Deadly Obsession

© copyright August 2004,

Cover art by Eliza Black © copyright August 2004

New Concepts Publishing

5202 Humphreys Rd.

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

Acknowledgements:

Thanks to Andrea for her patience.

As always, thanks for putting up with me, A., A., and E. ~ You’re the best part of my life. Love ya.

He’d found her. Finally, after all this time.

The opera CD he’d put on soared to a crescendo--and he remembered. The music stirred the memories within him. Strains filled his mind with thoughts, yearnings so strong he could scarcely breathe. He could all but taste the sweet nectar.

Her soprano voice, young, yet worldly, released all the emotions known to man within notes and keys appreciated only by a few.

And she had been his.

No.

She was his still. She would always be his. He’d promised her that.

He opened his eyes, his leather chair squeaking slightly as he shifted. The smoke from his Cuban cigar drifted up from the Waterford ashtray--the taste sweet with a hint of citrus behind the robust tobacco flavor.

Her face stared up at him from the photograph. That smiling picture had sat at the corner of his desk for the last eight years. It was her in youthful beauty, the innocence still there in the soft lines of her face.

Except for her eyes.

Those smoky gray eyes had always seen too much, understood too much. Those eyes haunted him.

With one finger, he traced the line of her mouth, remembering what it felt like beneath his, what it had tasted like, the music that could come from those lips. The glass protector was cool to his touch.

His sigh carried with it tension and elation. Carefully, he set the photo so that the edge of the frame was an inch from the corner of his blotter, and just a finger length from the family picture. In the photograph, her hair was the color of dark winter wheat. He’d loved the long tresses, the smell of them, the feel.

She wasn’t to cut her hair.

The man took a deep calming breath and heard voices drift down the hall.

No matter, no one would disturb him.

He opened the top drawer to his right, the moan of wood on wood familiar, the jingle of the handle dropping back down unnoticed.

His fist clenched atop the polished mahogany as he withdrew another photo from the drawer.

His angel.

He’d know her anywhere.

Somehow, he’d known all along she wasn’t dead. But to find her again...

Ahhh...

He shook his head sadly. A shame, all that beautiful hair, cut short now, in some feministic stylish flip.

The shortened tresses were darker and made her round eyes even larger. Her straight nose, slightly tilted at the end was the same. At least she hadn’t had a nose job. And he had to admit that the new hairstyle accentuated her long, graceful neck. He traced the swan-like column, remembering how soft her skin was just there. The lines of her face were not as soft as in the other picture. Time had sharpened them to an edge, prominent cheekbones and that stubborn, arrogant chin. His fisted hand relaxed, and he curved it around the crystal faceted tumbler sitting on his desk.

She should have long hair. And not this deep brown color. What had she been thinking? Did she dye it?

Probably.

He sipped his brandy, the taste full and rich on his tongue, swirling away and melding with the taste from his Havana best.

Always was too smart for her own good, which was why he was drawn to her. Her brain, her looks, her voice.

She was older now, more worldly.

Her young voice shimmered from the speakers as she held a note, as she drew it out.

Kinncaids. She was with the Kinncaids. A more noble, honorable family he could not think of. Strange, them being so old to the Washington, D.C. area, yet none of the elite family had ever had a thing to do with political circles. A shame really. With their money, brains and ambitions the possibilities would be endless. Or could have been.

Christian Bills. She was going by that deplorable name. Christian, Chris. He’d hated it, as he recalled, did her mother. And Bills? It was so very low class, so incredibly common. Though he suspected it stemmed from William. Always was the daddy’s, even granddaddy’s girl. Christian Bills? No.

Josephine. She was his Josephine.

And she always would be.

He’d let her think herself safe, for now.

He smiled. The cat’s advantage to the mouse was in the fact the cat knew of his prey’s existence.

Unfortunately, from the mouse’s point-of-view, the rodent was all too often unaware of the feline until just before the pounce.

Cat and mouse.

