Page 14 of The Captive (The Kelley Legacy #5)

L ana’s heart was beating a million times a minute as Deacon’s mouth covered hers.

Her disloyal body melted against him like butter on a sizzling pan.

He smelled so unbelievably good, spicy and masculine, and she couldn’t think straight surrounded by that intoxicating scent.

And his mouth…it was warm and firm. Familiar.

She found herself responding to the kiss, brushing her lips over his even as her brain screamed for her to pull away.

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 that, 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.