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 single-story 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?”