Deadly Games Read online

  Praise for Deadly Games

  “Deadly Games is a spine-tingling, thrilling ride that readers will devour in one sitting. Ms. Clark adds another layer to her ongoing saga about the Kinncaid brothers in Deadly Games. This is Ian’s story, and what a story it is.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  “. . . I found myself unable to put it down. Deadly Games by Jaycee Clark is one book that you don’t want to miss if you like suspense.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “Fast pacing and a well-developed plot make this an intriguing book . . . well detailed and well written . . .”

  —Romantic Times

  “Ian’s story is well worth the wait. This suspenseful, action-packed, and thrilling story kept me on the edge of my seat. Another excellent romantic suspense from Jaycee Clark.”

  —Joyfully Reviewed

  Books by Jaycee Clark

  Angel Eyes

  Firebird

  Talons (coauthored with Shannon Stacey, Mandy Roth, Michelle Pillow, and Sydney

  Somers)

  Black Aura

  Ghost Cats (coauthored with Mandy Roth and Michelle Pillow)

  Ghost Cats: Revenge

  The Dream

  Deadly Shadows

  Deadly Ties

  Deadly Obsession

  Deadly Games

  Phoenix Rising II (coauthored with Donna Grant and Mandy Roth)

  Ghost Cats 2 (coauthored with Mandy Roth and Michelle Pillow)

  Deadly Games

  Jaycee Clark

  Beyond the Page Books

  are published by

  Beyond the Page Publishing

  www.beyondthepagepub.com

  First digital edition copyright © 2004 by Jaycee Clark

  First print edition copyright © 2004 by Jaycee Clark

  Second digital edition copyright © 2011 by Jaycee Clark

  Cover design and illustration by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  ISBN: 978-1-937349-22-6

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this book. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented without the express written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Acknowledgments

  This book would not have been possible without the unwavering support of friends and wonderful readers. Thank you all. Ian might still be in the murky part, his story only half done, if the call for him had not been what it was.

  To Gail and Shalon, thanks for reading through another Kinncaid story. A big thanks to Val, who took the Texas out of Rori and made her more British, and to A., who pointed out things I never would have caught.

  I have to give a special thanks to Mandy. Thanks for all the phone conversations, for saying, “Oh my God, you can’t do that,” or “Just write the damn thing.” Thanks for all the help, all the links, all the ideas bounced back and forth. But mostly, thanks for the friendship. Hugs.

  Oh, and I have to give one more special thanks to Kenneth—the strange one—who told me which guns my characters simply could not use and set me straight.

  As always, thanks to my family, who still loves me even after writing this book. :)

  Hugs and thanks to you all,

  Jaycee

  I dedicate this book to the outcasts, the different,

  the weird, and to those who love them—

  life would be boring if all were the same.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  “What the hell do you mean you’re not going to marry her?”

  “Exactly what I said. I won’t marry Brice Carlisle.”

  Ian Kinncaid sprawled in the chair in front of his father’s desk. The dark wood gleamed as it always did, and what was normally a relaxed atmosphere was thick with tension.

  His father rose and walked to look out the tall windows. As a child this room held the balance of fun and apprehension. He and his brothers were either in here playing or they were being called to account for some trouble. And Jock Kinncaid had never been one to let things slide. Not in business, not in life, and sure as hell not in family. You screwed up, you paid the price. Period.

  Which was why they were both sitting in here now, though Ian couldn’t figure out what the damn deal was, but the itchy feeling he wasn’t going to like it crawled under his skin.

  “Why?” his father asked quietly. The calm voice before the storm. His father’s face was flushed, never a good sign.

  Ian studied him. It had been a while since he’d seen his father this mad. And when had Dad started to get old? Still tall, strong and fit, but now there was more gray in his black hair and the wrinkles seemed deeper.

  “Why? Why what?” Ian sat still. His father raged and he’d always waited. He was used to this game. They’d argue, yell a bit, not talk for a while, and then things would get back to normal. Same old, same old.

  Jock Kinncaid turned from the window and speared Ian with a look that had him shifting in the chair. “I want to know why my son refuses to marry his fiancée.”

  Ian bit down on his own temper. “For the tenth time, she’s not my damn fiancée.”

  “You should have thought about that before you got her pregnant.”

  What? What? So that was the game she chose this time. Ian took a deep breath. “First off, Brice Carlisle is not, nor has she ever been, nor will she ever be, my fiancée. Second, if, and I’m betting that’s a damn big if, she’s pregnant, it sure as hell isn’t mine.”

  His father stared at him a while longer then huffed out a breath, walked to the desk, and sank down in the chair. “Look, this may not be the way you planned things, but you have to do the right thing. My God. I refuse to have my first grandchild born out of wedlock.” He leveled another look, those blue eyes sharp as spears. “You’ll marry her.”

