Missing Mother-To-Be

by Elle Kennedy

  And that, more than anything that had happened so far, scared her to death.

  Chapter 6

  By the time the two-week mark of Lana’s captivity rolled by, Deacon was growing considerably wary about this job. Two weeks was a long time to keep a hostage. A very long time.

  He didn’t like it one bit.

  As he prepared a grilled cheese sandwich for Lana’s lunch, he mulled over the situation, wondering if he should approach Le Clair with his concerns. The boss was beginning to look frazzled these days, spending most of his time on the porch mumbling into his cell phone, though to whom he was mumbling was a mystery to Deacon. He got the feeling Le Clair wasn’t happy with the way things were going, but Deacon wasn’t privy to the details. Was Hank Kelley refusing to pay up?

  Deacon’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown as he cut the sandwich in half and set it on a chipped yellow dish. He knew Lana was growing frustrated, too, and deeply im patient. He checked on her frequently, and their afternoon walks had become a daily ritual. At first she’d pressed him about his childhood, trying to get more details about his parents’ deaths, but she’d eventually given up when he remained vague about it, and proceeded to chatter on aimlessly about her own life. He knew it was her way to get her mind off her current predicament, but Deacon had started clinging to the stories she told.

  He felt as though he knew everything about her now. She told him wry anecdotes about her overprotective older brothers, spoke of her parents with deep emotion, raved about art, modestly described some of the sculptures in her recent body of work. The more time he spent with her, the more he liked and respected Lana Kelley. Which was why this assignment was starting to trouble him. He didn’t want to see her get hurt, and the way Le Clair angrily muttered into that cell phone of his didn’t bode well for Lana.

  “Lunch,” he said gruffly as he entered the back bedroom.

  Lana’s head lifted at his arrival. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a sheet of sketching paper. Her long blond hair fell onto her face, and her slender fingers were stained black from the charcoal.

  “Thanks,” she said absently, her hand moving quickly across the paper, adding details to the face in her sketch.

  Deacon was startled when he realized it was his face. She was drawing him, and from the looks of it, the likeness was uncanny. Apparently she was very, very good at what she did.

  After adding one last smudge underneath his left eye, she set down the charcoal and stood up, accepting the wet napkin he handed her and scrubbing at the tips of her fingers. Then she picked up the plate and took a bite of the grilled cheese, chewing fervently.

  “I’m starving,” she said between mouthfuls.

  Deacon hid a smile. He glanced at the portrait she’d left lying on the floor, noticed the other papers scattered next to it and realized she’d done a few more sketches. Faces.

  He frowned. Tango’s sharp mouth and prominent scar glared up at him, while another sheet displayed Le Clair’s feral features and thin lips curled in a sneer.

  “You’re drawing us,” he said uneasily.

  She chewed slowly, nodding. “It’s not like I have any other subjects.”

  His uneasiness intensified. “Can’t you sketch the mountains?”

  “I already told you, I do faces. That’s what my work is about, bringing interesting faces to life.”

  Maybe so, but she’d done a lot more than that here. She’d cataloged each one of her kidnappers, producing accurate sketches that any law-enforcement agency could use to nab each and every one of them. Including Deacon.

  Lana gave him a knowing look. “I’ll rip them up when I’m done. Don’t worry, Delta, the cops won’t see these.” She swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and set the plate down on the desk. “But you will get caught,” she added. “You know that, right?”

  He didn’t respond.

  “You guys won’t get away with this,” she continued, her blue eyes glittering with defiance. “My family will find me.”

  Her words made his chest squeeze in the most disconcerting way. You guys. It sent a streak of agony through him that she associated him with the others. But why shouldn’t she? He’d been a full participant in this abduction, and she had every reason to despise him. Yet she didn’t seem to.

  “Why?” he burst out.

  Her forehead wrinkled. “Why will they find me? Because they’re—”

  “No,” he cut in. “Why don’t you despise me?”

