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“I’m torn between throttling you and kissing you.”

His throat went dry the second the words left his mouth.

Their gazes locked again, and what he saw on her face stole his breath. She looked as she did the night in his hotel room. Cheeks flushed to a rosy pink. Lips slightly parted. The memory of how soft those lips felt pressed against his own had him moving closer, too, despite every warning bell going off in his head.

It was hard to breathe. Or think. Yeah, he really wasn’t thinking as his head dipped ever so slightly. His body went tighter than a drum, taut with anticipation.

His pulse raced.

Her eyes glimmered with reluctant heat.

Their heads moved closer, their lips mere inches away. The scent of her hair drifted into his nostrils, sweet and feminine and so very addictive. He breathed her in, drowning in the scent, while his body hummed eagerly and his mouth tingled with the need to taste her.

So he did.

Dear Reader,

Falling in love with your kidnapper… I’ll be honest—this might be the toughest premise I’ve ever had to work with. Then again, I always love a good challenge, and I think it’s sometimes fun and exciting to step out of your comfort zone and push the boundaries.

The hero of this story, Deacon Holt, believes there is darkness inside of him. So what better way to show him the light than to pair him with the beautiful, idealistic Lana Kelley, a woman who sees beauty in everything? Redemption stories have always been a favorite of mine, and I hope you enjoy Deacon and his path to redemption!

I’m always happy to hear from readers, so visit my website, www.ellekennedy.com, and drop me a line.

Happy reading!

Elle Kennedy

About the Author

A RITA® Award-nominated author, ELLE KENNEDY grew up in the suburbs of Toronto, Ontario, and holds a BA in English from York University. From an early age, she knew she wanted to be a writer, and actively began pursuing that dream when she was a teenager. She loves strong heroines and sexy alpha heroes, and just enough heat and danger to keep things interesting.

Elle loves to hear from her readers. Visit her website, www.ellekennedy.com, for the latest news or to send her a note.

Missing
Mother-To-Be
Elle Kennedy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Marie, Beth, Gail, Carla and Cindy—I’m honored

to be part of a miniseries with such talented and

fabulous authors!

Prologue

Don’t worry, kiddo. There’s nothing you can do here.

Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, Lana Kelley stared at the timeless masterpiece in front of her, the white marble’s graceful curves bringing only a fraction of the soothing serenity art normally gave her. Her older brother’s words continued to run through her mind. Why was it that when someone told you not to worry it only made you worry more?

Ever since her phone call with Dylan, she’d been debating whether to hop on a plane back to the States or to take her brother’s advice and stay put. The inner debate had eventually brought her here, to this surprisingly deserted wing of the Louvre, which housed the celebrated Venus de Milo. Throughout her entire life, she’d felt most at peace in a museum. It was as if the magnificent works of art possessed the ability to calm her, help clear her mind so she could make sense of the chaos out in the real world.

And her world, more often than not, was definitely chaotic. The youngest daughter of a United States senator and an oil heiress, Lana had spent most of her twenty-four years in the public eye, a position she hadn’t always enjoyed. She preferred holing up in the spacious studio her dad had set up for her in their California mansion, running her fingers over warm dusty clay. This past year, though, had been welcomingly unchaotic. Living in Florence, working on her master’s degree in art history—for once, she’d been able to live her life out of the public eye.

Her father, on the other hand, seemed completely incapable of discretion.

Senator’s Dirty Little Secret.

The newspaper headline she’d come across earlier today flashed across her mind, bringing a pretzel of pain to her belly. What had her father been thinking? And if the news of his infidelities had reached Paris, where she was spending her summer vacation, she could just imagine how bad things were back home.

Dylan had sounded so disgusted with their dad. Hardly a surprise. Growing up, she’d witnessed her father’s tumultuous relationship with her five older brothers, but Lana had been fortunate enough to experience a different side of Hank Kelley. She was the apple of her dad’s eye, and she loved him deeply, despite his spoiled and reckless nature.

But she loved her mother, too, and her heart ached at the thought of what Mom must be going through right now. Her stomach burned with grief and regret. She wished she were home to support her mother, and heck, even her dad, who must be horribly embarrassed and riddled with guilt over the pain he’d caused. But Dylan had urged her to go back to Florence for the new term and focus on her studies.

“We’re closing in thirty minutes, mademoiselle.” The hesitant voice of the armed guard manning the gallery door drew her from her thoughts.

Lana lifted her head, startled. She’d heard a staff member announce that the museum would be closing in an hour—hadn’t that been only a couple of minutes ago? She glanced at her silver Cartier watch and frowned. No, the guard was right. The announcement had been a while ago. She must have spaced out again.

“I’ll be leaving shortly,” she assured the guard. “I lost track of time.”

She noticed his gaze flit over the watch circling her wrist, as if he couldn’t believe she could lose track of time while wearing such an expensive watch. Stifling a sigh, Lana let the sleeve of her red wool sweater slide down to hide the watch’s diamond-studded face. It had been a gift from her father, and though she hated extravagant shows of wealth, she felt guilty when she didn’t wear the darn thing. Almost as if Hank Kelley could sense, from another continent no less, the moment she took the watch off her wrist.

“I’m sure the director would be inclined to keep the exhibit open should you require more time to peruse the pieces, Ms. Kelley,” the tall man hedged in his thick French accent.

Another sigh rose up her chest. She swallowed that one down, too. Of course. She should’ve known the director would inform the guards of her identity. Louis Dupont was an old acquaintance of her mother’s, and he always treated Lana like a princess when she came to visit.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said quickly. “I have somewhere to be anyway.”

Yet instead of gathering her purse and the small sketchbook she’d brought with her, her gaze drifted back to the beautiful statue in front of her. Not yet. She didn’t want to go yet, not when her nerves were still coiled in tense knots.

“The museum is closing in thirty minutes.”

Frowning, Lana glanced at the guard, wondering why he felt the need to remind her of something he’d uttered seconds ago, but then she noticed the warning wasn’t directed at her. A tall man in black wool trousers and a hunter-green sweater stood near the large arched doorway off to her left, and it was him the guard had spoken to.

She hadn’t noticed anyone else in the quiet, spacious room, and the sight of the ruggedly handsome stranger immediately sparked her interest. He was in his mid to late thirties, with brown hair cut in a short, military-like style, and an unbelievably gorgeous face. High cheekbones, a strong jaw and straight aristocratic nose, sensual lips—very much like the classically handsome, chiseled features of the statues gracing the gallery. Yet it wasn’t just his looks that captured her attention. There was something simmering below his perfectly sculpted surface. Something dark and powerful and very, very sexy.

The man nodded in response to the guard’s notification, but made no move to leave. Rather, he stepped closer to the Venus de Milo, his hazel eyes fixed on the statue as the guard edged back to the door.

“She’s beautiful, huh?” The question slipped out of Lana’s mouth before she could stop it. She didn’t usually strike up conversations with strangers, but the look in the man’s eyes was so very… haunting.

He turned slightly, not even blinking. “Yes. She is.”

“I always imagine her whole, with long graceful arms, adorned with jewels. We think she’s a beauty now, but can you imagine how much more beautiful she’d be?” Lana felt her cheeks grow warm as the random and somewhat pretentious remark passed through her lips. She tended to get caught up when surrounded by art, and she suddenly experienced a pang of embarrassment, unleashing an art lecture on a total stranger.

But to her surprise, his features softened. Those hazel eyes shone with intensity as he locked his gaze with hers. “Divine beauty,” he said simply.

His husky voice made her heart skip a beat. It was deep, rough, like a gruff purr.

“Exactly,” she murmured. When he didn’t respond, she awkwardly clasped her hands together in her lap. “I love it here,” she found herself blurting. “Just looking at all these pieces makes me feel… at peace. Does that happen to you?”

The stranger’s eyes never left hers. “Yes. It does.”

“It’s as though all the problems in the world just fade away,” she went on, a faraway note entering her voice. “At least that’s what usually happens. Right now, I can’t stop thinking about everything going on back home. My family… God, what a mess.”

The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if debating whether or not to get the heck out of there before she burst into tears or something. Lana didn’t blame him. What was she thinking, dumping her problems on a stranger?