A game they knew well.

Eight years.

Full circle.

The game was just beginning.

He grinned, touched the lips of the woman, caressed her cheekbone, the column of her neck. His lungs filled with his sigh, just as blood rushed to fill his veins, his passion. It would not be long. Not long at all.

Opening his eyes, he tapped her lips one last time before he gently placed the photo in the top drawer and locked it. Footsteps neared his door.

In one gulp, he finished off the brandy and hit the remote. The opera and Josephine’s voice silenced.

Carefully, he set his empty glass on the desk just as the door opened.

"There you are. I’d wondered where you’d gone." She propped her hands on her trim hips. "Come on.

You can’t hide out here all night."

No, he supposed he couldn’t, but he would dearly have loved to. He stood and inwardly longed for the house to be empty. Then, he’d be able to go up to his private, hidden room and enjoy the memories and plan for the future. It wasn’t to be.

Smiling, he ran a hand down his jacket, straightened the black bow tie and held his hand out to her.

"I just needed a moment, darling."

"Hmm. Well, come on then. There are guests waiting. Don’t want to give the wrong impression, do you?

The constituents should be placated."

A glance over his shoulder and his eyes landed on the photo on the edge of his desk.

Gray eyes.

It was her. He’d found her. His angel.

The music from the terrace drifted down the hallway as he turned and led the woman away.

He’d found his Josephine and he was never again letting her go. No one else would have her.

Ever.

"Don’t look at me like that," Brayden said on a sigh.

Christian cleared her throat. "I’m sorry, how am I supposed to look at you?"

She would not cry, she would not.

Just because she’d finally overcome her fears, finally reached for what she’d wanted when it was offered, finally made love to the one man, the only man she wanted, did not mean she would fall apart when he acted as if it were a mistake. Just because it had been the most wonderful night of her life did not, obviously, mean it had been for him.

Brayden Kinncaid’s cobalt eyes bore into hers before darting away. He rose from the bed and grabbed the quilt. Not that he needed it. She knew his body now as a river knew its streambed. Tall, well muscled, he’d always reminded her of a professional football player. Wide sculpted shoulders tapered down to a toned and trimmed torso, long tan legs dusted with his dark hair strode along the wall as he paced. His six-foot-four-inch frame moved as fluidly, as powerfully without clothing as it did within his custom-made suits. Ebony hair, cut neatly short, caught and held the rising sun.

Christian pulled her knees up and tucked the sheet under her arms.

"Look," he said, turning to her. "I’m sorry, this--" He gestured at the bed. "This never should have happened between us. What the hell were we thinking?"

A knot lodged in her throat. She wished she could curl up under the covers and hide from the eyes that would not meet hers.

Taking a deep breath, she braved, "Why? What was wrong with what we did? If memory serves, it didn’t seem to bother you last night."

The night of lovemaking had been exquisitely sweet. Passionate and cherished, hungry and tender--so much more than she ever would have, could have, dreamed. It had felt honest. Open. Right.

His jaw tensed as he leveled a look at her, his eyes widening, black brows winging up on surprise.

"What was wrong with it?" He shook his head. "What was wrong with it?"

Had it really been that bad?

Forget it. She didn’t want to know the answer to that. Scrambling off the bed, she wrapped the sheet around her until she spotted her silver evening gown.

"Sorry it was obviously such a strain for you, Bray," she tossed, letting go of the sheet as she grabbed the silk dress. "Though last night, I don’t remember you complaining in the least. In fact, at one point, I do believe you begged."

The gasp of breath behind made her glance over her shoulder.

His eyes were lightning, blue-edged lightning.

Could it be that simple? Standing naked and holding the gown in her hand, she faced him squarely, though it took all the courage in her to do so. "What? Oh, I guess I should cover up, huh? Wouldn’t want you to see something that might be wrong."

She slid the dress down over her head, the silk gliding over her skin, reminding her all too clearly of Brayden’s hands. As her head broke through the neck, she noticed he had moved forward with his hands fisted at his sides.

