The Deadly Series Boxed Set

by Jaycee Clark

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “It’s a beautiful day, in a beautiful city, and buying a lovely woman strawberries doesn’t seem like too high a price for that.”

  True. “But they’re my strawberries,” she argued.

  “You can buy the next batch.” He nodded to Tiny, who was grinning, his white teeth flashing bright in his dark face.

  “She buys batches every week. Dependable and loyal is our Ella.”

  “You know how to charm the girls, Tiny,” she told him, taking the bag of berries the man—Quinlan handed to her. “You got my other stuff?”

  “This one knows how to charm as well, I’m thinking. And I’ve always got your supplies.” He then hefted up a box filled with food staples, apples and oranges. A box of cookies.

  “Cookies?”

  “For the little ones.”

  “You are a softy, you know that?”

  “I am blessed is what I am, I can afford to help others. Now you get going or you’ll be walking home in the dark and that’s not good, no ma’am, not good at all.”

  “Yes, sir.” She hopped up so her feet weren’t touching the floor, leaned over the worn Formica counter and kissed Tiny’s cheek. “You take care of Lisha and that baby.”

  “Always do.”

  “I know.” Ella hopped down and grabbed the box, pulling it toward her and dropping the bag of strawberries on the top. “Gotta go. I’m already running late. Classes ran a bit long.”

  “Here, let me help,” his starchy Yankee voice said.

  She grinned. “I’ve got it.”

  “Undoubtedly. But my mother would be appalled if I let you carry that wherever you’re heading.”

  “About two blocks from here actually.”

  “Well then, I’ll carry it for you.”

  She didn’t want to seem rude. Men were so touchy about pride.

  He hooked his cane over his forearm and took the box from her, tucking it under his other arm and then sliding the cane down to grip it in his left hand. He raised his brows. “After you.”

  “You know, I shouldn’t let you carry that. You might be some sort of criminal or something.”

  Again he chuckled. “Or something. Not a criminal.” Then his brows furrowed. “Though that’s a good point.”

  “I know your name is Quinlan and you’re here with brothers, and find blue hair shocking. You’re visiting our fair city. Other than that, sugar, I don’t know a thing about you.”

  “True. So you should get to know me. I’m Quinlan Kinncaid, never been arrested or accused of any crime. I’m the youngest of five boys, my parents are still married after all these years. I’m the only sibling not married, so Mom’s busy trying to set me up with people and friend’s daughters, nieces, granddaughters, whatever. I used to be a workaholic and now I’m just here to enjoy the company of a beautiful lady.” He stood still, her box still under one arm, his other hand gripping his cane.

  She glanced at Tiny, who shrugged but said, “Got good eyes.”

  At this the man in front of her frowned. “Good eyes?”

  “Never mind.” She wasn’t about to explain Tiny’s devout Catholicism and yet his equally devout superstitions that came from who knew where. “You try anything and I warn you, I’ll kick your bad leg out from under you and leave you lying in the street. And in the Quarter, who knows what is on the street, sugar.”

  “Fair warning.” He waited until she preceded him.

  He followed her out the door and into the early evening. Not too late, but the day was getting away. The sun would set soon and she still had to get ready and go out with the girls. She sighed—normally, she’d hurry, but this time? Now she had to wait on Quinlan.

  “Interesting name you have.”

  “What?” he asked, limping beside her. She opened her mouth to ask for the box back, but one look at his arched brow and she figured that wouldn’t go over well.

  Men and their pride. She knew men were stupid about it for some damned reason. She’d learned that years ago as a kid, and she’d learned it even more since then.

  “So what are you really doing here and why aren’t you still a workaholic, Quinlan?” She led them across the street.

  “Well, there was . . . an incident and when I woke up . . .” He stopped and shifted the box a bit. “When I woke up things were just . . . different, you know? Got to learn to live with limitations now, even if I don’t like it.”

  “Limitations?” she asked, baffled for a second. “You mean your cane? Are you serious?”