  Ian stared his father down. “Are you listening to me at all?”

  “You might not want to get married yet, but things change.”

&
nbsp; Ian stood. “I’ll be damned if I’m getting married now and I won’t get married tomorrow.”

  “I didn’t say that damn soon.”

  Ian took a deep breath. “Look. I know this must seem like a perfect opportunity to you . . .”

  That sound his father made in the back of his throat, somewhere between a scoff and a growl, had him stopping.

  “Perfect opportunity?” His father stood with his hands flat on the desk.

  Great.

  “Perfect opportunity.” Jock waggled a finger at him. “Let me tell you something, boyo. Neither I, Edward Carlisle, nor your mother—who, by the mercy of God, doesn’t know yet—sees this as the perfect opportunity.”

  Ian rolled his eyes and stalked to the fireplace. “Please. You’ve been trying to get one of us with Eddie’s oldest daughter for years. The problem is, she’s known it, expects to become a Kinncaid, and none of us can stand her cold, selfish ass.”

  When his father opened his mouth, he plowed on. “Oh, she’s pretty to look at. Brice has a great body, perfect posture, and the schooling to be a mate to a wealthy Kinncaid heir.” He walked back and planted his hands on his father’s desk. “But I’ll bet my inheritance she’s not pregnant.”

  “Then you’d lose.” His father opened the desk drawer and took out a folded document, tossing it on the desk.

  “What the hell is this?” Ian snatched it up and opened it. The checkmarks on the neat form. Blood work, pelvic exam, hCG levels. He flipped to the next page and the bottom dropped out of his stomach.

  Pregnancy confirmed. He sat back in the chair.

  Holy shit. His mind scrambled. Valentine’s Day he’d been in and they’d met at the hotel. The round of sweaty sex ended in a fight that broke them up. Or rather, the fight ended the bout of sex short of his orgasm. Thanks to Brice calling out a name, and it sure as hell hadn’t been his.

  Ian took a deep breath, huffed it out and scanned down the sheet. Flipped it back to the doctor’s form to read the handwriting at the bottom.

  Patient eight weeks gestation.

  It was currently the end of May . . . which would mean she was pregnant the end of March.

  Thank you, God.

  “It’s not mine,” he strangled out.

  “What? Brice told Eddie the baby was yours.”

  His heart slammed in his chest but he bit down. “She’s lying. The last time we were together was at Valentine’s and the job was somewhat . . .” Ian looked up at his father before continuing, “unfulfilled, if you get my drift, Dad.”

  Jock rubbed his forehead. “She said you would deny it. Said you didn’t want to marry her. But I didn’t believe it. Never believed it,” he muttered.

  “Well, believe it. I’m not marrying her.” Ian threw the papers back on the desk and leaned back, wanting to get up and pace.

  Jock, his brow crinkled, his brows low over his eyes, said, “You were in for spring break. Down from Harvard. You and Brice went out then.”

  So they had. He’d had too much to drink, but had already spilled his guts to his brother earlier that afternoon about how he was going to have to talk to Brice again because she wasn’t getting the point they were over. Aiden had agreed. Apparently the woman had told all and sundry they were still together.

  “Nothing happened.” Ian stood and rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, I drank a bit, but when she tried to kiss me I told her to forget it. It was over.”

  They’d been down at the lake. He still remembered how pissed she’d gotten, the way she’d tried to tackle him down, all joking, but there had been a determined glint in her eye. The way she crooned she could make it good for him. Now he understood it. She’d known then and she’d needed them to have sex. Lucky as hell for him that his brother Aiden had walked up.

  Ian started to tell his father that, but no. This was his mess, he wasn’t about to drag Aiden in on it.

  Instead he turned and looked at his father.

  “I’m sorry, the baby isn’t mine. There is simply no way.”

  “There’s all kinds of ways. You said yourself you’d been drinking.” Those eyes already told Ian what his father thought.

  “You think I’m lying.”

  Jock opened his mouth, then snapped it shut. He pointed his finger at Ian. “You’re going to do the right thing. I didn’t raise you any other way.”

  Ian could only stare at his father. “I’m not marrying her. Period.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  Rage quickly roiled through him, but he’d learned long ago he and his father were way too damn much alike. Calm. Calm. Calm. He took another deep breath.

  “Tell her to set up a paternity test.”

  The incredulous look on his father’s face might have been humorous at any other time.

  Knowing Brice could weasel around that, Ian added, “And let Mom set it up with a doctor she knows and trusts.”

  The red crept up his father’s face. “You’re going to marry her.”