“I’m sorry.” She laughed in discomfort. “I don’t normally burden people I don’t know with my issues.”

“It’s not a burden.” His voice came out rough. “Did something happen back home?”

She nodded numbly. “Yeah. Yeah, something happened. And I want so badly to fly back and help, but my brother says there’s nothing I can do.”

“He’s probably right.” Her stranger shrugged. “I’ve learned it’s often better to let others clean up their own messes.”

“Maybe.” Lana rested her hands on her knees. “I just hate feeling powerless.”

A wry half smile lifted his mouth. “As does most of the world.”

She smiled back. “You’re right. Nobody likes it, do they?” Impulsively, she got to her feet and stuck out her hand. “I’m Lana.”

Another beat of hesitation, and then he slowly reached out and shook her hand, oddly gentle. Somehow she didn’t suspect gentleness was a word you’d normally associate with this man. Now that she was standing up, she realized exactly how big he was. Well over six feet, and the muscles rippling beneath his green sweater looked rock-hard.

A thrill shot through her body, which surprised her. This had never happened to her before, such a quick, visceral attraction, the almost eerie awareness of this man as male. She didn’t have much experience in the attraction department, aside from high-school crushes and that one disastrous relationship when she was doing her undergrad.

“Deacon.”

That timber-rough voice jolted her from her thoughts. Deacon. She tilted her head to meet his eyes again. Yes, he looked like a Deacon. It was a strong name, very fitting for this man who just radiated strength.

“Deacon,” she echoed, a mere whisper.

His hazel eyes went darker, burning with something unidentifiable. As if the sound of his name on her lips had elicited something inside him.

“You’re an American,” she added, a statement, not a question. His accent wasn’t Parisian. Not European, either.

“I grew up in Boston,” he confirmed, and then his lips tightened shut, as if the revelation displeased him.

“East coast,” she said, a teasing note to her voice. “I’m from the west. Just a spoiled little rich girl from Beverly Hills.”

Those sensual lips relaxed, lifting slightly. “Somehow I don’t think the word spoiled applies to you.”

She offered another smile. “But maybe I am. Maybe I’m spoiled rotten.”

Deacon shook his head. “No. Money doesn’t interest you.” His gaze slid down to her fancy watch. “I think you would even give that watch to a beggar on the street if you didn’t have change.”

Surprise jolted through her. “You sound very certain of that.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” she admitted. “I’m not interested in material things. And I would give this darn watch away, if it hadn’t been a gift.”

Deacon had that look about him, the smug one of a man who’d totally pegged her. “I bet you even gave your trust fund to charity, didn’t you, Lana?”

Her lips twitched. Yep, he had her pegged. “The day I turned twenty-one,” she confirmed. She neglected to mention that her irate father had promptly deposited the same amount back into her account. She didn’t have the heart to give the second trust away; spoiling her gave her father such silly pleasure.

“So…” Deacon cocked his head thoughtfully. “If money doesn’t interest you, then what does?”

His question gave her pause. “Family,” she replied. “And sculpting. I could never give up my art.”

“Ah, you yearn to make the world a more beautiful place.” There was a slight edge to his tone.

“Why not?” She shrugged carelessly. “There’s so much ugliness in the world these days. What’s wrong with wanting to replace some of it with beauty?”

“An idealist. I should have known.”

She studied his face. “You don’t believe in the power of beauty?”

Deacon went quiet. His hazel eyes locked with hers once more, and there it was again, that intense ripple of energy beneath his surface. Only this time it was accompanied by heat. Heavy, sizzling heat that seemed to hang in the air, hovering over them, crackling between them.

“Yes,” he finally said, his voice thick. “I believe in the power of beauty.”

His gaze swept across her body, resting on her breasts, her hips, and then moving back to her face. Her heart jumped again. And her breasts were suddenly achy, her nipples tingling against her bra. What was this? Lust at first sight? No, she didn’t lust over strange men. She was far too levelheaded for primitive urges.

And yet, when she opened her mouth, the words that slid out proved that maybe she was far lustier than she’d ever imagined. “Would you… like to have a drink with me?”

Surprised flickered on his handsome face. He took a step back, as if he wanted to flee. But he didn’t. Instead, his massive chest rose as he drew in a breath, and then one husky word echoed in the empty gallery.

“Yes.”

Chapter 1

Two weeks later

Were there right and wrong ways to pee on a stick? Lana stared down at the plastic cylinder between her trembling fingers, the two pink lines as clear as a billboard in Times Square. She must be doing something wrong. This was the fourth test she’d taken in two days. Eight pink lines. It had to be a mistake.

“Attention tous les passagers,” a loud voice blared in French through the PA. The voice informed her that the train to Florence was now boarding, prompting Lana to leave the bathroom stall.

Her shaky legs carried her to the trash can near the door, where she tossed the pregnancy test before turning to examine her reflection in the mirror. Her blond hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, her face was makeup-free and there were dark smudges under her eyes. She looked tired.

Didn’t look pregnant, though.

Her gaze slid down to her abdomen, which was flat beneath her red V-neck tee. And her snug black capris fitted the same as always, comfortably circling her waist

She lifted her head, suddenly feeling silly. Of course she wouldn’t be showing yet. It had only been two weeks. Two weeks since that crazy, wonderful night with Deacon.

Quickly washing her hands, she dried them with a paper towel then dropped it in the trash, effectively covering the pregnancy test that seemed to glare accusingly up at her.

She drew in a calming breath. Okay. Okay, this wasn’t the end of the world. She was pregnant, not deathly ill. She would get on the train, go back to her apartment in Florence and figure things out.

How will you find him? a desperate little voice demanded.

Lana left the bathroom, tugging on the handle of her sleek black suitcase and rolling it behind her. The distressed plea in her mind was hard to ignore. How would she find him? She’d gone back to his hotel last night, after the first two tests had shown positive, but the clerk in the lobby informed her that Mr. Holt had checked out. Holt. At least she got a last name out of that visit.

She dodged a woman dragging an enormous suitcase, and continued down the terminal. The station was busy, filled with evening travelers rushing up and down the tiled floor. People chattered on in French, Italian and a smattering of other languages, completely oblivious to Lana’s inner turmoil.

How on earth would she track down Deacon? The hotel didn’t have a forwarding address for him, and a quick Google search on her laptop had come up with nothing. She didn’t even know what he did for a living, for Pete’s sake. A businessman, he’d said. Great. So much to go on there.

“May I help you with your suitcase?” a purser asked in French as Lana approached the track.

“Merci, oui,” she murmured.

The thin man picked up her suitcase then helped her onto the train. A loud whistle pierced the air. Travelers were bounding down the platform, boarding at the last minute, while the PA crackled again to announce the train’s departure.

A pretty woman with shiny brown hair escorted Lana to her compartment. It was a private sleeper car, and she’d already arranged for a wake-up call for tomorrow morning, when she’d need to take the connecting train in Milan. The cabin was cozy and comfortable, but Lana doubted she’d get any sleep. Probably just sit in silence for the next nine hours and try not to cry.

God, what kind of mess had she found herself in?

She sank down on the plush bench and promptly buried her face in her hands.

“Is everything all right, mademoiselle?” the stewardess asked hesitantly.

Lana lifted her head. “Everything is fine,” she managed. “I’m just tired.”

The woman stored Lana’s suitcase on the overhead rack and edged to the door. “I will let you rest then. Enjoy the trip.”

Lana muttered a thank-you, then let out a breath as the door of the compartment closed and she was alone.

Alone.

Oh, God, she’d have to raise this baby by herself.

The moment the thought slid into her mind, a surprising sense of calm settled over her. Ever since she’d taken those tests, she hadn’t allowed herself to think about what she planned to do with the baby. She was twenty-four years old, unmarried, still being supported by her parents to supplement the small income she made selling her sculptures. Having a child hadn’t been in her foreseeable future.

But circumstances had changed. She was pregnant. And no matter how unexpected this development, she knew she would keep the baby.

Her hand covered her stomach, a rush of startling joy sweeping through her as she imagined the tiny life growing inside her. A baby. Her baby.

And Deacon’s…

The joy faded into frustration. Yes, this was Deacon’s child, too. And he had no clue.

