The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  He arched one brow. “She’s more our sister.” He tilted his head. “Well, obviously not to Brayden.” A small grin, as though he kept a secret, lifted the right side of his mouth.

  “Fine, Mr. Antiquities marries his daughter’s nanny.”

  “Yes, earlier this year, around Valentine’s Day I do believe.”

  She got the impression he was leaving something out. “What are you not telling me?”

  He shrugged. “There was also a problem for them.”

  “Problem as in Aiden and Jesslyn’s problem, or more along the lines of the evil Gavin and Taylor battled.”

  “Both.”

  Damn. “You’ve an interesting family.” She leaned back against the armoire. “So is their problem still living?”

  “Whose?”

  “Either.”

  “No.”

  She shook her head. “My, my, aren’t we ever efficient. Your family is either very lucky or cursed.”

  He pointed to another photo of a man with the same features, angles of face, single dimple that Aiden and Tori had, but his coloring was that of the mother’s. Brown hair, or dark red, green eyes. “The Changeling.”

  “Quinlan. The youngest, workaholic, family hotel business.”

  “Five boys.”

  “Yes.”

  “So what’s his story?”

  He shook his head. “Quinlan is easy. He’s all work. Travels overseeing the overseas hotels and resorts, finds new buys to discuss with Aiden, and when at home, he lives in the hotel. He likes his coffee black, as religious in his workouts as he is about everything else.”

  “One of those, is he?”

  He ran his finger over the frame.

  “One of whats?”

  She waved a hand. “Never notices the world around them, timetables and charts. Likes everything just so. No variation of the routine.”

  He pursed his lips. “Yes and no. He notices everything, that’s why he’s good at what he does, but he does like his punctuality.”

  She grinned. “So you’re alike, are you then?”

  “Hmm . . .”

  He was looking at her again, that serious, straight-on way, as if trying to understand something.

  “What?” She started to take a step back and realized she was against the armoire. That slow smile started to play across his lips, softening the strong jaw.

  He took a step toward her, that tilting of lips still on his mouth. “I make you nervous.”

  She thought about lying.

  “You keep shying from me and my family will think I’m mistreating you.”

  “No man will ever mistreat me,” she said, and wished she had controlled the tone a bit more.

  “There sounds like there’s an ‘again’ at the end of that statement.” He stepped even closer, his eyes running over her face, as if he were learning every line.

  She wanted to look away, but she didn’t.

  “Why would you care what they think of me? Would the very proper Kinncaids of Kinncaid hotels not approve of a woman like me?” She motioned to the photos. “All perfectly Anglo-Saxon. They might take a care to a part-black woman in the family. I hear you Yanks take skin color rather seriously.”

  He shrugged and stepped close enough she smelled the clean scent of his soap and that other scent. Maybe his aftershave. Made her want to lean up and lick his jaw just to see. She took a deep breath.

  “I really don’t care what they think of you, if they do or don’t approve. The fact I’ll actually introduce you to them will make a huge impression.” He notched his chin up, staring at her. “I don’t care what color your skin or eyes are. You’re just you,” he said softly. “But I do have a confession to make about something I am biased about.”

  “What?”

  “I have a big issue with the gun you use.”

  She frowned. “My gun?”

  He grinned. “A SIG’s better.”

  She blinked and shook her head. “Not bloody likely. You should really try my Walther.”

  “You’d let me shoot your Walther?” he asked, his voice low, his eyes intense on her even as he shifted closer. “Now I am turned on.”

  Nerves skittered up her back. She hated to be blocked in. Sliding to the side, she said, “Will you let me shoot your SIG?”

  That grin flashed, his eyes narrowed and a bit of the devil dared her, even as his voice, husky and deep, said, “Depends on if you know how to handle it.”

  She stopped easing away. “There’s not a gun on the market I can’t handle, prefabbed or custom-made.”

  “Hmmm. We’ll have to test that theory sometime.”

  Blimey the man could seduce with no more than his bloody voice, and she realized how far off topic they were. Rori took a deep breath and shook her head. Where the hell was her head?

  “You didn’t answer my question. And why should meeting me matter to them?” She pointed to the pictures. “You’ve obviously seen them often enough.”

  He shook his head. “No, several men have been to see them, to help them out, to take care of . . .”

  “Problems?” she supplied.

  He smiled. “Problems. But Mr. Ian Kinncaid hasn’t been back in many, many years.”

  “Because?”

  He stepped closer and she started to move to the side. His arms shot up on either side of her. “We’re really going to have to work on this.”

  She swallowed and looked into his eyes. If she wanted to, she could make the man move, but then . . . She took a deep breath. She really didn’t want to move him.

  “Work on what?” she asked.

  “You acting as if you’re afraid of me.”

  It was her turn to arch her brow. “I’m not afraid of you.”

  He leaned in closer. “You’re not?”

  She licked her lips, watched as his eyes dropped to her mouth. “No, I’m not.”

  “Well, that is something then,” he whispered, his eyes rising to meet hers, his breath warm on her face. “Isn’t it?”

  He closed the distance between them.

  She’d kissed the man before and though it was nice . . .

