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against hers.
“We’re very fucked up creatures, you and I,” she muttered.
He half laughed, half grunted. Instead of answering he walked to the door and
through it. She waited in the chair until he came back and looked back around the
doorway.
“You coming?” His hand slapped the door facing.
She stood and rolled her neck. “I need a workout,” she muttered.
The smirk widened.
“Not that.” She took a deep breath and stretched her right arm by crossing it over
her chest and pulling it to her by the elbow with her left hand. “I’d love to take your arse
to the floor.” Damn the man and.… “You practice any hand to hand combat? Martial
arts?” She stopped realizing how the entire exchanged could be construed into sex.
His grin might be deadly if she cared. And of course, she didn’t. He was just … a
man.… His gaze raked over her. Maybe a really handsome, lickalicious type of man. A
slow rainy day, make love in the bed all day kind of man, but still…. A man all the same.
“Want to find out?” he smiled even more, those brows rising.
She shook her head and stretched her other arm.
He just stared at her, his head tilting slightly. “Yeah, I think it would,” he said
softly.
“What would what?”
His eyes narrowed a wee bit. “I’ll show you later,”
She only cocked a brow at him and motioned for him to go as she joined him in
the hallway.
Again they walked down the long corridor. Such a lovely, filled … house. Big,
wealthy house. She couldn’t live here, but it was without question fabulous.
“You bring lots of rescued kids, people, whatever here?”
He kept walking. “I’ve never brought anyone here. John knows it exists, but that
was all.”
“Oh.”
The feeling that the house somehow reflected the owner wouldn’t leave her. Here
he was, all shades of any man he wished to become, and his home could have been
anyone’s.
Upstairs the soft winter light did little to brighten the darkened, antiqued, lined
hallway. They walked passed Darya’s room, passed her own room to the master’s suite at
the end of the hallway.
“The master’s domain. Men are such insecure creatures,” she muttered.
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He didn’t look at her as he opened the double doors and walked into the room.
She paused at the doorway.
What did the bloke think? “Look here, boyo.”
He halted and turned. There it was, that wicked grin again. “I didn’t ask you here
to make love to you.” Again that gaze ran over her, as caressing as a hand “Though I’m
quite certain it would be more than enjoyable.” He shook his head, a chuckle gravelling
out across the room. “I wanted to show you my family so that you would know who was
who, what they do.”
“A briefing.” Of course that was it. Bloody hell. What was she anyway? A
complete ditz? Not that the idea of his didn’t have some lovely merit
Then she actually looked around the room.
In dark blues and grays it could almost be dreary in such a setting with the dark
woods and clouded fog laden days, but here, it seemed to suit him somehow. Wealth,
tangled with sensuality and the knowledge that this was his domain.
Where the rest of the house did little to let her see into this mysterious man, here
there things were different. The rest of the house was without a doubt a façade.
Everywhere she had looked nothing was answered, no clues were given as to who he was.
Not so here.
Dark canopied bed that she was sure very few could honestly afford, large enough
for an orgy Blinking, she looked around the rest of the room, two walls covered in
windows letting in the soft afternoon light. Comfort and quiet wealth.
A fire burned in the fireplace and on the mantle were photographs. Rori walked
over to study them.
Ian and another dark headed man with a single dimple in his cheek. The two had
their arms around each other and she could tell from the coloring and facial features they
had to be related. Other photos of Ian and a red haired woman, the woman and an older
man with white hair and the same cobalt eyes as Ian. There were other people, twin men,
candid photos as if the photographed had no idea anyone was taking a picture.
Photographs showing people’s lives.
She looked around the rest of the room as she held a photo of the red haired
woman holding a baby. Pictures were everywhere.
For some reason the sight of all those framed photos on the mantle, on the dresser,
the armoire, the side table, the end tables, on basically anything that stood still, left her
feeling sorry for this man.
He picked up the first one she’d seen of him and another man, their arms thrown
over each other’s shoulders.
“This is my brother, Aiden.”
He held the photo out to her and she looked from it to him, noting the way his
features had changed. Not so much the face or the expression, but more an easing of
tension that always surrounded him.
So alone.
She knew the world he lived in. A world of grays and shadows until everything
was night and nothing seemed real. Deep crevices waiting to swallow souls and jagged
mirrors that never really reflected the person within.
And here was yet another facet.
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She took the small photo from him, her fingers brushing his on the wooden frame.
“Aiden,” she repeated. “He looks a bit like you. “ Her gaze scanned some of the
others. “Actually, most of the men do in some form or fashion.”
“Family genetics.” He grunted. “Aiden is the oldest, a year and a half older than
me.”
She studied the man, noted the shared features, the differences. Same coloring,
different lines around the eyes, and Aiden had a dimple. Something different about the
chin. “Aiden the oldest. Tell me about Mr. Aiden.”