She had to find a way to contact him. Sure, he probably wouldn’t be thrilled about the news. For all she knew, he’d turn on his heel and march away without a backward glance, not wanting anything to do with this child. The notion brought a spark of pain and anger to her gut, but she wasn’t naive enough to dwell on the anger. She and Deacon were strangers. Two strangers who’d met one night and found comfort and magic in each other’s arms.

She couldn’t expect him to welcome the idea of fatherhood with open arms. She wouldn’t even blame him if he didn’t. But he still had a right to know. Lana wouldn’t be able to live with herself knowing she’d kept something as important as a child from the man.

She had to track him down. So what if he didn’t seem to want to be found? So what if it would be difficult? She was Lana Kelley, after all. Her shoulders straightened in determination. When she reached Florence, she’d call a private investigator and hire him to find Deacon. And then she’d sit down and figure out what to do about this last year of school. She could probably finish out the winter semester, but she wanted to be in the States when the baby was born. She wanted her family to—

Her family.

Lana felt all the color drain from her face. “They’re going to kill me,” she mumbled to herself.

She pictured her brothers’ faces when they heard the news and suddenly grew nauseous. Her parents might understand, maybe even support her. They might have their own problems at the moment, but everything would be straightened out eventually. Once that happened, she knew her mom and dad would help her.

Her brothers, on the other hand…

Dylan and Cole would be furious. Jake might be supportive, if he ever returned from his mysterious undercover assignment that had taken him away from them for two years now. Chase probably wouldn’t care—he’d washed his hands of the family years ago. And Jim, well, he’d probably hunt Deacon down and rip his throat out.

A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. At least then she’d be able to tell Deacon the news.

Reaching for the black leather purse she’d set down beside her, Lana fumbled inside it until she found her cell phone. The train was already tearing down the tracks, heading for Florence, but she couldn’t wait until she got there. She had to talk to someone. Anyone. She needed some moral support badly.

She scrolled through her contact list, hesitating on her mother’s number. No, she finally decided. Mom had her own worries right now. Regret gathered in Lana’s belly. Darn it. She hated adding any more stress on her mother’s already over-full plate.

Caitlin O’Donahue’s number was what she dialed instead. Lana considered Caitlin family, the older sister she’d never had, not to mention her very best friend. Caitlin had babysat Lana when they were growing up, and over the years had become her closest confidante.

“Hey, you’ve reached Caitlin. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you,” her friend’s voice chirped.

Lana hung up in frustration, not bothering to leave a message. I got knocked up after a one-night-stand wasn’t something you wanted to say over voice mail.

She shoved the phone in her bag and leaned her head back. What a mess. Why had Deacon checked out of his hotel so abruptly?

And why couldn’t she get him out of her head?

The memory of their night together floated into her mind like a balmy summer breeze. Her body grew hot, tight and achy, as she remembered the feel of his strong arms wrapped around her.

“You’re stunning,” he’d whispered into her neck. And then he’d looked at her with those sexy hazel eyes, as if he’d truly never known beauty until that night.

The entire encounter was still so surreal. The tangy flavor of the red wine they’d sipped. His warm breath, heating her skin. His lips, kissing their way along her collarbone, her jaw, finally pressing against her mouth.

Her skin broke out in shivers. God, those kisses. Soft and romantic, teasing, fleeting and then hot and passionate, as the heat between them exploded in a raging fire that had left her utterly sated.

“This isn’t a good idea,” he’d murmured between kisses, uncertainty flickering on his handsome face. “We’re strangers.”

Yes, they were. Two strangers who’d met in a museum, shared a few glasses of wine in a hotel room and wound up needy and naked in bed.

It had been the best night of her life.

Lana’s gaze dropped to her flat abdomen. Maybe the worst, too, yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret the result of their passion. A baby. God, a baby.

Those two words continued to echo through her mind, and she clung to them. The tiny life growing inside her was the only thing keeping her grounded at the moment. The only reason she hadn’t gone into a total panic and started roaming the streets of Paris in search of Deacon. She needed to be strong for this child. She needed to love it and protect it.

Protect it, she repeated in her mind, as her eyelids became heavy. She wasn’t sure why the slightly ominous notion rolled inside her head, but she clung to that, too, as sleep slowly crept in.

She wasn’t sure how long she slept, but when her eyes snapped open a while later, it was pitch black inside the cabin, and all she saw out the window was darkness. The train was still moving, the wheels making a metallic click-clack sound as they sped along the rails.

Lana glanced at her watch and saw it was almost five in the morning, a half-hour before her scheduled wake-up call. Rubbing her tired eyes, she stood up and went to the small sink in the corner of the cabin, where she brushed her teeth and washed her face. Then she sat down again, wide awake as she waited for the train to reach Milan.

The wake-up knock sounded from the door thirty minutes later, and when the train’s wheels finally screeched to a halt, Lana was more than ready to get off and board the connecting train to Florence. She should’ve just hopped a flight, it would’ve gotten her home a lot sooner, but she’d always thought traveling through Europe by train was charming.

Now she just found it time-consuming.

She was at the door of the cabin when the train came to a creaky stop, so when the second knock came, she already had her hand on the door handle.

“I’m all ready,” she said as she opened the door. “My suitcase is—”

Her words halted in her throat as she laid eyes on two very large, very menacing-looking men. The taller of the two had a shaved head and a lethal jagged scar along his left cheekbone. The second man was shorter, but not lacking in muscle. He had the shoulders of a linebacker, dark skin the color of rich chocolate and a pair of chilly brown eyes.

There was a third man behind them, but he had his back turned, as if he were scouting the narrow corridor of the train.

A lookout.

The thought flew into her head swiftly, making her hands grow cold. “Can I help you?” she asked cautiously.

Scar Cheek seemed to be smirking, though his lips were snapped together in a rigid line. It was Cold Eyes who responded to her question. “You’re going to need to come with us.”

He spoke in English, and the harsh look on his face brooked no argument.

Lana argued. “I’m sorry, you must have me mistaken for someone else. I’m not—”

Her sentence died with a squeak. Cold Eyes had just shifted the bottom of his long black trench coat, revealing the sleek gun in his right hand.

“Listen to me, and listen carefully,” he said, his voice eerily soft. “You are going to follow us off this train like a good little girl. If you scream, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes. If you try to run, I’ll put one in your leg. Understood?”

She nodded dazedly, terror circling her spine like icy fingers. What the hell was going on? Her first thought was that this might be a terrorist attack, that the train had been hijacked, but the corridor remained as silent as a church. No frightened screams, no terrified whimpers.

These men…

They were here for her.

“Now pick up your suitcase,” Cold Eyes ordered, his hand still resting on the butt of his weapon.

As her heart thudded like a bass drum, Lana numbly bent down to grab the handle of her suitcase. Her fingers shook so wildly she could barely get a grip on the bag. Finally, she did, heaving it off the ground.

“Good girl,” Cold Eyes said with mock encouragement. “Now follow us. And remember what I told you.”

Her feet felt cold and heavy, but she forced them to move. The two men immediately flanked her, keeping her sandwiched between them like bodyguards. The third man she’d noticed walked in front of them. He wore a long black coat like his fellow henchmen, and all she saw of him was a head of dark, close-cropped hair and broad shoulders. But something about his gait, those confident but wary strides… it was very familiar.

Alarm skittered through her as they walked. Cabin doors were beginning to open, bleary-eyed passengers stepping out into the corridor ready to disembark. Lana felt a sudden spike of adrenaline. There were people around. Cold Eyes might be hiding his gun underneath his big coat, but no way would he pull that thing out in front of all of these people.

Would he?

Her palms went damp, sweat coating the handle of her suitcase. Should she call their bluff? Scream like a banshee? They wouldn’t shoot her with so many eyewitnesses. They wouldn’t—

“Don’t even think about it,” Cold Eyes murmured, glancing at her with a pleasant smile.

“You won’t do it,” she murmured back, her voice shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. “You won’t shoot me with all these people around.”

“Maybe not,” he replied casually. “But one phone call and your mother dies.”

Panic slammed into her. Mom? No, he was bluffing. Her mother was staying with an old girlfriend at Martha’s Vineyard, according to her brother Dylan. No way could these men know that.

