The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  “You’re certain that was it?” Morris asked her.

  “I may look old, but I know what I know, thank you very much,” the housekeeper huffed.

  “Yes, ma’am. And for the record, I don’t think you’re old.”

  Her plump cheeks dimpled on her smile. “You’re a charmer, ye are.”

  Brayden shook his head. Enough of this.

  “Where is he?” Christian asked, worrying her bottom lip.

  Jock pushed his chair back. “I’ll go see what he left.”

  “No, Dad,” Brayden said.

  Morris stood in the doorway, having moved there to block Jock’s path. “With all due respect, sir, this being your house and all, I’d feel better if we had someone take a look at what he left you first. This is a vindictive man, who tried to kill your son because Brayden here has what Mr. Burbanks considers his.”

  His father frowned, then nodded. “All right.”

  Morris pulled out his phone, ordering a bomb specialist here to the Kinncaid home as there was a possible situation.

  Brayden knew whether his father had agreed or not, Morris would still do what he was doing now.

  “This is never going to end, is it?” Christian softly asked.

  Brayden pulled her to him, and kissed the top of her head. “Yes, it will. He can’t run forever. It’ll end one way or another.”

  Of that, he was certain.

  • • •

  Richard was surrounded by the smell of Josephine, she filled his senses. He could hear the muted sound of people downstairs from his place in her closet.

  When the housekeeper had let him into the study, he’d unlocked the terrace door and put Jock’s gift on the desk. Then he’d left the way he came, waving to the woman as he’d walked out the front door.

  Then he’d hurried around to the side of the house and slipped back into the study door that led out onto the terrace. Once inside, he’d locked the door again, waited till it was clear and bided his time for a chance.

  It came with the decorators and florists. What was another arrangement going up the stairs?

  Once upstairs, he was in her bedroom, surrounded by her things, her scent, by her.

  He might not have had a plan before, but he did now. He just had to figure out how to get her out of the house. If he couldn’t, then he’d end it here. After all, she had betrayed him.

  And no one betrayed him.

  Patience, patience. He’d strike and none would be the wiser.

  A smile lightened the heaviness of his heart. His career was gone, that was a given.

  But Josephine was still his.

  She would always be his. He’d kill her before he let her go.

  • • •

  Marque DuBouis looked around the entryway and clapped his hands.

  “Florence! Florence!” he all but shrieked. This was his best disguise ever. Even his mother didn’t recognize him dressed in his neo-Regency outfit, complete with ruffled shirt and a long brocade dress coat.

  “Yes? Mark?”

  He sighed and propped his hand on his hip, flipping the long mane of dark hair back over his shoulder. In a high-pitched voice he said, tinted with a French accent, “It’s Marque. Like the diamond. Honestly, Florence. Marque.”

  “Sorry, Markie.”

  “Merde, Americans!” He shook his head and said with a flick of his wrist, “Where are the fire and ice roses? These are simply beyond help.” He gestured to the blooms at his hand. “Bring me more! We’re trying to impress, for the love of God. Not scare clients away!”

  The college girl hurried off, muttering under her breath.

  Marque watched as Lieutenant Morris paced the entryway. What was going on?

  “Did anyone go in the study?” Morris asked him.

  Marque glanced around and behind him, then turned back to the cop. “Moi? Are you speaking to me?”

  The All-American cop narrowed his eyes and rolled his head.

  Could the florist be getting on his nerves?

  “Is there anyone else here?” Morris asked.

  Marque pretended to ponder the question. “I don’t believe so, no. The study? Why? What’s wrong with the study? Does it need decorating too? I’m sure we can spare an arrangement or two to go in there, though I’ll have to survey the room first to decide what goes best. I cannot be expected to work miracles!”

  Morris shook his head. “I don’t want flowers! Just stay away from it.”

