She just nodded and reached to unbuckle her seat belt. The two of them got out of the sedan and Deacon unlocked the room door. He went in first, drawing his weapon out of habit to clear the room before Lana stepped inside. When he flicked on the light, she blinked like a disoriented Alzheimer’s patient. Her blue eyes took in the ugly orange bedspread, splintered wooden table and frayed brown carpet. She seemed completely unaffected by the shabbiness.
“Sit down on the bed,” he said, already bending down to unzip his duffel.
He took out the first-aid kit and sat next to Lana. She winced as he gently removed the scrap of material from her arm. Dried blood was caked onto her fair skin, bringing a rush of fury to his gut. Those bastards had shot Lana. As the rage-inducing revelation entered his brain, Deacon curled his fists and drew in a calming breath. He wanted to strike something, but he couldn’t. Not now, not until he made sure Lana was all right.
After that, though…well, he knew that he’d hunt down the man who’d pulled the trigger, even if he spent the rest of his life hunting. Echo, Tango, Oscar—he didn’t care who it was. The man was dead.
Lana made a hissing sound as he placed a piece of gauze soaked with rubbing alcohol directly on her skin. “Sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll be quick.”
He skillfully cleaned the wound, not a stranger to the task. He’d had to self-treat dozens of times over the years. Once her arm had been cleaned, he examined the injury, pleased to find that the bullet hadn’t even gone through. It had simply grazed her, leaving a red streak resembling a burn on her skin.
“Almost done,” he murmured.
Lana didn’t say a word as he gently placed a square bandage on her arm and taped it down. When he’d finished, he picked up the blood-stained gauzes, threw them into the garbage can in the closet-size bathroom and returned to the room to find Lana rubbing her stomach with shaky hands.
Her blue eyes met his. “I guess I should have told you sooner.” Her voice was soft, wry almost.
“Probably,” he agreed.
He moved back to the bed and sat down. Their knees touched. An involuntary wave of heat swelled inside him. He forced the rising arousal down. This wasn’t the time. The adrenaline high from the past couple of hours had succeeded in making him hard, a common affliction among soldiers apparently, but right now, he needed that arousal to go away.
“It happened the night at the Louvre.” And then, as if he’d questioned her, she added, “You’re the father.”
“I figured as much.”
A short silence fell.
“Are you…” He cleared his throat, searching for some thing to say. The right thing. Anything. “You haven’t been sick.”
“No. Maybe it’s too early.” She shrugged. “Or maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones who don’t suffer from morning sickness.”
“Can you…can you feel it move?” The crack in his voice stunned him.
She shook her head. “Definitely too early for that.”
Another heavy silence. Deacon’s brain couldn’t keep up with the conversation, and they were barely talking. A baby. Those were the only two words he could grasp at the moment. Lana was pregnant with his baby.
“A baby,” he mumbled under his breath.
For the first time since she’d gotten hurt, a tiny smile lifted the corner of Lana’s mouth. “I know, right? I’ve known for two months, and I’m still surprised by it.”
Surprised? Try scared out of his wits.
What on earth would he do with a baby? He wasn’t equipped for this. Send him into the jungle with a machine gun, and he’d level anything in front of him. Put a baby in his arms?
His pulse sped up, panic gathering in his stomach. He’d lived up to his promise—he’d rescued her from Le Clair. Did he owe her more than that? Did she expect him to be a father to this kid? Did he want to be?
A million questions flew through his mind. The only answer he had, though, the only solid, concrete thing he knew, was that he owed her.
He owed Lana Kelley so much more than he could ever repay. He hadn’t signed up for this. He’d been promised a quick job, a way to score a huge chunk of change. Instead, Lana had been a hostage for months, at the mercy of Le Clair and his ruthless fists, forced to pose for videos and photos in order to scare her family.
And the entire time, she’d been pregnant. So yeah, he owed her big-time.
