by Jaycee Clark
When his father opened his mouth, he plowed on. “Oh, she’s pretty to look at. Brice has a great body, perfect posture, and the schooling to be a mate to a wealthy Kinncaid heir.” He walked back and planted his hands on his father’s desk. “But I’ll bet my inheritance she’s not pregnant.”
“Then you’d lose.” His father opened the desk drawer and took out a folded document, tossing it on the desk.
“What the hell is this?” Ian snatched it up and opened it. The checkmarks on the neat form. Blood work, pelvic exam, hCG levels. He flipped to the next page and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.
Pregnancy confirmed. He sat back in the chair.
Holy shit. His mind scrambled. Valentine’s Day he’d been in and they’d met at the hotel. The round of sweaty sex ended in a fight that broke them up. Or rather, the fight ended the bout of sex short of his orgasm. Thanks to Brice calling out a name, and it sure as hell hadn’t been his.
Ian took a deep breath, huffed it out and scanned down the sheet. Flipped it back to the doctor’s form to read the handwriting at the bottom.
Patient eight weeks gestation.
It was currently the end of May . . . which would mean she was pregnant the end of March.
Thank you, God.
“It’s not mine,” he strangled out.
“What? Brice told Eddie the baby was yours.”
His heart slammed in his chest but he bit down. “She’s lying. The last time we were together was at Valentine’s and the job was somewhat . . .” Ian looked up at his father before continuing, “unfulfilled, if you get my drift, Dad.”
Jock rubbed his forehead. “She said you would deny it. Said you didn’t want to marry her. But I didn’t believe it. Never believed it,” he muttered.
“Well, believe it. I’m not marrying her.” Ian threw the papers back on the desk and leaned back, wanting to get up and pace.
Jock, his brow crinkled, his brows low over his eyes, said, “You were in for spring break. Down from Harvard. You and Brice went out then.”
So they had. He’d had too much to drink, but had already spilled his guts to his brother earlier that afternoon about how he was going to have to talk to Brice again because she wasn’t getting the point they were over. Aiden had agreed. Apparently the woman had told all and sundry they were still together.
“Nothing happened.” Ian stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I drank a bit, but when she tried to kiss me I told her to forget it. It was over.”
They’d been down at the lake. He still remembered how pissed she’d gotten, the way she’d tried to tackle him down, all joking, but there had been a determined glint in her eye. The way she crooned she could make it good for him. Now he understood it. She’d known then and she’d needed them to have sex. Lucky as hell for him that his brother Aiden had walked up.
Ian started to tell his father that, but no. This was his mess, he wasn’t about to drag Aiden in on it.
Instead he turned and looked at his father.
“I’m sorry, the baby isn’t mine. There is simply no way.”
“There’s all kinds of ways. You said yourself you’d been drinking.” Those eyes already told Ian what his father thought.
“You think I’m lying.”
Jock opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He pointed his finger at Ian. “You’re going to do the right thing. I didn’t raise you any other way.”
Ian could only stare at his father. “I’m not marrying her. Period.”
“Yes, you are.”
Rage quickly roiled through him, but he’d learned long ago he and his father were way too damn much alike. Calm. Calm. Calm. He took another deep breath.
“Tell her to set up a paternity test.”
The incredulous look on his father’s face might have been humorous at any other time.
Knowing Brice could weasel around that, Ian added, “And let Mom set it up with a doctor she knows and trusts.”
The red crept up his father’s face. “You’re going to marry her.”
“No.” He walked back to the desk and leaned across it, looking his father in the eye. Why didn’t the old man trust him?
“No son of mine will turn his back on his baby and the woman carrying it.”
Ian straightened. “What?”
“You heard me.”
“Repeat it.”
Jock swallowed, his face twisted and furious. “Your mother and I raised you better. You will do the right thing.”
Ian waited a beat and bit down. “And if I don’t do what you think is the right thing?”
“Then you can leave.” He threw up a hand. “Kinncaids don’t . . .”