“A friend of mine is staring through the scope of a rifle as we speak, and your mother’s pretty little face is in his sights. The Vineyard is lovely this time of year, don’t you think?”

Her pulse shrieked between her eyes. Oh, God. They did know where her mom was. She forced herself to stay calm. Okay, this didn’t mean anything. Just because they knew her mom’s location didn’t mean some sniper was actually situated there. Cold Eyes could still be bluffing, but… if he wasn’t… Lord, if he wasn’t, she wasn’t about to endanger her mother’s life by causing a scene.

Better to get off the train with these men. Maybe she could lose them in the terminal. Maybe—

The barrel of a gun jammed into her side. “Keep walking.” Scar Cheek, this time, and he had a deep rumble of a voice. He had a gun, too, and was now using it to make sure she kept to the rapid pace they’d set for her.

They neared the door. Lana’s gaze darted around like that of a scared rabbit, trying to find a way out of this, a person whose eye she could catch. But the other passengers were filing off the train, chatting obliviously to one another, as the purser helped them onto the platform.

The man ahead of them got off first. Again, she experienced a weird sense of familiarity. She knew him. The hard set of the shoulders, the almost militarily precise walk. It reminded her of her brother Jim, who was a trained Special Forces operative. He moved with that same predatory grace.

Lana was suddenly heaved down the steps, her suitcase thudding onto the floor of the train platform. Cold Eyes stood directly beside her, his brown eyes dark with irritation and impatience. “Faster,” he ordered. “And put a smile on your damn face.”

A smile? She was seconds away from bursting into tears. Hot moisture painfully pricked her eyelids and her throat was so tight she could barely draw in a breath. But then she remembered the gun tucked in his coat, and forced her lips to cooperate. She tugged up the corners of her mouth, trying to look happy, to pretend that she wasn’t being taken hostage by three fierce-looking thugs.

The smile didn’t hold, though. It lasted all of three seconds, until the third man whose face she still hadn’t seen finally turned around.

A shocked gasp flew out of her throat.

Oh, God.

It was Deacon! Deacon, standing right there on the platform, the hem of his trench coat blowing around from the brisk wind in the station.

Their eyes locked. For one brief second, hope shot up her chest, warming her heart. He was here. He was going to save her. He was—

“Keep walking,” Deacon snapped, and all the hope in her body fizzled like a wet candle.

She felt pressure against her hip. Realized Scar Cheek was pressing his gun into her back. Fear spiraled through her. Fear and amazement and pure and utter shock.

Deacon. Was here. He was here, with two other men. With guns.

Oh, God, she was being kidnapped by the father of her baby.

Chapter 2

Deacon Holt was not a religious man. Never had been, probably never would be. Yet at that moment, as he stared into Lana Kelley’s bottomless blue eyes, he found himself praying.

Praying that she’d keep her mouth shut.

If she said his name, or let on that they’d slept together, they’d both be screwed. Le Clair wouldn’t think twice about yanking Deacon’s ass off this assignment, and if that happened, Lana Kelley would be utterly alone. Defenseless.

Dead.

Deacon forced the troubling thought from his head and kept walking. A quick backward glance and he confirmed that the flood of familiarity was still swimming on Lana’s gorgeous face. She knew exactly who he was.

Well, no kidding. They’d gone to bed with each other, of course she wouldn’t forget that.

Frustration gathered in his gut, making his intestines burn. Damn it. Why, why had he slept with her? He’d always prided himself on possessing incredible control, yet one look at Lana Kelley’s flawless features and slender fragile body, and he’d been a goner. He was supposed to be tailing her, monitoring her movements until Le Clair got word from his bosses that the mission was a go. Instead, he’d fallen into bed with the woman, unable to steel himself against her soft, melodic voice and big blue eyes.

At least Le Clair didn’t suspect anything. After Lana left his hotel room that night, Deacon had reported in, informing his boss that inadvertent contact had been made. Le Clair promptly pulled him off tailing rotation, and Deacon had spent the past two weeks alternating between the urge to kick himself and the need to see Lana Kelley again.

Somehow, the woman had gotten under his skin. Bigtime.

And yet you’re kidnapping her, said the mocking voice in his head.

Deacon didn’t allow himself to dwell on the sliver of guilt that pricked his skin. This was business. He might have messed up and screwed the target, but he wasn’t about to screw himself. His work as a mercenary was all he had. He’d been forced to fend for himself since he was fifteen years old, making money by whatever means necessary. And he hadn’t gotten to this point by distracting himself with foolish human emotions like guilt. Emotions, frankly, were a waste of time, and he forced himself to remember that as he led the group toward the exit of the station.

Behind him, Charlie and Tango were practically dragging Lana, urging her in hard tones to keep walking. Deacon had never worked with the two men before. Didn’t even know their real names. Le Clair assigned each team member names from the military alphabet, corresponding to the letters of their first name. So Charlie and Tango could be Carl and Tom, or Chris and Tim, for all Deacon knew. But they were pros, that much was evident. They’d handled Lana Kelley with supreme efficiency back on that train.

Deacon might even have been impressed by their professionalism, if he hadn’t been battling the ridiculous urge to take Lana into his arms and carry her off the train to safety.

What the hell was the matter with him?

Focus. You’re on a job.

Deacon drew in a calming breath. Okay. He had to quit remembering the way Lana Kelley looked naked—as mind-blowing as the image was—and treat her as he did any other target. Faceless. Nameless. A means to an end. And in this case, the end was a staggering amount of money. Whoever had hired Le Clair was obviously rolling in dough.

“Please, don’t do this.”

Lana’s agonized whisper made his shoulders stiffen. He refused to turn around. Didn’t want to see the fear and horror and disappointment on her pretty face.

“Shut up,” Charlie muttered.

She ignored the order. “Please,” she said again. “I’ll give you anything you want, just let me go. I have money. Lots and lots of it. My father is—”

“We know exactly who your father is,” Tango cut in, sounding amused. “So shut your trap and walk.”

Lana made a startled noise, as if Tango had shoved her, and Deacon fought back a wave of rage. If Tango touched her one more time, Deacon would… do nothing.

Get a hold of yourself, for Chrissake.

He curled his hands into fists and looked straight ahead. This strange bout of protectiveness he felt toward Lana was unacceptable. If Le Clair got even the slightest whiff of it, Deacon would be sent packing. And he could kiss all that cash goodbye.

The foursome stepped outside. It was six in the morning, but the front of the station was bustling with people. A man walked by, talking loudly into his cell phone in a string of Italian phrases that Deacon understood perfectly. He’d been fluent in Italian for years. French, too, and Russian, Greek, Spanish, Latin… His parents had made certain he had the best education a boy could have.

That is, before his father had shot his mother in the head and proceeded to turn the gun on himself.

Deacon experienced a burst of shock as the memory crept into his consciousness. Shit. What was he doing, thinking about all that old garbage? It was over, done with. His parents were dead, but he was very much alive. And at the moment, he had a job to do.

“Echo should be waiting right over… There he is,” Deacon said brusquely as a black SUV with heavily tinted windows pulled up behind one of the taxis out front.

He turned, getting another dose of the sheer betrayal sizzling in Lana’s eyes. “Why are you doing this?” she pleaded softly. “How could you, after—”

A sharp shake of his head shut her up, and he had to give her credit. The gorgeous blonde stopped abruptly without finishing the sentence that would have undoubtedly revealed their carnal connection.

“Get in the car,” he cut in coldly, opening the door for her.

Lana stared into the dark interior of the SUV, her reluctance creasing her delicate forehead. Deacon couldn’t help but notice how beautiful and put-together she looked, despite her obvious turmoil. Her red T-shirt was wrinkle-free, her pale blond hair smoothed back in a neat ponytail. Only the trepidation in her ocean-blue eyes betrayed her composed appearance.

“Please,” she whispered again.

She yelped as Charlie jammed his gun into her tail-bone, practically pushing her into the vehicle. “Inside, now,” Charlie snapped.

As Tango slid into the front seat next to Echo, Deacon and Charlie sandwiched Lana in the back. As soon as the doors closed, Charlie removed a long scrap of black cotton and proceeded to blindfold Lana, who protested wildly.

