Deadly Obsession

by Jaycee Clark

  A shiver danced down her spine and she wiped her damp palms on her dark, pinstriped pants.

  "Hey, you okay?" Brayden’s roughened voice inquired.

  Not meeting his eyes, she shrugged. "Sure."

  "Christian."

  The fear, the terror, the past all rolled together. She turned the storming emotions into anger, biting out at him. "What do you care? You no longer have a say in anything I do."

  The corners of his mouth thinned and his eyes hardened, darkened in their blue as they studied her. "I have a say, simply because I do care."

  "Hmmm."

  He stared at her in that intense gaze he’d inherited from his father, Jock Kinncaid. Finally, she looked away, but her neck tingled where she knew his eyes bore into her.

  "Christian," he repeated in a steely tone.

  Her eyes slid closed. She could not tell him. He’d ask questions. Questions she couldn’t answer, wouldn’t answer, because the threat was too great.

  The truth had gotten her nowhere before. And asking for help had led to unbearable consequences. Not again, never again. She’d deal with it on her own.

  Maybe she should just move away--leave as soon as possible.

  My Angel.

  Her chest vised and she gasped for breath. Again, she jerked out her inhaler and tried to fight off an asthma attack.

  "Look at me."

  Slowly she drew a breath, fought her demons and turned to face the man she loved with all her heart.

  And for the first time since she’d left his penthouse suite two months earlier, she was almost glad he’d turned away from her. Almost.

  His gaze ran over her face and body, and she remembered what it was like to be held in his arms. To feel safe.

  Safe? That was an illusion.

  There was no safety for her. There never would be.

  "You’ll always be mine, Josephine. Always," the voice from the past whispered through her memories.

  "What’s with the inhaler? You haven’t had an asthma attack since the mess with the kids months ago.

  And before that? I can’t remember you using one in years."

  Brayden wondered at the vulnerability he saw in her, the worry in her eyes.

  Christian was one of the strongest women he knew. She gave what she got, usually in spades. For the last two months or so they’d bantered and bit at each other. But, lately she’d seemed distracted. Too quiet and withdrawn. He noted the dark circles under her eyes, worry creasing her brows. Her pallor contrasted starkly against her short dark hair, her charcoal pantsuit. Had she lost weight? Her collarbone, more prominent than he remembered, peeked out of her white button down. Bones protruded from her delicate wrists as her French cuffs shifted. Had he brought her to this?

  Well, she was the one who decided to move out of the family home, not him. And he damn sure hadn’t chased her away like his brothers seemed to think. Everyone blamed him for her move to the city; his daughter, his parents, his brothers and their wives.

  Himself.

  No, it was not his fault she’d up and decided to leave. He’d told her he would move to the hotel. After all, he was in town most of the time anyway.

  She wanted her own place, her own space. So out she moved while his mother tried to understand, his father barked and snarled, his daughter cried, and his brothers glared at him.

  Now he felt like glaring at himself.

  Ironically, it felt like a marriage separation, or what he figured one would feel like. He’d taken her for granted, he supposed. The housewife who helped with his business as much as the child would allow.

  They’d been so much a part of the other’s life for so long and now.... Now she wasn’t there.

  He missed her. Missed breakfast with her, listening to her clear laughter mixing with Tori’s, hearing her voice, seeing her around the house when he was there.

  Loneliness was a strange thing at thirty-four, creeping upon the wary. Her perfume, Calvin Klein’s Obsession drifted on the air between, the sweet smell reminding him of a dark, sultry, tangled night.

  She looked as lonely as he felt. Brayden hadn’t seen that haunted look in her eyes for a long, long time, those darted hurried looks. And other than that nightmare months before--when Tori and her cousin, Ryan had been kidnapped--he honestly couldn’t remember the last time Christian had needed to inhale albuterol. Fear shifted along her features as she glanced again out the window, the pulse furious in her long slim neck.

  "Christian?"

  She rubbed her arms.

  "What’s wrong?" he asked.

