The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  “Christian?” Brayden asked, looking at her. Her eyes were glazed.

  All he could hear was her wheezing.

  Hang on, baby. Just hang on.

  God help him.

  “Well, since she can’t tell you, I guess I should. Our disagreement was over you.” The man smiled. “I told her I didn’t share, and here she is wearing your ring.” He tsked. “I almost cut her finger off for that, but that would disfigure her, so I can’t do that, now can I?”

  Brayden shook his head, always sliding toward them. “No, you wouldn’t want to do that.”

  “I told her she couldn’t love you. She can only love me. Only me!”

  What reasoning was there with a madman?

  Brayden moved closer, almost to them, but the guy kept pulling Christian with him along the wall, closer to the staircase.

  “I can’t let you have her. I can’t let her go.”

  Well, Brayden wasn’t about to let the bastard take her.

  “She is,” Richard continued in that silky voice, “my angel. My beautiful, lovely angel.”

  The glint of a bloody switchblade hissed right before the son of a bitch pointed it at her neck.

  “I don’t want to steal such beauty from the world. But dead, we would be together. Forever.”

  Christ.

  “You—you don’t want to do that,” Brayden tried, keeping his voice calm. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Ian poised at the entrance of the other hallway just off the stairs. Everything, all the wings intersected at the head of the staircase.

  “Why? Because you want her?” Richard taunted.

  Brayden saw the pearl of blood at the tip of the blade as it pricked her skin.

  Christian wheezed again, jerking Brayden’s gaze to her. Her eyes fluttered shut and she slumped in Richard’s hold.

  Two shots fired, both spinning Richard around. He lost his hold on Christian and Brayden rushed him.

  Brayden growled as he flew at the monster.

  He hit him, mid-torso, the momentum carrying them both back toward the banister.

  “Brayden, move!” Ian shouted.

  He saw the blade coming and ducked, reached up and grabbed it. For a bleeding man, Richard was strong, stronger than Brayden had given him credit for.

  The blade glinted as it wavered between them. “You’re a low-life son of a bitch,” Brayden bit out between his teeth. “It’s time to reap what you sowed.” With a prayer and a curse, he used his strength to turn the blade toward Richard. Closer and closer.

  The man’s eyes glinted and he smiled. “She will always be mine.”

  “She was never yours.” Brayden shoved his weight against the knife, felt it slide in, nick a rib, and pop the heart. Blood flowed over his hand. “Burn in hell.”

  He heard the wood crack, felt it give and tried to jerk back.

  Richard grinned and locked his hand around Brayden’s wrist.

  The railing gave way and Brayden pitched forward.

  “Stupid, hotheaded ass,” someone said.

  Hands jerked him back, grabbed hold of Richard, but the other man slipped and crashed to the hardwood floor below, blood spreading in a dark pool around him.

  Brayden turned and looked at his brother. The disguised icy blue eyes were furious. “Don’t ever pull a dumb stunt like that again.”

  Brayden huffed out a breath. “Thanks.”

  He turned and rushed to Christian, who lay crumpled on the rug, her bloodstained robe sticking to her body.

  Gavin was working on her, bending over her, checking her pulse and his watch. He must have come up the back stairs.

  Brayden knelt beside her. She was almost gray. Oh, God, please, no. Not after all this. He couldn’t lose her now.

  The look on Gavin’s face was serious. Gavin said, “She’s been stabbed twice, has other smaller cuts, lost a lot of blood and has a bruised larynx. Ambulance is on the way and FlightStar is waiting at the local hospital. We’re going to medevac her to Georgetown Memorial.”

  Brayden sat down and dropped his head. Gently, he leaned over and kissed her cheek.

  “I’m sorry, baby. So damn sorry.”

  Why couldn’t it have been him the bastard went after?

  People shuffled and moved around them. He heard his parents, thought he heard his daughter, but none of it registered. All he saw was Christian. All he knew was that he failed her again.

