Deadly Secrets (11 page)

“Point is, it was only this morning that I started to . . .”

“Fret?” Aiden asked.

Ian flipped him off.

“I will as soon as I see my lovely wife. Thanks for your concern.”

Ian grunted.

“So where was he?” Gavin asked.

“Who the hell cares?” Brody said, leaning back and taking a long drink of his beer. “As long as he had fun, got laid and comes back smiling. Fine. Maybe then he’ll toss that damned chip off his fucking shoulder.”

Aiden sighed. “Look, Ian, no one holds you responsible for what happened to Quinlan or any of the rest of it. Certainly not Quin.”

Aiden took a drink of coffee and grimaced.

“And that’s why I went with the hair of the dog this morning, cousin.” Brody motioned to Ian with his beer bottle. “Ian apparently likes his coffee strong and black—practically thick. Nasty stuff. Apparently this morning none of us beat him to the coffee pot.”

“We should just head to the hotel, eat a bite, then head to the airport,” Aiden said.

Ian shook his head. “If you travel—for pleasure—to a city where the Kinncaids have a place, do you
always
head there sooner or later?”

Aiden arched a brow. “Does that question actually need answering?”

“It’s Pavlovian.”

“And everyone loves the profits.”

“That we do,” Gavin said. “I take it from the fact Ian’s no longer pacing and wearing us all out with his mother-hen routine this lovely morn that we know where the lost and wayward is? Because I might just deck the little shit for leaving us stranded for another day.”

“Yep. Heading back as we speak,” Ian told him.

“’Bout damn time. I’m ready to go home. Though I’m starving.”

“Your brother thinks we should hit the hotel,” Brody said.

Gavin shook his head. “No. I want the Clover Grill. I will eat there before we leave and that will be this morning. I want the whole cardiological nightmare. Over easy, I think.”

Aiden raised his hands. “Fine. Clover Grill. I’ve already checked the hotel anyway, so we’re good.”

“A guys’ extended weekend, a vacation,” Gavin told Aiden. “Or did you miss that point?”

“I’m not the one that missed it,” Aiden muttered and picked up his coffee cup and immediately set it back down, frowning at the sludge. “I’d really just like to know where the hell our little brother decided to spend his weekend.”

“Well, wherever he went, I would bet he took the interesting Ella with him,” Brayden said from his spot on the lounger.

Ian cleared his throat. “Vegas. They went to Vegas.”

A moment of silence before several curses filled the air.

“And he left us here?” from Brody.

Chapter 7

Taos, New Mexico, October

Quinlan waited at the airport.

Where the hell was she?

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his woolen coat and scanned the horizon again. From the small regional airport, he could see the highway and headlights from cars and trucks zooming either way.

Finally, someone turned in. He reached down and grabbed his bag, and pulled his phone out again. Battery was almost dead.

Local time it was after ten. His body told him it was after midnight, but he wasn’t tired.

The car pulled into the lot. Not hers, he saw, or not what he remembered her driving from New Orleans. Not to say she hadn’t gotten a new vehicle.

A man climbed out.

Quin walked back to the desk and asked the woman behind it, “Are there any cabs I can call?”

She grinned. “Might be awhile. Cabs aren’t needed around here much, ya know?” She jerked her head to the highway. “There’s an airport vehicle we rent out when needed. Nothing fancy, but it’s currently free if you need it.”

“Is there a rental place near here?”

“Not far but it’s closed. You’ll have to take the beat-up SUV. Gotta get your info before you can take it, though.”

He sighed. “Fine, whatever.” He quickly signed what was needed, passed over his info and credit card.

Then he was in the car, thankful he hadn’t unpacked the little charger that could either be plugged into the wall or into a car. He plugged his phone in and tapped in Ella’s address. No reason to worry. None. So she’d been scared. Her words all jumbled and tripping over each other.

Maybe her phone died.

Maybe she had to go somewhere.

She was pregnant. He did the math. If she’d gotten pregnant early in their relationship, she was almost due. Maybe she was in the hospital.

Maybe her friend took her out to eat and they’d lost track of time.

Maybe . . .

Maybe . . .

Maybe whomever she was scared of had her.

He shook his head. “Don’t go there.” He pulled out onto the highway and followed the voice app on his GPS to the address she’d provided him.

Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into a nice house off of Blueberry Hill. Stucco walls and a little yard. There were vines along the arched stucco gate, probably pretty when it wasn’t so cold. And it was cold. He shivered and hurried up the drive, looking both ways.

The house was dark.

Her car, the little Kia Soul that got excellent fuel mileage, sat in the driveway.

A dog barked next door and he took a deep breath.

If she was pregnant, maybe she was just tired and didn’t hear the phone.

Or maybe she’d fallen.

He pressed the glowing button for the bell. And waited. And waited some more. “Ella!” He knocked on the door.

Nothing. He didn’t hear anything.

He looked into the window of the door and then to the side window, but nothing. It was dark inside the house. Dark.

Ella wasn’t scared of the dark, but she’d never left anything in pitch black either. Very little light shone from the street.

She also always left her porch light on. Or she had in New Orleans. A habit, and habits were not generally given up.

He waited a minute more then banged on the door again. “Ella! It’s me, Quinlan! Ella!” He banged harder.

The dog across the street kept barking, sounding closer.

Quin beat on the door with the side of his fist, but he already knew . . . feared no one was home.

He sighed and walked around the side of the house, wishing he’d brought his phone from the rental so he could have some damned light. He tripped over something but managed to catch himself.