But he couldn’t be a father to this baby. He had no love to give to a child, to give to anybody. His capacity for love had died right along with his parents years ago. Yet he knew Lana wouldn’t be able to understand why he had no place in a kid’s life. In her life. What if he snapped one day, the way his father had? Genetics were a very powerful thing, and his dad’s abusive DNA bubbled like acid in his blood.
As a kid, he’d always been too intense, felt things too deeply, wanted things too much. His father had been like that, too, and after his parents died, Deacon realized just how dangerous that intensity could be. How easily a person could snap.
So he’d banished emotions from his life. Decided the only way to control them was by not feeling them. How could he risk feeling anything for Lana or this baby? What if that darkness inside him, the same darkness that had destroyed his father, slithered out and hurt them? No, he couldn’t take that chance. He’d already hurt Lana enough.
The baby would be better off without him. With Lana for a mother, the child would have everything it wanted and needed. Money, security, love, kindness. Deacon knew without a doubt that Lana would be strong for this baby, as strong as she’d been throughout this entire ordeal. An ordeal he was partly responsible for.
Guilt seared into him, nearly burning him alive.
“You…you’re the strongest woman I’ve ever met,” he choked out.
Lana stared at him in shock. She must have heard the raw note slicing his voice. He’d heard it. And he was just as shocked.
“What?”
Unable to stop himself, he touched her chin, tracing her delicate jaw with one calloused finger. “You survived this, all of this, with no help from me.” Remorse hung from his words. “This entire time, you were strong, for yourself, for this baby. Jesus, Lana, I’m…I’m in awe of you.”
Rather than shying away, she leaned into his touch, letting him caress her cheek. “You did help,” she said quietly. “You got me out.”
His chest ached with shame. “I got you into this in the first place.” The ache was suddenly replaced with a jolt of determination. “But I’m going to fix it. We’re not in the clear yet, but I promise you, I’m going to take you back to your family. One of the guys mentioned your father is in Montana, so the first thing we need to do is—”
The feel of her hand on his thigh cut him short. When he met her eyes, he knew exactly what was on her mind.
“Lana…” He trailed off, nearly jumping as she dragged her hand closer to his groin. “Stop.”
“No.” Her hand stilled. “I know there’s a thousand things we need to do, and I know that this isn’t one of them.” Her face collapsed abruptly, a look of torment and dismay entering her eyes. “But damn it, Deacon, I don’t want to stop.”
She slid closer, pressing her lips on the stubble coating his cheek. “I don’t want to think about anything right now. Not our next move, not the fact that we’re probably being hunted down as we speak.” Her voice shook. “I’m scared and confused, and my arm hurts, and I’m not thinking clearly, and right now, I just want you to kiss me.”
His breath hitched.
“Can you do that?” she asked, looking up at him with imploring blue eyes. “Can you please just kiss me?”
Chapter 12
Words kept streaming out of Lana’s mouth. Words she knew she shouldn’t say, questions she knew she shouldn’t ask, but as she sat there next to Deacon, with his big warm body pressed beside hers, she had no strength left. The attraction she’d felt toward this man, however inappropriate it might be, was something she couldn’t battle any longer.
>
This entire night had been too much to handle: fleeing the city, the fear spinning through her at the thought of losing her baby, telling Deacon the truth. She didn’t even have the energy to think about any of it right now. She was tired and sore, and so incredibly frightened her hands refused to stop shaking.
“I don’t want to think right now,” she whispered into his rough, stubble-covered jaw. “I just want to forget about reality.”
Deacon didn’t respond, but she saw his throat bob as he swallowed.
“That night at the hotel,” she continued, a desperate twinge to her voice. “It was like a fantasy, a dream. You made me feel something I’ve never felt before with a man.”
“What did you feel?” His voice came out husky.
“Happy.” She moved closer, resting her trembling hands on his broad shoulders. “I was happy that night. It was…it was exciting and passionate. I couldn’t even remember my own name afterward.”
