Page 12 of The Captive (The Kelley Legacy #5)

B y the time the two-week mark of Lana’s captivity rolled by, Deacon was growing considerably wary about this job. Two weeks was a long time to keep a hostage. A very long time.

He didn’t like it one bit.

As he prepared a grilled cheese sandwich for Lana’s lunch, he mulled over the situation, wondering if he should approach Le Clair with his concerns.

The boss was beginning to look frazzled these days, spending most of his time on the porch mumbling into his cell phone, though to whom he was mumbling was a mystery to Deacon.

He got the feeling Le Clair wasn’t happy with the way things were going, but Deacon wasn’t privy to the details. Was Hank Kelley refusing to pay up?

Deacon’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown as he cut the sandwich in half and set it on a chipped yellow dish.

He knew Lana was growing frustrated, too, and deeply im patient.

He checked on her frequently, and their afternoon walks had become a daily ritual.

At first she’d pressed him about his childhood, trying to get more details about his parents’ deaths, but she’d eventually given up when he remained vague about it, and proceeded to chatter on aimlessly about her own life.

He knew it was her way to get her mind off her current predicament, but Deacon had started clinging to the stories she told.

He felt as though he knew everything about her now.

She told him wry anecdotes about her overprotective older brothers, spoke of her parents with deep emotion, raved about art, modestly described some of the sculptures in her recent body of work.

The more time he spent with her, the more he liked and respected Lana Kelley.

Which was why this assignment was starting to trouble him.

He didn’t want to see her get hurt, and the way Le Clair angrily muttered into that cell phone of his didn’t bode well for Lana.

“Lunch,” he said gruffly as he entered the back bedroom.

Lana’s head lifted at his arrival. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a sheet of sketching paper. Her long blond hair fell onto her face, and her slender fingers were stained black from the charcoal.

“Thanks,” she said absently, her hand moving quickly across the paper, adding details to the face in her sketch.

Deacon was startled when he realized it was his face. She was drawing him, and from the looks of it, the likeness was uncanny. Apparently she was very, very good at what she did.

After adding one last smudge underneath his left eye, she set down the charcoal and stood up, accepting the wet napkin he handed her and scrubbing at the tips of her fingers. Then she picked up the plate and took a bite of the grilled cheese, chewing fervently.

“I’m starving,” she said between mouthfuls.

Deacon hid a smile. He glanced at the portrait she’d left lying on the floor, noticed the other papers scattered next to it and realized she’d done a few more sketches. Faces.

He frowned. Tango’s sharp mouth and prominent scar glared up at him, while another sheet displayed Le Clair’s feral features and thin lips curled in a sneer.

“You’re drawing us,” he said uneasily.

She chewed slowly, nodding. “It’s not like I have any other subjects.”

His uneasiness intensified. “Can’t you sketch the mountains?”

“I already told you, I do faces. That’s what my work is about, bringing interesting faces to life.”

Maybe so, but she’d done a lot more than that here. She’d cataloged each one of her kidnappers, producing accurate sketches that any law-enforcement agency could use to nab each and every one of them. Including Deacon.

Lana gave him a knowing look. “I’ll rip them up when I’m done. Don’t worry, Delta, the cops won’t see these.” She swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and set the plate down on the desk. “But you will get caught,” she added. “You know that, right?”

He didn’t respond.

“You guys won’t get away with this,” she continued, her blue eyes glittering with defiance. “My family will find me.”

Her words made his chest squeeze in the most disconcerting way. You guys. It sent a streak of agony through him that she associated him with the others. But why shouldn’t she? He’d been a full participant in this abduction, and she had every reason to despise him. Yet she didn’t seem to.

“Why?” he burst out.

Her forehead wrinkled. “Why will they find me? Because they’re—”

“No,” he cut in. “Why don’t you despise me?”

She fixed him with a sad stare. “Who says I don’t?”

His heart twisted. “Do you?”

Her silence tore at his insides like a ravenous scavenger.

He didn’t know why, but the thought of Lana hating him was almost unbearable.

He knew he was the bad guy here, that he’d taken her against her will in order to score a wad of cash, but he didn’t want to be the object of this woman’s hatred.

Lana Kelley was…she was an incredible woman.

She’d handled her two-week stint as a hostage with the utmost grace, and the inner strength that radiated from her pores impressed the hell out of him.

She was smart, gorgeous, funny when she dropped her guard long enough to loosen up around him.