  Then his lips were on hers. He didn’t touch her, except for his mouth. His tongue traced her lips, coaxed them open, his teeth gentle as they scraped over her full bottom lip.

  Rori leaned back against the armoire and he shifted, his chest on hers, one leg between her own.

  She sighed and opened her mouth as he swept in. His kiss demanded cooperation and she gave it, sparring with him, as his tongue licked the sensitive roof of her mouth.

  The kiss set her blood to humming, speeding through her veins. She started to move her arms up, but his elbows came down on her arms, his own hands moving from flat against the armoire doors to frame her face.

  God.

  He pulled back a moment and shoved his hand into his pocket. He took a deep breath and frowned. “Better.”

  Bloody wonderful. Here she was thinking of them together and he pulled away. Better? Like it was a bloody lesson?

  Rori took a deep breath.

  His one hand still on her face, he said, “There’s something else.”

  She cleared her throat before taking a calming breath. “What?”

  His head tilted to the side. “This.” He straightened and pulled her left hand to him.

  She glanced down and blinked. “What are you about?” Freeing her hand from him proved useless. Finally, she looked up into his dark blue eyes.

  Sometimes this man was so bloody intense. Those eyes were narrowed on her, the planes of his face seemed harsher than moments before. “We can’t just say we’re married. Rings, Rori.”

  Still she tried to pull her hand free. “Not everyone wears rings.”

  “My wife does.” Those eyes challenged her.

  Just like that. My wife.

  A slight grin pulled one corner of his mouth. “There’s that look.”

  “What bloody look?” she snapped.

  The grin grew. “That
look that says, ‘What the bloody hell am I doing?’ and ‘Fuck off,’ all at once.”

  Rori took a deep breath. “I don’t think—”

  Without another word, he slid the ring onto her finger. She stared at it. Nothing ordinary for this man. No plain gold band, no big flashy diamonds—not that she’d wear the latter anyway. No, this ring was wide, appeared old with the almost tarnished yet shimmering gold. Round stones so deep blue or green they appeared black were spaced and raised from the band. Deep grooves and swirls roped along the top and bottom of the ring. It looked old, pagan, Mediterranean. It was beautiful.

  “You’re not about to say something so clichéd as ‘I couldn’t possibly,’ are you?” he asked, rubbing his thumb back and forth over the ring that fit perfectly on her finger.

  She could only stare at it, and vainly liked the way the dim lights glinted on the gold and nearly black stones. Swallowing, she looked from the ring to him and said, “Of course not.” The ring pulled her attention back to it. She shouldn’t wear it. “Is this an heirloom? It appears old. I don’t want it . . . That is.” It was just a ring, and a beautiful one that he’d given her. “Never mind.”

  An inquisitive smile lightened his face. “No, it’s not an heirloom. Or I suppose it might be, but I saw it in London and thought of you, so I got it. Simple.”

  She rolled the ring on her finger. “Right, then. Simple. Just to keep the cover complete.”

  He ran his tongue around his teeth. “Something like that.” Ian reached into his pocket and pulled out a gold band with the same design inlaid within the smooth band. He handed it to her and smiled. “Do me the honor, dear?”

  She rolled her eyes and grabbed the ring off his palm, noticing it was still warm from his body heat. “How long have you carried these around in your pocket?” She pushed the ring onto his long finger. His palm was warm where she held it. The band slid past his first knuckle. She ran her finger over the metal.

  “This I’ll defend,” he muttered.

  She looked at him. “What?”

  Ian shook his head, his voice low. “You’re wearing my ring.”

  She cocked her brow and leaned back, even as he moved in. “So?”

  His hands ran from her hands, up her arms, over her shoulders, to her neck. “We’re in Scotland,” he said, his voice low, his lashes sweeping down to hide his eyes. “And you’re claiming to be my wife. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yeah, it’s not forever,” she said, her gaze locked on his lips.

  Ian’s thumbs gently stroked her jaw, back and forth, back and forth, his fingers playing at the nape of her neck. Tension swirled in her gut, made her breasts heavy and tickled down her backbone. She looked back up into his eyes, and her breath halted at the seriousness swirling in them. He leaned in closer and then closer.

  Instead of replying to her comment, he whispered against her lips, “Have I told you how sexy I think you are?”

  Her eyes closed, she just shook her head.

  “You are,” he muttered between nibbles on her lips. “Sexy and confident and that’s a turn-on, babe.”

  He ran one hand over her short-cropped hair.

  She kissed him back. “I hear husbands are supposed to tell their wives these things.”

  “Are they?” The other hand moved from her neck to her collarbone down to cup her breast. She pulled back out of the kiss to tell him . . .

  His thumb stroked over the center of her breast.

  To tell him . . .

  He gently squeezed.

  Her breath huffed out.

  “I’ve thought about doing this since I saw you at Nero’s wearing that lavender sweater that showed off your shoulder.” He kissed her neck, his tongue trailing a path from her collarbone to her jaw to her earlobe.

  She shivered.

  “Oh, yeah, I’ve thought of doing this . . .” He kissed her mouth again, their bodies pressing against each other, then he whispered against her lips, “This and a hell of a lot more.”

