Читать книгу Missing Mother-To-Be - Эль Кеннеди - Страница 11

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.