  Marque thrummed his fingers along his cheek. “Are you gay by any chance?” He almost laughed aloud at the shocked look that flashed over Morris’s features. Marque tried to sashay over to the cop, rather impressed with himself at his hip roll. It wasn’t exactly as easy as one might expect, but he thought he did a good job. Running his gaze up and down the cop he said, “Normally, I go for the more artistic type, but you are just sooooo . . . Mmmm. I don’t know. Something in a rough sort of way.”

  “I’m not interested, but thanks. And no, I’m straight,” Morris said stiffly.

  Marque sniffed and turned away. “All you hunky heroes are. Is anyone interested in me? I hate the holidays, just hate them! My partner left me for a construction worker. A construction worker.” Fluttering his hands, he asked, “Where is the beauty in that?” He shook his head, even managed a tear on a shuddering breath.

  Morris looked frantically around. “Just stay away from the study and the back of the house.”

  With that, the man quickly escaped out the door.

  The study, was it?

  Marque, chuckling to himself, left, hurrying down the hallway. If all else fails, play stupid.

  Inside his father’s study, he scanned the area, saw the note and the box on the desk. With a quick look over his shoulder he listened for the sound of footsteps.

  No one.

  At the desk, he read the note:

  Jock, found your pillbox in my golf cart and figured you’d like it back. Sorry for any pain their loss might have caused you. ~ A friend.

  Pills? His nitro pills. The son of a bitch. Morris was probably terrified it was another bomb.

  He knew that was unlikely. No. Ivan was in jail, and he would bet their dear congressman had no idea how to build a little bomb. After all, Burbanks hired out.

  Marque hurried to the door, looked both ways and started down the empty hallway. Nearly there, he almost collided with Brayden coming out of the living room.

  “Oh!” Marque shrieked.

  Brayden shook his head, dismissing him.

  Ian chuckled.

  Brayden stopped and turned slowly, his eyes widening. “No,” he whispered.

  Ian only smiled.

  “I said I need you close, but good God!” Brayden whispered.

  “You remember what I asked you in Venice?”

  Brayden’s eyes narrowed and he said, “I want this bastard.”

  “You sure?”

  The look in Brayden’s eyes was one Ian knew well. He’d seen it enough in the mirror.

  He nodded, then walked on, clapping his hands and asking for his flowers.

  He could hear his brother’s muttered musings.

  Florence came hurrying back into the house with two containers full of fire and ice roses, his mother’s favorite.

  He looked at his watch. There were things he needed to get. Things he had to have ready and in place by nightfall. But for now, he was in the house, making certain nothing happened.

  Life was interesting.

  • • •

  Brayden walked Morris to the door, though he didn’t move to open it just yet. His parents stood at the bottom of the stairs, his mother talking to the people she hired, his disguised brother included—Heaven help them all. Christian stood off to the side.

  “Keep her in your sight,” Morris said to him.

  “I will.”

  “At least it wasn’t a bomb,” the cop said.

  That was true, thank the Lord. A note meant to show, to make a person realize the danger that had been s
o unknowingly close. Brayden hated this, hated this all. He couldn’t wait to end it. If they could just find the bastard.

  “There will be a couple of patrolmen here. I’m heading back over to the Burbanks’ estate. I’ll be back later with an update. I want to go over tonight with you. As many people as will be here, it’ll be the perfect time to make a move.” Morris shrugged. “It’s when I’d make one anyway.”

  Brayden agreed.

  “Gabe?” Christian asked.

  “Yeah?” The cop turned and stepped toward her.

  “Thank you for everything. For all you’ve done.”

  Morris smiled at her, closed the distance and hugged her. “Aw, shucks, ma’am. I’m just doing my job.”

  Her laughter danced out, warming Brayden.

  “You’re hopeless, you know that, don’t you?” she asked Morris, pulling back.

  “Yeah, so the girls all tell me. It’s hard to be a man in uniform.”

  Christian rolled her eyes.

  “Seriously,” Morris added. “Be careful. Don’t go off by yourself, stay around the family, and—”

  “I know, I know,” she interrupted him, shoving him toward the door. “Go catch him so I don’t have to be a prisoner, please.”