  She fixed him with a sad stare. “Who says I don’t?”

  His heart twisted. “Do you?”

  Her silence tore at his insides like a ravenous scavenger. He didn’t know why, but the thought of Lana hating him was almost unbearable. He knew he was the bad guy here, that he’d taken her against her will in order to score a wad of cash, but he didn’t want to be the object of this woman’s hatred. Lana Kelley was…she was an incredible woman. She’d handled her two-week stint as a hostage with the utmost grace, and the inner strength that radiated from her pores impressed the hell out of him. She was smart, gorgeous, funny when she dropped her guard long enough to loosen up around him. She was a woman he’d be proud to call his own, if he weren’t such a cold, lifeless ghost of a human being.

  “No.”

  Lana’s quiet voice sliced through his thoughts, making him glance up in shock. “No?” he echoed.

  “I don’t hate you.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “I should, right? I should want to rip your throat out for what you’re doing to me. So why don’t I?”

  “I have no idea,” he admitted hoarsely. “You have every right to hate me.”

  “Maybe…maybe it’s because I don’t believe you’re one of them.” She gestured to the door, as if to point at the men beyond it. “They’re all greedy. Heartless. Especially Le Clair. He doesn’t seem to care one bit that he’s got me locked up in this cabin like a prisoner.”

  She let out a shaky breath. “But I get the feeling that you care.” She met his eyes. “Am I crazy? Am I pathetic for believing that? God, for all I know, you’re playing me, making me think you actually give a damn, but really—”

  “I give a damn,” he interjected, stunned by the slight crack in his voice. “I’m not playing you, Lana.” He was embarrassed by the next words that popped almost unconsciously from his mouth. “I’ve never met anyone like you. That night at the Louvre…it was…”

  He trailed off awkwardly, but Lana wouldn’t let it go. “It was what?” she said softly.

  “It was really nice.” He lifted his shoulders, then let them sag. “It was the first time in a long time I felt…at peace.”

  She bit her bottom lip. “Do you…um, have a girlfriend?”

  Her question shocked the hell out of him. “What?”

  “I figured I’d ask. I mean, you lied about who you really are, maybe when you told me at the hotel that you were single, you were lying about that, too.”

  Her words were like an arrow to the heart. Somehow, her complete lack of trust in him made him want to hit something, namely himself. She might not hate him, but her distrust was just as bad. Still, he knew no amount of time or gestures could ever make her trust him again. She had, that night in Paris, but no more.

  “I’m single,” he said, his voice rough. “I didn’t lie about that.”

  “Oh.” She visibly swallowed. “All right.”

  “Does it make a difference?” he couldn’t help but ask.

  She lifted her head and met his gaze head-on, laughing ruefully. “I guess it shouldn’t, huh? Here I am, worrying I might have been the other woman, when at the moment, I have plenty of other things to worry about.”

  As if on cue, the door swung open with such force it banged against the paint-chipped wall and brought a gust of cold air into the room. Le Clair looked annoyed as hell as he marched across the weathered wood floor and thrust the phone into Lana’s hands. “Keep it short,” he growled at her.

  Deacon’s entire body went on
edge as he watched Lana grab for the phone like a starving child desperate for food. “Dad, it’s me,” she said quickly. She listened for a moment, and Deacon could see her brain working overtime in that pretty blond head of hers, trying to formulate another clue.

  Sure enough, in a cool and composed voice, she said, “I know you were always closer to the capital than you were to your children, but when this is over, I hope we can spend some time together, maybe accept Mr. Bradshaw’s offer to—”

  “Shut up,” Le Clair hissed at her, his gray eyes shooting daggers at Lana, who gasped as he violently snatched the phone and shoved her away.

  Deacon stiffened as Lana stumbled backward and nearly fell onto the bed. He forced himself to keep a cool head, listening as Le Clair lifted the phone to his ear and barked, “Time’s up. You know what to do if you want her to live.”