  They walked on toward her goal. Limitations.

  “Yes, my cane. Things are just different now.”

  “Different, so what? Different is just different, doesn’t change who you are.”

  “I’m not a workaholic, that’s changed,” he reminded her, shifting the box again. “Some things take longer. I don’t remember stuff as easily as I used to. Simple things like carrying a box are not as easy as they used to be.”

  Again she started to ask for it but kept the words behind her teeth. They were almost there anyway.

  “Well, it’s midweek. You’ve got expensive shoes and you’re up and about fine, so I’m betting your life is still blessed. Most can’t get away in the middle of the week with their brothers because of jobs. So whatever it is, I’d say, probably rudely, get over it.” She turned a corner and waited. When he didn’t appear she sighed and then stuck her head around the corner. “You coming or not? I haven’t got all day. I can take the box in if you’re busy and need to get back.”

  He gave his head one shake and then walked toward her, or thumped his way toward her. Made him mad, had she? “You’re like a butterfly that suddenly bites.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. You think I’m whining.”

  She shook her head. “You said it, not me, so you must agree.”

  His eyes narrowed.

  “Look, I deal with people with real problems, and I’m sorry if I sounded insensitive. That’s not nice. I’m sorry that life is not what you planned it, but so what? Life isn’t about plans, you know. Life’s about doing, helping, being more. Ya know? Because no matter how far down you are, or think you are, there are still people with a lot worse problems. People that need help.”

  She stopped in front of the door. “By the way, you married, ever been married—no, you said your mom was trying to set you up,” she answered her own question. “Bad breakup?”

  Normally, the only people who visited the shelter were workers, cops, lawyers, and sometimes doctors. Generally, none of them just brought someone. At the same time, all help was appreciated. Making people aware was one way to achieve that, she knew.

  Were there any women from up north inside? Any with Yankee ex-husbands or boyfriends? She ran through the list of women in her head. No, all were local girls. Longest-distance one was from Shreveport. So they were probably okay.

  “Come on.” She opened the door with a security code and led him inside. Crazy? Yes, but he’d offered, so she’d take him up on it. Besides, maybe he’d become a donor. They needed all the help they could get here. “Don’t take it personally if no one wants anything to do with you, you’re a guy.”

  Before he could say anything to that, she shut the door behind them and started to take the box. But he shifted it away from her.

  “Miss Ella!” a young voice cried. “You came!” Railey Anne came dashing down the stairs into the foyer. “Who’s that?”

  The little girl with braids on both sides of her hair grinned up at them, even as she stopped at the bottom of the stairs.

  “That is a new friend who offered to carry my box. His name is Quinlan.”

  “Like the fruit?” the little girl asked.

  Ella snorted. “No, Railey Anne, that would be kiwi, his name is Quinlan.”

  “Oh. Okay. What did you bring?”

  And then more voices floated in. She turned and took the box from him and talked to several of the ladies who came in to say hello. The k
ids all gathered around and she handed the box off to one of the women, saying, “Tiny sent cookies for the kids.”

  Mora shook her head. “He always does. Nice man, Tiny.” Mora darted a quick look at the new arrival and dashed back to the kitchen.

  “Hey, Railey Anne, where’s your mom?”

  “She’s trying to help Trevor with his homework, but they’re arguing. He doesn’t want to stay here anymore.” The little girl shrugged her shoulders. “I told him we were safe here, but he says he hates it here.” She squeaked the toe of her sneaker across the hardwood floor. “Are you really Ella’s friend, Mr. Q?”

  “If she’ll let me,” his deep voice said from behind her.

  Ella glanced back over her shoulder, then continued to talk to the women and the director, Hannah James. Ella could see bringing Quin had made them nervous, and all those here knew how dangerous men could be. She hoped one day they would also remember and know soul deep that not all men were like that. She’d helped here and at other shelters long enough to know that particular journey was a solo voyage each woman had to take herself.

