Missing Mother-To-Be

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“I’m torn between throttling you and kissing you.”

His throat went dry the second the words left his mouth.

Their gazes locked again, and what he saw on her face stole his breath. She looked as she did the night in his hotel room. Cheeks flushed to a rosy pink. Lips slightly parted. The memory of how soft those lips felt pressed against his own had him moving closer, too, despite every warning bell going off in his head.

It was hard to breathe. Or think. Yeah, he really wasn’t thinking as his head dipped ever so slightly. His body went tighter than a drum, taut with anticipation.

His pulse raced.

Her eyes glimmered with reluctant heat.

Their heads moved closer, their lips mere inches away. The scent of her hair drifted into his nostrils, sweet and feminine and so very addictive. He breathed her in, drowning in the scent, while his body hummed eagerly and his mouth tingled with the need to taste her.

So he did.

Dear Reader,

Falling in love with your kidnapper… I’ll be honest—this might be the toughest premise I’ve ever had to work with. Then again, I always love a good challenge, and I think it’s sometimes fun and exciting to step out of your comfort zone and push the boundaries.

The hero of this story, Deacon Holt, believes there is darkness inside of him. So what better way to show him the light than to pair him with the beautiful, idealistic Lana Kelley, a woman who sees beauty in everything? Redemption stories have always been a favorite of mine, and I hope you enjoy Deacon and his path to redemption!

I’m always happy to hear from readers, so visit my website, www.ellekennedy.com, and drop me a line.

Happy reading!

Elle Kennedy

About the Author

A RITA^® Award-nominated author, ELLE KENNEDY grew up in the suburbs of Toronto, Ontario, and holds a BA in English from York University. From an early age, she knew she wanted to be a writer, and actively began pursuing that dream when she was a teenager. She loves strong heroines and sexy alpha heroes, and just enough heat and danger to keep things interesting.

Elle loves to hear from her readers. Visit her website, www.ellekennedy.com, for the latest news or to send her a note.

Missing
Mother-To-Be
Elle Kennedy

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To Marie, Beth, Gail, Carla and Cindy—I’m honored

to be part of a miniseries with such talented and

fabulous authors!

Prologue

Don’t worry, kiddo. There’s nothing you can do here.

Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, Lana Kelley stared at the timeless masterpiece in front of her, the white marble’s graceful curves bringing only a fraction of the soothing serenity art normally gave her. Her older brother’s words continued to run through her mind. Why was it that when someone told you not to worry it only made you worry more?

Ever since her phone call with Dylan, she’d been debating whether to hop on a plane back to the States or to take her brother’s advice and stay put. The inner debate had eventually brought her here, to this surprisingly deserted wing of the Louvre, which housed the celebrated Venus de Milo. Throughout her entire life, she’d felt most at peace in a museum. It was as if the magnificent works of art possessed the ability to calm her, help clear her mind so she could make sense of the chaos out in the real world.

And her world, more often than not, was definitely chaotic. The youngest daughter of a United States senator and an oil heiress, Lana had spent most of her twenty-four years in the public eye, a position she hadn’t always enjoyed. She preferred holing up in the spacious studio her dad had set up for her in their California mansion, running her fingers over warm dusty clay. This past year, though, had been welcomingly unchaotic. Living in Florence, working on her master’s degree in art history—for once, she’d been able to live her life out of the public eye.

Her father, on the other hand, seemed completely incapable of discretion.

Senator’s Dirty Little Secret.

The newspaper headline she’d come across earlier today flashed across her mind, bringing a pretzel of pain to her belly. What had her father been thinking? And if the news of his infidelities had reached Paris, where she was spending her summer vacation, she could just imagine how bad things were back home.

Dylan had sounded so disgusted with their dad. Hardly a surprise. Growing up, she’d witnessed her father’s tumultuous relationship with her five older brothers, but Lana had been fortunate enough to experience a different side of Hank Kelley. She was the apple of her dad’s eye, and she loved him deeply, despite his spoiled and reckless nature.

