived half an hour from D.C. and about twenty minutes from Gavin’s parents.

  “When’s Dad gonna be home?” Ryan asked, tossing the soiled paper towels in a sack she held. He took the bag and tied it off to take outside.

  Taylor checked the clock. Should be anytime. The rumble of the garage door had her grinning at Ryan. “Looks like he’s here.”

  Gavin walked into the kitchen through the side door, tossing his jacket over a chair. Smiling that crooked grin that would for always cause her heart to race, he strode to her and wrapped her in his arms. She felt his inhale against her chest, against her hair.

  “How was your day, dear?” Taylor asked him in her best Carol Brady voice. Personally, she missed the office, missed the people and the work. But as yet, she just wasn’t up for it. Maybe after Christmas. She still tired easily, still hurt, though she tried to hide it from Gavin, and for the most part he let her.

  “Fine, and yours?” he asked, leaning down and kissing her.

  “Gross,” Ryan muttered.

  Taylor’s chuckle mixed with Gavin’s. He looked at Ryan. “Go take your mess out to the cans.”

  Ryan rolled his eyes and walked out the door grinning.

  Never, in all her dreams, did Taylor think it would be this simple. And it hadn’t been. After she’d finally woken up, there were days and weeks of hospital or therapy, both physical and psychological. Some sessions were private; some were with Gavin and Ryan.

  The road hadn’t been easy by any means, and it still had its bumps, but overall things were better than they’d ever been.

  “How long do you think he’ll be out there?” Gavin asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb trailing the edge, down to her lobe. Shivers danced down her spine.

  “Not long enough for what you’re thinking, I assure you.” She traced his lips with her finger. God, he still caused her heart to flip over.

  “Well, then, we’ll have to get him busy on homework or something. I need to take a shower and tell you about my day. Delivering babies and dealing with pregnant women makes me want to see your belly all round.” His eyes twinkled down at her as his hand rubbed low on her stomach. The intention was clear in his eyes before his mouth lowered and kissed her with all the love she felt mirrored her own.

  Pulling back, she looked at him. She’d often wondered if his hadn’t been the hardest road of all. She knew Gavin still blamed himself, and probably always would for what happened to them. And he was forever trying to make it up to them.

  Taylor sighed. Life would work it all out. In time, in time.

  Walking to the door, she opened it up. “Ryan! Time for homework!”

  Turning back to Gavin, she grinned. “Didn’t you say something about a shower? And working on babies?”

  • • •

  Journal Entry

  I haven’t written in a long while. I still can’t believe it, Nina is dead. It reminds me of that weird movie Mama likes so much. Ding dong, the witch is dead.

  That sounds really bad, I know. Truthfully, I’m glad she’s dead. I just don’t know how I should feel because of that. Is it bad that I’m glad?

  But enough of HER. I’m writing ’cause I had another vision. A good one. A really, really good one.

  Yesterday evening I walked into the living room. Dad and Mama were snuggled up on the couch. They do that a lot. They were watching some movie back when people drove funny-looking cars that look like they have bicycle wheels—I can’t remember the name, something about tomatoes—that’s another one of Mama’s favorite movies. I think it’s the clothes in it, ’cause they’re like the clothes she wears.

  Anyway, I saw something that I should probably tell them about, but I don’t want to. I want to wait and let them tell me. And since I can’t tell them, I’ll just write it.

  I’m going to be a big BROTHER!

  I’m going to have a baby sister. I’m not sure when, but isn’t that cool? I wonder what we’ll call her?

  I can’t wait until the day she’s born. I’m going to teach her all sorts of stuff. I’ll teach her about puppies and my vio
lin. I can teach her about music. But I think the most important thing I’ll teach her will be about family. Yeah, I’m going to tell her that no matter what, love always tells. And of course I’m going to swear the Kinncaid motto to her: This I’ll defend.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to the girls for reading yet another Kinncaid story and Jules for her brutal honesty, as always.

  Thanks for putting up with me, A. & A. ~ You’re the best part of my life. Love ya.