  Epilogue

  Christian opened her eyes. The stringent smell of a hospital stung her nose. Then she realized it was the oxygen hose.

  The bleep of a monitor pierced through the haze. What was she doing in a hospital?

  She turned and saw Brayden sitting by the window, his arms crossed over his chest, dark stubble on his jaw.

  Her arm and shoulder throbbed. Licking her lips, she realized she was thirsty.

  “C-can . . .” Only a whisper came out.

  Memories slammed back into her. The bathroom. Richard. The knife. The fight. Brayden.

  He turned and hurried to her bedside. “You’re okay. Calm down. You’re safe.” His hand on her forehead was feather-light. She leaned into the comfort.

  “You’ve been out for a good while. Scared me to death, though the doctors tell me this is all normal, considering your wounds.”

  Stabbings.

  “Richard?”

  Brayden’s face hardened. “You’ll never have to worry about him again.”

  What did he mean?

  “He’s dead. Shot twice.”

  Well, that was nice to know. A smile caught her off guard. The monster in her life was banished.

  “Rest, you should rest.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek again. “Don’t try to talk. The doctor said it would be several days before any normal sound came out as long as you don’t push it. Are you thirsty?”

  She nodded. A machine hummed beside her.

  Sunlight slanted through the window and across her bed.

  Water sloshed in a glass, dripped off the bottom and onto her hand as he moved it over toward her. The straw felt awkward, her mouth as dry as sawdust. But the water was wonderful.

  Too quickly he took it away. “The nurse said only sips.”

  She rolled her eyes, or tried too. Suddenly the throbbing in her arm stopped and she felt light and floaty.

  “Go back to sleep.”

  Christian reached out and grabbed his hand. “Don’t leave me,” she rasped.

  “Never.” He sat in the chair beside her, and held her hand.

  “I love you,” she tried to whisper.

  “I love you, too.”

  Blackness swirled and swept her into a painless oblivion.

  • • •

  Ian slid into the car and shut the passenger door. The police had badgered him, but his story was rock solid, even if one of his bullets was in Richard’s upper chest, the other from Morris. All the numbers they called were answered by an answering service for Banockburn Security. Of course, Sean McClean worked for them. And they were sad to hear someone died, but at least the little girl, who he was hired to protect, was all right.

  The police had no choice but to buy it. He had to come back for some interviews. He told them fine. Even went so far as to write them down in a neat black organizer. No one in that department would ever see Sean McClean again.

  “Can we get the hell out of here now?” John asked him, his British accent clipped to a point, as it often got when he was tired.

  “What, didn’t you enjoy your vacation?” Ian asked, looking over at the only man he’d trust his back to. Well, besides his brothers. But he needed someone in the business to help with this operation, and John was it.

  “Oh, definitely.” John continued, “Nothing I like more than stings. What, after all, does a beach, a tanned woman, and lots of fruity drinks have to compare with excitement like this. Blood, lies and bullets. My kind of fun. Personally, I’d go for the sand, the drinks and sex. Lots and lots of sex with tanned women, fruity drinks on the beach.”
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br />   They pulled away from the curb.

  “All things considered,” John continued, “I think that all went rather well. We even managed to cover our arses.”

  “Went well?” Ian asked him.

  “Everyone lived, didn’t they? Too many variables to cover. We try.”

  “Trying’s not good enough.”

  “Not when it’s our own, is it, boyo?”

  The early morning D.C. lights whizzed past. Silence stretched between them. They were almost to the airport when John spoke again. “Time to get back, she’s already been calling wondering what the hell is taking you so long.”

  “She’ll wait,” Ian added. “We had to finish this. I didn’t want to have to come back later and clean up.”

  “You could have just ended this much earlier. You knew who the bastard was weeks ago.”

  He could have, yes. “I should have, after the way it fubared there at the end. Almost lost Christian.”

  “You just wanted your brother to have a go at the bloody bugger.”

