The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

“You’re suddenly interested because?”

  “I thought . . .” She licked her lips. “That is . . . I thought maybe I could go over and open it. I know enough and—”

  “Stop right there.” Move to England? He wasn’t even going to go there. Trying to understand what the hell was up with her, he changed the subject. “Tell me why you’re not sleeping. You look like hell, and you just fought off an asthma attack. If you don’t take care of yourself, Mom and Dad will have you moved back home in no time and London won’t be an issue.”

  Actually he liked that idea. Not that it should matter to him either way, but it did. He wasn’t about to stand by and watch her run herself into the ground. Or let her move to London, for God’s sake. London?

  Already she was shaking her head. “I won’t move back to Seneca.”

  “Why?” Damn stubborn woman.

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Is this all because of us?” he braved.

  Her look singed him on the spot. “Us? You mean there’s actually an us now, Brayden?”

  He counted to five. “Not like that. What happened between us.”

  She closed her eyes and an idea slammed into him. Pale, losing weight, off-kilter. “Are you sick?”

  A small grin played at the corner of her mouth. “No, why?”

  He took a deep breath, then strangled out, “Are you pregnant?”

  Her eyes shot open. “What?”

  He watched her, watched the surprise in her eyes. “Are you pregnant?”

  The shocked look on her face should have been enough, but it wasn’t. He’d been down this road before.

  “Would it matter if I was?” she asked quietly.

  His stomach rolled, fluttered, and twisted. “You’re coming home.”

  She laughed. “God, Brayden. No.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  She cocked a brow. “Excuse me? First off, I’m not yours to order around, and if you don’t like that, too damn bad. Two, if I was pregnant, I’d still tell you, though I might not move back home. And three, it hardly matters since I’m not pregnant.”

  Relief warred with more disappointment than he’d expected. He stared at her; she seemed to be telling the truth.

  Her eyes narrowed. “I told you before, I’m not JaNell. Stop comparing me to her.”

  Brayden blew out a breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. “You sure?”

  “Yes.” She shook her head. “Yes, I’m sure.”

  He shoved a hand through his hair. “Damn it, Christian. What am I supposed to think? You’re not acting right, losing weight and pale all the time and—”

  The knock at the door had him turning, but not before he’d noticed Christian jerk.

  Well, damn.

  Inwardly cursing the gods of timing, he walked to the door and mouthed through the glass to the couple, “Sorry, we’re closed.” They nodded and moved on down the walkway.

  What had Christian so jumpy and contemplating moving an ocean away? And what was with the past revelations? He’d learned more of her past in the last few minutes than in the years he’d known her.

  He glanced at Christian. Her gray eyes flashed with a hidden challenge, for a moment overshadowing the fear he was certain he’d caught in their depths.

  “Where were we?”

  Christian walked to him and slid around, unlocking the door. “I should have just gone home. I’m leaving.”

  He put his hand on the door above the lock. “We’re not through.”

  She turned those haunted gray eyes on him. Leaning up on her toes, she kissed his cheek and said, “Yes, Brayden, we are.”

  His gut tightened. Hell.

  Brayden grabbed his long woolen coat off the antique rack, shrugged into it, and cut all but the track lights. He watched her as she walked out the door. Christian was normally quite composed—graceful came to mind usually. But not today. He frowned and caught her quick look over her shoulder out to the street, the tight way she held herself, the way she held her keys in her fist, the metal keys bladed out from between her fingers. But always the darted looks, almost as though she were afraid of . . . Of what? Or who?

  His eyes locked with Christian’s and something tightened within him even as he knew she wouldn’t welcome him. And he couldn’t really blame her.

  The cold November air swirled down the street. For a minute more he held Christian’s smoky stare until the woman he couldn’t get out of his mind turned and walked to her car. At his own vehicle, he opened the door, but his eyes kept watching her.

  Again, she glanced around, looking over her shoulder.

  What was with her?

  It didn’t matter. Something was wrong and it had nothing to do with work or music or whatever else she’d tried to tell him—including London.

  Christian was afraid and he wanted to know why.

  • • •

  Several days later, Christian parked her car in her allotted slot in front of the condos. She’d spent the afternoon with Tori, who chatted about Ryan and music and school and her next recital.

  Kaitlyn Kinncaid had asked her to stay out at Seneca, at the family estate, and Jock warned her of the drive, but Christian drove back here to D.C. anyway.

  Why? Did it really matter? Brayden hadn’t been there. He’d been out doing God knew what with God knew who and she shouldn’t give a damn.

  Brayden’s parents both dropped hints that it would be better if she were around more. They tried to talk her into moving back out to Seneca, back into the family mansion with them and Brayden and Tori. They were worried. Jock informed her she looked haggard. Lovely. Just lovely. She was not only letting her man get away in her absence, but she was looking haggard.

  On a sigh, she got out of the car, locked her doors and started for her condo.

  The night was cold. A bone-slicing wind sharpened through the air and she pulled her coat tighter as she walked down the lighted walkway.

  She really liked these condos. They had a security gate, though she now wondered how good it really was. Maybe she could get an alarm system installed.