  Dedicated to my siblings:

  Bobby—the old man, who used to threaten all boys away; Dan—the ever-cool one that spoiled me rotten and let me drive his T-Bird; & Boyd—the proverbial big brother who loved to scare me any way imaginable, but taught me to swim to the bottom of the pool while playing James Bond. Awesome big brothers. And Kristie—the blond, annoyingly perky little sister who thinks like me, way too much. Awesome sister. Love you guys.

  Prologue

  He’d found her. Finally, after all this time.

  The opera CD he’d put on soared to a crescendo—and he remembered. The music stirred the memories within him. Strains filled his mind with thoughts, yearnings so strong he could scarcely breathe, could all but taste the sweet nectar.

  Her soprano voice, young yet worldly, released all the emotions known to man within notes and keys appreciated only by a few.

  And she had been his.

  No.

  She was his still. She would always be his. He’d promised her that.

  He opened his eyes, his leather chair squeaking slightly as he shifted. The smoke from his Cuban cigar drifted up from the Waterford ashtray, the taste sweet with a hint of citrus behind the robust tobacco flavor.

  Her face stared up at him from the photograph. That smiling picture had sat at the corner of his desk for the last eight years. It was her in youthful beauty, the innocence still there in the soft lines of her face. Except for her eyes.

  Those smoky gray eyes had always seen too much, understood too much. Those eyes haunted him.

  With one finger, he traced the line of her mouth, remembering what it felt like beneath his, what it had tasted like, the music that could come from those lips. The glass protector was cool to his touch.

  His sigh carried with it tension and elation. Carefully, he set the photo so that the edge of the frame was an inch from the corner of his blotter and just a finger length from the family picture. In the photograph, her hair was the color of dark winter wheat. He’d loved the long tresses, the smell of them, the feel.

  She wasn’t to cut her hair.

  The man took a deep calming breath and heard voices drift down the hall.

  No matter, no one would disturb him.

  He opened the top drawer to his right, the moan of wood on wood familiar, the jingle of the handle dropping back down unnoticed.

  His fist clenched atop the polished mahogany as he withdrew another photo from the drawer.

  His angel.

  He’d know her anywhere.

  Somehow, he’d known all along she wasn’t dead. But to find her again . . .

  Ahhh . . .

  He shook his head sadly. A shame, all her beautiful hair, cut short now, in some feministic stylish flip. The shortened tresses were darker and made her round eyes even larger. Her straight nose, slightly tilted at the end, was the same. At least she hadn’t had a nose job. And he had to admit the new hairstyle accentuated her long, graceful neck. He traced the swan-like column, remembering how soft her skin was just there. The lines of her face were not as soft as in the other picture. Time had sharpened them to an edge, prominent cheekbones and her stubborn, arrogant chin. His fisted hand relaxed, and he curved it around the crystal-faceted tumbler sitting on his desk.

  She should have long hair, and not this deep brown color. What had she been thinking? Did she dye it? Probably.

  He sipped his brandy, the taste full and rich on his tongue, swirling away and melding with the taste from his Havana best.

  Always was too smart for her own good, which was why he was drawn to her. Her brain, her looks, her voice.

  She was older now, more worldly.

  Her young voice shimmered from the speakers as she held a note, as she drew it out.

  Kinncaids. She was with the Kinncaids. A more noble, honorable family he could not think of. Strange, them being so old to the Washington, D.C., area, yet none of the elite family had ever had a thing to do within political circles. A shame really. With their money, brains, and ambitions the possibilities would be endless. Or could have been.

  Christian Bills. She was going by that deplorable name. Christian, Chris. He’d hated it, as, he recalled, did her mother. And Bills? It was so very low-class, so incredibly common. Though he suspected it stemmed from William. Always was the daddy’s, even granddaddy’s, girl. Christian Bills? No.

  Josephine. She was his Josephine.

  And she always would be.

  He’d let her think herself safe, for now.

  He smiled. The cat’s advantage to the mouse was in the fact the cat knew of his prey’s existence. Unfortunately, from the mouse’s point of view, the rodent was all too often unaware of the feline until just before the pounce.

  Cat and mouse.