He swallowed again, then said, “Me, too.”
“So let’s deal with this mess in the morning.” She twined her arms around his neck. “Right now, let’s just forget our names.”
She knew the exact moment the resolve in his hazel eyes crumbled. His handsome features softened, his head tilted toward her. Their lips were inches apart. Lana’s heart did a crazy lurch. She wanted this man. She might be insane for that, probably still in shock, most likely about to make another huge mistake.
But she still wanted him.
She bridged the distance between their lips and kissed him. It was supposed to be a soft kiss, an exploratory brushing of mouths, but what it ended up being was…pure passion. Deacon fused his mouth to hers, kissing her so deeply he stole the breath from her lungs. His tongue slid into her mouth, seeking hers, sending little bursts of heat to her core.
No stopping it. One second they were sitting side by side, kissing wildly, the next she was flat on her back, her torn sweater yanked up to her chin, with Deacon’s tongue on her breasts. His body was heavy on top of hers, the weight of him bringing both a thrill and a sense of security.
Pleasure cascaded through her body as he lavished attention on her breasts, which were full and achy beneath his lips. Not to mention extremely sensitive, thanks to the pregnancy. She moaned as he suckled one beaded nipple, the excitement rising inside her so strongly she lifted her hips so she could rub herself against him. The feel of his massive erection only fueled the excitement.
When Deacon latched his mouth onto her other breast, her hips bucked again and another desperate cry slipped from her lips. He instantly pulled back. “Am I hurting you?” he asked roughly.
“No, it feels good,” she whispered. “Everything you’re doing feels so good.”
Looking appeased, he resumed his gentle assault, kissing and fondling her breasts, running his big hands over her hips. And then one hand moved between her legs, stroking her over her pants, teasing and rubbing until she impatiently fumbled for the button at her waistband.
Deacon helped her out, popping open the button and sliding the material down her legs. His hand returned to tease her throbbing sex, and somehow he managed to remove every last inch of clothing separating them—using only one hand. His shirt and pants wound up on the floor, her bra disappeared entirely, and his boxers and her panties were a tangled mess at their feet.
They both groaned as his bare chest met her breasts. The light dusting of hair between his pecs tickled her rigid nipples, making Lana giddy with desire. They kissed again, while his heavy erection strained against her belly. Lana reached down, stroked him, pumped him, drawing a ragged groan from his lips. Flames of arousal licked at her skin, heating that tender spot between her legs, until she finally brought his tip there and teased them both.
She almost reminded him to get protection, but suddenly they both glanced down at her stomach, and the realization that they didn’t need anything seemed to settle over both of them. Bracing his hands on her waist, Deacon pushed himself inside her. He dragged out the motion, sliding in slowly, inch by incredible inch.
Sweat bloomed on Lana’s forehead. This was torture. She wanted him to fill her, to drive her over the edge into oblivion. With an impatient moan, she lifted her bottom, joining their bodies completely.
Deacon’s head fell against her neck, his groan warming her skin. He withdrew slightly, and then he was moving. A fast, reckless pace that had her clinging to his strong back. Pleasure swelled in her womb, rising, spreading. Every muscle in her body tightened, every nerve ending sizzled with her impending climax.
And then Deacon squeezed out, “Lana,” and she toppled right over that edge. Her climax ripped through her, so raw and powerful that her fingernails dug into the sinewy muscles of his back. Deacon’s hazel eyes burned with arousal, glazed with release, and his guttural cry and hurried thrusts intensified the waves of pleasure crashing through her body.
When the waves finally ebbed, delicious lethargy spread through her. Deacon’s chest rose and fell against her breasts, his breath hot on her neck, his lips even hotter as he peppered kisses on her skin.
“God, Lana,” he murmured. “You’re so incredible.”
She waited for her pulse to slow, for her limbs to figure out how to move again and then she rolled over to her side so they lay face to face.