“Shirk their responsibilities,” Ian finished with him.
Their eyes locked and clashed, their breaths both heavy, fueled with anger.
“I won’t marry her. Not now, not tomorrow. If I did find out she carried my child, I’d petition the courts for it. But that woman will never be Mrs. Ian Kinncaid.”
“Get out,” his father whispered.
Ian’s heart thrummed in his chest, faster and faster. “You’re going to regret this. I’m your son and you sided with that whoring bitch.”
He never saw his father’s fist coming. The force to his jaw knocked him back several steps. Ian reached up and touched his jaw, moved it out and in. He didn’t even bother to make a fist, didn’t bother with anything. If the old man wanted to believe the worst of him, fine.
Jock stood on the other side of the desk looking as shocked and angry as Ian felt.
Ian nodded to him, turned on his heel and strode to the door. He reached out and grabbed the handle, then looked over his shoulder at his father.
“One day you’ll wake up and see the woman she really is, but it’ll never be as my wife. And I hope for my brothers’ sakes she won’t be one of theirs. Good-bye, Jock.”
He slammed the door behind him and hurried upstairs. He shoved clothes into his bag, glanced around his room, and grabbed the photo of him and Aiden, another family photo, and the one of his mother. Rage and a good damn dose of fear pounded inside him. Ignoring the fact his hands were shaking, he snatched up his jacket, took a look around his bedroom, and walked out and right into Becky, the housekeeper.
“Here now, what’s going on, then?” Her rotund figure was as familiar to him as the rest of the house. “Everyone gone but you and your father and you’re yelling loud enough to wake the dead, ye are.”
Instead of answering, he hugged her hard and said, “I have to go. Tell everyone bye for me.” Then he looked into her eyes. “Tell Mom . . . Tell her . . . Give her a hug for me and tell her I love her.”
She sputtered questions as he hurried down the hall and down the wide curving staircase. His father stood pacing in the foyer. Ian paused on the stairs for just an instant before continuing.
His father stepped in front of him, those blue eyes, so like his own, still blazing. In a low voice he said, “We’re not done.”
“Yeah, we are. You’ve made up your mind.” He took a deep breath. “And I’ve made up mine.”
“You leave this house, don’t come back. Don’t call asking for money either.”
So that’s the way of it. Fine.
A muscle bunched in his jaw. He could only shake his head. At the door he stopped again and said, “I’ll leave the car with Aiden. I’d hate to get pulled over because you reported it stolen.”
Childish? Probably. But damn it. He whirled, the short leash he’d kept on his anger snapped.
“You know, I was never the perfect kid. Aiden and I got in plenty of trouble. Gavin and Bray too. You want to throw me out, fine. Disown me?” Ian paused, noting his father didn’t deny it. He bit down and nodded. “Fine. Disown me. Flesh and blood and the Kinncaid line of bullshit you always fed us, is just that, isn’t it? Bullshit. Because when it comes right down to it, Jock Kinncaid doesn’t stand with his own. Instead he believes the worst and disowns them. You’re a goddamn hypocrite.”
> Ian slammed the door shut, threw his bag into the passenger seat of his convertible and roared out of the driveway, gravel spitting in the air even as his Porsche left black marks.
All he could hear over the thundering of his own heart was his father’s words . . .
Don’t come back . . .
Chapter 1
Thirteen years later
Czech Republic
October 28, 10:00 p.m.
The Prague club roared with the sounds of vices better left unknown, but too tempting for most. This Czech city was Janus-faced. Two faces of the same coin, its beauty and old world for the discerning tourists, but flipped, the red-light districts rivaled those in Amsterdam or the worst hells on earth. An evil, black and thick, rolled through the Prague underground, plumping its greedy fist from those who sought pleasure in unconventional ways.
So much for a quiet evening at home. Though quiet might not be found for a couple more days. Most residents were out celebrating—this was, after all, Czech Independence Day. The pop of fireworks burst through the air, laughter rang out and motorists zoomed by. Tonight was full of revelry. Fireworks still shot from Prazsky hrad, bursting the castle walls with color, and people still gathered in Stare Mesto.