  She shook her head, one long fingered hand running absently through her short, slightly curled hair. He caught the tremor as she dropped it down to her side.

  He sighed. There were walls between them, there always had been, but most had crumbled the longer she’d lived with his family. Some had gone up after their night together. Recently, it was as if she were carefully fortifying some inner sanctuary.

  Different tactic. Nonchalantly, he leaned against the counter and crossed his ankles and arms. "Mom called yesterday. She’s worried about you. She said she and Dad hadn’t heard from you much lately and when she did hear from you, there was something in your voice."

  Her eyes wouldn’t meet his and she busily ruffled through a stack of papers he’d been looking over as he’d waited on her.

  "I’ll-I’ll have to call and talk with her. Everything’s fine. Fine. I’ve just been really busy and had a lot on my mind." Her voice seemed sincere, but there was something--tension--just under the surface.

  "Such as?"

  She took another deep breath. "Just-just things, Brayden." Finally, she looked at him and leaned back against the counter, but she was hardly calm. Her boot heel tapped on the floor. "I’ve been doing some thinking lately. Well, longer than lately. It started last summer when you and I talked about opening a shop in the London hotel."

  She cleared her throat. He noticed her fingers fidgeted within the confines of her pockets. And why did she still have her coat on?

  "Anyway, I’ve been thinking about my career and life in general," she finished on a huff.

  "What do you mean?"

  Her head tilted to the side and very quietly, she asked, "Did you know I was going to go to Juilliard? I don’t think I ever told you. I had a scholarship and everything. I used to want--never mind. Anyway, life moves on, not always the way we planned, and I’ve been thinking. That’s all."

  Juilliard? No, she’d never told him. For as long as Brayden had known her, a runaway who had shown up on his parents’ doorstep years ago, he suspected the reason behind her flight had been a bad home life. Not that any of them knew for certain. Christian could be open about many things, but others--it was like trying to see a clear picture in a black murky pond. She’d never told them about her life before, and they’d eventually quit asking. She was twenty-eight-years-old and she did what she wanted to.

  So she was musically talented, he did know that much, if not the Juilliard bit. Why she was suddenly telling him this, he couldn’t figure out. He took a deep breath; he’d just stay quiet and see what else she decided to tell him. Maybe she’d eventually get around to what was bothering her.

  Frustration laced her sigh and a sad smile played on her face. "I wanted Broadway. I guess maybe that’s why I still take a theater and music class every semester. Who knows."

  He still had no idea what she was leading up to.

  Turning her back to him she said quietly, "I used to be really good at that sort of thing. I grew up like Tori, for the most part. Voice lessons, ballet, art classes."

  Brayden still didn’t understand what was troubling her. And troubled she clearly was.

  She turned to him. "I’d always thought music heals."

  Heals? He tucked that bit away for now.

  "Okay," he drew out. "What does all this have to do with the London shop?" A suspicion grew, but he tossed it aside. She wouldn’t.

  "Music doesn’t heal everything," s
he whispered.

  "And what do you want it to heal?" he asked just as quietly.

  For a long moment she stared at nothing, and the pain in her eyes, the sheen of tears, made his breath catch.

  She opened her mouth, then snapped it shut.

  "Christian?" he reached out to her, but she jerked back.

  Finally, she smiled. "Nothing. Doesn’t matter. Sorry, I haven’t been in the best of moods lately." She waved a hand. "I don’t know why I’m going over all that. I just wanted to talk about the idea of opening the shop in England."

  Her smile was too bright and he didn’t miss the fact she kept looking out the window.

  "And you’re suddenly interested because?"

  "I thought...." She licked her lips. "That is.... I thought maybe I could go over and open it. I know enough and--"

  "Stop right there." Move to England? He wasn’t even going to go there. Trying to understand what the hell was up with her, he changed the subject. "Tell me why you’re not sleeping. You look like hell. And you just fought off an asthma attack. If you don’t take care of yourself, Mom and Dad will have you moved back home in no time."