“No,” she burst out. “Please, just let me go! I promise I won’t tell anyone about this! I’ll—”

“Shut up,” Tango grumbled from the front seat.

Pure agony boiled in Deacon’s stomach as Echo drove away from the Milan station. Lana was trembling uncontrollably beside him. Her firm thigh was pressed against his, and each tremor that rocked her body shook his, as well. His fingers tingled with the need to touch her face, offer a reassuring caress. But he’d be a dead man if he did it. The others would immediately report the transgression to Le Clair.

“Is the plane ready?” Tango was asking Echo.

Echo, a bulky man with shoulder-length black hair tied back in a low ponytail, nodded briskly. “The others are already at the airstrip. All the arrangements have been made.”

Next to him, Lana let out a tiny sob. He glanced over, wincing when he noticed the tears streaming down from beneath her blindfold.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, and he knew the question was directed at him.

He also knew she must have a dozen more questions, also for him. Fortunately, she didn’t voice any of them. When Charlie ordered her to shut up again, she finally obeyed, growing silent. The trembling continued, though. And he noticed her small hands were clasped together over her abdomen, in an almost protective gesture.

The sun was just beginning to rise when the SUV arrived at the private airstrip on the outskirts of the city. A shiny white Learjet sat majestically on the narrow, paved runway, making Deacon raise a dark brow. Le Clair’s bosses really were loaded, weren’t they? Most of Deacon’s gigs involved rusty old Cessnas that barely got him from point A to B, not expensive private jets that probably cost millions.

Le Clair was already marching over to the vehicle before it even came to a complete stop, his thick black eyebrows creased together in distaste. The man’s angular features displayed an expression of perpetual annoyance. Le Clair always seemed to be irritated by something, and patience wasn’t really his strong suit. He also had a vicious temper, often triggered by the most innocuous things. But Deacon wasn’t foolish enough to challenge Le Clair or point out his weaknesses. Not unless he wanted a bullet between his eyes, which Paul Le Clair was quite capable of delivering.

This was the first time Deacon had worked with the other man, but he’d been well aware of Le Clair’s reputation. Vicious, greedy, dangerous as hell. A former member of the French Foreign Legion, Le Clair had been discharged thanks to his reckless violence and a cruel streak that ran far too deep. He was known to shoot his own men if they did something to displease him.

Definitely not the kind of man Deacon normally wanted to work for, but the payment for the job held great enough appeal that he’d finally accepted. But he’d been trying to stay under the man’s radar since this gig started. When he’d told Le Clair that the target had made contact with him in the Louvre, he’d feared the man’s reaction, prepared for anything, including violence, but Le Clair had simply shrugged and sent Charlie to take over the recon.

Which made Deacon think that this assignment was exceptionally important to the boss. None of the men had been provided with any details, but they all knew who Lana Kelley was. Her daddy was a U.S. senator, her mother was an heiress. The Kelleys even hobnobbed with the president, for Chrissake. Lots of money to be had in kidnapping a Kelley.

But Lana was a high-profile target, which meant they needed to handle this situation with the utmost delicacy. No doubt Le Clair wanted a smooth exchange, and internal grievances with his team wouldn’t help his cause. So Deacon had been spared, but he’d been walking on eggshells around the boss ever since.

“You’re late,” Le Clair barked as they got out of the car.

Charlie was visibly apologetic, a deep blush rising on his dark skin. “The train came in ten minutes later than scheduled.”

Le Clair ignored the excuse. His shrewd silver eyes narrowed as Deacon yanked Lana out of the SUV. “She’s shorter than I imagined,” the boss remarked. He swept his gaze up and down Lana’s slender body, frowning when he got to the open-toed sandals covering her delicate feet. “Did you bring her suitcase?”

Deacon nodded, then pulled Lana’s black suitcase from the car and dropped it on the ground.

“Good.” Le Clair’s frown deepened. “She needs better shoes. Warmer clothing. If she didn’t pack any, we’ll need to stop somewhere and buy some gear for her.”

Deacon’s interest piqued. This was the first time Le Clair had dropped any hints about their destination. Warm clothing, better shoes. Obviously somewhere cooler. The mountains perhaps? Northern Canada?

He shoved aside the thoughts and followed the group toward the jet. Le Clair had a hand on Lana’s arm, pulling her along beside him, and Deacon saw her lush pink lips tighten.

“Who are you people?” Lana demanded, her blindfolded head moving from side to side.

Le Clair chuckled. “You don’t need to worry yourself with that, Miss Kelley. But if you’d like, think of us as your new caretakers.”

“Not likely,” she muttered.

Le Clair yanked on her arm. Hard enough that she yelped with pain.

Deacon kept his arms glued to his sides so he couldn’t act on the sudden impulse to charge his boss and beat him to a bloody pulp for manhandling Lana.

“So we’ve got a sassy one on our hands,” Le Clair muttered, sounding both amused and infuriated. “Maybe we should lay down some ground rules, Miss Kelley. Just so you know where you stand. And what might get you killed.”

She released a shaky breath.

“You do exactly as we say,” Le Clair continued pleasantly. “You eat when we tell you, sleep when we tell you. You don’t talk back, you don’t argue. You follow orders like the good girl you are, and in return, we don’t shoot you. Sound reasonable?”

Lana didn’t answer.

Le Clair curled his fingers over her arm and squeezed hard. “I asked you a question.”

“It sounds reasonable,” she wheezed out, trying to shrug out of his grasp.

Every muscle in Deacon’s body coiled tight. Lana looked so small, so helpless, being dragged by Le Clair’s six-foot frame. Her shoulders were hunched over, shaking ferociously, and it took all of his willpower not to pull her into his arms. Which only brought back the image of the last time he’d held her in his arms. The way he’d run his hands over the gentle curves of her body. The weight of her small, firm breasts in his palms. The relentless way she’d moved her hips beneath him.…

He smothered a groan. This was bad. Really, really bad. He couldn’t seem to look at the woman without remembering her in his bed. She was supposed to be a target. A job.

The money. He had to focus on the money. He made a good deal of cash working as a merc, but this job could be his retirement. He’d spent the past twenty years fighting to survive, barely scraping by in the beginning, but he’d made a name for himself as a soldier, a man capable of handling any mission that came his way, no matter how challenging. Eventually, once he started making cash hand over fist, the challenge was what kept him going. Taking on an impossible job and executing it brought him satisfaction. Pleasure, even.

But he couldn’t go on this way forever. He was thirty-eight years old. Eventually he’d have to quit risking his neck, and the money this assignment would bring in was enough to live on for the rest of his life, if he chose to get out. What would he do anyway, if he gave this all up? He’d lived fast and dangerous for so many years now, taken on jobs that most men wouldn’t dream of taking, usually legal, though sometimes the lines were blurred. He’d walked the dark side for so long, he wasn’t sure light belonged in his life. Maybe the darkness was all he’d ever have.

As they reached the jet, Kilo descended the metal ladder and stepped onto the tarmac. Of all the men on the team, Kilo was by the far the biggest. At six-five and two hundred and fifty pounds, the man was enormous. He also doubled as a pilot, though how he managed to wedge that huge body into the cockpit was anyone’s guess.

“We’re all fueled up and ready to go,” Kilo announced in his Tennessee drawl. The gentle accent seemed completely wrong coming out of the guy’s mouth.

“Watch your step,” Le Clair said to Lana, then gave her bottom a firm slap and pushed her onto the first step.

With the blindfold on, she was unprepared for climbing stairs, and ended up stumbling forward, her hands shooting out in search of something to steady her.

Le Clair chuckled again, the harsh sound bringing a jolt of rage to Deacon’s gut.

“Easy,” he found himself hissing out.

Le Clair’s head swiveled in his direction. Those silvery eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

Deacon quickly backpedaled. “Her daddy won’t be so generous if he finds out we’re roughing up his daughter.”

The boss raised one thick brow. “How about you leave the cash negotiating to me and get on the damn plane, Delta.”

Deacon made a show of apology, bowing his head slightly and climbing up the ladder with hunched shoulders. Why hadn’t he just kept his mouth shut? So what if Le Clair was being a little too rough with Lana? It was just part of the job. Shake up the target, get her nice and scared.