Dimitri Petrolov, also referred to as the Reaper, strode to the front of Nero’s Nightclub. Ivan, the bouncer, only nodded to him and let him pass. But then Dimitri really hadn’t expected anyone to try and stop him. There was, after all, a good reason for his nickname. He was Viktor Hellinski’s enforcer. And everyone who was anyone knew Hellinski was not a man to cross.
The club pulsed. Rammstein beat against the smoked tinged air from hidden speakers. Strobe lights flashed through the darkness, and dancers, revelers, drug users alike took on a macabre glow. The club was painted black, with the only relief burning murals on the walls that seemed to glow and flicker in the black lights.
“Hey, Dimitri, baby,” a sultry voice called.
He looked to his right, where one of the night waitresses weaved between bodies with a platter of empty glasses. Debromil. Or was it her twin, Elsa? They were both blonde and stacked like Viking goddesses. Hopefully, they would simply remain waitresses and not wind up in Hellinski’s other jobs. He merely smiled at her. Her silicone breasts, all but bursting from the corset she wore, didn’t move as she gyrated to the music, her platter of empty drinks never wavering.
Dimitri wove his way to the staircase at the back of the club. Women, men, college kids moved out of his way. He ignored the drugs, probably ecstasy, being passed between two girls. Another couple kissed openmouthed. His foot on the bottom step, he heard the sounds of an argument between a man and woman, but ignored them. At the top landing he looked below at the strobing spandex- and leather-clad figures, dark in the shadows of flickering bright lights. The smell of cigarette smoke and the tinge of stronger chemicals mixed and melded with too many perfumes on too many bodies, and glossing it all was the permanent smell of alcohol. It was the fragrance of greed and vice. Well, one he associated anyway. Most here tonight were simply out for a good time. At least this was Nero’s and not one of the other clubs.
He closed his eyes for a moment before turning to the hallway, guarded by two men he personally thought of as Pit and Bull. Their jackets did little to cover the holsters or the semiautomatic weapons harnessed there. But who the hell was he to raise a brow at a weapon. His SIG Sauer P226 was in his own shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket.
His skin itched with the knowledge that something was up. He didn’t even look at them as he walked down the hallway. The black door at the end was marked Private.
Dimitri ignored this and shoved the door open, walking into the dark office. A low light spilled from a lamp on the desk. The tall leather chair was turned away from him, facing the large picture window that overlooked the floor of the club below.
“What took so long?” Viktor asked, not turning.
“I was otherwise . . .” Dimitri paused, “engaged.”
Viktor scoffed. “Were you? Hope she gave you a good time, my friend.”
Dimitri chose not to answer. Instead, he walked to stand at the edge of the window looking at the melee below. They reminded him of chaotic ants. Too much confusion.
“Nice profit tonight.”
“Yes,” Dimitri answered, not bothering to look at his boss. The man was reflected in the glass. No one could see them. To a viewer below, it looked like a giant wall of mirrors that only reflected the dancing blinking scene back to the revelers. He studied the man sitting in the chair, his hands resting on the arms, a glass of vodka in his hand.
They both stared out at the scene below them. Dimitri waited. He never pressed for details, never asked. Questioning, in his opinion, led to others questioning him. Questions often gave more away than silence. And silence, he had learned, afforded him more.
He watched as one man and woman screwed against the wall in the shadows. The bouncers and guards didn’t notice, and if they had, nothing would have been done.
People gyrated on the dance floor; to him, they all looked the same. A sea of black ants. Drugs, sex, booze—just a good time, they’d say.
If they only knew.
“I have a job for you,” Hellinski said.
Music from below barely pulsed through the floor or walls, there was a soft vibration from the base, but that was it. Dimitri knew these rooms were soundproof.
As was the rest of the building.
