Deadly Secrets (12 page)

She didn’t have her phone.

He took a breath and had to take another.

“Where is she?” Carmine asked.

He could only stand there and shake his head. Then shake it again. No. She’d called him. She’d called . . .

His gut twisted.

“Call the police,” he said, or thought he did. He cleared his throat. “Call the police. We should call the police.”

Chapter 8

En Route from Las Vegas to New Orleans, February, earlier that year

Quinlan Kinncaid closed his eyes and sat back in the seat.

He tried to shut his mind up. It wasn’t working.

They’d already refueled and the gang would be on here shortly. Probably with a hard time and tons of questions, none of which he would answer.

As if he could.

Damn. Today was Monday. He realized that when he was checking out earlier. Where the hell did Sunday go? He didn’t have a single clue. Or rather he did, but he did
not
want to think about what happened on Sunday evening. Sunday night? He hadn’t read the papers that closely.

He rarely drank. Not after everything that had happened before. He’d learned the hard way drugs didn’t have a taste in alcoholic drinks, at least not the ones the bitch had poured into him before she’d tried to kill him and everyone else in his family a year ago. After she failed to kill him, he learned the docs didn’t approve of vodka painkiller cocktails. They were frowned upon for one’s recovery.

He wondered if he should be worried.

Fuck yes!

He remembered some things over the last couple of days. Okay, the beginning was bright and shiny. His brothers ambushing him for a mini-vacation of fun in New Orleans. A men’s getaway or whatever. Aiden had been thinking classy fun. Hell, most of them were. But Bourbon Street was Bourbon Street and sooner or later all tourists ended up there and classy ended up bead-covered and vomiting in the gutters. Eight males away from home and wives? Pack mentality. Nothing classy about it.

Ella.

He remembered her tie-dyed pink shirt and blue hair. He remembered running into her, literally, while grabbing a few things at the grocery store on Ursuline.

Not that any of them did anything shocking, at least that he knew of. The first night he didn’t have more than a glass of wine, watched as his various brothers, cousins, and friends achieved several levels of inebriation and then the bead tossing commenced.

Probably a video on YouTube somewhere.

Fine with him. Then was the club Christian’s brother had taken them too. Cheesy when explained but fun nonetheless, and brilliant if risky from a marketing standpoint. He remembered having a business discussion with the man on the fact he didn’t foresee the club lasting forever, but it was fun for now and had already paid for itself.

Profit was profit. Great.

Café Du Monde.

And then her house.

Yeah, he remembered that.

He was clear on walking her home after they’d talked and laughed, walked the streets of the Quarter. He remembered heading back to her place and all the worries that he would never again be able to slide hard and thick into a soft, slick woman—well, she’d shown him how stupid that fear had been. But it was a big damned fear, one he’d only shared with his therapist at some point and didn’t mention again.

With her, though . . . with her, there was no need to worry. He gotten hard just thinking about her.

They’d talked.

A lot.

He’d laughed and felt free for the first time in too damned long.

Spending the next couple of days looking for art supplies for the shelter, meeting up with her for dinner with his brothers, where they’d all drank. He and Ella had walked the streets until almost dawn just talking, listening to others play music, laughing, talking more. Then drinking some fruity concoctions out of slushy machines. Her place, where they made love just after dawn. Champagne for breakfast, on the plane . . .

He didn’t remember which one of them mentioned Vegas, but one of them had. He remembered the fun ride to Vegas, the fact that they’d made love most of the way there while drinking champagne off of each other, giggling and laughing.

Apparently, he’d had
copious
amounts of bubbly for the last couple of days. He winced behind his shades.

Vegas was bright, so bright and fun. He remembered laughing. Remembered getting a room—or suite, rather—at the Bellagio.

Gambling. Something he was good at, he knew, but rarely did at the tables. He enjoyed the everyday gamble of business. However, he was almost two hundred grand richer on this return trip. A definite plus there. He apparently played at some point. He didn’t remember actually playing, though there was a vague memory of cards, and that left a slick fear in his gut. The fact the concierge asked him if he wanted to cash out this morning when checking out confirmed he hadn’t completely lost it and robbed a bank or what the hell ever.

The rest was rather blank. Sort of. Mostly. Sort of.

He remembered the scent of her skin, the taste of her, the silky glide of her beneath him, over him, around him. He knew how husky desire tinged her voice. The way her eyes glinted with passion as he thrust into her. The way she chuckled against him. The tattoo low on her hip with one word,
Trust
,
below a dragonfly
. Love
was stenciled in flowing letters along her inner left wrist.
Beauty
scrolled along the side of her left breast in Hindu. He’d traced every letter with his tongue. He damned well remembered that. Her strange and quirky hair reminding him of pale blue cotton candy, though the silky strands had slid through his fingers.

And.

And.

Elvis.

He remembered a flash of Elvis and this morning he’d had a ring—not cheap either, as both his and hers had been billed to his room—on his fucking finger.

A. Ring.

Holy fuck.

He thumped his head back. Then bit back another curse as his head pounded. He honestly hadn’t felt this hungover since before the Hellinski bitch. She’d given him a couple of hangovers he’d never forget.

This hangover, though, just might beat hers, and he had no one to blame but himself. Or the champagne. Bubbly was bad. All the effing bubbly’s fault.