  Shaking off the thoughts, she called out, “Okay, I better run.” She’d planned to stay longer, help the younger kids with their homework or read with them, but Quinlan had scattered the residents to the four winds. Time to get him out of here.

  “Oh, and Hannah, could you give Ilene the berries on the top?”

  Hannah laughed. “I don’t know if she’ll still be craving them. She got really sick the other evening and said strawberries were the berries of Satan. Thanks, though, Ella. You’re a godsend.”

  Ella shook her head. “Nah, but I’ll let you think it, and the berries aren’t from me, they’re from Quinlan. Quinlan . . . ?”

  “Kinncaid,” he supplied. “Maybe the kids will enjoy the strawberries then.”

  “Without a doubt,” Hannah told them. Her look told Ella that she wanted to know who Quinlan was.

  “Later, Hannah.”

  “Oh, definitely, El.”

  They hadn’t spent an hour inside, more like half. Now it seemed she’d have plenty of time to get ready for this evening.

  Quinlan was quiet as they walked down the sidewalk.

  Finally she cleared her throat. “So, you staying around here?”

  “A few blocks up. Off Burgundy.”

  “Not a hotel on Bourbon?”

  He shook his head. “Not a chance. You?”

  “What makes you think I’d tell you where I live?”

  “So I could walk you home?”

  She laughed and he grinned. “Keep dreamin’, sugar.”

  “Oh, I will, honey.” He drew the last out, so that it wasn’t in his northern syllables. For a few minutes they walked on in silence.

  “So, the shelter, you work there?”

  She shook her head. “No, but I help out as much as I can.”

  He nodded. “How many are there?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  He stopped and held his hand up. “Nothing nefarious, I assure you. Just curious. Doesn’t look that big from the outside. Wondered where they all slept, what the kids did after homework.”

  She sighed. “Well, there are several families. Six kids. A few more women that bunk together in the attic.”

  “How old is the little girl? Railey, wasn’t it?” he asked.

  He’d paid attention. She wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or bad thing. “Five, almost six.”

  “Almost six, and her birthday will be in a shelter.”

  “Hey, don’t judge. Her birthday in a shelter will be safer than any of her previous birthdays. It took her father breaking her arm before her mom finally found the guts to leave. Do not—”

  “I’m not,” he interrupted. “I’m just thinking out loud. It just makes me mad there have to be shelters at all. Kids should be safe. Women should be safe. You find the person you want to marry, are brave enough to go for it, no one should have to live in hell for that. And definitely not kids an—”

  His eyes narrowed and flashed, not at her, but at the situation.

  “Yeah, well, nothing’s perfect and marriage is overrated.”

  He took a deep breath. “Cynical, huh?”

  “Realist, thanks.”

  He stopped and she said, “I gotta get going. Thanks for your help, and the strawberries.”

  He waved a hand as if swatting her words away. “You’re welcome. If I wanted to send something to the kids, can I just drop it off there? Or do I have to give it to you?”

  She thought about that for a minute. “Well, you could drop it off, but I’m not sure if anyone would open the door to you.”

  He nodded, opened his mouth and then shut it. Then opened it again, scratching one side with his forefinger. “I know you need to get going, but I was wondering if you’d like to do something later.”

  She grinned. Man had that aura about him that he normally got what he wanted, but now he seemed . . . nervous. His other fingers drummed along the top of his cane.

  “Something? What sort of something did you have in mind, sugar?”

  He grinned again, his single dimple charming. “Dinner? Or if not, drinks, breakfast? Midnight beignets and coffee?”

  “No, I’m busy this evening, drinks maybe after, midnight beignets don’t really taste that good, but it’s the very best time to get them. And breakfast?” She laughed and winked at him, patting his arm. “Sugar, breakfast with me . . . well, that you’ll have to work for.”

  He chuckled and said, “Let me see your phone.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can put my number in it.”

