Deadly Secrets Read Online Free Page A

didn’t enjoy anymore?
    An empty bed that he honestly had no desire to fill—last time had almost killed him.
    He had his shrink appointments, which were supposed to be helping him deal with things. Maybe Dr. Garner was helping, he wasn’t pissed off anymore. Wasn’t suicidal or anything—homicidal maybe, suicidal no.
    But he also wasn’t . . . wasn’t . . . him.
    Something was missing. The excitement. The fun. The fear. Something. Anything. Because frankly, he felt nothing. Nothing other than fear or panic in the dead of night after a nightmare. Other than that?
    Nope.
    And that worried him. He was learning to deal with the fact his body and mind would never be the same as they had been before Elianya Hellinski. Small things became large. Insomnia some months, too much sleep others, constant pain. Then there was the fact his mind wasn’t as sharp. It often took him twice as long to complete tasks—and that was on a good day. Appointments and people often slipped his mind. That pissed him off more than the physical changes. Being around people got on his nerves—which in turn made the rest of the clan fret and worry. He’d wanted to know the whys of his limitations and no one could tell him for sure—lack of oxygen when he coded several times, the chemicals from the drugged cocktails Hellinski had poured down him—who knew? In the end, the reason didn’t matter, he’d learned. What mattered was simply dealing, and where he’d have once thought that would be easy, he’d learned it sure as hell wasn’t. Especially when he remembered what he—and his life—used to be like.
    The worst, though, was the worry on his mother’s face, his brothers’ hovering, the scrutiny of every little damned thing until many days he just sat in his office, working but not wheeling and dealing like he had before. Family interactions—hell, any interactions, he kept to a bare minimum. He’d changed his apartments at the penthouse from the traditional antiqued look that graced all the rooms to a modern black leather, chrome, and glass look. You’d have thought the family found him hoarding sleeping pills or something.
    Maybe he would buy a house down here and set out on his own . . . Why not?
    He frowned as he waited for a family to cross the street in front of him. He didn’t want to go to Bourbon Street. Instead he turned back and went over a block.
    The houses lining the streets were a multitude of colors. Some were set off the sidewalk, looking like mini-plantation homes behind half walls and iron fences. Others hid behind tall walls with broken colored glass along the top. Still others were stucco, locked up tight unless you were allowed into the courtyard and inner sanctums.
    Be fun to buy one of these old homes and fix it up, see what he could make of it—himself.
    Not with the help of his brothers or his loving, well-meaning parents.
    If he bought a house here and moved . . . then they’d all leave him the hell alone.
    He looked up and saw the corner market. Matassa’s . He could run in and grab some bottled water and something to eat, see what the little market had.
    The interior was tight, a little cluttered for his peace of mind, but it was clean and seemed pretty well stocked with whatever anyone might want. He went to the produce section, his mind still on the idea of moving here.
    His family would worry he had lost his mind.
    He, who had previously been the workaholic, always flying from one hotel to the next to check on things, always working the next deal, making certain every minute thing was working smoothly, even knowing their managers were competent or they wouldn’t have been hired. That man had faded into the background, if he even existed anymore.
    He picked an apple out of several and then another.
    For Quinlan Kinncaid to buy a house in the French Quarter and then move? Yeah, his family would freak.
    He chuckled to himself and turned and knocked into someone. He dropped his cane and reached out to