Deadly Obsession (4 page)

He leaned back against the cushions of the couch.

The latest pictures slid easily from one to the next as he flipped through them.

Josephine might have cut her hair and moved clear across the country; years may have passed, but he still knew just how to play her. What buttons to push, how to string the game along. Anticipation only heightened the experience. He knew the post card would tell her who he was.

A soft chuckle escaped him.

This picture clearly showed him his game was a success thus far. In it, Josephine was looking through some of his pictures when the cameraman snapped a photo. Frozen on black and white paper, her fear excited him.

He had the power. He always had. Always would.

She had just forgotten that.

Anger flickered and glared within him, but he shifted past it because it only clouded thought and reason.

Her time would come. But for now? Now, he was having fun.

Looking at the clock, he noted how late it was and reached for the marker. Time to up the stakes. He only had two days before his flight back.

Presentation was everything. Everything. Set the stage for his entrance.

The hotel room was dark, save for the small desk lamp.

A grin lifted his mouth.

The Kinncaids definitely knew how to run a first class hotel. Only the best for certain guests, and he’d always liked the best of everything. He toasted their success with his watered scotch in his Highland Hotel crystal glass.

Standing, he turned and looked out the window. He knew just what to do next, and it was certain to gag her into silence should she decide to tell after their meeting.

And what a meeting it would be.

He had years to make up for, and so little time to do it.

He’d been given the opinion to just let her have an accident, something to end it cleanly. After all, truth was, Josephine was a threat to his career, but he wasn’t ready to let her go yet. He’d waited too long to find her. Now that he had, he wasn’t about to discard her. She’d been perfect once. Only and completely his. And she would be again. He was simply reminding her of that fact.

Turning back to the desk, he picked up the black marker and set to work.

* * * *

Kaitlyn Kinncaid walked down the long hallway toward the room she shared with her husband for well over forty years. As she passed Brayden’s hallway, she paused and sighed. Things simply were not the same anymore. Not since Christian left. Stupid boy.

She shook her head, those two were meant for each other. She still had no idea what happened between the girl that had become their daughter and their son, but she was trying not to meddle.

A sliver of light came from beneath Brayden’s door. Frowning, she walked up and gently knocked. She might not meddle, didn’t mean she couldn’t give a faint push when needed.

"Yes?" his voice came from inside. "Come in."

She eased the door open, propping her mug in one hand. He was dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt.

"What are you still doing up?"

His mouth lifted in a rueful grin. "Couldn’t sleep."

"Hmmm." She walked in, shut the door and sat in one of his chairs. Of all her sons, he was the most complex. Aiden, without a doubt had been the easiest, but both Aiden and Brayden had always shared a serious, deep streak that the others didn’t possess. "Have you talked with Christian?"

He startled. "Mom."

She shrugged. "I just thought you might have learned what was bothering her." She took a sip of her tea and pushed a graying strand of hair back. "Do you think I should color my hair?"

"What? Why?" And just like that, he looked as baffled as his father.

Kaitlyn laughed and waved a hand. "Never mind. So tell me, what’s bothering you?"

He opened his mouth, then shut it. "Nothing."

Time for the nudge. "I went by to see Christian yesterday and she doesn’t look good. Of course I met her hunky cop neighbor."

He whirled around from the window he’d been looking out. "What?"

"Morris. You remember him? Nice gentleman. He stopped by and talked with her for a few minutes."

Now that she thought about it.... She frowned. "He seemed very protective."

Brayden walked past her to his desk, then back to the window. He stopped, turned to her, then walked back to the desk.

"Do you miss her at all?" she asked softly. "I don’t mean to be like your father. He tends to get a bit in his mouth and that’s all he sees." Like with Brice and Aiden. Or years before like Brice and Ian.

"What? Miss her?" He sat heavily in the other chair, his eyes closing as he leaned back. "Yes, Mom. I miss her."

"Then what, pray tell, are you going to do about it?"

He sighed.

"She’s not JaNell, Brayden." JaNell Thomas had been Tori’s biological mom. The woman had been nice and sweet and had given the baby to her father. And for that alone, the woman would have Kaitlyn’s thanks. But JaNell had also ripped Brayden’s heart out. He was old fashioned with old-fashioned ideals.

