God help her, but she couldn’t move. The attraction she’d felt for this man a month ago came crashing back in full force, sending streaks of heat through her body and making every inch of her tingle. As his hands slid down to her waist and moved in a featherlight caress, she was reminded of the slow caresses and lazy kisses he’d bestowed upon her body the night in the hotel.
The night they’d conceived this baby.
She broke off the kiss at that sudden reminder, stum bling backward and sucking in a gulp of air to try and clear her head. “You…you should go,” she squeezed out, as her heart thudded relentlessly against her rib cage.
Something that resembled dismay flashed across his rugged face. When Lana glanced south, she noticed the thick hard length of him straining against the zipper of his black pants. His obvious arousal only made her heart beat faster. Lana wanted to kick herself for it.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. He edged toward the door like a stray dog wary of strangers. “I…shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.”
A third mumbled apology and he was out the door. The click of the lock was like the final touch to a ghastly drawing. She’d kissed him. Kissed her abductor.
Lana’s body felt ravaged, hot and needy and tingling with residual desire. The reaction horrified her, had her staggering toward the bed and collapsing on the hard mattress.
“Your mommy is out of her mind,” she whispered to her belly. “This ordeal has obviously messed your mom up, big-time.”
Her tiny son or daughter didn’t respond, of course, but Lana could swear she felt a ripple of movement in her womb. Her brain told her it was impossible; she was only four weeks along. Babies didn’t start kicking until, what? Sixteen, seventeen weeks? But the phantom flutter succeeded in calming her down. Her pulse slowed to a regular rhythm, and her chest, seconds ago tight with shock and desire, loosened considerably.
“Okay, this isn’t so terrible,” she said. “Mommy and Daddy kissed. No big deal.”
But it was a big deal. Deacon Holt had lied to her, seduced her and kidnapped her. She wasn’t supposed to have any feelings for the man. None. Zilch. Zero.
Yet for some reason, she still couldn’t lump him into the same evil category as the others. Her instincts had never failed her before, and right now, they were telling her that deep down, Deacon Holt was a good man.
Was she crazy to think that?
Several hours later, she got the answer to that question when Deacon entered the back room with stiff robotic movements, a dinner tray in his hands. He barely looked in her direction as he held out the tray. Steam rose from the plate, carrying the aroma of grilled chicken and roasted potatoes. It smelled so good her mouth watered involuntarily.
If there was one good thing about this ordeal—and good was a real stretch here—it was the food. Sure beat the bland pasta dishes she cooked up for herself back in her Florence apartment. She took after her mom—couldn’t cook worth a damn. Her aunt Bonnie Gene was a whiz in the kitchen, though. Lana always looked forward to Bonnie Gene’s yummy home-cooked meals whenever she visited her brother Cole in Maple Cove, Montana.
Accepting the tray, Lana slid back so she was leaning against the wall. She picked up the plastic fork, then hesitated. “Who’s doing the cooking?” she couldn’t help but ask.
“Me.”
Her head lifted in surprise. “Really?” When he nodded in confirmation, she said, “How’d you learn to cook so well?”
His response came in the form of a shrug.
“Do you like it?” Okay, she was totally grasping at straws here, but making idle conversation was the only way to ensure she didn’t bring up that explosive kiss.
Obviously, it wasn’t even on his mind, which meant she needed to follow his lead and pretend it hadn’t happened. Pretend that she hadn’t kissed her kidnapper. Hadn’t brushed her mouth against his, or parted her lips in anticipation, longing for the taste of his tongue.
“Are we going to talk about this?” she blurted out.
Wonderful. So much for pretending it never happened.
“What’s there to talk about?” Deacon’s tone was indifferent, almost cold, and it totally grated on her nerves.
“We kissed,” she said, her stern voice reminding her of the tone her brother Cole’s housekeeper, Hannah, used to reprimand her when she stole cookies off the baking sheet.
“It was a mistake.”
Lana raised a brow. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say about it?”
“Uh-huh.”