“He’s the CEO of Kinncaid Enterprises.”
“And what does Kinncaid Enterprises do?”
He looked at her, his eyebrows rising. “They own hotels.”
They, not we.
“Ah. A Kinncaid of those Kinncaids. So your brother owns the hotels.”
“Brothers.”
“They all own it?”
He shrugged. “It’s a family business.”
She set the photo back down and picked up another. “So if it’s a family business
what are you doing working undercover as one of the most feared enforcers in Eastern
Europe?”
He picked up another photo, running his fingers over the man’s face. He set it
back with the others.
“Aiden’s wife’s name is Jesslyn,” he said, continuing as if she’d never asked a
question.M
an didn’t like to discuss some things apparently, but then she never discussed
what lead her to where she was, so that was fine with her.
“Jesslyn,” Rori picked up the photo of Aiden with a blond woman. She was
smiling, but there was something in her brown eyes. Worry? Pain? Something.
“They have two boys, twins. Ian and Alec.”
“Aw. Named after his uncle was he?” she asked, wrinkling her nose at the photo
she ever have one. Which would never be an issue with her so it hardly mattered.
The next photograph showed the couple in a garden, or as the yank’s called them,
yard, with the twins now walking. A two-story house with a deep porch. Nice.
“Proverbial suburban family?”
He chuckled. “That would depend on your definition of suburban.” He tapped the
woman’s face. “Jesslyn isn’t the normal society wife. Widowed from a car accident that
also claimed the lives of her children, she wasn’t really interested in my brother at first.
Then there was this … problem.” He frowned. “But it was straightened out and everyone
lived. They decided to marry.”
“And happily ever after?”
He shrugged. “As far as it goes, I suppose.”
“Next?” She took a deep breath and for the first time smelled him. Sandalwood,
or something like it. Not quite, much more subtle, maybe just soap. Whatever it was, it
smelled bloody wicked.
“These are the twins.” He pointed to two different photos. Though the men looked
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identical, there were subtle differences, hairstyles and expressions. One looked… jolly.
The other more somber and serious.
“Brayden and Gavin. Gavin here is the family doctor. Obstetrics/gynecology He
married a social worker and adopted her adopted son, Ryan.” He showed her another
photo of a smiling family. A lovely woman with long, red hair, freckles and a son who
smiled from ear to ear. He looked about nine or ten.
“What’s their story?” she asked, looking at him.
His face hardened. “Found each other, went through hell, battled evil and are
living their happily ever after.”
“And that’s the reason to look like you want to kill someone?”
A muscle ticked in his cheek. “No.”
“What evil did they battle, then?” She set the photo she’d been holding back on
the mantel, watching him.
His nostrils flared on his deep inhale. “The woman who gave birth to Ryan, broke
out of prison and came after him. Kidnapped him and my niece, Tori.”
Oh hell. She swallowed. “Did she hurt them?”
“She almost killed Taylor, Gavin’s wife, who spent weeks in the hospital after
taking a bullet to the lung. The woman roughed them up a bit, terrified the kids more than
anything. Could have been worse.”
Bitch.
“She won’t be terrorizing anyone else,” he said, his voice matter of fact as if he
merely spoke of the fact it was cool out.
“Good.” Rori didn’t need to ask to know the woman was dead.
A fleeting confusion flashed in his eyes as he looked at her. She stared back.
She finally broke their staring contest. It was either that or she might do
something stupid, like stare longer, or kiss him, or who knew what. This was what
happened when she thought about retiring--or had retired? Went barking mad.
He turned back to the photos. “And for the next lesson.”
“What was the nephew’s name again?”
“Gavin married Taylor and they adopted Ryan.”
“Ryan. Got it.”
He nodded. “We’ll go over it again.”
“How lovely.”
“This is Brayden, antiques dealer, one daughter, Victoria, though family call her
Tori. Last year he married Christian.” He pointed out photos of each person. The daughter
had the same coloring as all the Kinncaid men. Dark hair, blue eyes, strong angles.
Though she shared a dimple that Rori had seen in the oldest brother and in the matriarch.
Christian looked quiet with her short dark hair and smoky gaze. Pale complexion and a
seriousness from her that spoke even through the stillness of the photograph.
As Rori scanned, she saw the woman was in some of the other photographs. Not
many. She was never posed in any that seemed to be professional photographs. Hers were
candid, caught usually in the company of the little girl. “Brayden’s Christian has been
around for a while.”
“Nanny.”
She pulled back. “Your brother married his daughter’s nanny?”
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Doctors, hotel owners, antiquities dealers. Nannies. She’d come from … who the
hell knew.
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, time tables 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 towards her, that tilting of lips still on his mouth. “I make you
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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 is an ‘again’ at the end of that statement.” He stepped
even closer, his eyes running over her face as if he were learning ever 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 about the color of your skin or eyes. 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?”