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 nar
rowed 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 togethe
r 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.