  Damn John anyway. “Would you shut up.”

  “Yeah, it went damn well. And almosts and should’ves don’t make a fuck, mate. God, I love job success.”

  • • •

  When Christian opened her eyes again, she couldn’t believe what she was seeing.

  “Grandmere?” Damn her voice.

  “Ah, you’re awake.” The old raspy voice held a hint of French Creole. “Don’t strain your voice. Your man explained it all to us. Scared us, Joshua showing up with that Quinlan Kinncaid in the wee hours of the morning. Knew right away we’d found you again.”

  A cool, weathered hand cupped her cheek.

  Christian felt the slide of tears.

  “Child, don’t cry. Don’t cry. The darkness has passed. All you have now is the light.” The hand was as soft as she remembered, the white hair pulled back in a bun, eyes as gray as her own held the wisdom of age. “How we’ve missed you. I knew. I always knew we’d find you one day. And then there was Josh and Quinlan. That man flew down and found us, flew us back up here. Didn’t want your granddad and I, or even your brother, to hear this all on the news.”

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Her grandmother sighed. “Regrets are only good for regrets. Look forward. Always forward.” She shifted. “I have to tell you, I love your man. Very strong, very honorable, very handsome. He reminds me of your grandfather. That one will last you a lifetime.”

  Christian nodded and pulled her hand out to hold her grandmother’s.

  Her grandmother smiled. “Now, I should tell you the wedding plans we’ve come up with . . .”

  The door opened.

  “I’m sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt,” Brayden said, pulling her attention around.

  “Why, you’re not. Come over here and give me a kiss, young man, then give one to Christian.”

  Brayden smiled, did as she asked, then stood by the bed.

  Christian smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” He leaned down and kissed her on the mouth.

  “Are they still fighting?” her grandmother asked.

  Christian looked to Brayden.

  He was glad to see she had color back in her cheeks, but she was still too pale. It would be a long damn time before he didn’t have to know where she was and what she was doing. He held her hand, rubbing the back of it, noting how dry it was. He’d bring her some lotion.

  “Dad and your granddad,” he answered the question he could see on her face. “Mom and Clara—”

  “That is Grandmere to you,” the elderly woman interrupted.

  Brayden smiled. “Mom and Grandmere have been making wedding plans. Your brother and I duked it out, not that I blame Josh.”

  Her grandmother muttered something about self-blame. Hell yes, he blamed himself. Why wouldn’t he? If her brother blamed him for Christian getting hurt, that was fine by him. At least they were speaking to each other now. And Joshua Montreaux knew where Brayden stood with the guy’s sister.

  “Anyway, Dad and your granddad are fighting over where the wedding will be. You have an opinion?”

  She smiled and nodded.

  “You do?”

  She looked at her grandmother and shared another smile.

  Clara’s eyes were as gray as her granddaughter’s. She said, “All Montreaux women wed at Montreaux Meadows. It blesses the union, or so legend goes. You don’t want to rebuke a legend, or blessing, do you?”

  Brayden thought for about five seconds. His mother might not believe in the family curse, but he’d washed Christian’s bloodstains off his hands. “No, ma’am. I think a Southern spring wedding will be wonderful.”

  Christian shook her head.

  “No?” he asked.

  “No,” she whispered. “No later than Valentine’s Day.”

  He smiled. Fine with him.

  “How about on Valentine’s Day?”

  She nodded and smiled.

  Clara stood. “I think I’ll leave you two to iron out details.” She patted Christian’s bed. “Don’t worry, I’ll be back.”

  Brayden waited until the door shut, then he sat on the bed beside her.

  “A Valentine’s wedding. Are you sure?” he asked.

  “Well, I’m not drunk, and I miss playing house with you.”

  He smiled. “Do you?”

  She nodded and he leaned over and kissed her lips.

  “Well, then, it is house we shall play.”