And he’d been madly in love with that young, driven girl. JaNell, had died in a plane crash not two months after Tori’s birth. Worried about stability for his baby daughter, Brayden had sold his apartment in town and had moved back out to the family mansion in Seneca, Maryland, with his parents. The family home, was just that, a family home. And Kaitlyn was full of love and gratitude and so much pride for her son and the wonderful father he was.

On a frustrated sigh, he raked his hands through his hair. "I know that. I’ve never really thought she was JaNell."

Kaitlyn cleared her throat. "Maybe not intentionally." She rose and patted his hand, yawning. "God only sends us so many blessings. It’s up to us to recognize them, and if we don’t, He rarely sends them again."

"Mom, sometimes you talk like a damn fortune cookie."

She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "We mothers are wise souls." She caught his grin as she walked to the door. There she saw he’d picked up his laptop and was grinning at it.

"I’m not the only one up," he said to her.

So her other heartsick one was up as well.

"Tell Christian I said hello. And to make certain she gets enough rest and a good breakfast."

He nodded. "Yes, Mom."

She shut the door and walked to her room. Inside, their apartments, her husband sat leaning against the headboard, his white hair standing in disarray. "You bring me anything?"

"No, I thought you were asleep."

"As long as we’ve been married and making love, you’d think you’d know by now I like a snack after loving my wife."

She grinned and handed him a cookie from her robe pocket.

"What took you so long?" he asked, pulling her down into the crook of his arm.

"Nothing. Brayden’s up."

He humphed. "You wouldn’t be meddling now, would you?"

Kaitlyn decided not to answer.

* * * *

Christian rubbed her eyes. She’d typed up her latest acquisition reports for several clients and still needed to do the bid proposals for the North Carolina estate being sold next week. She’d gotten behind since her theater class started rehearsals.

She didn’t exactly have the time, but theater was a love she just couldn’t seem to let go of. Though this particular play, about a stalked woman who comes back as a ghost, stirred up old memories she thought she’d finally put the past in the past. But that was before the notes, the photos and the midnight calls.

How the man got her number she would never know. She was unlisted, but still he called. There were hang-ups on her machine, breathy whispers in the dead of night and always that stupid opera in the background. A shiver danced down her back.

If she believed in fate or karma she’d think she was just royally screwed.

His Angel.

Something popped against her window and she jumped. Her hand flew to her chest as chills raced down her spine.

Damn her nerves. Before long she’d be on Prozac or Xanax. Either one would be fine with her. That’d be good. She could smile when she found the next batch of photos, and who knows, she might actually get some sleep. Or at least do some day-to-day things without feeling like a cold hand hovered just above the back of her neck.

God she was tired, but in sleep, the past mixed with the present and the nightmares were as exhausting as staying up all night. She signed onto her messenger.

Oldshopkeeper popped up with a message.

A soft sigh escaped and she grinned.

Brayden.

Clicking on the message, she answered.

Broadway_Babe: What are you doing up at this hour?

Oldshopkeeper: I asked you first.

Truth or lie? Better yet neither. Simple.

Broadway_Babe: Couldn’t sleep.

Oldshopkeeper: Obviously.

For several seconds she looked at his message and could imagine him sitting in his bed, the notebook propped on his lap. What she wouldn’t give to be there at Seneca with him, sitting in his room talking about anything, everything, or nothing at all.

Those days were over. If Brayden hadn’t pushed her away before, she’d be pushing him away now.

She had to.

He had found her. Her phantom to his angel, like in Leroux’s classic. And when he was around, those close to her died.

But God, she missed Brayden, the way his voice soothed even though it was roughened and gruff. How his eyes could cut a person in half with just a look. She missed that smile that totally transformed his serious face into a charming rascal.

She missed him, Tori, everyone. Kaitlyn came by yesterday and pounded her with questions. Why wasn’t she eating? Was she not sleeping? And Kaitlyn had seen the inhaler. That launched a lecture and a dozen questions on stress and health and overall well-being. Christian missed her family. Now more than ever.