  Chapter 12

  Switzerland

  November 8

  Elianya looked out at the falling snow.

  Damn it.

  All her hard work had screeched to a halt.

  There was still the shipment moving from the Caribbean, and tomorrow she’d be on a plane to Paris, then on to Miami. Hot sultry weather in November . . . Ah.

  And once she was in the States, she’d simply contact the person who owed her. Then she’d learn Dimitri’s real name. As of yet, there was no trace of him. But he wouldn’t leave a trace, would he?

  If she learned his real name, she’d know how to get to him.

  If there was anyone she could use against him, she would. Nothing like loved ones to draw an enemy out.

  Elianya smiled. He was one man she hated, almost as much as Jacob several years earlier. And she’d taken care of that man and his little family. Though she suspected his name had been something else, she’d never learned what it was.

  She hadn’t asked and hadn’t cared. All she cared about was that the man she’d hired had done his job. He had followed one Jacob Angelovsky and then had gotten rid of him. Explosions were wonderful things. Not her personal favorite, but they always made such a statement. Personally, she’d have rather Jacob suffered a bit more, but done was done. As soon as the man had called her, she’d called her second contracted killer to take out the first. Neither man had a clue who she was, or who their mark was. They knew facts. They were hired to do a job and they completed it successfully.

  A little bomb on the ignition and boom! Problem solved.

  The man had had a family! A family, she had learned later! How could he do with her what he’d done and still have a family? He’d deserved to die. Of course, he’d deserved to die before that for rejecting her. To learn he’d had a family only served to put the icing on the cake.

  No man made her the other woman. She was any man’s only woman.

  Now Dimitri—or whoever the hell he was. She had men looking for him.

  So who was working with him? Who had the other man been that the Russian guard had spoken of? Your brother’s man and someone else . . .

  Who had the someone else been?

  She ran a hand over her coiffed hair and checked the clock. It was almost time for her massage and last spa treatment. Who knew when she’d get back to Europe. New York had some good spas, but not like those here.

  She was a European snob and she knew it. The Americans were capitalists and she would use that. Other than their use to her she had no need of them.

  But she knew she could make a beautiful profit in the U.S. with her girls and she damn well would. Before long, she’d be someone the other bosses came to.

  As she pulled on the thick white robe and grabbed her room key, she decided she needed to hire at least two more bodyguards. Her driver was loyal, but after her brother . . .

  At least everyone would know she meant business.

  Business was always important. A sharp head in business led to power. And power . . .

  Well, there was nothing like power, was there?

  She checked the mirror on her way out and decided she’d hire three bodyguards. Two men and a woman.

  She liked diversity, after all.

  • • •

  November 13, 11:00 a.m.

  Ian put the car in drive, ignoring the way Roth glared at him. He merged with the rest of the traffic from Dulles.

  John, Tanner, and Snake were following in another vehicle. He could only shake his head at the black SUV following them. Leave it to one of the guys to rent the vehicles, and it looked like a damn fed convention coming to town.

  “I wasn’t in charge of the rentals,” Roth said, straightening in his passenger seat. Roth, tall, short dark hair, a beard and built like a linebacker, was already helping in the area of protective services that KB Securities provided.

  Ian shrugged. “It’s fine.”

  “Jones probably would have arranged it anyway.”
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  “True, along with several other details.”

  Roth only grunted. Roth was also a retired Ranger who went to work with the same agency that had recruited Ian. He was originally from the Midwest somewhere, not that Ian cared. Roth was good at what he did and that was all that mattered. People paid for protection, and for the price they paid, they got it.

  “Exactly where are we going?” Rori asked from the backseat. From the set of her pale green eyes and the furrow between those perfectly arched brows, he could tell she was still pissed.

  Not that she had to come along, but he was glad she had. All for the girl.

  His gaze shifted to the little girl in the rearview mirror. Dressed in a blue sweater and jeans, little half boots on her feet, the black bear clutched in her lap, she appeared the normal little girl.

  Except for those eyes.

  He took another deep breath and paid attention to the road and the other drivers around him.

  “I should be driving,” Roth said. Again.

  Ian only glanced at him, pulling his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and shaking out one. He needed one. Long damn flight, and here he was in D.C.

  “You pulled me off the detail in Boston for this. And what am I doing? Riding. The guard drives. The targets never—”

  “I don’t need a rundown on bodyguard and target marking procedures.” He pressed the car lighter to the end of the cigarette and took a deep drag, shoving the lighter back into the slot and cracking the window.

  “That will kill you,” Roth muttered.

  Ian ignored him.

  “Well, I agree with him,” Rori said from the backseat.

  “I didn’t ask you.”

  “No bloody kidding.” Her eyes shot ice at him. “One more week. You should be able to find out in that amount of time if anyone is looking for her, if your family is safe and if you have to help with anything else. After that, Mr. I-don’t-jolly-ask, you’re on your own.”

  He wanted to smile at her. He didn’t. He took another deep drag.

  His eyes stayed on hers for another moment, and in that second he could all but taste what it felt like to kiss the woman senseless.