Deadly Games (14 page)

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 of two babies. Babies confused her. She had no idea what she would do with one should 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 86

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 88

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?”

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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.