“I like seeing you look like this,” she murmured back, as she traced the proud line of his jaw with her thumb.
“Like what?”
“Not so…hard.” She touched his fuller bottom lip. “Not so cold.”
He rested one hand on her waist, drawing circles over her hip bone with one lazy finger. “It only happens when I’m around you.”
The gruff confession brought a spark of gratification. “I guess that makes me pretty special.”
“More than you’ll ever know.”
Their gazes locked, and then, as if pulled by a magnet, they both looked down at her belly again.
“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asked, the concern in his voice making her heart do a little flip.
“You didn’t hurt me,” she assured him. “Or the baby.”
To her disappointment, the softness in his eyes dimmed at the mention of their child. Her throat tightened as a crushing realization pressed against her chest.
“You’re not planning on being in this baby’s life, are you?”
His shuttered expression was all the answer she needed.
“Why?” she whispered.
“Because I can’t.”
“Why?” She knew she sounded like a two-year-old tossing “whys” at her parents, but she truly couldn’t make sense of any of this. “We got away, Deacon. Nobody has to know you were ever involved in the abduction. We could—” Her voice cracked. “We could raise this baby together.”
Pure torture reflected in his eyes. “I’ll know, Lana. I’ll always know that I was responsible for keeping you hostage. And I can’t live with that. I can’t be with you knowing how much pain I caused.”
His words settled between them like an impassable mountain. She knew then that no matter how much she argued, how much she tried to show him otherwise, she might never be able to break through that obstacle. His guilt. His shame.
“I’m going to get you back to your family,” he went on, his voice husky, “and then I’ll disappear from your life. I know that’s not what you want to hear, but—”
“What happened after your parents died?” she cut in.
He flinched, as if the question caused physical pain.
“Tell me,” she pressed.
“I…survived.”
Those three little syllables told her so much more than he’d probably intended to reveal. “How?” she asked.
He shifted, his pecs flexing from the movement. “However I could. I ran drugs for a couple of guys in South Boston. Did some enforcer work for the Southie mafia.”
“Enforcer work?”
“I beat up lowlifes who owed them money,” he said flatly.
A
short silence fell. Lana suspected that was all she’d get from him, but to her surprise, he continued. His expression never changed, but the pain in his tone hung in the air.
“We were wealthy. Did I tell you that?”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Well, it’s true. Disgustingly wealthy, in fact. My father owned a shipping company, he inherited it from his father, who inherited it from his father. The family business was worth billions.”
Lana blinked in shock. She was no stranger to family money, but somehow she couldn’t picture Deacon growing up with such affluence.
“Mom was a renowned ballerina in her time,” he went on, a faraway note entering his voice. “She was so beautiful, unbelievably graceful. She retired after she had me, but she still kept a dance studio on the top floor of our house. I used to sit there and watch her dance for hours.”
“And your dad?”
“He wasn’t as gentle as my mother. He… I guess you could call him abusive.”
“He hit her?”
“No. He didn’t use fists, he used words. He wanted so much from everyone, from her, from me, and we always came up short. We always disappointed him, and he never hesitated to tell us that, especially her. And then one day, he just snapped.” Deacon’s voice thickened with pain. “I don’t know why. I have no clue what led to it, what she might have said or done to trigger him. I hired a PI about fifteen years ago, trying to piece it together, but he came up with nothing. Mom wasn’t cheating, hadn’t planned on leaving, hadn’t done anything. My father just…”
He stopped abruptly. Lana knew what came next, a tragic murder-suicide that had shattered Deacon’s entire world. Rather than focus on that horrifying snippet of history, she said, “After they died, what happened to the money?”
“My uncle happened.” Bitterness dripped from the admission. “I was only fifteen, so he became my guardian. He would run the business until I came of age, but what he did was run it into the ground. He also threw me out.”
She sucked in a breath. “Why would he do that?”