This I’ll defend. The Kinncaid motto echoed in her mind. She could tell them what was going on, move back home and they’d do everything in their power to help her.

But.

She wasn’t about to do that to them. The man stalking her, terrorizing her, was selfish and dangerous.

Christian couldn’t bear it if something happened to them because of her. Like before.

The last photos.

There had been a family picture and on all their faces he’d marked an ‘x’. Christian wasn’t stupid. She knew what it meant. Stay away from the Kinncaids, or they’d get hurt. Because of her.

Like he had hurt Danny.

Like he’d hurt Susan and her whole family.

Oldshopkeeper: Hello? Are you still there or did you go to sleep on me?

Emotions that she didn’t know how to handle warred within her. Finally she typed back.

Broadway_Babe: No, I’m here, just thinking.

Oldshopkeeper: About what?

Chaos. Hell. A living nightmare. She wished she could talk about this with him so she’d know what to do. She raked her fingers through her hair. For a moment she didn’t do anything.

Broadway_Babe: Have you ever taken a turn and couldn’t figure out how to get back to where you were going?

Oldshopkeeper: Yeah, I turn around and go back.

Go back? To the past? Not that she had to. It was coming to her in spades.

Oldshopkeeper: Can I ask you a question?

Broadway_Babe: What?

Oldshopkeeper: What’s going on with you? And not just us, or this thing with us, not music, or work.

It’s something else. You’re afraid of something. What?

Her breath huffed out. How in the hell could the man figure that out an hour away on a computer and not realize his emotions or how they tangled with hers when they were in the same house? Not that the latter mattered anymore.

Broadway_Babe: I just have lots on my mind lately.

Oldshopkeeper: Lots of what? Whatever it is, it’s serious enough to bring on asthma attacks. To isolate yourself from your family. We haven’t seen you much lately.

Isolate yourself. Isolate.

Isolation.

He wanted her isolated. All to himself. Just like before.

She leaned up on her elbows, her hands on her mouth. Either way she lost.

Separate herself from those she’d die to protect and do what he wanted. Or, ask for their help, their belief and run the risk of them not believing her or worse, of something happening to one of the Kinncaids.

No. No. She wouldn’t risk it. They meant too much to her.

Maybe she could move. It worked before. And unlike before, this time she had funds.

God, why was this happening?

Oldshopkeeper: What is going on? Can’t we even talk anymore?

Her eyes slid closed. Sighing, she typed.

Broadway_Babe: I wish we could. God knows I wish we could.

Oldshopkeeper: We can. Tell me.

Her fingers hovered over the keys and she stared at her screen.

Oldshopkeeper: Tell me. If you don’t, I’ll just call you.

And the man would.

Broadway_Babe: I can’t.

Oldshopkeeper: Why?

Broadway_Babe: It’s nothing, really. I’m just stressing about work.

For a moment nothing happened. Then she saw he was typing a message back.

Oldshopkeeper: You’re lying. Don’t lie to me.

Christian chose to just let that one go. She’d learned that often she could just wait him out and he’d change the subject. Or let her.

Oldshopkeeper: Does this have to do with your new neighbor?

New neighbor?

Broadway_Babe: Drayson or Geoffery? How do you know them?

Oldshopkeeper: More guys? Why couldn’t you have found some female neighbors?

She smiled.

Broadway_Babe: Do I detect a hint of jealousy? And if not them, then who did you mean?

Oldshopkeeper: Jealous? Of course not. I’d just feel better knowing you were safe. Females are safer.

She quirked a brow. Where did he come up with this? Shaking her head, she set to typing.

Broadway_Babe: Not jealous? I’ll leave that one. And my next-door neighbors are nice, polite gentlemen. And as far as safety and females, need I remind you of the female a few months ago that made all our lives hell? But don’t worry, you can rest your little mind. I have a cop.

A full minute passed before she got a reply on that one.

Oldshopkeeper: A cop?

He knew. She would bet her condo he knew.

Broadway_Babe: Morris. Remember him? He lives a few doors down.

She thought for a moment. What the hell.

Broadway_Babe: Gabe’s been really helpful.