  Lana gasped again, her eyes growing as wide as saucers. She evidently hadn’t missed the deadly note in that last sentence. The gasp became a squeak when Le Clair grabbed her shoulders with both hands and shook so hard Deacon could swear he heard Lana’s teeth rattle.

  “Who the hell is Bradshaw?” Le Clair roared, his French accent becoming more pronounced in his fury. “What were you saying to your father, you little bitch?”

  Lana shrank back, but Deacon had to give her credit. She played the part of cowering female to a T, her bottom lip quivering, her eyes filling with tears. Only the almost-imperceptible flicker of defiance in her gaze revealed the truth. She was playing Le Clair, and the man had no freaking clue.

  Deacon hid a grin.

  “Ernie Bradshaw,” she whimpered between tiny sobs. “He owns an insurance company, and D-Daddy and I saw h-him a few months ago. He invited us to his s-summer house in Cape Cod. I thought if I reminded Daddy about it, it would lift his s-spirits.”

  “Next time, you keep it short when I ask you to,” Le Clair snapped. “I don’t have the patience for pathetic little anecdotes, you understand?”

  She nodded quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think…”

  “Then start thinking! You’ve got a brain in that pretty head, don’t you? Well, use it.” The rage on Le Clair’s face dimmed slightly, only to ignite as the papers on the floor caught his eye.

  All the air in the room went utterly icy. A tense silence hung over the space as Le Clair slowly bent down and picked up the sketches Lana had done of his men. Of himself. Without moving, he stared at the sketches, unblinking, unspeaking.

  Deacon took a protective step to the side, toward Lana, but he wasn’t quick enough. Before he could move, Le Clair’s hands were on the slender blonde again and he shoved her against the wall with incredible force. “What is this?” he boomed, waving the papers in front of her face. “What the hell are you doing?”

  Tears streamed down Lana’s silky cheeks. “They’re just drawings,” she protested. “I promised I would tear them up when—”

  The back of Le Clair’s hand came smashing down on her face, making her head slam against the wall. The tears fell harder, and Deacon fought wave after wave of red-hot fury. He was two seconds away from strangling the life right out of Paul Le Clair, when the man abruptly let Lana go, cursing in French beneath his breath.

  Le Clair crumpled the drawings with one big hand and shoved them into his pocket. “You want to draw?” he said in a low, menacing voice. “Then draw some flowers or rainbows or puppies and kittens. If I see anything like this again, you won’t like the consequences, princess.”

  As Lana stood there, shuddering and crying softly, Le Clair stormed out of the room.

  Deacon stared into Lana’s terrified blue eyes, at her tearstained cheeks, then sighed and followed his boss. He caught up with Le Clair at the end of the dark hallway, clearing his throat to get his attention.

  “You gave her this paper?” Le Clair demanded, holding up the crumpled drawings.

  “The pictures are harmless, sir. You know I would have destroyed them.”

  Le Clair paused for a moment, then nodded in resignation. “Yes, I know that. I may have overreacted a tad.” He smoothed out the sketch of his own face, studying it carefully. “She’s quite good. But it’s very disconcerting, seeing your own image staring back at you, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Deacon agreed. As Le Clair took a step, Deacon hurriedly added, “Sir…”

  “What is it, Delta?”

  “I assure you, I’m truly not trying to second-guess your methods here, and I mean no disrespect, but I’m not sure her family will be happy if any harm comes to her.” Deacon kept his tone completely neutral, almost humble. “Do you think it was a good idea, striking her?”

  For a moment he thought Le Clair would explode again, but the man just sighed. “No, it probably wasn’t smart. But I’m having some difficulty with the negotiations.” He frowned. “The father is not complying.”

  Deacon’s interested was piqued. “He’s refusing to pay?”

  “Something like that.”

  “But surely he’s desperate to get his daughter back alive.”

