Deadly Secrets (6 page)

He chuckled and said, “Let me see your phone.”

“Why?”

“So I can put my number in it.”

“Honey, Southern women
never
call a man. Didn’t your mama teach you anything? You want to contact me, you’re gonna have to contact me.” She motioned for him to hand his over.

“So you’ll put your number in my phone?”

“It’s been awhile for you, hasn’t it?”

He handed the phone over and she caught his scent again, light, springy and citrus. Something by Armani, she thought.

Ella quickly entered her info into his contacts. He took the phone back and quickly tapped the screen of his smart phone. Hers soon buzzed in her pocket.

He smiled. “Just making sure it works.”

She cocked a brow. “Wow, if you don’t know, it has been awhile.”

His gaze narrowed, though his dimple remained. “You’re a handful, aren’t you?”

Ella glanced over her shoulder and walked backward up the street. “Only the brave venture forth.”

Quinlan watched her until she turned another corner down the block. Her house? He didn’t know, didn’t care right then.

He glanced again at the screen on this phone.
L Blue.

. . . it has been awhile . . .

She had no idea. No idea. No one did. His therapist knew he’d worried about his sex drive, or lack thereof. Stress and fear.

Stress he got.

Fear? Who feared sex, he’d wanted to know. What guy feared sex?

Dr. Garner had said it hadn’t been sex that he was scared of but the memories of before and what it all led to.

Whatever.

The fact he could have happily seduced Ms. Ella . . . Ella . . . what had she said her last name was? He couldn’t remember. But he’d go for Blue for now. Blue, like her hair.

Who had blue hair? Other than little old ladies? It wasn’t bright electric blue, but soft, cotton-candy blue. And the pink tips?

She’d had a tattoo on her left wrist. He hadn’t gotten a good enough look at it to see exactly what it said. Light cursive writing made up the letters. He’d have to study it later. During midnight beignets.

Grinning, he found his way back and into the house. Just as he opened the door, Brody said, “What the hell? You just left me here to fend for myself with the old dogs?”

“We old dogs can still bite, kid,” Ian said, stepping into the entry with a tumbler of scotch.

His older brother’s eyes studied him. “We’re supposed to head out tonight for lots of fun at some club, live music or some such that Jonathan owns.”

Jonathan was Brayden’s brother-in-law.

“Whatever.” He started to go around them.

“What are you so happy about?” Ian asked.

“Blue hair,” he said and made for the stairs, hurrying up them as much as his leg would allow. Damned if he’d take the lower bedroom.

In his room, he stared at the phone for a moment and thought of what to say in a text.
You get home all right?
He typed before he thought better of it. Or was that stupid? Of course it was stupid, he should have said something else. Like
great to meet you
, or maybe
thanks for the afternoon
. Something. Now he’d sound like some sort of stalker or mother hen or . . .

His phone dinged.

Of course. Did you?

He smiled.
Yes.

While he thought about what else to say, she typed back.

Thanks for going with me, and if you honestly want to donate something or whatever to that shelter, I’m sorry I gave you a hard time. Still want beignets?

He smiled again and realized he hadn’t smiled this much in a long damned time.

Midnight. Café Du Monde. Will that work?

She sent him back a wink. A wink? Was that a yes or no? He wasn’t about to ask.

He’d just have to wait and see. His window looked out over a courtyard. A fountain trickled in the center of the red-bricked haven. What was it about this city that made him do impulsive things? He’d rarely been impulsive in his entire life. When he was a kid and almost died in the icy river and lost his best friend, impulsiveness had a cost, he’d realized.

So he’d just done what he was supposed to and then aimed for better no matter what it was. School, sports, college, work. And that had gotten him where he was on top of it all, or so it seemed. Women he’d carefully selected through the years to date.

Until her.

Was this a mistake? He looked down at the phone.

What did he know of her?

She made him laugh.

Her hair was blue. He grinned at the thought. She helped others. Took them groceries and supplies and bought strawberries for someone down on their luck.

He took a deep breath.

. . . only the brave venture forth . . .

Well, no one ever said the Kinncaids lacked bravery.

Chapter 3

New Mexico, October, the present

The man’s phone rang. Cursing inwardly, he pulled it from his pocket and glanced at the caller ID. Figured. God only knew what it was this time, but after the incident at the Retreat, he should probably take it.

He smiled at his wife and their dinner guests, excusing himself. The Taos restaurant was busy and noisy.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?” the voice asked.

He weaved his way through the noisy diners, wincing as someone dropped a glass on the tiled floor. The air was filled with chatter, laughter, flatware striking the plates as people consumed the various Mexican foods they’d all ordered.

The outside air brushed a chill across his face as he stepped out onto the sidewalk. “I’m in the middle of dinner.”

“Well, there’s a problem.”

He sighed. When wasn’t there a problem lately? Knowing his partner would get to it sooner or later, he waited.

“There are police all around the house in Albuquerque.”

He stilled. “Which house?”

“Labor and delivery, or that’s what we’ve mostly used it for lately.”

“What the fuck are you doing there? What the hell have you done now?” he whispered into his phone, walking farther away from the crowds and leaning against the wall of the parking lot.

Silence answered him.

“Explain.”