Except, scaring Lana was the last thing he wanted to do.

The interior of the jet was pristine, featuring two plush white leather sofas and mahogany tables. There was even a small bar in the corner. Discomfort crept up Deacon’s spine. Last time he’d been on a plane like this was more than two decades ago. His father had owned a sweet little Gulfstream, which the family made good use of, traveling to their vacation homes in the Hamptons, Europe and the villa in Tahiti. Back then, Deacon had enjoyed being surrounded by such wealth. Now it only reminded him of the way his entire life had shattered.

“Put her over there,” Le Clair said to Charlie, nodding toward the end of one couch. “Cuff her to the table.”

Deacon tried not to cringe as Charlie hauled Lana to the sofa, forcibly made her sit, then circled one metal handcuff around a slender wrist and secured the other to the leg of the table beside her. The position had her leaning to the side, but none of the men seemed concerned with her discomfort.

Deacon pretended it didn’t bother him, either. Remaining expressionless, he headed for the other couch as Echo closed the door of the jet. He was about to sit down when Le Clair issued a sharp order. “Delta, get in the cockpit with Kilo. You get to play copilot this morning.”

He got the message loud and clear. Le Clair didn’t want him around after the way he’d reprimanded him out on the steps. He was being banished, punished for talking out of turn.

“Yes, sir,” he murmured before turning around and heading for the cockpit door.

Just as well. Maybe he could use this time to figure out what the hell to do. He needed a moment alone with Lana, so he could make sure she understood just how hazardous it would be if she revealed their liaison to the others. Maybe he could use their tryst to convince her not to cause any trouble. Get her to trust him.

Because he knew, without a doubt, how volatile Paul Le Clair’s temper was. Le Clair might have use for Lana now, but if her daddy didn’t pay up, she could very well end up being collateral damage.

And Deacon had no intention of letting that happen.

Chapter 3

Deacon was obviously an undercover operative. Lana reached that conclusion somewhere between being blindfolded in the SUV and being hauled off the plane. She wasn’t sure how long they’d been in the air. Her captors had kept the blindfold on the entire time, which made it impossible to look at her watch, but her internal clock told her many hours had passed. At least ten. She hadn’t heard Deacon’s voice in the cabin during the flight, causing her to deduce that he was the “Delta” who the man with the faint French accent had ordered into the cockpit.

She sensed his presence the entire time, though, and spent the flight piecing together the details that provided the evidence to confirm her theory. The imperceptible shake of his head when she’d been about to remind him of their night together. The reluctance in his eyes before the blindfold had been tied around her head. The way he’d told his boss to go easy on her when the man got too rough.

He was evidently working undercover. Somehow he’d infiltrated this group of thugs, and he was here to bust them. Bust them, and protect her in the meantime. That had to be it.

Right?

Guess again, Nancy Drew.

Lana ignored the cynical voice. No, that had to be it. Why else would Deacon be here?

To kidnap you, idiot.

No. She clamped her teeth over her bottom lip. No, he must have more honorable intentions. She might not have much experience with men, but she’d always relied on her immaculate judgment. She had a sixth sense about people. Knew right from that very first “hello” whether they were good at heart, or working an agenda. Her brother Jim still teased her about it, calling her a walking lie-detector test. Her BS meter was flawless.

Or at least it had been in the past.

“Walk toward the car,” came the voice she now recognized as Scar Cheek, or Tango as she’d heard one of the men call him.

Walk toward the car. Right, because she could totally see the car. The blindfold was beginning to annoy her. She was tired of being in the dark, literally.

A hand wrenched her arm, nearly ripping it from the socket. She cried out in pain, but no one consoled her. Instead, she was being dragged along again. A chill hung in the air, making goose bumps rise on her bare arms. She remembered the boss man mentioning warm clothing. Were they somewhere north? Up in the mountains? A hysterical laugh bubbled in the back of her throat. For all she knew, they’d flown her to Antarctica.

“Goddamn northern California,” she heard a male voice mumble so quietly they probably didn’t realize she’d heard it.

But she had. Loud and clear.

Northern California!

Okay, so she had a location. An ironic one, seeing as she’d spent the past couple of weeks fighting the urge to come back to the States. Now she was here, and her family probably had no clue. Unless her captors had contacted them already. Just as she’d deduced Deacon was one of the good guys, she also knew exactly why she was here.

Money.

Story of her life, wasn’t it? She was Lana Kelley, the youngest child of two incredibly rich parents, not to mention a wealthy uncle. These men obviously wanted to squeeze some cash out of her parents, or maybe Uncle Donald. There was no other reason why she’d be kidnapped, and this was just another example of how money drove people to such incredible lengths. Evil lengths.

Lana drew in a wobbly breath as someone shoved her into the backseat of another vehicle. She wanted to speak, to assure these men that whatever they wanted, her family would give them, but she was afraid. Frenchie, the boss man who’d met them at the airfield, had made it clear what would happen if she gave him any trouble. So she held her tongue. They would make their demands known soon, and she knew once her family learned of her disappearance, they would move heaven and earth to find her.

“Did you get the clothes I asked for?” came Frenchie’s muffled voice.

A baritone voice recited an answer. “Sweaters, jeans, parka, wool socks. Got it all, boss.”

“Good.”

The sound of an engine roaring to life filled Lana’s ears, and then the vehicle began to move. This car ride was bumpier than the one in Milan. Either the road was riddled with potholes, or they were venturing into rough terrain. Definitely the mountains, if they truly were in northern California.

Lana spent the ride cataloging the voices and faces she’d come across, trying to figure out how many people were involved in this kidnapping. Deacon, she knew. Tango and Cold Eyes had been on the train. Frenchie and someone named Echo at the airstrip. The pilot, Kilo or Keemo—she hadn’t been able to make out the name. And now Baritone. That added up to seven men.

Eight, she amended, when the car came to a sharp halt what seemed like hours later. One last voice had joined the mix as she was thrust from the car by her armpits. Eight men had conspired to take her by force and whisk her to another country. Well, only seven, perhaps, if her suspicions about Deacon proved correct.

A hand suddenly touched the side of her head. “Bite me and I’ll tear your throat out,” came the voice she now recognized as Echo’s.

He was undoing her blindfold, to her instant relief.

“She won’t bite,” she heard Cold Eyes remark, a smirk in his voice. “This one’s a pussycat.”

Pussycat, her butt! Just wait until she got the chance to escape. She might look small and fragile, but Lana had been trained in self-defense since the age of twelve. Her older brothers had made sure of it, in case she ever found herself in a position where she needed to protect herself.

Sort of like this one.

The blindfold came loose and Lana blinked a few times, letting her eyes adjust to the sudden burst of light. Italy was nine hours ahead of California, and they’d left Milan at 6:00 a.m.… Lana quickly did the math. It must be nine in the morning now, here in California.

She examined her surroundings, as well as the faces of the men responsible for taking her against her will. She’d been right—they were in the mountains. The car had brought them to a rocky clearing, barren save for the yellowing grass. Dylan had mentioned that a drought had been plaguing the northern part of the state, and the dying grass showed the strain of that. Several yards away stood a singlestory cabin, the size of a modest bungalow. Made of dark weathered logs, the cabin boasted a paint-chipped green door and two boarded-up windows. In the distance the mountains loomed, majestic peaks standing proud against a cloudless, clear-blue backdrop. The scenery would almost be beautiful, if she weren’t in such an ugly situation.

She glanced at her kidnappers, already familiar with Deacon, Tango and Cold Eyes. The other five were interchangeable—big, bulky men in heavy sweaters and warm pants, weapons strapped all over their muscular bodies. She focused on Frenchie, who was easy to pick out of the crowd by the constant orders he barked out at everyone. Some of the men began carrying gear into the cabin, while others were ordered to “secure the perimeter.” Lana stared at Frenchie, memorizing every last feature.

He wasn’t unattractive, but not handsome, either. His features were too sharp, too feral, and though he wasn’t as bulky as some of the others, his tall, wiry frame radiated strength. And danger. Oh, yeah, this man was extremely dangerous.