  A game they knew well.

  Eight years.

  Full circle.

  The game was just beginning.

  He grinned, touched the lips of the woman, caressed her cheekbone, the column of her neck. His lungs filled with his sigh, just as blood rushed to fill his veins, his passion. It would not be long. Not long at all.

  Opening his eyes, he tapped her lips one last time before he gently placed the photo in the top drawer and locked it. Footsteps neared his door.

  In one gulp, he finished off the brandy and hit the remote. The opera and Josephine’s voice silenced. Carefully, he set his empty glass on the desk just as the door opened.

  “There you are. I’d wondered where you’d gone.” She propped her hands on her trim hips. “Come on. You can’t hide out here all night.”

  No, he supposed he couldn’t, but he would dearly have loved to. He stood and inwardly longed for the house to be empty. Then, he’d be able to go up to his private, hidden room and enjoy the memories and plan for the future. Wasn’t to be.

  Smiling, he ran a hand down his jacket, straightened the black bow tie and held his hand out to her.

  “I just needed a moment, darling.”

  “Hmm. Well, come on then. There are guests waiting. Don’t want to give the wrong impression, do you? The constituents should be placated.”

  A glance over his shoulder and his eyes landed on the photo on the edge of his desk.

  Gray eyes.

  It was her. He’d found her. His angel.

  The music from the terrace drifted down the hallway as he turned and led the woman away.

  He’d found his Josephine and he was never again letting her go. No one else would have her.

  Ever.

  Chapter 1

  “Don’t look at me like that,” Brayden said on a sigh.

  Christian cleared her throat. “I’m sorry, how am I supposed to look at you?”

  She would not cry, she would not.

  Just because she’d finally overcome her fears, finally reached for what she’d wanted when it was offered, finally made love to the one man, the only man she wanted, did not mean she would fall apart when he acted as if it were a mistake. Just because it had been the most wonderful night of her life did not, obviously, mean it had been his.

  Brayden Kinncaid’s cobalt eyes bore into hers before darting away. He rose from the bed and grabbed the quilt. Not that he needed it. She knew his body now as a river knew its streambed. Tall, well muscled, he’d always reminded her of a professional football player. Wide sculpted shoulders tapered down to a toned and trimmed torso, long tan legs dusted with his dark hair strode along as he paced. His six-foot-four-inch frame moved as fluidly, as powerfully without clothing as it did within his custom-made suits. E
bony hair, cut neatly short, caught and held the rising sun.

  Christian pulled her knees up and tucked the sheet under her arms.

  “Look,” he said, turning to her. “I’m sorry, this—” He gestured at the bed. “This never should have happened between us. What the hell were we thinking?”

  A knot lodged in her throat. She wished she could curl up under the covers and hide from the eyes that would not meet hers.

  Taking a deep breath, she braved, “Why? What was wrong with what we did? If memory serves, it didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

  The night of lovemaking had been exquisitely sweet. Passionate and cherished, hungry and tender—so much more than she ever would have, could have, dreamed. It had felt honest. Open. Right.

  His jaw tensed as he leveled a look at her, his eyes widening, black brows winging up on surprise. “What was wrong with it?” He shook his head. “What was wrong with it?”

  Had it really been that bad?

  Forget it. She didn’t want to know the answer. Scrambling off the bed, she wrapped the sheet around her until she spotted her silver evening gown.

  “Sorry it was obviously such a strain for you, Bray,” she tossed, letting go of the sheet as she grabbed the silk dress. “Though last night, I don’t remember you complaining in the least. In fact, at one point, I do believe you begged.”

  The gasp of breath behind made her glance over her shoulder.

  His eyes were lightning, blue-edged lightning.

  Could it be that simple? Standing naked and holding the gown in her hand, she faced him squarely, though it took all the courage in her to do so. “What? Oh, I guess I should cover up, huh? Wouldn’t want you to see something that might be wrong.”

  She slid the dress down over her head, the silk gliding over her skin, reminding her all too clearly of Brayden’s hands. As her head broke through the neck, she noticed he had moved forward with his hands fisted at his sides.