He was already edging for the door. Lana got the feeling he did that a lot. Cut and ran whenever things got too uncomfortable for him.
“Do you feel anything, ever?” she found herself grumbling. “Or do you always act like a lifeless robot around women?”
He didn’t even blink. Didn’t answer, either, which intensified her frustration.
“Why are you like this?” she burst out. “I know you’re not a robot, Deacon. That night in the hotel, you were… alive. You laughed and joked and teased me. You were passionate and gentle and…” Her voice trailed. She felt as though she was talking to a brick wall.
“An aberration,” he finally said, a sigh seeping from his massive chest. “Those words you just used—passionate, gentle. That’s not me, Lana.”
“Then who are you, damn it?” She kept her voice low, but every fiber of her being wanted to shout at this man.
“I’m the man who kidnapped you for money.”
His words were harsh, brooking no argument, seeking no acceptance. She stared at his handsome face, that big, lean body. His eyes had darkened to a forest green, and for the first time since they’d met, Lana saw something in his gaze. It was a tiny, almost indiscernible flicker, but she recognized it instantly.
Shame.
He was ashamed.
But of what? His part in her abduction? Past actions? Or was he ashamed of himself? Of who he was, on a cellular level?
“When I was twelve, my brother Dylan dated this girl… Mandy,” Lana started softly. “Everyone in my family adored her. She was a pretty brunette, smart, great sense of humor. She treated my parents like royalty, always helping clean up after dinner even though we had three housekeepers to do it. She helped me with my homework. Brought little thoughtful gifts for my mom, talked politics with my dad. She was totally perfect.”
Deacon eyed her warily. “Why are you telling me this?”
“Just…listen.” She took a breath. “So she was perfect, right, but no matter how hard I tried, I always got this nagging little feeling when she was around. She didn’t do a thing to warrant my suspicions, but they were there.”
Deacon quit moving toward the door, growing still and silent as he listened. “And were you right to be suspicious?”
Lana nodded. “Turned out she was stealing from us. Jewelry, family heirlooms, pieces of silver, even random knickknacks. Mom ended up firing one of our housekeepers—Mandy had planted a necklace in the woman’s room when my parents started noticing the thefts. When the truth came out, everyone was shocked.”
“But not you.”
“Not me.” She set the dinner tray beside her on the bedspread, her hunger forgotten. Leaning forward, she clasped her hands in her lap and met his eyes. “I get feel ings about people. I’ve had them since I was a little girl. I know, without reason or provocation, whether someone is a good person or a truly vile one. I knew it about Mandy, when there wasn’t a single sign to prove otherwise.” She took a breath. “And I sense it about you.”
He spoke in a pained voice. “That I’m vile?”
“That you’re the opposite,” she said with the shake of her head. “Deep down, I think you’re a good man.”
Disbelief filled his eyes. “Good?” he balked. “I’m sorry to burst your bubble, sweetheart, but there’s nothing good about me. As I just pointed out, I’m a willing party in your kidnapping.”
A tornado of despair swirled in her stomach. He kept reminding her of tha
t, and yet she kept disregarding it. What was wrong with her? Why was she determined to cling to the notion that Deacon Holt was a good person?
“I think,” he began slowly, “that for once, your sixth sense has failed you.” He sighed. “Actually, I don’t think it’s a sixth sense at all, Lana. Maybe with your brother’s girlfriend, but right here, right now, it’s plain old idealism that’s making you see things that aren’t there.”
“I’m not idealistic,” she whispered.
“Yes, you are.” His mouth twisted ruefully. “Maybe it’s because you’re an artist, or maybe you’ve just never had anything bad happen to you. But you seek perfection where it doesn’t exist, Lana.”
“No.”
“Yes.” He gave a bleak laugh. “In fact, you remind me of myself, when I was younger. I was optimistic, too, once, before reality crashed in. A word of advice, sweetheart, you can’t cling to fantasy forever. Eventually reality will settle in.”