  “Honey, Southern women never call a man. Didn’t your mama teach you anything? You want to contact me, you’re gonna have to contact me.” She motioned for him to hand his over.

  “So you’ll put your number in my phone?”

  “It’s been awhile for you, hasn’t it?”

  He handed the phone over and she caught his scent again, light, springy and citrus. Something by Armani, she thought.

  Ella quickly entered her info into his contacts. He took the phone back and quickly tapped the screen of his smart phone. Hers soon buzzed in her pocket.

  He smiled. “Just making sure it works.”

  She cocked a brow. “Wow, if you don’t know, it has been awhile.”

  His gaze narrowed, though his dimple remained. “You’re a handful, aren’t you?”

  Ella glanced over her shoulder and walked backward up the street. “Only the brave venture forth.”

  Quinlan watched her until she turned another corner down the block. Her house? He didn’t know, didn’t care right then.

  He glanced again at the screen on this phone. L Blue.

  . . . it has been awhile . . .

  She had no idea. No idea. No one did. His therapist knew he’d worried about his sex drive, or lack thereof. Stress and fear.

  Stress he got.

  Fear? Who feared sex, he’d wanted to know. What guy feared sex?

  Dr. Garner had said it hadn’t been sex that he was scared of but the memories of before and what it all led to.

  Whatever.

  The fact he could have happily seduced Ms. Ella . . . Ella . . . what had she said her last name was? He couldn’t remember. But he’d go for Blue for now. Blue, like her hair.

  Who had blue hair? Other than little old ladies? It wasn’t bright electric blue, but soft, cotton-candy blue. And the pink tips?

  She’d had a tattoo on her left wrist. He hadn’t gotten a good enough look at it to see exactly what it said. Light cursive writing made up the letters. He’d have to study it later. During midnight beignets.

  Grinning, he found his way back and into the house. Just as he opened the door, Brody said, “What the hell? You just left me here to fend for myself with the old dogs?”

  “We old dogs can still bite, kid,” Ian said, stepping into the entry with a tumbler of scotch.

  His older brother’s eyes studied him. “
We’re supposed to head out tonight for lots of fun at some club, live music or some such that Joshua owns.”

  Joshua was Brayden’s brother-in-law.

  “Whatever.” He started to go around them.

  “What are you so happy about?” Ian asked.

  “Blue hair,” he said and made for the stairs, hurrying up them as much as his leg would allow. Damned if he’d take the lower bedroom.

  In his room, he stared at the phone for a moment and thought of what to say in a text. You get home all right? He typed before he thought better of it. Or was that stupid? Of course it was stupid, he should have said something else. Like great to meet you, or maybe thanks for the afternoon. Something. Now he’d sound like some sort of stalker or mother hen or . . .

  His phone dinged.

  Of course. Did you?

  He smiled. Yes.

  While he thought about what else to say, she typed back.

  Thanks for going with me, and if you honestly want to donate something or whatever to that shelter, I’m sorry I gave you a hard time. Still want beignets?

  He smiled again and realized he hadn’t smiled this much in a long damned time.

  Midnight. Café Du Monde. Will that work?

  She sent him back a wink. A wink? Was that a yes or no? He wasn’t about to ask.

  He’d just have to wait and see. His window looked out over a courtyard. A fountain trickled in the center of the red-bricked haven. What was it about this city that made him do impulsive things? He’d rarely been impulsive in his entire life. When he was a kid and almost died in the icy river and lost his best friend, impulsiveness had a cost, he’d realized.

  So he’d just done what he was supposed to and then aimed for better no matter what it was. School, sports, college, work. And that had gotten him where he was on top of it all, or so it seemed. Women he’d carefully selected through the years to date.

  Until her.

  Was this a mistake? He looked down at the phone.

  What did he know of her?

  She made him laugh.

  Her hair was blue. He grinned at the thought. She helped others. Took them groceries and supplies and bought strawberries for someone down on their luck.

  He took a deep breath.