But she loved her mother, too, and her heart ached at the thought of what Mom must be going through right now. Her stomach burned with grief and regret. She wished she were home to support her mother, and heck, even her dad, who must be horribly embarrassed and riddled with guilt over the pain he’d caused. But Dylan had urged her to go back to Florence for the new term and focus on her studies.

“We’re closing in thirty minutes, mademoiselle.” The hesitant voice of the armed guard manning the gallery door drew her from her thoughts.

Lana lifted her head, startled. She’d heard a staff member announce that the museum would be closing in an hour—hadn’t that been only a couple of minutes ago? She glanced at her silver Cartier watch and frowned. No, the guard was right. The announcement had been a while ago. She must have spaced out again.

“I’ll be leaving shortly,” she assured the guard. “I lost track of time.”

She noticed his gaze flit over the watch circling her wrist, as if he couldn’t believe she could lose track of time while wearing such an expensive watch. Stifling a sigh, Lana let the sleeve of her red wool sweater slide down to hide the watch’s diamond-studded face. It had been a gift from her father, and though she hated extravagant shows of wealth, she felt guilty when she didn’t wear the darn thing. Almost as if Hank Kelley could sense, from another continent no less, the moment she took the watch off her wrist.

“I’m sure the director would be inclined to keep the exhibit open should you require more time to peruse the pieces, Ms. Kelley,” the tall man hedged in his thick French accent.

Another sigh rose up her chest. She swallowed that one down, too. Of course. She should’ve known the director would inform the guards of her identity. Louis Dupont was an old acquaintance of her mother’s, and he always treated Lana like a princess when she came to visit.

“That won’t be necessary,” she said quickly. “I have somewhere to be anyway.”

Yet instead of gathering her purse and the small sketchbook she’d brought with her, her gaze drifted back to the beautiful statue in front of her. Not yet. She didn’t want to go yet, not when her nerves were still coiled in tense knots.

“The museum is closing in thirty minutes.”

Frowning, Lana glanced at the guard, wondering why he felt the need to remind her of something he’d uttered seconds ago, but then she noticed the warning wasn’t directed at her. A tall man in black wool trousers and a hunter-green sweater stood near the large arched doorway off to her left, and it was him the guard had spoken to.

She hadn’t noticed anyone else in the quiet, spacious room, and the sight of the ruggedly handsome stranger immediately sparked her interest. He was in his mid to late thirties, with brown hair cut in a short, military-like style, and an unbelievably gorgeous face. High cheekbones, a strong jaw and straight aristocratic nose, sensual lips—very much like the classically handsome, chiseled features of the statues gracing the gallery. Yet it wasn’t just his looks that captured her attention. There was something simmering below his perfectly sculpted surface. Something dark and powerful and very, very sexy.

The man nodded in response to the guard’s notification, but made no move to leave. Rather, he stepped closer to the Venus de Milo, his hazel eyes fixed on the statue as the guard edged back to the door.

“She’s beautiful, huh?” The question slipped out of Lana’s mouth before she could stop it. She didn’t usually strike up conversations with strangers, but the look in the man’s eyes was so very… haunting.

He turned slightly, not even blinking. “Yes. She is.”

“I always imagine her whole, with long graceful arms, adorned with jewels. We think she’s a beauty now, but can you imagine how much more beautiful she’d be?” Lana felt her cheeks grow warm as the random and somewhat pretentious remark passed through her lips. She tended to get caught up when surrounded by art, and she suddenly experienced a pang of embarrassment, unleashing an art lecture on a total stranger.

But to her surprise, his features softened. Those hazel eyes shone with intensity as he locked his gaze with hers. “Divine beauty,” he said simply.

His husky voice made her heart skip a beat. It was deep, rough, like a gruff purr.

“Exactly,” she murmured. When he didn’t respond, she awkwardly clasped her hands together in her lap. “I love it here,” she found herself blurting. “Just looking at all these pieces makes me feel… at peace. Does that happen to you?”

The stranger’s eyes never left hers. “Yes. It does.”

“It’s as though all the problems in the world just fade away,” she went on, a faraway note entering her voice. “At least that’s what usually happens. Right now, I can’t stop thinking about everything going on back home. My family… God, what a mess.”