Turning her back to him, she propped her hands on her hips. "Zip me up, and I’ll leave."

His heavy warm sigh brushed the back of her neck, as his fingers grazed her backbone. The zipper slid up slowly from the small of her back before it was yanked quickly to the top.

She tilted her head to the side, caught him looking down at her, his hands hovering over her shoulders.

Taking a deep breath, she took two steps away before facing him again.

"Was it really so bad?"

His silence hung heavy between them.

"You know, I guess this goes without saying, but last night," she stopped. Licking her lips she continued,

"It was--it was--"

"What? It was what?" his deep voice coaxed; though she caught the strained edge.

What the hell. Closing her eyes, she admitted, "It was the best night I ever had. More than I had thought it could be."

He couldn’t know, no one knew, just what last night had meant to her, the hurdle she’d finally overcome, the deep fears that had finally been banished.

"It shouldn’t have happened," he repeated, sitting down on the edge of the bed.

"Why?"

His eyes when they met hers again were tumultuous. "Because, it’s just not right. You’re practically my sister! Tori thinks of you as her mom!"

Christian rolled her eyes. That didn’t make a bit of sense. Temper started to simmer beneath the pain of his regret. "Your sister? First off, Brayden Kinncaid, I’m not your damn sister--or, for that matter, any relation to you at all. The things you said to me, did to me last night--" She waited a beat. "It wasn’t to a sister." Thank God.

"Second," she started, the anger warming even more. "I think of Tori as my daughter. I’ve seen her grow from a month old baby. She’s as much mine as she is yours, regardless of whether or not I gave birth to her." Then an idea shimmered. Cocking her head to the side, she whispered, "Or maybe that’s part of the issue, here. I’m not JaNell, Brayden." His eyes flashed. She hurried on, "But other than that, I really don’t see what Tori’s view of me, or my view of her, has to do with you and me, with us. And don’t," she added when his head shook, "shake your head at me. There is an us. There always has been in one form or fashion, and if you say otherwise, you’re lying. Not that I would be surprised with the excuses you’re spouting this morning."

A muscle bunched in his jaw as his eyes narrowed. Temper now fueling her, Christian walked toward him.

"I don’t know what changed from a couple of hours ago." She leaned down into his face. "The words I said to you last night, I meant every one of them."

I love you. Now, she couldn’t believe she’d told him that. "And, you said them back to me." Hot and sweet in her ear as he’d brought them both to pleasure, the words still echoed in her heart, in her soul, in her very being. "You said them back."

The blue of his eyes shifted. She couldn’t define the emotion in them, the feelings behind them.

"We were both drunk," he said.

"Drunk?" She straightened and laughed, but her heart skipped, cracked. "Drunk? That’s the road you’re going to take now? When a few hours ago you were whispering about perfection and beauty."

"Look, Christian." He stood and she stepped back. "It never should have happened."

"Why?" She crossed her arms over her chest and hoped to hell he couldn’t see them tremble. God, why?

He paced away, ran a hand through those soft wavy locks, and muttered to himself. Finally, he stopped.

The confusion on his face tied her nerves even tighter.

"We crossed a line last night, I know that. I’m just trying to figure out what the hell to do about it."

And he would, worry it, analyze it, and dissect it to death. She hoped to hell he would.

"Fine," she said tightly. "When you figure it out, you let me know. Stubborn ass."

Taking the bull by the horns, she walked up to him, leaned up on her bare toes, grabbed his face between her hands, and kissed him.

Brayden rocked back, the feel of her wonderful against him. He started to push her away, but could no more do that than he could stop his next heartbeat.

Her body, soft and pliant against his, brought the memories from the night before roaring to life in his mind. Shifting and caressing, they teased his mind, his senses. Just as his hands got lost in her short, cropped hair, she pulled back from him.

"There," she whispered, licking those luscious lips, "maybe that’ll help you figure things out."