  Actually he liked that idea. Not that it should matter to him either way, but it did. He wasn’t about to stand by and watch her run herself into the ground. Or let her move to London for God’s sake. London?

  Already she was shaking her head. "I won’t move back to Seneca."

  "Why?" Damn stubborn woman.

  "I have my reasons."

  "Is this all because of us?" he braved.

  Her look singed him on the spot. "Us? You mean there’s actually an us now, Brayden?"

  He counted to five. "Not like that. What happened between us."

  She closed her eyes and an idea slammed into him. Pale, losing weight, off kilter. "Are you sick?"

  A small grin played at the corner of her mouth. "No, why?"

  He took a deep breath, then strangled out, "Are you pregnant?"

  Her eyes shot open. "What?"

  He watched her, watched the surprise in her eyes. "Are you pregnant?"

  The shocked look on her face, should have been enough, but it wasn’t. He’d been down this road before.

  "Would it matter if I was?" she asked quietly.

  His stomach rolled, fluttered, and twisted. "You’re coming home."

  She laughed. "God, Brayden. No."

  "Yes, you are."

  She cocked a brow. "Excuse me? First off, I’m not yours to order around and if you don’t like that, too damn bad. Two, if I was pregnant, I’d still tell you, though I might not move back home and three it hardly matters since I’m not pregnant."

  Relief warred with more disappointment than he’d expect. He stared at her, she seemed to be telling the truth.

  Her eyes narrowed. "I told you before, I’m not JaNell. Stop comparing me to her."

  Brayden blew out a breath and shoved his hands in his pockets. "You sure?"

  "Yes." She shook her head. "Yes, I’m sure."

  He shoved a hand through his hair. "Damn it, Christian. What am I supposed to think. You’re not acting right, losing weight and pale all the time and--"

  The knock at the door had him turning, but not before he’d noticed Christian jerk.

  Well, damn.

  Inwardly cursing the gods of timing, he walked to the door and mouthed through the glass to the couple.

  "Sorry, we’re closed." They nodded and moved on down the walkway.

  What had Christian so jumpy and contemplating moving an ocean away? And what was with the past revelations? He’d learned more of her past in the last few minutes than in the years he’d known her.

  He glanced at Christian. Her gray eyes flashed with a hidden challenge, for a moment overshadowing the fear he was certain he’d caught in their depths.

  "Where were we?"

  Christian walked to him and slid around, unlocking the door. "I should have just gone home. I’m leaving."

  He put his hand on the door above the lock. "We’re not through."

  She turned those haunted gray eyes on him. Leaning up on her toes, she kissed his cheek and said, "Yes, Brayden, we are."

  His gut tightened. Hell.

  Brayden grabbed his long woolen coat off the antique rack, shrugged into it, and cut all but the track lights. He watched her as she walked out the door. Christian was normally quite, composed--graceful came to mind usually. But not today. He frowned and caught her quick look over her shoulder out to the street, the tight way she held herself, the way she held her keys in her fist, the metal keys bladed out from between her fingers. But always the darted looks, almost as though she were afraid of.... Of what? Or who?

  His eyes locked with Christian’s and something tightened within him even as he knew she wouldn’t welcome him. And he couldn’t really blame her.

  The cold November air swirled down the street. For a minute more he held Christian’s smoky stare until the woman he couldn’t get out of his mind turned and walked to her car. At his own vehicle, he opened the door but his eyes kept watching her.

  Again, she glanced around, looking over her shoulder.

  What was with her?

  It didn’t matter. Something was wrong and it had nothing to do with work or music or whatever else she’d tried to tell him--including London.

  Christian was afraid and he wanted to know why.

  * * * *

  Several days later, Christian parked her car in her allotted slot in front of the condos. She’d spent the afternoon with Tori, who chatted about Ryan and music and school and her next recital.

  Kaitlyn Kinncaid had asked her to stay out at Seneca, at the family estate, and Jock warned her of the drive, but Christian drove back to D.C. anyway.