People came to play downstairs and some went upstairs and to the adjoining building for a different taste in entertainment that had little to do with dancing on the dance floor. It was only one of the many businesses that Dimitri helped his boss oversee.
These days he was gone more than here, only called in for specific jobs.
Dimitri waited in silence again.
“’Tis annoying habit you have, Dimitri. Silence. I don’t like silence. I’ve killed others for their arrogance, you know.”
“Yes, I know.” And he had been the one to put the bullet in many of them.
“I’m also aware I’m not the only one who gives you orders.”
He kept looking at the dancers and partygoers below. He saw a group of young men slip something—probably roofies—into the drinks of their dates.
“No, sir. You told me when I was brought in that I would answer to Elianya as well as to you.”
The older man grunted and Dimitri turned to study him. Viktor did his Slavic ancestors proud. Wide slanted eyes, like those of a lion, watched him from their amber depths. Viktor’s nose was slightly crooked, broken God only knows how many times. Scars slashed across the right side of his elongated face. The ash-blond hair was pulled back in a queue. The man was one of the most feared in the Prague underground, and in time, Dimitri knew, he himself would be on Viktor’s hit list. It was simply the way the game was played.
Those amber eyes narrowed on him, even as Viktor straightened in his chair and pulled at the maroon silk shirt he wore. “Tell me what you would do if I ordered you to kill someone you might not want to.”
Dimitri merely arched a brow. What game was the man setting into motion now?
He walked to the sideboard, reached into the small refrigerator, and pulled out a frozen glass. The vodka poured in smoothly. He set the decanter aside and turned back to his boss, sipping the clear liquid.
“When do I learn the name of this . . . problem?” Someone he wouldn’t want to kill? His pulse sped. No way the man could know. Dimitri glanced at him as he sat in the chair to the side of the desk, his back against the wall, facing the rest of the room.
Viktor frowned and propped his left ankle on his right knee, his foot bouncing.
“Perhaps,” Dimitri ventured, “the person is not one whom I might have a problem eliminating?”
Those eyes snapped back to him. Silence settled between them. “Perhaps.”
Dimitri nodded. And waited.
With a curse, muttering of whores, Viktor stood, his hands clasped be
hind his back as he stared again out the window.
Apparently someone had angered Mr. Hellinski. Not wise, but then who was he to complain. This was what he did.
On a deep breath, the other man shook his head. “Come back tomorrow night. I will give you a name then. I want it done as soon as possible.”
It was Dimitri’s turn to frown. Why the hesitancy?
“Hellinski.” When the man faced him, he said, “You’re a hard man, with a business to oversee and protect, and as far as friends go, I consider you one.”
Viktor smiled, his scarred face more distorted. “And I you, Dimitri. And I you.”
“You don’t like people to cross you.” Dimitri stared at him. “And you have no mercy for those who betray you.”
Viktor inclined his head.
“I’m of the same mind.” Dimitri stood, set the glass down.
Viktor’s eyes widened in shock. “You think I would betray you?”
Dimitri smiled. “For enough money, yes.”
Viktor laughed, but they both knew the words to be true.
“I’ll be back tomorrow night.”
Viktor nodded. “You’re right on what you said of betrayal. I’ll give you the name the night after tomorrow, as I just recalled I have a prior engagement. I do want the job finished within the next week.”
Dimitri strode out of the office, seemingly not paying any more attention to anyone than when he walked in.
He slapped Ivan on the arm as he walked out of the club and put his head down against the cold autumn wind. He waited for a cab, noted that Ivan took out a cell phone and made a call.
• • •
She set the phone aside and bit on her thumbnail. Now what? Damn it all to hell. She had not worked this hard to see it all go up in flames. Not now.
One stupid mistake.
But she held the cards. She knew, she held the winning hand.
Kill someone whom Dimitri might object to?
She chuckled. For all the hard-won reputation, for all the crimes the man had committed, all the lives he had taken, she knew Mr. Petrolov for what he really was.