He’d sworn he’d
never
get married—more than once. God knows he’d said it plenty to everyone in his family.

Yet?

Yet.

Elvis.

The. Rings.

And . . .

The note.

The.
License
.

He shied away from the last. The former though . . .

. . . I’m sorry. I know it’s rude to run out, more than rude. But we didn’t . . . we shouldn’t have . . . I have to go. Thanks for the great weekend and don’t worry. Call your lawyers and get an annulment or whatever and get back to me. Neither of us wants to be married. I don’t want anything except the wonderful memories. Best to you, my darlin’ Quin. ~ Ella

She’d left a five-carat diamond ring on the note for him to find. The platinum band his account said he’d also gotten her was
not
there.

She left the more valuable ring and kept the simple band. Why?

God almighty.

He leaned forward and gripped his head just as Roger, their pilot, said, “Boys’ll be on in a bit, Mr. Q. You need anything?”

When they were younger, the pilot and driver and whoever else had started referring to them as Mr. First Initial. Kept things easy, he supposed. Too many Mr. K’s in this family.

He almost shook his head. Instead he just waved his hand and mumbled, “Nothing. Thanks, Roger.”

The door gave a hiss as Roger opened it. Several minutes passed before the herd stampeded in.

This should be good.

Elvis? For some reason, Elvis in his mind was in drag, which made no sense whatsoever.

His family would kill him if he didn’t do himself in.

Last time he was this impulsive and stupid with a woman it liked to have killed him and his whole family—or part of them.

This time?

He’d only gotten married. God.

Who knew? He didn’t remember signing a prenup.

Prenup. Or was that lost? He’d have to talk to Brody—at some point. Clearly, he hadn’t called his lawyer, or said cousin and the rest of the family would have undoubtedly tried to stop the damned wedding.

Oh my God.

She could . . . Hell, he’d have to check with Brody. Though not now.

What did he really know about her?

. . . I don’t want anything . . .

Ella . . .

He saw her blue-green eyes with amber flecks in them, weird hair and pale skin. He knew so much about her, but so little. She volunteered at shelters and gave her afternoons to the elderly and taught yoga. He’d enjoyed her yoga, in more ways than one, which was totally beside the effing point.

What the hell did he do?

Ian slapped the back of his chair and slid into one across from him.

“Vegas?”

“Hey, little bro. Got tired of our party and went and made your own, huh?” Gavin muttered as he sat beside him. Someone else sat down, but Quinlan didn’t open his eyes, move, or remove his shades to see who it was. Didn’t care.

“So who was the chick? The cotton-candy-haired one? Eliza or Ellen or whatever?” Aiden asked, also across from him. The others piled in quickly. Clearly they were ready to go home as well. And why the hell wouldn’t they be? They’d
planned
to go home
yesterday
.

Home.

How the hell would she get home?

He’d left a message with the front desk in case she returned, along with an envelope of money—more than enough to see her safely back to New Orleans.

However,
she
left
him
, hadn’t she?

Whether that was a good thing or a bad thing he still hadn’t decided.
Bad
echoed through his brain. Knee-jerk, probably, but he did have his pride, stupid as it was.

“Hello?”

Seat belts clicked into place throughout the cabin as the jet fired up and everyone was ready for takeoff.

Quinlan ignored them all until he felt someone take his wrist. He jerked then and glared at Gavin. “Leave me the fuck alone.”

Gavin held his hand out. “Just making sure you were okay, ’cause you look like hammered shit. Worse than Bray, and he’s pretty bad.”

No one said anything for a long while as the plane took off and cabin pressure built. By the time his ears popped, the boys had gotten waters and drinks, whatever they wanted.

He wanted nothing.

Gavin handed him water anyway. “So, spill before one of them beats it out of you and then I’d have to play doctor and patch you up. After I help them, of course.”

He only flipped them all off.

“I already said I was fine, didn’t I?” he snapped.

Aiden just stared at him, as did Ian. Why did those two have to be sitting across from him. Those two could pull off the worried, nearly pissed-off father routine way too well. He could hear Brody and Gabe arguing about God only knew what. Bray was nowhere to be seen. Sorry bastard was probably sleeping. Would be nice. Apparently no one was going to let him get away with that. Couldn’t really blame them though, as he had left them stranded.

“So,” Ian finally said, sitting back, opening his own water. “Vegas.”

Quinlan tried to ignore him.

“At least you didn’t come home with some gold-digging wife,” Aiden muttered.

“Nope, I left her in Vegas,” he told them.

“Speaking of, what happened to what’s her name you ditched us for?” Ian asked, his gaze sharp. “Heard she went with you, or did you take someone else?”

Gold-digging wife? If only. No, she wasn’t even that—which, all things considered, he should be thankful for. But—okay, he was—but damn it. She’d slipped out like a thief in the night. After everything they’d shared.

Connected.

He’d felt connected to the woman like he never had before.

How the hell was she going to get home and—

Gavin shoved his shoulder.

He shoved him back.

“Maybe I did get married.”

Gavin scoffed. “You?” He laughed and then laughed some more.

“So it’s true, then,” Bray grumbled from somewhere behind them all. “Satan’s building a ski run in hell?”