  “The ungratefulness of it all,” Morris mumbled.

  Christian walked over to him and Brayden pulled her against him.

  “I’ll take care of her.”

  “If I didn’t think so . . . Well, never mind.”

  The door burst open and a brunette woman came tearing into the house.

  “Where is she? Where is that little, conniving bitch?” she screamed.

  Christian coiled tightly in his arms.

  Morris had his hand on his gun. “Ma’am, you shouldn’t be here.”

  The woman turned blazing eyes to Morris, then past him to zero in on Christian.

  “You!” she spat, striding toward them. “I should have known you’d be with some rich man. You’ve really outdone yourself this time, Josephine.”

  Christian took a deep breath and stepped forward. “Hello, Mother.”

  Morris had ahold of the woman’s arm, but she shrugged him off, continuing on to them. Brayden tried to push Christian behind him, but she stood beside him.

  “Lieutenant, if you don’t want a harassment suit, I’d suggest you take your hand off me. Now!” She might dress in Chanel and wear a fur, but the woman was a snake.

  Brayden could see it in her eyes.

  His mother stepped forward. “Get out of my home. Immediately.”

  The two women looked each other over, his father coming to stand beside his mother.

  Mrs. Burbanks stood not two feet from him and Christian, and she slowly turned to them. “I told him what would happen. But would he listen to me?” she screamed, slapping her chest. “Did he ever listen to me? No! It was always Josephine. Josephine, Josephine. It was always, always about you! And his lust for you. You! I hate you.” The woman spat on her. “I hate you. I wish I’d killed you before you were ever born. I never wanted you.”

  Enough!

  Brayden took a step forward.

  The woman’s eyes rounded. “Going to protect her? Someone should have warned you. She’s nothing but a tramp, a gold-digging little tramp. She knows enough tricks, Richard could have called her out to his friends and made a nice little side profit.”

  Brayden had only ever wanted to hit one other woman and that had been last summer. Now? Now, he’d happily deck the bitch in front of him. He wanted it so badly just then, so badly, he actually balled his fists. Realizing the temptation, he shoved his hands into his pockets.

  Mrs. Burbanks looked back to Christian. “I knew this would all happen as soon as he found you again. I’d hoped that by letting him keep that damn room it would be enough. But no. You almost ruined him before with the ruckus your brother raised over the possible murder, but he survived. He survived and he won, because of me. Me!” She laughed, a cold, harsh and ugly sound. “When he found you again, he asked what I thought when he realized I knew. Men can be stupid. All the while he thought I never knew what was going on. I knew. I always knew. Do you know what I told him?”

  Christian took a step away from him. “The suspense is killing me. Please, do tell.”

  “You haven’t changed a damn bit.”

  Brayden looked to Christian, who didn’t so much as blink, the look in her eyes vague and distant but edged in anger. He reached for her, clasping her hand in his.

  “I told him he should have Ivan kill you. You would ruin him, ruin his career and his future. But he didn’t listen to me, did he?”

  At her words, he shoved Christian behind him whether she wanted to be there or not, all the while keeping hold of her trembling hand.

  “Leave,” he said, afraid of what he’d do if she said more.

  His mother walked up to stand beside him, her hand in his father’s.

  Christian shoved her way around him and in a low voice he’d never heard her use, she said, “Leave. Get out of this house.” She took another step closer to the woman who should have, in his opinion, helped, but didn’t. “I used to wonder how in the world I could be cursed with a mother like you—now I just don’t care. You’re worse than he is. You knew all along what he was doing and you didn’t care. Tell me, did you have Daddy killed? How much did it cost you?”

  “You were always the bane of my life.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Estella, believe me. You aren’t fit to be a mother. You are nothing to me.”

  “I will not tell you again,” his own mother said. “I’ll have you arrested for trespassing and slander.”