  Her boot heels clicked on the bricked path. Already she had her keys out.

  A car door shut in the night and voices floated on the air.

  Hurrying to her door, she glanced around and stopped.

  The large brown envelope against her door immediately stole her attention. She looked over her shoulder, but the darkness cloaked what might lie beyond the realm of light.

  Goose bumps pricked her skin.

  Her breath hitched, but she closed her eyes and thought through her breathing exercise. When she opened them several moments later, her chest, thankfully, didn’t squeeze up, but still fear slithered through her dark and dangerous.

  Steeling herself, she knelt down, almost afraid to touch it.

  Pick it up. Just pick it up. Or throw it away.

  No, she wouldn’t throw it away. How long had it been here? All day? On a deep breath, she picked up the package. Without standing, she slid a finger under the metal brad, folded the ends together and opened the envelope. Pictures slid into her hand as she turned it to empty the contents, and a white postcard fluttered to the concrete.

  My Angel.

  Her hands shook. Why the hell wouldn’t he just leave her alone?

  She grabbed the white card and stood, anger and fear warring within her at what he was doing to her.

  “Hi.”

  Christian whirled at the male voice. The photos flew out of the open envelope and splattered across the ground as she staggered back a step.

  Her heart slammed against her chest.

  A man stood a few feet behind her, holding a laundry basket. A familiar man, he stepped closer and the last of the shadows left him.

  “Lieutenant Morris?” she gasped. What was he doing here?

  He smiled, a quick flash of straight teeth. “Yeah, I live a few condos down. I was doing laundry.” He settled the basket on his hip and held his hand out. “I’d heard Drayson an
d Geoffery talking about the new girl who moved into Drayson’s condo. I had no idea it was you. How do you like it?”

  He dropped his hand back to his side.

  “F-fine.” Drayson and Geoffery were her next-door neighbors. Drayson taught theater music at Georgetown University, which was how she’d found this place. He’d moved in with his partner, who managed the condos. Lieutenant Morris worked the special crimes division of the Washington, D.C., Police Department. They’d met under strained circumstances several months ago.

  “I’m sorry I startled you.” Morris had a well-modulated voice. Probably went with the job. His dark hair was cut short enough, she wondered why he just didn’t get a buzz. He was the same as she remembered him from a few months ago during that nightmare with Gavin and Taylor, when Ryan and Tori had been kidnapped.

  Morris bent down, setting his laundry basket by her door.

  The photos. Shit.

  “Oh, don’t worry about it, I can—I can get it.” She tried to shuffle and grab all the photos, but he already held several in his hands.

  Dark eyes narrowed on a frown as he looked from the pictures in his hands to her.

  “Where did you get these?” His voice wasn’t well modulated now. More like a sharpened blade.

  A cop. He was a cop. She didn’t want to get into this. There would be questions. Things she couldn’t say, couldn’t answer, and she knew she wasn’t a very proficient liar.

  Without looking at him, she gathered the rest up. Just as she was reaching for the white square on the ground, his hand darted out and snatched it up.

  “My Angel?”

  Her hand trembled as she slid the eight-by-tens back into the envelope. She shrugged. “Yeah, some guy, I guess, has a crush on me.”

  Trying to take the photos from him proved useless. He didn’t release them. Finally, her eyes met his, in what she hoped was a glare.

  “Can I have my pictures back, please?”

  “When you answer my question. Where did you get these?” He looked down and flipped through the ones he held. “Walking to your car, talking to a kid on a park bench, working in that antiques shop, eating at a restaurant, and you looking over your shoulder at a red light. Here’s one with you and the little Kinncaid girl.” His dark brown eyes leveled a look at her, and she almost squirmed.

  “Care to explain these?”

  “No.” She stood and held out her hand.

  Sighing, he too rose, and she realized he wasn’t much taller than she, not like Brayden. Morris was more along the lines of average in her opinion. In a pair of heels she’d look him in the eye.

  “Are these the only ones you’ve gotten?”

  “Yes.” No, but he didn’t need to know that. She’d gone to the cops before and it hadn’t done her any good.

  One single brow cocked and his look said he knew she was lying. “Have you reported these pictures? That someone is clearly stalking you?”

  Christian propped her hand on her hip. “Are you always the cop?”

  He nodded. “Yes.”

  Figured.

  “And as an always-cop, I notice you didn’t answer my question. So here’s some professional advice from my line of work: Report this. The sooner the better. Carry some mace or pepper spray with you, and always keep a cell phone handy.”

  “I’m sure you’re making more out of this than—”

  “Don’t be stubborn. Have you taken any self-defense classes?”

  Christian sighed. Nothing would stop this man from her past, not mace or pepper spray or self-defense classes. She turned and put her key in her lock. Morris’s hand covered hers.

  “Do you mind? Call it occupational hazard, but I’d rather know that everything is as it should be inside, rather than let you waltz in there.”

  She returned his stare. “You don’t have a wife or girlfriend, do you?”

  He smiled again, his square jaw softening just a bit. “Why, Miss Bills, is that a come-on? You’re not very subtle.”

