“No, I picked up on the fact that money doesn’t matter to you.”
“So this is why you’re doing this, for the money?” She shook her head, a slow sad gesture that made him uncomfortable. “I must have misjudged you.”
His discomfort grew. She sounded so disappointed, a tad judgmental, too, and it was the judgment that raised his hackles. What did this woman know about poverty? Had she ever lived on the streets? Sat on a sidewalk holding out a tin can, begging for coins? She lived in splendor now, but had that splendor ever been taken away? He knew all about the life Lana Kelley led. The Beverly Hills mansion, the Montana ranch, the numerous vacation homes. He’d lived it, too. He’d been the son of a shipping tycoon, for Chrissake.
And he’d lost everything. Every last thing, save for the clothes on his back and the small duffel his uncle had let him pack before kicking him out on the street.
Lana Kelley didn’t know what life without money was. She’d never had to fight for her own survival.
And she had no right to judge him.
“Put on some warmer clothing.” He moved stiffly to the door. “You must be hungry after that long flight. I’ll bring you some food.”
“Wait.”
His hand froze on the door handle. Slowly, he turned around. Her face was pale, her eyes weary with defeat.
“I don’t care what your motives are,” she said in a miserable voice. “But if you want money, I’ll give you money. I promise, whatever—what did you call him? Le Clair?—well, whatever he’s paying you, I’ll double it. Just help me get out of here and I’ll make sure you have all the money you want.”
He stifled a sigh. Double the pay? The offer might have been tempting, if not for the fact that Le Clair would hunt him down and murder him if he ever defected.
He said as much to Lana, eyeing her unhappily. “Le Clair is a very dangerous man. A man you don’t cross. As much as I want to help you, I—”
“You don’t want to help me,” she cut in angrily. “If you did, you wouldn’t have kidnapped me. You wouldn’t have—” She stopped abruptly, a suspicious expression filling her face. “Did you know who I was, that night in the Louvre? Were you planning this, even then?”
Deacon wanted to lie. It bothered him that his first instinct was to protect this woman, even from the ugly truth. But although he was many things, a liar he wasn’t.
“I knew,” he replied gruffly.
She blinked, and the tears sticking to her lashes broke free and slid down her smooth cheeks. “You knew,” she echoed.
“Yes.” He found himself giving a hurried explanation. “But I didn’t plan for us to…be intimate. I was only supposed to watch you.” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat, annoyed with the sign of weakness. “But then you spoke to me, and…well, it just happened.”
Her tears fell harder. “I can’t believe this. I can’t…” She looked at him with tearstained cheeks, suddenly appearing much younger than her twenty-four years. “Don’t let them hurt me,” she finally whispered, her arms encircling her own waist and tightening over her stomach. “Just promise me that.”
He tore his gaze from her and turned the doorknob. “I’ll make sure nothing happens to you, Lana. I promise.” Then he slid out the door and, ignoring the ache in his chest, locked it behind him.
Chapter 4
Lana’s first night as an official hostage went by without incident. After Deacon left her in the back bedroom, she’d changed into jeans and a fleece hooded sweatshirt, as well as the thick wool socks her kidnappers had purchased for her. Then she’d sat on the narrow bed and catalogued every item in her suitcase. Clothes, toiletries, sewing kit, nail kit. The two kits had been confiscated by Cold Eyes, whose name was apparently Charlie. With two brothers in the military, she was familiar with the military alphabet, which Le Clair had evidently decided to employ for code names. For some reason, though, Le Clair wasn’t hiding his real name from her. Almost as if he believed he were invincible, that even if she knew his true identity, it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference.
That worried her, though not as much as the fact that none of the kidnappers bothered to disguise their faces from her. Did that mean they planned to kill her? Or, like Le Clair, were these men confident that knowing what they looked like wouldn’t make a difference once their assignment ended?