She stood barefoot before him, gowned in wrinkled silver with hurt and anger shifting in the depths of her smoky gray eyes. God he loved her eyes.

As she turned to go, he grabbed her arm. The skin, soft as satin, glided under his fingers.

One dark brow arched in question.

"We’re not through with this discussion," he calmly told her.

He wanted to kiss her again, and that only aggravated him more, made the tension in his voice more pronounced. "It shouldn’t have happened."

Her eyes flashed at him. "Have you bothered to ask yourself why it did?"

He opened his mouth.

One elegant finger rose between them. "Do not use the drunk excuse again, or I swear I will hit you."

Brayden had known this woman for well over eight years and could count the number of times she’d lost her temper or even raised her voice. The fact she was clearly close to doing both now fascinated and warned him.

"I wasn’t. I will admit, I think the alcohol only pushed the foolishness to the front, but--"

Her deep indrawn breath and slight narrowing of her eyes told him that was the wrong thing to say.

They shouldn’t even be having this conversation. What the hell had he been thinking? Well, it was obvious, he hadn’t been. That was the damn problem.

"Maybe it was just--we spend a lot of time together, you and I. And as you pointed out, we’ve both raised Tori, in the same home, around the same people. We even work together. Maybe we’ve been playing house for too long."

Both her dark winged brows rose on that one.

"House? We’ve been playing house?" The strain in her voice sharpened her tone to a fine edge.

Why wasn’t she understanding? On a curse, he looked down. His disbelief, his self-disgust at what had happened between them, what he had allowed to happen between them, simmering into anger. There was no way to go back to what they were.

"I hired you to help raise my daughter. My parents see you as part of this family, as a daughter of their own. My brothers think of you as their sister. This should not have happened between us." He punctured the air with his finger.

She jerked her arm free of his hold. "Well, Mr. Rochester, I’m so sorry, my lowly, employed self aimed, dreamed of better things. Yes, I should know better."

Women! How did they manage to twist everything so damn illogically?

Christian strode to the door, anger radiating out of her like a boulder splashing into a pond.

There, she turned. "You can be such an ass, Brayden Gallager Kinncaid. You know what your problem is? You’ve painted every woman with the brush that JaNell handed you. And I could almost hate you for that alone. I’m not her. I didn’t lie last night. Part of me wants to believe you meant the words you said.

But this morning has shown me you are either a liar or a coward." Her eyes locked with his. "Maybe even both. I never thought you were either."

On those words, his bedroom door slammed shut.

Frozen, he stood there. What the hell? A liar? A coward?

He stalked to the door and all but ripped it off its hinges. The outer suite door slammed shut as well.

In the middle of the living quarters, he stopped. Anger tempted him to go after her, but his pride wasn’t about to let him traipse out into the damn outer hall wearing a bed quilt, for the love of God.

He stood glaring at the door of his suite, willing her to come back so he could ... he could what?

Try to make her see reason, see what they had done was not only wrong it was--it was...

Damn it.

Right, so damn right, it made his breath catch to think of how it had been between them. Never had it been like that with any other woman--except JaNell. Maybe Christian was right. He was measuring her by another woman. God. He rubbed his hand over his face. He needed to think.

Looking across to another door, he was silently thankful Tori, his eight-year-old daughter, had elected to sleep in her grandparents’ suite a few doors down the outer hall.

He hopelessly bit down on his temper and frustration at the situation, as he walked back to his room.

In fact, the whole damn mess was beyond hopeless. No matter how much he cared for Christian, how great the night with her had been, it would not happen again, and shouldn’t have happened in the first place.

So, he had looked at her in the last couple of years in more than a sisterly fashion. No harm there, she technically wasn’t his sister, regardless of what the family thought of her. Or what he told her.

Then what the hell was the problem? He stared himself down in the mirror and realized the problem was staring back at him.

She was right, he was an ass, and would probably continue to be so. He’d learned the hard way, women and commitments weren’t for him.