Missing Mother-To-Be

“No,” she said aloud, a vicious taste entering her mouth.

It wasn’t making love. It was sex. And deception.

How was she ever going to explain this to her child when he or she got older?

The sound of the lock creaking open caught her attention. She sat up just as Deacon walked into the room. He wore dark pants and a black turtleneck underneath an unbuttoned navy-blue shirt, and for a moment she almost forgot why they were both here. He was so damn gorgeous. It wasn’t fair for him to look so good and yet be doing this to her.

“I thought you might be cold,” he said gruffly.

He held out his hands, and she noticed the flannel afghan. She forced herself not to feel pleasure from the thoughtful gesture.

“Thank you,” she said in a stiff voice.

Deacon walked to the bed and handed her the blanket, which she draped over her lower body. Immediately, she felt warmer.

“Lana…” he started, then stopped.

She met his hazel eyes. “Did you contact my father?”

“Not yet.”

“How long am I going to be here?” There was a petulant chord to her tone, but she wasn’t ashamed of it. She deserved to be childish, if she chose to be. These people had kidnapped her, after all.

“I don’t know.” He shifted uneasily. “Did you give any thought to what I told you?”

She tightened her lips. “About keeping my mouth shut?”

“Yes.” That grave glimmer filled his eyes. “Everything I said was true. If Le Clair finds out about us, it won’t bode well for either one of us.”

She didn’t doubt that. Le Clair struck her as the kind of man who’d kill Deacon in cold blood if he found out about his indiscretion. Pathetic as it was, she didn’t want anything happening to Deacon. He might be in league with these men, but she’d believed him when he’d said he would keep her safe. His presence brought her a sick sense of security. If he was gone, she’d be all alone and at the mercy of Le Clair.

“I won’t say anything,” she finally said. A pause. “For now.”

He offered an expression of gratitude. “Thank you. I know I don’t deserve it.”

“No, you don’t.”

His big shoulders sagged. “I’m sorry you’re going through this. I really am. But it will all be over soon, Lana.”

Anger climbed up her chest, making her throat go tight. “Don’t bother with apologies. If you really cared about me, you would let me go.” She frowned. “Actually, if you cared, you wouldn’t have even let it get to this point. You could’ve warned me at the museum, told me to get out of town.”

His features were creased with exhaustion as he said, “It wouldn’t have mattered. We would have found you eventually.”

We. His use of the word only served as a reminder of who he truly was. He was working with these men. Holding her captive. All so he could score a few bucks. It was perplexing, because even now, she couldn’t bring herself to call this man greedy. He lacked that hungry glint in his eyes, the one that every other man in this nasty group seemed to possess.

“Why do you need the money?” she blurted out, unable to let go of the disturbing notion.

Deacon shrugged. “Why don’t I?”

“Are you planning on buying a yacht? A fancy villa? Cars, women, expensive gadgets?”

Discomfort was written all over his face. “No, I’m not planning on buying any of those things.”

“Then why?”

His mouth opened, then closed, his strong throat bobbing as he swallowed repeatedly. Her question seemed to bring him great distress, which only piqued her curiosity. No, it wasn’t curiosity, she quickly amended. She didn’t want to know a damn thing about this man. But if she could figure out what made him tick, she might be able to use it to her advantage.

Unfortunately, he decided to ignore the question altogether. “If you need anything during the night, to use the bathroom, a glass of water… just knock on the door,” he said in a rough voice.

“Deacon,” she called after him, but he was already gone.

As the door closed and the lock slid back into place, Lana sagged against the uncomfortable wooden headboard of the bed.

And started to cry.

She was trying to be quiet, but Deacon clearly heard Lana’s muffled sobs as he walked down the narrow hallway toward the living area. He’d made her cry. Somehow, that notion brought a slice of pain to his chest. A part of him wanted to turn around and comfort her, but he fought the urge. Damn it. He was losing control here.

Lana’s question continued to buzz around in his brain like a relentless hornet. Then why? Why did he need the money? Why was he doing this?

He almost wished he’d gone along with her accusations, lied and told her it was all about greed. But it wasn’t. Everything he was doing now, everything he’d done in the past, could all be credited to one simple thing: survival. He did what he did in order to survive. In order to ensure that never again would he be defenseless. Powerless.

Is that really why?

Deacon faltered. Truth was, a part of him wasn’t even sure why he still did this. He didn’t have buckets of money, but he had enough to live on modestly if he wanted to. He wasn’t a scared and hungry teenager anymore, desperate to survive. He didn’t need to take on so many assignments, especially not ones like this, that made him so damn uneasy.

So why?

Because you’re a bad person.

The little voice spoke in a flat, unyielding tone. It was a conclusion he’d reached years ago, after spending too many nights lying in bed and wondering how on earth he’d gotten to this point. He supposed he could always quit. But then what? He’d spent too many years living dangerously, often on the wrong side of the law—no way could he quit now and live as a respectable citizen.

This attraction for Lana was going to get him in trouble, he knew that. Yet he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control the ripples of desire that shook his body each time he was in the same room as her, or the way his palms tingled, begging him to touch her. Or how every cell in his body screamed for him to whisk her away from all this. To keep her safe and protected and… happy. He wanted to make her happy.

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