  “More subtle than ‘let me check out your place for ya, babe.’”

  He ignored her, shoved her door open, and flipped on the lights, moving past her into the condo.

  Christian rolled her eyes. “Besides, I just meant you obviously don’t have a significant other, or you would know women don’t like to be ordered around. Do this . . . Do that . . .”

  He walked out of the open living area and into the kitchen. Not that she’d admit it, but she was glad to know there was a cop not too far away and that he was looking to make certain no bad guys lingered in the shadows. As he came out of the kitchen, he took the stairs two at a time to the second level. Christian shrugged out of her coat, hung it in the closet and leaned against the wall. Morris bounded down the stairs and stopped in front of her.

  “Catch the bad guys?” she quipped.

  For a moment he said nothing. Then, “I saw two more brown packets in the living room and one in the bedroom. Not that I opened them, but I’m betting they hold the same thing that one in your hand does.”

  Not a thing came to mind to tell him. What would she say?

  “This is serious, Miss Bills.”

  Yeah it was. “I will handle it, Lieutenant Morris.”

  “Call me Gabe.”

  “As in Gabriel?” she asked.

  “Gabe,” he answered.

  There they were in her entryway, she hoping he would leave, yet glad he’d checked things out, and him studying her in an easy, yet sharp way.

  Finally, she cleared her throat. “Okay, Gabe, though I think Gabriel fits better.”

  “I’m serious about reporting this.”

  She shook her head. “It’s nothing.”

  His gaze remained steady and it was easy to understand what some people meant when they said they could spot a cop. Something in his carriage, his stance, was warning. She shifted to her other foot as he stared at her.

  “If you knew how many times I stood over . . .” He shook his head. “Don’t be stupid. Report it, get some mace and be on the lookout. Call the cops or even me.” He dug a card out of his wallet and handed it to her. Looking around, he grabbed a pen off her entry table and scribbled on the back.

  When he handed it to her, she saw it was his home number.

  What the hell did she do?

  Looking him in the eye, she only said, “Thanks.”

  The corners of his mouth hardened. “You’re done talking about this, aren’t you?”

  She nodded. “Yes.”

  “Fine, but I warned you.”

  He strode to the door. “You might think of having your locks changed. The photos show he knows where you live, he could have gotten a key somehow.”

  She hadn’t thought of that.

  He continued to stare at her. “If you change your mind about reporting this, give me a call. At least get some damn mace.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain!”

  His glare made her grin. He was easy to rile; in that he and Brayden were the same.

  “What do the Kinncaids have to say about this ‘infatuated’ guy?” He paused out on her stoop.

  At the door she said, “Good night, Gabe.”

  “You haven’t told them, have you?” His muttered curse was colorful and inventive. “Why?”

  “Good night, Gabe.”

  “What kind of game are you playing, I wonder?” he asked as he grabbed his laundry basket.

  She slowly shut the door.

  A deadly game. One she’d played and lost before, and was terrified she’d lose again.

  Chapter 3

  He leaned back against the cushions of the couch.

  The latest pictures slid easily from one to the next as he flipped through them.

  Josephine might have cut her hair and moved clear across the country; years may have passed, but he still knew just how to play her. What buttons to push, how to string the game along. Anticipation only heightened the experience. He knew the postcard would tell her who he was.

  A soft chuckle escap
ed him.

  This picture clearly showed him his game was a success thus far. In it, Josephine was looking through some of his pictures when the cameraman snapped a photo. Frozen on black and white paper, her fear excited him.

  He had the power. He always had. Always would.

  She had just forgotten that.

  Anger flickered and glared within him, but he shifted past it because it only clouded thought and reason. Her time would come. But for now? Now, he was having fun.

  Looking at the clock, he noted how late it was and reached for the marker. Time to up the stakes. He only had two days before his flight back.

  Presentation was everything. Everything. Set the stage for his entrance.

  The hotel room was dark, save for the small desk lamp.

  A grin lifted his mouth.

  The Kinncaids definitely knew how to run a first-class hotel. Only the best for certain guests, and he’d always liked the best of everything. He toasted their success with his watered scotch in his Highland Hotel crystal glass.

  Standing, he turned and looked out the window. He knew just what to do next, and it was certain to gag her into silence should she decide to tell after their meeting.

  What a meeting it would be.

  He had years to make up for, and so little time to do it.

  He’d been given the opinion to just let her have an accident, something to end it cleanly. After all, truth was, Josephine was a threat to his career, but he wasn’t ready to let her go yet. He’d waited too long to find her. Now that he had, he wasn’t about to discard her. She’d been perfect once. Only and completely his. And she would be again. He was simply reminding her of that fact.

  Turning back to the desk, he picked up the black marker and set to work.

  • • •

  Kaitlyn Kinncaid walked down the long hallway toward the room she’d shared with her husband for well over forty years. As she passed Brayden’s hallway, she paused and sighed. Things simply were not the same anymore. Not since Christian left. Stupid boy.

  She shook her head; those two were meant for each other. She still had no idea what happened between the girl that had become their daughter and their son, but she was trying not to meddle.