  Mrs. Burbanks whirled on his mother, but his father stepped in front of her. “My wife asked you to leave. You don’t want me asking.”

  Morris grabbed her arm. “Come along, Mrs. Burbanks. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.”

  Again she jerked her arm free. “She’s my damn daughter.”

  “No, she isn’t. Christian’s ours, she’s a Kinncaid,” Kaitlyn said.

  Mrs. Burbanks laughed again, and this time hysteria danced in the grating sound. “A Kinncaid? No, she’ll always be a Montreaux. Through and through. A damn voodoo Creole is all she is, straight out of Louisiana slums. Look at her eyes. Just like her grandmother. Just like her father. It’s all in the eyes. In her eyes.”

  The woman was laughing and sobbing. Cursing one minute, pleading the next.

  “Get her out of here,” Brayden said.

  This time, Morris’s hold on her didn’t lessen. “Come on, Mrs. Burbanks. You and I need to have a little chat about negligent child abuse, accomplice to sexual assault of a minor, and conspiracy to commit murder.” He turned and passed her off to two uniforms who’d come into the house after hearing all the commotion.

  Brayden turned and pulled Christian against him. Felt her trembles and wished he’d actually slapped the bitter woman.

  No one said a word, silence cloaked everyone. Brayden looked around and caught his brother’s eye—though they were black instead of blue.

  Ian barely shook his head.

  “Well,” his father said. “That was interesting.”

  He felt Christian chuckle.

  “Chrissy, love,” Jock said. “Please tell me you don’t have any more hiding relatives.”

  Christian pulled back, wiped a trembling hand under her eyes. “Only normal ones. My grandparents and an older brother.”

  “This is the same brother that raised the ruckus?”

  She nodded.

  “Good for him. Are we going to get to meet them?” his father asked.

  Again she nodded. “Yeah, when this is all over.” Christian’s voice cracked at the end. Brayden reached for her, but she shook him off. Looking at his mother she said, brokenly, “Thank you.”

  His mother smiled softly. “Silly girl, there’s nothing to thank me for. We’ll get all this straightened out. One day, this will all be behind you.” She hugged Christian. “I m
eant what I told her.”

  “That’s why I’m crying.”

  His mother brushed the tears away. “I thank God for you every day. Don’t ever doubt it.”

  Christian only nodded.

  “Come on,” Brayden said, pulling her with him. “You need to rest.”

  “But . . . The party . . .”

  “Forget the damn party.”

  “Brayden’s right,” his mother agreed. “You need to lie down. I feel like I need to lie down. What a morning. Go on, hon. Go with Brayden. The party will work itself out.” She then turned to his father. “Jock, there’s been lots of excitement this morning. You go rest, too.”

  “Now, Kaitie lass.”

  “Don’t you ‘now, Kaitie lass’ me.”

  Brayden pushed Christian up the steps and left his parents to their own debate.

  “I don’t need to lie down,” his father repeated.

  Then a high-pitched, French-accented voice said, “Why, Mr. Kinncaid! You look positively ghastly.” A gasp.

  Brayden had to stop and turn to look.

  Ian stood in his deep purple brocade frock coat with a hand clasped to his chest.

  “What will your sweet wife do if you have to be rushed off to the hospital? Why, the party will be ruined. All my lovely flowers—pshew—gone to waste. No, it is not a good thing, not a good thing at all.” Ian sashayed over to Jock.

  Brayden barely kept from laughing.

  “Here’s what you do to relieve stress . . .”

  Shaking his head, Brayden all but shoved Christian up the rest of the stairs. If he watched anymore, he’d bust out laughing and have to explain. Ian would never forgive him for blowing his cover.

  • • •

  The rest of the day seemed to fly by. Christian stood in her bedroom trying to decide what to wear. It was about three hours before the party was to start, at eight—which was when dinner would be served.

  After the family reunion in the front entryway, Brayden took her to his room, where they spent a couple of hours making love.