Frenchie caught her staring, and scowled in her direction. Then he turned his head and looked around at the other men, as if gauging his options. Lana’s heart leaped when Frenchie nodded at Deacon and said, “Get her inside. Back room.”

“Yes, sir,” Deacon mumbled.

She was being manhandled again, but this time she didn’t protest. Finally she would be alone with Deacon. Finally she could get some damn answers.

Deacon’s large hand was warm on her bare arm. He towered over her as they walked toward the narrow front door of the cabin. Her traitorous eyes couldn’t help staring at his incredible body, the snug fit of his trousers. Even now, while caught up in the most terrifying situation, she was aware of his innate sexiness, his primal virility.

What was wrong with her?

The moment they were out of earshot, Lana opened her mouth, but Deacon glanced over and muttered, “Quiet. Not yet.”

Her mouth snapped shut. Apparently Deacon was just as good at delivering orders as his boss, but again she didn’t object. A few more seconds weren’t going to kill her.

These men, on the other hand…

They entered the cabin, and a musty stench immediately filled Lana’s nostrils. She made a face. They couldn’t invest in some air freshener? The main room was dark and it took a few moments for her eyes to adjust. When they did, she realized the cabin didn’t look any better than it smelled. It consisted of one large room, which had a crumbling stone fireplace, three torn couches and a table that sagged. There was a small kitchen on one side, a dark corridor on the other.

Holding her suitcase as if it weighed only a couple of measly pounds, Deacon led her down the hallway, which featured three doorways. As ordered, he took her to the room at the very end of the hall, pushed open the door and gestured for her to enter.

Lana reluctantly walked inside, slightly pleased to find that this room smelled better than the one out front. Like pine cleaner and Windex, as if it had been cleaned recently.

The thought brought a tremor of panic. Had the room been cleaned in anticipation of a guest? As in her? She glanced around her, studying the single bed against one wood-paneled wall, the little desk under the window and the thick white shag carpet beneath her sandaled feet.

And then she spun around to face Deacon, who quietly closed the door behind them.

Their eyes locked. Silence fell over the room, hanging there for several seconds, until Lana finally exploded.

“Why the hell are you doing this to me, Deacon Holt?”

Deacon cringed as his name, his real full name, snapped out of Lana’s mouth like a sharp round from a shotgun. She sounded absolutely livid, and he couldn’t help but notice how cute she looked with her cheeks flushed in anger. He pushed aside the inappropriate thought and focused on her blue eyes. He had no idea where to start, or how he could possibly explain himself and his actions to this woman.

So he just stood there, his mouth half open, his brain working overtime trying to find a way to make this right.

Uh-huh. Because making this right was actually a legitimate option.

Fortunately, Lana spoke again before he could say anything, though when he heard the words, he realized there was nothing fortunate about it.

“You’re a cop, right?” she said urgently.

His eyebrows shot north. A cop? She actually thought he was a cop?

“Undercover,” she went on. “You’re pretending to be in cahoots with these jerks so you can arrest them, right?”

A headache formed at his temples. Christ. The hope flashing across her face was almost painful. He dreaded having to burst that optimistic bubble.

“You’re going to get me out of here. Right?”

The pleading note to her voice did him in. He broke the eye contact, turning his head to focus on the splintered old desk beneath the window. He knew Le Clair had been trying to punish him by assigning him babysitting duty, and he felt wholly punished. Not because he’d gotten stuck with a task that most soldiers despised, since coddling targets was always a pain in the ass, but because he now had to explain to the woman he’d taken to bed that she was wrong. That he was, in fact, one of those “jerks” she spoke of with such vehemence.

“Deacon,” she begged softly.

He found the courage to look at her again. “No.”

A beat of silence. “No, what? No, you are in cahoots with them, or no, you won’t get me out?”

A pained sigh left his throat. “No to both.”

Horror flooded her eyes. “You’re not a cop?” she whispered.

He shook his head.

“You’re… you’re part of this?”

He nodded.

The horror turned to rage. Her petite body began to shake in violent shudders.

“Lana—” he started.

“Don’t you dare say my name!” she roared. “If you want to call me something, call me Miss Kelley, just like my other kidnappers.”

“Keep your voice down,” he said sharply.

“Why?” she taunted. A humorless laugh popped out of her mouth. “So the others don’t find out you had sex with your hostage? So you don’t get fired?”

That pesky spark of guilt ignited in his gut again. He forced himself to ignore it. Fine, so he’d slept with the woman he’d been assigned to tail. Nobody ever said he was an honorable man. In fact, honor played no part in his life. Had it been honorable for his father to murder his mother? Had it been honorable for his uncle to steal Deacon’s inheritance? Hell, no. His entire genetic code had dishonor programmed into it.

“So we don’t get killed,” he corrected, in harsh reply to her demand. “If Le Clair finds out about that night, he’ll either fire me or kill me, and then you’ll be all alone here. If he decides to kill you, too, I won’t be here to stop him.”

Another laugh. “You just said you’re not here to save me. How do I know you wouldn’t just let him kill me anyway, even if you were standing right beside him?”

“I promise you, I won’t let that happen.”

She went quiet for a moment, and when she spoke again, disgust laced her voice. “Jeez, I actually believe you. What is wrong with me? I slept with a criminal, for God’s sake. You’re kidnapping me! Why should I believe anything you say?”

“Because it’s the truth,” he said simply. “As long as I’m here, I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Those big blue eyes searched his face. “You mean it.”

He swallowed. “Yes.”

“You don’t want me hurt.”

“No,” he agreed.

“Then let me go,” she pleaded. “Please, Deacon, let me go.”

“I… can’t.” Weariness spilled into his body. “I know you don’t understand any of this, but you need to cooperate with these men. You can’t antagonize them. They wouldn’t hesitate to shoot you, Lana. I promise you that.”

Her bottom lip began to tremble.

Deacon forced himself to stay still, not to eliminate the short distance between them and take her in his arms.

“How long are you going to keep me here?” she whispered.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “Your family will be contacted soon, and I assume the exchange will happen shortly after that.”

“The exchange? You mean, extorting money from my father?” Her tone rang with bitterness.

He nodded ruefully.

“I… never took you for greedy,” she finally said, her dark blond eyelashes coated with sparkling moisture. “That night at the museum, you acted like money didn’t matter to you.”

“No, I picked up on the fact that money doesn’t matter to you.”

“So this is why you’re doing this, for the money?” She shook her head, a slow sad gesture that made him uncomfortable. “I must have misjudged you.”

His discomfort grew. She sounded so disappointed, a tad judgmental, too, and it was the judgment that raised his hackles. What did this woman know about poverty? Had she ever lived on the streets? Sat on a sidewalk holding out a tin can, begging for coins? She lived in splendor now, but had that splendor ever been taken away? He knew all about the life Lana Kelley led. The Beverly Hills mansion, the Montana ranch, the numerous vacation homes. He’d lived it, too. He’d been the son of a shipping tycoon, for Chrissake.

And he’d lost everything. Every last thing, save for the clothes on his back and the small duffel his uncle had let him pack before kicking him out on the street.

Lana Kelley didn’t know what life without money was. She’d never had to fight for her own survival.

And she had no right to judge him.

“Put on some warmer clothing.” He moved stiffly to the door. “You must be hungry after that long flight. I’ll bring you some food.”

“Wait.”

His hand froze on the door handle. Slowly, he turned around. Her face was pale, her eyes weary with defeat.

“I don’t care what your motives are,” she said in a miserable voice. “But if you want money, I’ll give you money. I promise, whatever—what did you call him? Le Clair?—well, whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it. Just help me get out of here and I’ll make sure you have all the money you want.”

He stifled a sigh. Double the pay? The offer might have been tempting, if not for the fact that Le Clair would hunt him down and murder him if he ever defected.

He said as much to Lana, eyeing her unhappily. “Le Clair is a very dangerous man. A man you don’t cross. As much as I want to help you, I—”

“You don’t want to help me,” she cut in angrily. “If you did, you wouldn’t have kidnapped me. You wouldn’t have—” She stopped abruptly, a suspicious expression filling her face. “Did you know who I was, that night in the Louvre? Were you planning this, even then?”