  Le Clair curled his fist over the drawing, shoving it back into his pocket. “That may not be our end game.”

  Deacon’s interest faded into suspicion. Accompanied by the wild tug of panic at his gut. “You’re not planning on returning her to her family?”

  Le Clair shrugged.

  “Level with me, sir. Who exactly is pulling our strings here?” Deacon pressed.

  “That doesn’t concern you.” Le Clair took a couple of steps, as if he were suddenly eager to get away. “You’ll get paid, just as I promised. That’s all you need to know for now. Now go check on the princess to make sure she’s not too shaken up. We still need her cooperation.”

  The other man stalked off, leaving Deacon staring after him in growing dismay. That may not be our end game. The words brought a deep chill, straight down to the bone. For the first time since he’d accepted this job, Deacon experienced a spark of fear. Was Le Clair planning on killing Lana? Had he never had any intention of letting her go?

  Deacon’s jaw tensed. He was in this for the money, yes, but he’d agreed to be part of an abduction. Not murder. No, murder had never been on the agenda, and if that was where Le Clair was going with this…well, then Deacon realized he definitely needed to reevaluate.

  But first things first—check on Lana and make sure she was okay. The memory of Le Clair’s hand striking her beautiful face made Deacon’s insides coil into tight, angry knots. Hopefully Le Clair had learned from the reckless action, and if he hadn’t, Deacon knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t stand by idly the next time Le Clair decided to take his anger out on Lana.

  To his surprise, when he walked into the room, Lana was sitting calmly on the bed. The tears had dried up, and aside from a red mark on her cheek, she looked unharmed.

  “Are you okay?” he asked as he closed the door behind him.

  “That jerk sure has a temper,” she said dryly.

  “Le Clair is a bit of a hothead,” Deacon admitted. He suddenly cocked his head, narrowing his eyes at her. “Who’s Bradshaw?”

  She gave him an innocent look, like a child who’d just told her parents that Santa was the one who had opened all the presents in the middle of the night. “Exactly who I said he is. The owner of an insurance company and an acquaintance of my dad’s.”

  “And he really owns a house in Cape Cod?”

  “How do I know?” She looked quite pleased with herself as she rose from the bed and walked toward him, her arms crossed over her chest. “But he does own a cabin near Sacramento, up in the mountains. Must be pretty close to where we are, no?”

  Deacon didn’t know whether to kiss her or throttle her. Her intelligence and quick thinking impressed him to no end, but she was playing with fire here, messing with Le Clair. A small part of him disapproved of her cryptic SOSs. He had to think about himself, too. If Lana’s clues led her family—and law enforcement—to this cabin, Deacon would be arrested along with the others. And h
is own self-preservation was extremely important to him.

  Still, he couldn’t stop the warmth and satisfaction that coursed through him when he thought about what Lana had done.

  He met her eyes, and saw the laughter dancing in them. “You can’t decide if you should be angry with me or applaud me, right?” she said, sounding delighted.

  “Actually, I was torn between throttling you and kiss ing you.” His throat went dry the second the words left his mouth. Crap. Why had he said that? The idea of kissing him ever again probably made her sick to her stomach.

  And yet…

  At the word kissing he heard her breath hitch. And she leaned in closer. He wondered if she even realized she’d done that.

  Their gazes locked again, and what he saw on her face stole his breath. She looked as she had the night in his hotel. Cheeks flushed to a rosy pink. Lips slightly parted. The memory of how soft those lips had 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 apart. 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.

  Chapter 7

  Lana’s heart was beating a million times a minute as Deacon’s mouth covered hers. Her disloyal body melted against him like butter on a sizzling pan. He smelled so unbelievably good, spicy and masculine, and she couldn’t think straight surrounded by that intoxicating scent. And his mouth…it was warm and firm. Familiar. She found herself responding to the kiss, brushing her lips over his even as her brain screamed for her to pull away.