“I was trying to stop a major loss. Ella’s baby was sold and—”

“You did what?” he hissed. He’d already decided that no matter the money, he was going to let this one pass. Not the deal, but this particular baby. Something had told him a few weeks ago, she was just too much trouble. If the baby was already sold, they’d just give the winning parents another baby—who would know? There were too many questions already surrounding this woman. She’d blatantly said she wasn’t interested in adoption. Granted, he’d thought about it. Had even started an auction for her baby.

“You heard me. The perfect kid. And she was bolting. Or would have been. Her husband was coming. Just what do you think would have happened to our little commodity then?”

“What the hell did you do?”

“Took her. Drugged her tea, put her in my car, and drove to the house. Induced labor and everything went fine, for the most part.”

“For the most part?”

“Well, her placenta didn’t detach properly. Figured she’d bleed out and no problem.”

No problem. No problem? There were probably ways around it all, but Ella, he had learned, was rather connected.

Connected in a big way to people who might not let a sleeping bastard lie.

“And?”

“And apparently she got away or something. I don’t see any ambulances, but there are cops everywhere on the street and in the house.”

The house. Damn it all to hell.

“Idiot,” he hissed. “Why did you use the fucking house? There’s no way to keep it contained there. No way for—”

“We’ve used it before. If she’d woken up at the Retreat, we’d have had to get rid of a body more than likely or forge a death certificate for the baby.”

Yes, and clearly that had never been done before.

“Get your ass back to the Retreat and make sure there is nothing left of her ideas or worries at her place. Is she alive?”

“I don’t see how.”

He sighed. “If we’re lucky, she died. You have the baby?”

“I left her with Kevin.”

Great, got better and better. At least, though, there was the auction and he had a buyer on the line. Even if he upped the price just a bit. Price was stupidly high. Already it was at almost a quarter of a million. Most babies didn’t go for a fraction of that.

But then most babies weren’t as high end as this one. Perfect baby for perfect parents. It was what he did.

“Get your ass back here. Now.”

He tucked his phone back into his pocket and sighed, looking around. Should have just killed the bitch when he had the chance. If he was lucky, Ella Ferguson Kinncaid was in the morgue and not the hospital.

Chapter 4

New Orleans, February, earlier that year

Quinlan looked out over the crowd at the Café Du Monde and wondered if he should get a table or not. He glanced back and saw that there were plenty, so no, he’d just wait.

What if she didn’t show?

He’d ditched his brothers back at some bar on Bourbon Street, which was fine with him. They’d asked him where he was headed and he’d only flipped them off.

Of course, knowing Ian, he probably had some sort of tracking device on his ass so his brother could keep tabs on him. And everyone worried about him? Ian would do well with a dose of Paxil.

He glanced over to the cathedral lit up bright tonight, probably every night.

One more had joined their party earlier. Brayden’s brother-in-law, Jonathan Beauchamp. Jon was Christian’s biological brother and a darlin’ of N’Awlins. Bachelor that he was, and his family owning banks all over the South with the headquarters in New Orleans, made the man every Southern mama’s dream son-in-law. The siblings, however, shared very few characteristics other than those wickedly pale eyes they both had inherited from a grandmother or something. Brayden’s brother-in-law was a diverse man of business.

The man had showed up with a limo and had taken them out to dinner. Then he said he knew a great place he wanted to take them. That was after most of Quin’s siblings had consumed various amounts of alcohol during the afternoon and well into the evening.

Avante Garde was a club Jonathan owned.

Wonder-fucking-ful. In the heart of jazz and they’d listened to karaoke . . . in costume. Not Quin’s thing, but from the way the place was packed, a long wait line to get in, and the amount of booze and food flooding the time-warped venue, Jonathan had apparently clicked on something.

Whatever. Quin was just glad to have left.

The boys had all protested when he’d risen and said he was leaving. His brothers wanted to have fun. Wanted him to have fun. His family needed to know that he was capable of having fun. Otherwise, he might what? Swallow pills? No.

He’d counted down the minutes until he could leave and get here. As his brothers were only a couple of blocks over, it had been within easy walking distance. Now he stood here on Decatur waiting, watching and wondering if she’d actually show up.

Part of him figured she would, she was daring—and quirky. Part of him figured she wouldn’t because she didn’t know him from Adam or Jack the Ripper. Then again, maybe she figured with his gimpy leg, he wasn’t that big of a worry. Hadn’t she heard of Bundy? He walked a few paces one way, then the other, scanning the crowd and listening to the street musicians around Jackson Square.

He saw her first, walking down the sidewalk toward him with a group of friends.

He smiled. She came and daring won.

Her pale blue hair seemed almost white under the streetlights and he almost laughed outright as she wobbled on impossibly high shoes.

She was dressed in some sort of short, flowy, dark sundress, and he figured she was cold. But it wasn’t that cold, just sort of chilly. The shoes though . . .

He laughed, it was a wonder she didn’t break her neck. They were tall platforms with straw or cork or something. He knew women called them something specific but he couldn’t remember. He just liked the way the dark ribbons from the shoes laced and wound around her ankles and up her calves. Toned calves.

She broke away from the pack and came toward him, smiling, her dimples winking at him.

“My friends wanted to make sure I got here safely,” she told him as she stopped in front of him.