Oldshopkeeper: Gabe? Helpful? What the hell does that mean?

She could all but see the bite in his words. If he’d asked the question aloud, his voice would deepen and gruff over words when something got to him more than he was willing to admit.

Broadway_Babe: Just that he’s helpful.

Someone knocked at her door downstairs. She glanced at the clock and saw it was almost three. Who the hell would be knocking this time of night? A chill danced down her spine. He knew where she lived.

Oldshopkeeper: And that means what?

Again thumping echoed from downstairs. Should she answer it? No. No, definitely not.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

The sound reverberated through the quiet night. At this rate whoever was knocking would wake the entire complex. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. She was not going to let the man reduce her to hiding under the covers.

Broadway_Babe: Brb. Knock on door.

She noted he was typing as she stood and hurried downstairs, leaving the lights off.

Another small yet looming nightly war. Lights or no lights? Lights allowed her to see if anyone were in her condo. After all, she could hardly see in the dark. But lights also allowed those outside to see in.

Carefully, she looked through the peephole.

No one.

"Who’s there?" she called.

Silence.

Gnawing on the inside of her bottom lip, she stared out the distorted view of the night, then dropped back down onto her heels, staring at the door. Christian drummed her fingers against her thigh. Who knocked? She was tempted to fling the door open to prove to herself she was only letting him get to her.

Reason won out. She might be paranoid, but that didn’t mean someone might not be out there.

Carefully, she looked out the side window beside the door. The sheers really didn’t do much in way of blocking her view, but still she shoved them to the side. She saw no one.

Goose bumps pricked her skin.

It was nothing and no one. Probably just some kid out knocking on doors.

Sighing, she turned and headed back upstairs.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

She jumped, almost losing her balance on the steps. A glance out the side window showed her a blur moving quickly past.

"Who’s there?" she yelled.

Licking her lips, she thought about what to do. If she opened the door, what? What would happen? And if she didn’t, would he continue to knock?

He?

Who was he? Was it him?

Stop it. Stop it!

She took a deep breath and walked to the door. This time she hit the outside light. Nothing happened.

Had her bulb burned out?

Grumbling about her fate in general, she craned a look out the window again. And saw the package sitting at her door.

Her chest tightened. No. No. No. She was not going to let him do this to her. Damn him. Closing her eyes, she counted, concentrated on her breathing. She could win this, she could.

Sighing, she sat on the floor and stared out the window. It was a big package. What had he sent her this time?

Tears stung the backs of her eyes, but she refused to let them fall. Enough! Blowing out her tension, or what she could of it, on a huff, she grabbed the door handle and pulled herself up.

The man was not going to reduce her to the terrified girl he’d controlled years ago. She’d gotten away from that once; there was no way she was going to let him drag her back. He wanted her afraid and she’d be damned if she’d give him the satisfaction.

If she didn’t open the door, she let him win.

Cool metal rested against her palm as she cupped the doorknob. With her other hand, she flicked her lights on. If her porch light didn’t work, she’d illuminate the stoop with what she had.

On another inhale, she unlocked the bolts and opened the door.

Cold night air blew in and chilled her where she stood. Whatever it was almost fell on her. The package was wide, tall and thin. She caught it as it fell into her entryway.

Terrified that at any moment someone was going to leap out of the dark at her, she pulled the awkward package in. It wasn’t too heavy, but weighed enough that when she lost her grip, it slammed loudly against her door and inner wall. Cursing, she heaved until it stood upright in her entryway.

She turned to close the door, when an outer light pierced the stoop and she heard the door next to hers open. The condos were set up so that two doors stood side by side and her entry, living room and part of the kitchen shared the wall with her neighbors.

"Christian?" a voice asked, faintly British.

Drayson.

She thought about pretending she hadn’t heard him, but he stuck his head around her doorframe and knocked on the open door.

"Luv, what in the Almighty are you about at this bloody hour?" he asked.

Propping her hand on her hip, she said, "Exercising."

"What in the world have you got there?" he asked, still leaning into her doorway.

She looked from the robed, handsome man to the brown-paper package leaning lopsided against her wall. It went over halfway to the ceiling.