  Why? Did it really matter? Brayden hadn’t been there. He’d been out doing God knew what with God knew who and she shouldn’t give a damn.

  Brayden’s parents both dropped hints that it would be better if she were around more. They tried to talk her into moving back out to Seneca, back into the family mansion with them and Brayden and Tori. They were worried. Jock informed her she looked haggard. Lovely. Just lovely. She was not only letting her man get away in her absence, but she was looking ‘haggard’.

  On a sigh, she got out of the car, locked her doors and started for her condo.

  The night was cold. A bone slicing wind sharpened through the air and she pulled her coat tighter as she walked down the lighted walkway.

  She really liked these condos. They had a security gate, though she now wondered how good it really was. Maybe she could get an alarm system installed.

  Her boot heels clicked on the bricked path. Already she had her keys out.

  A car door shut in the night and voices floated on the air.

  Hurrying to her door, she glanced around and stopped.

  The large brown envelope against her door immediately stole her attention. She looked over her shoulder, but the darkness cloaked what might lie beyond the realm of light.

  Goose bumps pricked her skin.

  Her breath hitched, but she closed her eyes and thought through her breathing exercise. When she opened them several moments later, her chest, thankfully, didn’t squeeze up, but still fear slithered through her dark and dangerous.

  Steeling herself, she knelt down, almost afraid to touch it.

  Pick it up. Just pick it up. Or throw it away.

  No, she wouldn’t throw it away. How long had it been here? All day? On a deep breath, she picked up the package. Without standing, she slid a finger under the metal brad, folded them together and opened the envelope. Pictures slid into her hand as she tuned to empty the contents, and a white postcard fluttered to the concrete.

  My Angel.

  Her hands shook. Why the hell wouldn’t he just leave her alone?

  She grabbed the white card and stood, anger and fear warring within her at what he was doing to her.

  "Hi."

  Christian whirled at the male voice. The pictures
flew out the open envelope and splattered across the ground as she staggered back a step.

  Her heart slammed against her chest.

  A man stood a few feet behind her, holding a laundry basket. A familiar man, he stepped closer and the last of the shadows left him.

  "Lieutenant Morris?" she gasped. What was he doing here?

  He smiled, a quick flash of straight teeth. "Yeah, I live a few condos down. I was doing laundry." He settled the basket on his hip and held his hand out. "I’d heard Drayson and Geoffery talking about the new girl that moved into Drayson’s condo. I had no idea it was you. How do you like it?"

  He dropped his hand back to his side.

  "F-fine." Drayson and Geoffery were her next-door neighbors. Drayson taught theater music at Georgetown University, which was how she’d found this place. He’d moved in with his partner, who managed the condos. Lieutenant Morris worked the special crimes division of the Washington, D.C.

  Police Department. They’d met under strained circumstances several months ago.

  "I’m sorry I startled you." Morris had a well-modulated voice. Probably went with the job. His dark hair was cut short enough, she wondered why he just didn’t get a buzz. He was the same as she remembered him from a few months ago during that nightmare with Gavin and Taylor, when Ryan and Tori had been kidnapped.

  Morris bent down, setting his laundry basket by her door.

  The photos. Shit.

  "Oh, don’t worry about it, I can-I can get it." She tried to shuffle and grab all the photos, but he already held several in his hands.

  Dark eyes narrowed on a frown as he looked from the pictures in his hands to her.

  "Where did you get these?" His voice wasn’t well modulated now. More like a sharpened blade.

  A cop. He was a cop. She didn’t want to get into this. There would be questions. Things she couldn’t say, couldn’t answer, and she knew she wasn’t a very prolific liar.

  Without looking at him, she gathered the rest up. Just as she was reaching for the white square on the ground, his hand darted out and snatched it up.

  "My Angel?"

  Her hand trembled as she slid the eight by tens back into the envelope. She shrugged. "Yeah, some guy, I guess, has a crush on me."