All the windows were dark.

“You’re trespassing,” a voice said from the gate.

He whirled around and walked back around to the front of the house. From the streetlight he could see it was an older gentleman.

“I’m looking for Ella. She gave me this address,” Quin told the man, who stood there staring at him.

“Ella?”

“Yes, she’s my . . .” Quin stopped. What had she told these people? He actually didn’t care. “Ella’s my wife. She called me earlier today, about four hours ago, actually, and knew I was coming. She was supposed to meet me at the airport to pick me up. But I can’t get her on the phone.”

The man stood there for a minute.

“Wife? You’re her husband?”

Quinlan nodded and stepped closer, holding his hand out. “Yes, Quinlan Kinncaid.”

The man humphed. “Quinlan Kinncaid, is it? Finally remember you have a wife? And a pregnant one at that?”

Quin took a deep breath. “It’s complicated.”

The man finally shook his hand. “Marriage really isn’t that complicated, son. I’m Herb Richardson. My wife and I rented this place to Ella. Watched over her for the last few months. We were out earlier today. She’s not here? Her car’s here.”

Quinlan turned. “I know. She called and had to get off the phone, low battery and her friend was at the door. I haven’t been able to reach her since.”

“Did you get the right number?”

“I got her voice mail plenty of times.”

Again the man humphed. “Well, son, at least you’re finally here.”

He frowned. “You know who I am?”

“I’ve a feeling I know a lot more than you do, Mr. Kinncaid. Come on over to the house, I’ll grab the key. Wouldn’t normally use it, but told the girl at dinner a couple of nights ago that if she didn’t keep in contact with us, I got to go over and check on her. No family, in her condition, it’s just not safe to be alone.”

Quin didn’t need to hear the censure in the words to know what the man thought.

He took a deep breath. “What’s been going on?”

He walked beside Mr. Richardson, a man as tall as himself, straight shoulders, straight back. Retired military, Quin would bet. White hair, grandfatherly, in a healthy way.

Across the street, he followed him into a much larger house through the side door. “Carmine, we’ve guests.”

“What? At this time of night? Is it Ella? I haven’t been able to get that girl all evening.” She came into the kitchen from the side, carrying a basket of laundry. “Well, guess it’s not Ella, but her man, then, isn’t it?”

Quin held the woman’s stare and held his hand out. “Yes, ma’am. She called me earlier, not making a lot of sense.”

“But you came. And she called?”

He glanced at the clock. “Yeah, surprised me too.” He couldn’t help but smile. “I heard her voice and . . .” Then he shook his head. “She was scared, worried about someone taking her baby . . . our baby.”

He realized with a jolt that was the first time he’d said that to anyone.

“Our baby,” he said softly.

“Oh, it’s your baby. She’s told us all about you.” The woman was small, probably didn’t come to her husband’s chest, and her hair was cut in a fluffed bob. She set the basket on the kitchen table. He glanced around. Bright yellow kitchen, dark cabinets, red countertops.

“Girl is head over heels in love with you, you know. ‘Bout time you tracked her down.”

“Carmine.”

“Well, or time she called him. And look, he flew right out here.” She arched a brow at her husband.

Mr. Richardson shook his head and took a key off the hook by the door with a bright pink ribbon on it. “I never said the man wouldn’t come if she ever called him. I just wondered why he let her get away to begin with.”

Quinlan didn’t take offense. “I’ve been asking myself that very question for months.”

“So you’re not stupid, just slow. At least you’re here. Come on. Let’s go check.”

Mrs. Richardson grabbed a jacket off the hook behind the door and slid into it. “We should have already gone over there.”

“Maybe she’s just out with friends,” Mr. Richardson said.

“She doesn’t go out with friends, not after . . .” she trailed off.

“After what?” Quin asked.

“I don’t know. She stayed up at that place she worked a few days and then came back. Girl was different, scared of her own shadow. I asked her to stay here, but she just shook her head and said not to worry.” She leveled a narrow-eyed look at him. “I know what she told me. I know she missed you and—”

“Carmine,” her husband said as they walked up the little path of Ella’s bungalow.

“Well, they should be together. I just know she’s crazy about him, wishing they were still together, not enjoying the whole experience like she should. It would help settle her if you two would get back together.”

He couldn’t help but grin. These two reminded him of his parents. “Thank you, Mrs. Richardson. If I couldn’t be here, I’m just glad she had you and your husband.”

They reached the house.

“Odd. She always has the porch light on,” Mrs. Richardson said.

Mr. Richardson unlocked the door and stepped inside, flipping the light.

Quin blinked. “Ella! Ella!” The layout was simple. The door opened into the living room, a half wall separated it from the kitchen. She wasn’t in either. A hallway to the side led to a bathroom and darkened bedroom. No one was here.

Chills danced over his skin and panic slithered through him.

No. She’d be fine. She was just . . . was . . .

He stood in her bedroom and . . . could smell her.

God.

Goose bumps peppered his skin. He could smell her: citrus, herbal, light flowers, and he could almost swear vanilla. The scent brought tears to his eyes. God, he’d missed the hell out of her.

He scanned the room. Bed was made. Nothing was on the dresser. In fact, nothing was in the closet. Not really. A couple of boxes. He walked back down the hallway and into the kitchen.

A bag sat beside the door, another zipped black overnight bag near the door. He reached into his pocket to call her again and remembered his phone was charging in the rental.

A blinking light in the dim kitchen caught his eye. He flipped on the light.

Her phone sat on the counter, the cord snaking into the outlet.