She clamped her teeth over her lower lip. The bitterness in his voice was so thick she felt it in the air. God, the things he must have experienced in his life, awful, tragic things that had turned him into a man who believed nothing good existed—in the world, or in him.
But…
But was he right? Was she grabbing at anything here in her need to excuse Deacon’s actions because he was the father of her child? Their child. Maybe this was the time to tell him. The only concrete way to find out if her confidence in the man was sound.
If he knew, would he let her go? Or would he prove her instincts wrong and continue to keep her here against her will?
Releasing a breath, Lana raised her head to meet his gaze. She had to tell him. Now. She had to.
“Deacon,” she started. “I—”
“You’re wrong about me,” he interrupted. “I’m not good. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, decent about me. You don’t want or need someone like me in your life, and once this is all over, I’ll be gone. We’ll never see each other again.”
Disappointment floated into her chest. Her mouth closed. The temptation to tell him about the baby still remained strong, but she suddenly knew he wasn’t ready to hear it. Something had happened to this man. Maybe it was the death of his parents, or maybe some other traumatic event had skewed his entire outlook. Whatever it was, it had broken him beyond repair. Hearing he was going to be a father would not fix it. Not now anyway.
“So don’t worry, very soon I’ll be out of your life forever,” he finished roughly.
Without waiting for an answer or an objection, he left the room. Lana drew in a breath, slightly stunned by the passionate way he’d recited that dismal speech. He truly believed he was a bad person. And heck, maybe he was right. Maybe her sixth sense was steering her in the wrong direction.
But he’d been wrong about one thing. He would never be out of her life forever. A part of him would always remain in her life—their child.
You have to tell him.
She sighed. Yes, she knew Deacon needed to hear the truth, even if the truth changed nothing between them.
Soon, she vowed. She would tell him soon.
Sarah had never liked the Atlantic Ocean. It was too cold, too unpredictable. As she walked the shoreline in front of Vivienne’s beach house, she looked at the choppy waves and shivered. Despite the fact that the ship had gone down miles and miles from here, she could almost imagine the ghosts from the Titanic lurking beneath those waves, sobbing with grief and agony.
She felt like sobbing, too, right about now. A month. An entire damned month had passed since her daughter had been taken prisoner, and she was going crazy with worry. Hank had been calling with weekly updates, but he never had anything useful to say, save for the fact that he was “working on it.”
Working on what? She wanted her daughter home, safe and sound. And she wanted it now. As far as the professors at the university knew, Lana was visiting her brother in Montana, and the faculty hadn’t questioned it, which meant the media had no idea Lana was even missing. That was another reason Hank wanted to keep the police out of it, as filing an official report meant the press would immediately get wind of the situation. That had been fine by her—two weeks ago. Now she just wanted to call every media outlet out there in hopes that plastering Lana’s face all over the world would provide them with a lead, but Hank had convinced her to stay silent. For now.
If something wasn’t done, though—and soon—Sarah had already decided to take matters into her own hands.
As if on cue, her cell phone began to ring. She fumbled in the pocket of the long cardigan sweater she’d thrown on before coming outside. Whipping the phone to her ear, she said, “Have you found her?”
Hank’s voice was strained. “Not yet, but I think we’ve figured out where she’s being held.”
Hope soared through her. “Where?” she demanded.
“In the mountains, north of Sacramento. Remember those clues I told you about, the words she spoke during the calls? Well, my bodyguard Gage figured out where they must be keeping her.”
“Did you inform the FBI?”
Silence greeted her ears.
“Damn it, Hank! You didn’t call them, did you?”
He sounded guarded as he said, “There are things at work here that you don’t understand, darling. I’m doing my best.”
Right, because his best had always served them well in the past. Sarah almost wished her husband were standing in front of her, so she could strangle him. She’d heard from her son Dylan that one of Hank’s mistresses had attacked him in Maple Cove, but even now—or maybe especially now—she couldn’t muster up any concern or sympathy. Hank Kelley deserved what he got.
“I’m going to call Jim,” she said decisively, referring to their youngest son, who was currently on an overseas assignment with his Special Forces unit.