She was a woman he’d be proud to call his own, if he weren’t such a cold, lifeless ghost of a human being.

“No.”

Lana’s quiet voice sliced through his thoughts, making him glance up in shock. “No?” he echoed.

“I don’t hate you.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “I should, right? I should want to rip your throat out for what you’re doing to me. So why don’t I?”

“I have no idea,” he admitted hoarsely. “You have every right to hate me.”

“Maybe…maybe it’s because I don’t believe you’re one of them.” She gestured to the door, as if to point at the men beyond it. “They’re all greedy. Heartless. Especially Le Clair. He doesn’t seem to care one bit that he’s got me locked up in this cabin like a prisoner.”

She let out a shaky breath. “But I get the feeling that you care.” She met his eyes. “Am I crazy? Am I pathetic for believing that? God, for all I know, you’re playing me, making me think you actually give a damn, but really—”

“I give a damn,” he interjected, stunned by the slight crack in his voice. “I’m not playing you, Lana.” He was embarrassed by the next words that popped almost unconsciously from his mouth. “I’ve never met anyone like you. That night at the Louvre…it was…”

He trailed off awkwardly, but Lana wouldn’t let it go. “It was what?” she said softly.

“It was really nice.” He lifted his shoulders, then let them sag. “It was the first time in a long time I felt…at peace.”

She bit her bottom lip. “Do you…um, have a girlfriend?”

Her question shocked the hell out of him. “What?”

“I figured I’d ask. I mean, you lied about who you really are, maybe when you told me at the hotel that you were single, you were lying about that, too.”

Her words were like an arrow to the heart.

Somehow, her complete lack of trust in him made him want to hit something, namely himself.

She might not hate him, but her distrust was just as bad.

Still, he knew no amount of time or gestures could ever make her trust him again.

She had, that night in Paris, but no more.

“I’m single,” he said, his voice rough. “I didn’t lie about that.”

“Oh.” She visibly swallowed. “All right.”

“Does it make a difference?” he couldn’t help but ask.

She lifted her head and met his gaze head-on, laughing ruefully. “I guess it shouldn’t, huh? Here I am, worrying I might have been the other woman, when at the moment, I have plenty of other things to worry about.”

As if on cue, the door swung open with such force it banged against the paint-chipped wall and brought a gust of cold air into the room. Le Clair looked annoyed as hell as he marched across the weathered wood floor and thrust the phone into Lana’s hands. “Keep it short,” he growled at her.

Deacon’s entire body went on edge as he watched Lana grab for the phone like a starving child desperate for food. “Dad, it’s me,” she said quickly. She listened for a moment, and Deacon could see her brain working overtime in that pretty blond head of hers, trying to formulate another clue.

Sure enough, in a cool and composed voice, she said, “I know you were always closer to the capital than you were to your children, but when this is over, I hope we can spend some time together, maybe accept Mr. Bradshaw’s offer to—”

“Shut up,” Le Clair hissed at her, his gray eyes shooting daggers at Lana, who gasped as he violently snatched the phone and shoved her away.

Deacon stiffened as Lana stumbled backward and nearly fell onto the bed. He forced himself to keep a cool head, listening as Le Clair lifted the phone to his ear and barked, “Time’s up. You know what to do if you want her to live.”

Lana gasped again, her eyes growing as wide as saucers. She evidently hadn’t missed the deadly note in that last sentence. The gasp became a squeak when Le Clair grabbed her shoulders with both hands and shook so hard Deacon could swear he heard Lana’s teeth rattle.

“Who the hell is Bradshaw?” Le Clair roared, his French accent becoming more pronounced in his fury. “What were you saying to your father, you little bitch?”

Lana shrank back, but Deacon had to give her credit. She played the part of cowering female to a T, her bottom lip quivering, her eyes filling with tears. Only the almost-imperceptible flicker of defiance in her gaze revealed the truth. She was playing Le Clair, and the man had no freaking clue.

Deacon hid a grin.

“Ernie Bradshaw,” she whimpered between tiny sobs. “He owns an insurance company, and D-Daddy and I saw h-him a few months ago. He invited us to his s-summer house in Cape Cod. I thought if I reminded Daddy about it, it would lift his s-spirits.”

“Next time, you keep it short when I ask you to,” Le Clair snapped. “I don’t have the patience for pathetic little anecdotes, you understand?”

She nodded quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think…”