Deacon wanted to lie. It bothered him that his first instinct was to protect this woman, even from the ugly truth. But although he was many things, a liar he wasn’t.

“I knew,” he replied gruffly.

She blinked, and the tears sticking to her lashes broke free and slid down her smooth cheeks. “You knew,” she echoed.

“Yes.” He found himself giving a hurried explanation. “But I didn’t plan for us to… be intimate. I was only supposed to watch you.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, annoyed with the sign of weakness. “But then you spoke to me, and… well, it just happened.”

Her tears fell harder. “I can’t believe this. I can’t…” She looked at him with tearstained cheeks, suddenly appearing much younger than her twenty-four years. “Don’t let them hurt me,” she finally whispered, her arms encircling her own waist and tightening over her stomach. “Just promise me that.”

He tore his gaze from her and turned the doorknob. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to you, Lana. I promise.” Then he slid out the door and, ignoring the ache in his chest, locked it behind him.

Chapter 4

Lana’s first night as an official hostage went by without incident. After Deacon left her in the back bedroom, she’d changed into jeans and a fleece hooded sweatshirt, as well as the thick wool socks her kidnappers had purchased for her. Then she’d sat on the narrow bed and catalogued every item in her suitcase. Clothes, toiletries, sewing kit, nail kit. The two kits had been confiscated by Cold Eyes, whose name was apparently Charlie. With two brothers in the military, she was familiar with the military alphabet, which Le Clair had evidently decided to employ for code names. For some reason, though, Le Clair wasn’t hiding his real name from her. Almost as if he believed he were invincible, that even if she knew his true identity, it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.

That worried her, though not as much as the fact that none of the kidnappers bothered to disguise their faces from her. Did that mean they planned to kill her? Or, like Le Clair, were these men confident that knowing what they looked like wouldn’t make a difference once their assignment ended?

The last item on her growing Why-I-Should-Worry list was the pregnancy. She hadn’t revealed her condition to her captors, didn’t even know if she should, and though she now had the opportunity to tell Deacon, she wasn’t sure she wanted the man to have any part in this baby’s life. He’d kidnapped her, for God’s sake. What kind of father figure was that for her child?

She was also concerned about how she would take care of herself. She hadn’t been to a doctor yet, but she knew vitamins and a healthy diet were important to the growth of a healthy fetus. Hopefully she wouldn’t be here for much longer, but in the meantime, she could keep taking her multivitamins, which had calcium and vitamin C and a bunch of other important nutrients. No folic acid, but again, she probably wasn’t going to be here long.

As promised, Deacon had brought in some food, a surprisingly healthy dish of rice, chicken breast and broccoli. Afterward, he’d left her alone, and now she was lying down and wishing she were anywhere but here. A single bulb dangling from the ceiling illuminated the small room, and it was dark outside the window over the desk. Getting colder, too. Lana shivered on the bed, though she had a feeling the chill running through her had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with her predicament.

Bitterness lodged in her throat as she remembered Deacon’s confession. He’d known who she was the night at the Louvre. He’d already been part of this sick plot to kidnap her, and yet he’d still gone ahead and made love to her.

“No,” she said aloud, a vicious taste entering her mouth.

It wasn’t making love. It was sex. And deception.

How was she ever going to explain this to her child when he or she got older?

The sound of the lock creaking open caught her attention. She sat up just as Deacon walked into the room. He wore dark pants and a black turtleneck underneath an unbuttoned navy-blue shirt, and for a moment she almost forgot why they were both here. He was so damn gorgeous. It wasn’t fair for him to look so good and yet be doing this to her.

“I thought you might be cold,” he said gruffly.

He held out his hands, and she noticed the flannel afghan. She forced herself not to feel pleasure from the thoughtful gesture.

“Thank you,” she said in a stiff voice.

Deacon walked to the bed and handed her the blanket, which she draped over her lower body. Immediately, she felt warmer.

“Lana…” he started, then stopped.

She met his hazel eyes. “Did you contact my father?”

“Not yet.”

“How long am I going to be here?” There was a petulant chord to her tone, but she wasn’t ashamed of it. She deserved to be childish, if she chose to be. These people had kidnapped her, after all.

“I don’t know.” He shifted uneasily. “Did you give any thought to what I told you?”

She tightened her lips. “About keeping my mouth shut?”

“Yes.” That grave glimmer filled his eyes. “Everything I said was true. If Le Clair finds out about us, it won’t bode well for either one of us.”

She didn’t doubt that. Le Clair struck her as the kind of man who’d kill Deacon in cold blood if he found out about his indiscretion. Pathetic as it was, she didn’t want anything happening to Deacon. He might be in league with these men, but she’d believed him when he’d said he would keep her safe. His presence brought her a sick sense of security. If he was gone, she’d be all alone and at the mercy of Le Clair.

“I won’t say anything,” she finally said. A pause. “For now.”

He offered an expression of gratitude. “Thank you. I know I don’t deserve it.”

“No, you don’t.”

His big shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry you’re going through this. I really am. But it will all be over soon, Lana.”

Anger climbed up her chest, making her throat go tight. “Don’t bother with apologies. If you really cared about me, you would let me go.” She frowned. “Actually, if you cared, you wouldn’t have even let it get to this point. You could’ve warned me at the museum, told me to get out of town.”

His features were creased with exhaustion as he said, “It wouldn’t have mattered. We would have found you eventually.”

We. His use of the word only served as a reminder of who he truly was. He was working with these men. Holding her captive. All so he could score a few bucks. It was perplexing, because even now, she couldn’t bring herself to call this man greedy. He lacked that hungry glint in his eyes, the one that every other man in this nasty group seemed to possess.

“Why do you need the money?” she blurted out, unable to let go of the disturbing notion.

Deacon shrugged. “Why don’t I?”

“Are you planning on buying a yacht? A fancy villa? Cars, women, expensive gadgets?”

Discomfort was written all over his face. “No, I’m not planning on buying any of those things.”

“Then why?”

His mouth opened, then closed, his strong throat bobbing as he swallowed repeatedly. Her question seemed to bring him great distress, which only piqued her curiosity. No, it wasn’t curiosity, she quickly amended. She didn’t want to know a damn thing about this man. But if she could figure out what made him tick, she might be able to use it to her advantage.

Unfortunately, he decided to ignore the question altogether. “If you need anything during the night, to use the bathroom, a glass of water… just knock on the door,” he said in a rough voice.

“Deacon,” she called after him, but he was already gone.

As the door closed and the lock slid back into place, Lana sagged against the uncomfortable wooden headboard of the bed.

And started to cry.

She was trying to be quiet, but Deacon clearly heard Lana’s muffled sobs as he walked down the narrow hallway toward the living area. He’d made her cry. Somehow, that notion brought a slice of pain to his chest. A part of him wanted to turn around and comfort her, but he fought the urge. Damn it. He was losing control here.

Lana’s question continued to buzz around in his brain like a relentless hornet. Then why? Why did he need the money? Why was he doing this?

He almost wished he’d gone along with her accusations, lied and told her it was all about greed. But it wasn’t. Everything he was doing now, everything he’d done in the past, could all be credited to one simple thing: survival. He did what he did in order to survive. In order to ensure that never again would he be defenseless. Powerless.

Is that really why?

Deacon faltered. Truth was, a part of him wasn’t even sure why he still did this. He didn’t have buckets of money, but he had enough to live on modestly if he wanted to. He wasn’t a scared and hungry teenager anymore, desperate to survive. He didn’t need to take on so many assignments, especially not ones like this, that made him so damn uneasy.

So why?

Because you’re a bad person.

The little voice spoke in a flat, unyielding tone. It was a conclusion he’d reached years ago, after spending too many nights lying in bed and wondering how on earth he’d gotten to this point. He supposed he could always quit. But then what? He’d spent too many years living dangerously, often on the wrong side of the law—no way could he quit now and live as a respectable citizen.

This attraction for Lana was going to get him in trouble, he knew that. Yet he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control the ripples of desire that shook his body each time he was in the same room as her, or the way his palms tingled, begging him to touch her. Or how every cell in his body screamed for him to whisk her away from all this. To keep her safe and protected and… happy. He wanted to make her happy.

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