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the unwavering support of friends and wonderful readers. Thank you all. Ian might still be in the murky part, his story only half done, if the call for him had not been what it was.

  To Gail and Shalon, thanks for reading through another Kinncaid story. A big thanks to Val, who took the Texas out of Rori and made her more British, and to A., who pointed out things I never would have caught.

  I have to give a special thanks to Mandy. Thanks for all the phone conversations, for saying, “Oh my God, you can’t do that,” or “Just write the damn thing.” Thanks for all the help, all the links, all the ideas bounced back and forth. But mostly, thanks for the friendship. Hugs.

  Oh, and I have to give one more special thanks to Kenneth—the strange one—who told me which guns my characters simply could not use and set me straight.

  As always, thanks to my family, who still loves me even after writing this book. :)

  Hugs and thanks to you all,

  Jaycee

  I dedicate this book to the outcasts, the different,

  the weird, and to those who love them—

  life would be boring if all were the same.

  Prologue

  “What the hell do you mean you’re not going to marry her?”

  “Exactly what I said. I won’t marry Brice Carlisle.”

  Ian Kinncaid sprawled in the chair in front of his father’s desk. The dark wood gleamed as it always did, and what was normally a relaxed atmosphere was thick with tension.

  His father rose and walked to look out the tall windows. As a child this room held the balance of fun and apprehension. He and his brothers were either in here playing or they were being called to account for some trouble. And Jock Kinncaid had never been one to let things slide. Not in business, not in life, and sure as hell not in family. You screwed up, you paid the price. Period.

  Which was why they were both sitting in here now, though Ian couldn’t figure out what the damn deal was, but the itchy feeling he wasn’t going to like it crawled under his skin.

  “Why?” his father asked quietly. The calm voice before the storm. His father’s face was flushed, never a good sign.

  Ian studied him. It had been a while since he’d seen his father this mad. And when had Dad started to get old? Still tall, strong and fit, but now there was more gray in his black hair and the wrinkles seemed deeper.

  “Why? Why what?” Ian sat still. His father raged and h
e’d always waited. He was used to this game. They’d argue, yell a bit, not talk for a while, and then things would get back to normal. Same old, same old.

  Jock Kinncaid turned from the window and speared Ian with a look that had him shifting in the chair. “I want to know why my son refuses to marry his fiancée.”

  Ian bit down on his own temper. “For the tenth time, she’s not my damn fiancée.”

  “You should have thought about that before you got her pregnant.”

  What? What? So that was the game she chose this time. Ian took a deep breath. “First off, Brice Carlisle is not, nor has she ever been, nor will she ever be, my fiancée. Second, if, and I’m betting that’s a damn big if, she’s pregnant, it sure as hell isn’t mine.”

  His father stared at him a while longer then huffed out a breath, walked to the desk, and sank down in the chair. “Look, this may not be the way you planned things, but you have to do the right thing. My God. I refuse to have my first grandchild born out of wedlock.” He leveled another look, those blue eyes sharp as spears. “You’ll marry her.”

  Ian stared his father down. “Are you listening to me at all?”

  “You might not want to get married yet, but things change.”

  Ian stood. “I’ll be damned if I’m getting married now and I won’t get married tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t say that damn soon.”

  Ian took a deep breath. “Look. I know this must seem like a perfect opportunity to you . . .”

  That sound his father made in the back of his throat, somewhere between a scoff and a growl, had him stopping.

  “Perfect opportunity?” His father stood with his hands flat on the desk.

  Great.

  “Perfect opportunity.” Jock waggled a finger at him. “Let me tell you something, boyo. Neither I, Edward Carlisle, nor your mother—who, by the mercy of God, doesn’t know yet—sees this as the perfect opportunity.”

  Ian rolled his eyes and stalked to the fireplace. “Please. You’ve been trying to get one of us with Eddie’s oldest daughter for years. The problem is, she’s known it, expects to become a Kinncaid, and none of us can stand her cold, selfish ass.”