“No.” Hank’s tone brooked no argument. “Leave the boy out of this. I’ve already sent someone to get Lana.”
She faltered. “Who did you send?”
“A mercenary, one of the best in the world.” Encouragement rang from the other end of the line. “He’s going to find her, Sarah, and he’s going to bring her home safely. I promise you that.”
She drew in a long breath, fixing her gaze on the dark water ahead. “Okay,” she said, her voice soft and lacking the confidence her husband seemed to be feeling. “Just get our baby home, Hank. Please.”
“I will,” he vowed.
Sarah ended the connection and tucked the phone into her pocket. Then she wrapped her arms around her chest and slowly walked back to the house.
Okay, so soon was a relative term, Lana decided after two more weeks had passed and the truth about the baby had yet to reach Deacon’s ears. But she’d tried. Each time he came into the room brandishing another delicious meal, she came close to revealing the pregnancy. Once, she’d even babbled on about what a lively baby she’d been, hoping it would provide a smooth interlude into “maybe the baby we’re having will be lively, too.”
But the words refused to reach the surface, and Deacon’s gruff, aloof demeanor hadn’t helped any. He’d shut down on her again. Ever since the kiss, he kept her at arm’s length. The afternoon walks continued, but they lacked any and all discussion. She’d run out of stories to tell him, so now they walked in silence, while Le Clair fumed on the porch—when he wasn’t taking off for days at a time.
Le Clair’s frequent absences had begun to worry Lana. What was going on in the real world? Why was she still here?
It pained her to admit it, but evidently the clues she’d tried giving her father had gone unnoticed. Somehow she doubted her family was up in a helicopter searching these mountains. She would’ve heard the whir of rotors overhead, and besides, it wouldn’t take two weeks to comb the entire area. There were only a handful of accessible locations near Sacramento, which meant that her father hadn’t picked up on the word capital and if he had, he hadn’t connected it with California.
She’d been a prisone
r for more than a month, and with each day that passed, hope began slipping away. She tried clinging to it, squeezing it between her fingers before she lost it completely, but every hour, every minute, scissors of fear hacked away at that ribbon of hope.
“I’m going to die here,” she whispered into the darkness.
The sun had just set, and Deacon had already taken away her dinner tray. That meant she got to spend the rest of the night in this room, alone. The papers and charcoal were abandoned on the desk. She’d given up on sketching days ago, no longer able to muster up any creativity.
Her voice cracked as she spoke to her unborn child. “Oh, baby, what are we going to do?”
Tears stuck to her lashes, then broke free and streamed down her cheeks, leaving watery trails on her skin. She was pregnant and alone and so far away from her family, in emotional distance at least. She missed them all desperately, even more than when she’d been away at school.
“I’m scared.” The two syllables slipped through her lips, the terror and misery they resonated hanging in the dark room like a relentless fog.
She tried not to show that fear when Deacon was around, but he must be picking up on it by now. If he only knew how deep the fear truly ran. Already, her body had begun to show the signs of her condition. Her breasts were growing fuller, and they ached all the time now. Her belly was still flat, but how much longer would it remain that way? A month? Two? A tremor of distress ran through her. When a baby bump made an appearance, she’d have no way of keeping the truth from Deacon. She’d made a show of taking a tampon out of her toiletry case, under the pretense that she was on her cycle, but soon she wouldn’t be able to fool him.
Lana wiped away her tears, soaking the sleeve of her flannel shirt. It was one of the shirts her captors had purchased for her, serving as another reminder that she had zero control over her own life. She was trapped, a caged animal at the mercy of its handlers. She depended on them for food, shelter, warmth. Supervised walks. Locked door. She didn’t even know what day it was anymore. Definitely mid-October by now, but what was the date? Her uncle Donald’s birthday was on the fourteenth. Had she missed it? Had her family flown to Montana as they always did? Her father, probably not. He and Don had been estranged for years, and Hank Kelley made no effort to be cordial to his brother.