Missing Mother-To-Be. Эль Кеннеди

and was now using it to make sure she kept to the rapid pace they’d set for her.

      They neared the door. Lana’s gaze darted around like that of a scared rabbit, trying to find a way out of this, a person whose eye she could catch. But the other passengers were filing off the train, chatting obliviously to one another, as the purser helped them onto the platform.

      The man ahead of them got off first. Again, she experienced a weird sense of familiarity. She knew him. The hard set of the shoulders, the almost militarily precise walk. It reminded her of her brother Jim, who was a trained Special Forces operative. He moved with that same predatory grace.

      Lana was suddenly heaved down the steps, her suitcase thudding onto the floor of the train platform. Cold Eyes stood directly beside her, his brown eyes dark with irritation and impatience. “Faster,” he ordered. “And put a smile on your damn face.”

      A smile? She was seconds away from bursting into tears. Hot moisture painfully pricked her eyelids and her throat was so tight she could barely draw in a breath. But then she remembered the gun tucked in his coat, and forced her lips to cooperate. She tugged up the corners of her mouth, trying to look happy, to pretend that she wasn’t being taken hostage by three fierce-looking thugs.

      The smile didn’t hold, though. It lasted all of three seconds, until the third man whose face she still hadn’t seen finally turned around.

      A shocked gasp flew out of her throat.

      Oh, God.

      It was Deacon! Deacon, standing right there on the platform, the hem of his trench coat blowing around from the brisk wind in the station.

      Their eyes locked. For one brief second, hope shot up her chest, warming her heart. He was here. He was going to save her. He was—

      “Keep walking,” Deacon snapped, and all the hope in her body fizzled like a wet candle.

      She felt pressure against her hip. Realized Scar Cheek was pressing his gun into her back. Fear spiraled through her. Fear and amazement and pure and utter shock.

      Deacon. Was here. He was here, with two other men. With guns.

      Oh, God, she was being kidnapped by the father of her baby.

      Chapter 2

      Deacon Holt was not a religious man. Never had been, probably never would be. Yet at that moment, as he stared into Lana Kelley’s bottomless blue eyes, he found himself praying.

      Praying that she’d keep her mouth shut.

      If she said his name, or let on that they’d slept together, they’d both be screwed. Le Clair wouldn’t think twice about yanking Deacon’s ass off this assignment, and if that happened, Lana Kelley would be utterly alone. Defenseless.

      Dead.

      Deacon forced the troubling thought from his head and kept walking. A quick backward glance and he confirmed that the flood of familiarity was still swimming on Lana’s gorgeous face. She knew exactly who he was.

      Well, no kidding. They’d gone to bed with each other, of course she wouldn’t forget that.

      Frustration gathered in his gut, making his intestines burn. Damn it. Why, why had he slept with her? He’d always prided himself on possessing incredible control, yet one look at Lana Kelley’s flawless features and slender fragile body, and he’d been a goner. He was supposed to be tailing her, monitoring her movements until Le Clair got word from his bosses that the mission was a go. Instead, he’d fallen into bed with the woman, unable to steel himself against her soft, melodic voice and big blue eyes.

      At least Le Clair didn’t suspect anything. After Lana left his hotel room that night, Deacon had reported in, informing his boss that inadvertent contact had been made. Le Clair promptly pulled him off tailing rotation, and Deacon had spent the past two weeks alternating between the urge to kick himself and the need to see Lana Kelley again.

      Somehow, the woman had gotten under his skin. Bigtime.

      And yet you’re kidnapping her, said the mocking voice in his head.

      Deacon didn’t allow himself to dwell on the sliver of guilt that pricked his skin. This was business. He might have messed up and screwed the target, but he wasn’t about to screw himself. His work as a mercenary was all he had. He’d been forced to fend for himself since he was fifteen years old, making money by whatever means necessary. And he hadn’t gotten to this point by distracting himself with foolish human emotions like guilt. Emotions, frankly, were a waste of time, and he forced himself to remember that as he led the group toward the exit of the station.

      Behind him, Charlie and Tango were practically dragging Lana, urging her in hard tones to keep walking. Deacon had never worked with the two men before. Didn’t even know their real names. Le Clair assigned each team member names from the military alphabet, corresponding to the letters of their first name. So Charlie and Tango could be Carl and Tom, or Chris and Tim, for all Deacon knew. But they were pros, that much was evident. They’d handled Lana Kelley with supreme efficiency back on that train.

      Deacon might even have been impressed by their professionalism, if he hadn’t been battling the ridiculous urge to take Lana into his arms and carry her off the train to safety.

      What the hell was the matter with him?

      Focus. You’re on a job.

      Deacon drew in a calming breath. Okay. He had to quit remembering the way Lana Kelley looked naked—as mind-blowing as the image was—and treat her as he did any other target. Faceless. Nameless. A means to an end. And in this case, the end was a staggering amount of money. Whoever had hired Le Clair was obviously rolling in dough.

      “Please, don’t do this.”

      Lana’s agonized whisper made his shoulders stiffen. He refused to turn around. Didn’t want to see the fear and horror and disappointment on her pretty face.

      “Shut up,” Charlie muttered.

      She ignored the order. “Please,” she said again. “I’ll give you anything you want, just let me go. I have money. Lots and lots of it. My father is—”

      “We know exactly who your father is,” Tango cut in, sounding amused. “So shut your trap and walk.”

      Lana made a startled noise, as if Tango had shoved her, and Deacon fought back a wave of rage. If Tango touched her one more time, Deacon would… do nothing.

      Get a hold of yourself, for Chrissake.

      He curled his hands into fists and looked straight ahead. This strange bout of protectiveness he felt toward Lana was unacceptable. If Le Clair got even the slightest whiff of it, Deacon would be sent packing. And he could kiss all that cash goodbye.

      The foursome stepped outside. It was six in the morning, but the front of the station was bustling with people. A man walked by, talking loudly into his cell phone in a string of Italian phrases that Deacon understood perfectly. He’d been fluent in Italian for years. French, too, and Russian, Greek, Spanish, Latin… His parents had made certain he had the best education a boy could have.

      That is, before his father had shot his mother in the head and proceeded to turn the gun on himself.

      Deacon experienced a burst of shock as the memory crept into his consciousness. Shit. What was he doing, thinking about all that old garbage? It was over, done with. His parents were dead, but he was very much alive. And at the moment, he had a job to do.

      “Echo should be waiting right over… There he is,” Deacon said brusquely as a black SUV with heavily tinted windows pulled up behind one of the taxis out front.

      He turned, getting another dose of the sheer betrayal sizzling in Lana’s eyes. “Why are you doing this?” she pleaded softly. “How could you, after—”

      A sharp shake of his head shut her up, and he had to give her credit. The gorgeous blonde stopped abruptly without