  “No.” He walked back to the desk and leaned across it, looking his father in the eye. Why didn’t the old man trust him?

  “No son of mine will turn his back on his baby and the woman carrying it.”

  Ian straightened. “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Repeat it.”

  Jock swallowed, his face twisted and furious. “Your mother and I raised you better. You will do the right thing.”

  Ian waited a beat and bit down. “And if I don’t do what you think is the right thing?”

  “Then you can leave.” He threw up a hand. “Kinncaids don’t . . .”

  “Shirk their responsibilities,” Ian finished with him.

  Their eyes locked and clashed, their breaths both heavy, fueled with anger.

  “I won’t marry her. Not now, not tomorrow. If I did find out she carried my child, I’d petition the courts for it. But that woman will never be Mrs. Ian Kinncaid.”

  “Get out,” his father whispered.

  Ian’s heart thrummed in his chest, faster and faster. “You’re going to regret this. I’m your son and you sided with that whoring bitch.”

  He never saw his father’s fist coming. The force to his jaw knocked him back several steps. Ian reached up and touched his jaw, moved it out and in. He didn’t even bother to make a fist, didn’t bother with anything. If the old man wanted to believe the worst of him, fine.

  Jock stood on the other side of the desk looking as shocked and angry as Ian felt.

  Ian nodded to him, turned on his heel and strode to the door. He reached out and grabbed the handle, then looked over his shoulder at his father.

  “One day you’ll wake up and see the woman she really is, but it’ll never be as my wife. And I hope for my brothers’ sakes she won’t be one of theirs. Good-bye, Jock.”

  He slammed the door behind him and hurried upstairs. He shoved clothes into his bag, glanced around his room, and grabbed the photo of him and Aiden, another family photo, and the one of his mother. Rage and a good damn dose of fear pounded inside him. Ignoring the fact his hands were shaking, he snatched up his jacket, took a look around his bedroom, and walked out and right into Becky, the housekeeper.

  “Here now, what’s going on, then?” Her rotund figure was as familiar to him as the rest of the house. “Everyone gone but you and your father and you’re yelling loud enough to wake the dead, ye are.”

  Instead of answering, he hugged her hard and said, “I have to go. Tell everyone bye for me.” Then he looked into her eyes. “Tell Mom . . . Tell her . . . Give her a hug for me and tell her I love her.”

  She sputtered questions as he hurried down the hall and down the wide curving staircase. His father stood pacing in the foyer. Ian paused on the stairs for just an instant before continuing.

  His father stepped in front of him, those blue eyes, so like his own, still blazing. In a low voice he said, “We’re not done.”

  “Yeah, we are. You’ve made up your mind.” He took a deep breath. “And
I’ve made up mine.”

  “You leave this house, don’t come back. Don’t call asking for money either.”

  So that’s the way of it. Fine.

  A muscle bunched in his jaw. He could only shake his head. At the door he stopped again and said, “I’ll leave the car with Aiden. I’d hate to get pulled over because you reported it stolen.”

  Childish? Probably. But damn it. He whirled, the short leash he’d kept on his anger snapped.

  “You know, I was never the perfect kid. Aiden and I got in plenty of trouble. Gavin and Bray too. You want to throw me out, fine. Disown me?” Ian paused, noting his father didn’t deny it. He bit down and nodded. “Fine. Disown me. Flesh and blood and the Kinncaid line of bullshit you always fed us, is just that, isn’t it? Bullshit. Because when it comes right down to it, Jock Kinncaid doesn’t stand with his own. Instead he believes the worst and disowns them. You’re a goddamn hypocrite.”

  Ian slammed the door shut, threw his bag into the passenger seat of his convertible and roared out of the driveway, gravel spitting in the air even as his Porsche left black marks.

  All he could hear over the thundering of his own heart was his father’s words . . .

  Don’t come back . . .

  Chapter 1

  Thirteen years later

  Czech Republic

  October 28, 10:00 p.m.

  The Prague club roared with the sounds of vices better left unknown, but too tempting for most. This Czech city was Janas-faced. Two faces of the same coin, its beauty and old world for the discerning tourists, but flipped, the red-light districts rivaled those in Amsterdam or the worst hells on earth. An evil, black and thick, rolled through the Prague underground, plumping its greedy fist from those who sought pleasure in unconventional ways.

  So much for a quiet evening at home. Though quiet might not be found for a couple more days. Most residents were out celebrating—this was, after all, Czech Independence Day. The pop of fireworks burst through the air, laughter rang out and motorists zoomed by. Tonight was full of revelry. Fireworks still shot from Prazsky hrad, bursting the castle walls with color, and people still gathered in Stare Mesto.