The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if debating whether or not to get the heck out of there before she burst into tears or something. Lana didn’t blame him. What was she thinking, dumping her problems on a stranger?

“I’m sorry.” She laughed in discomfort. “I don’t normally burden people I don’t know with my issues.”

“It’s not a burden.” His voice came out rough. “Did something happen back home?”

She nodded numbly. “Yeah. Yeah, something happened. And I want so badly to fly back and help, but my brother says there’s nothing I can do.”

“He’s probably right.” Her stranger shrugged. “I’ve learned it’s often better to let others clean up their own messes.”

“Maybe.” Lana rested her hands on her knees. “I just hate feeling powerless.”

A wry half smile lifted his mouth. “As does most of the world.”

She smiled back. “You’re right. Nobody likes it, do they?” Impulsively, she got to her feet and stuck out her hand. “I’m Lana.”

Another beat of hesitation, and then he slowly reached out and shook her hand, oddly gentle. Somehow she didn’t suspect gentleness was a word you’d normally associate with this man. Now that she was standing up, she realized exactly how big he was. Well over six feet, and the muscles rippling beneath his green sweater looked rock-hard.

A thrill shot through her body, which surprised her. This had never happened to her before, such a quick, visceral attraction, the almost eerie awareness of this man as male. She didn’t have much experience in the attraction department, aside from high-school crushes and that one disastrous relationship when she was doing her undergrad.

“Deacon.”

That timber-rough voice jolted her from her thoughts. Deacon. She tilted her head to meet his eyes again. Yes, he looked like a Deacon. It was a strong name, very fitting for this man who just radiated strength.

“Deacon,” she echoed, a mere whisper.

His hazel eyes went darker, burning with something unidentifiable. As if the sound of his name on her lips had elicited something inside him.

“You’re an American,” she added, a statement, not a question. His accent wasn’t Parisian. Not European, either.

“I grew up in Boston,” he confirmed, and then his lips tightened shut, as if the revelation displeased him.

“East coast,” she said, a teasing note to her voice. “I’m from the west. Just a spoiled little rich girl from Beverly Hills.”

Those sensual lips relaxed, lifting slightly. “Somehow I don’t think the word spoiled applies to you.”

She offered another smile. “But maybe I am. Maybe I’m spoiled rotten.”

Deacon shook his head. “No. Money doesn’t interest you.” His gaze slid down to her fancy watch. “I think you would even give that watch to a beggar on the street if you didn’t have change.”

Surprise jolted through her. “You sound very certain of that.”

“Am I wrong?”

“No,” she admitted. “I’m not interested in material things. And I would give this darn watch away, if it hadn’t been a gift.”

Deacon had that look about him, the smug one of a man who’d totally pegged her. “I bet you even gave your trust fund to charity, didn’t you, Lana?”

Her lips twitched. Yep, he had her pegged. “The day I turned twenty-one,” she confirmed. She neglected to mention that her irate father had promptly deposited the same amount back into her account. She didn’t have the heart to give the second trust away; spoiling her gave her father such silly pleasure.

“So…” Deacon cocked his head thoughtfully. “If money doesn’t interest you, then what does?”

His question gave her pause. “Family,” she replied. “And sculpting. I could never give up my art.”

“Ah, you yearn to make the world a more beautiful place.” There was a slight edge to his tone.

“Why not?” She shrugged carelessly. “There’s so much ugliness in the world these days. What’s wrong with wanting to replace some of it with beauty?”

“An idealist. I should have known.”

She studied his face. “You don’t believe in the power of beauty?”

Deacon went quiet. His hazel eyes locked with hers once more, and there it was again, that intense ripple of energy beneath his surface. Only this time it was accompanied by heat. Heavy, sizzling heat that seemed to hang in the air, hovering over them, crackling between them.

“Yes,” he finally said, his voice thick. “I believe in the power of beauty.”

His gaze swept across her body, resting on her breasts, her hips, and then moving back to her face. Her heart jumped again. And her breasts were suddenly achy, her nipples tingling against her bra. What was this? Lust at first sight? No, she didn’t lust over strange men. She was far too levelheaded for primitive urges.

And yet, when she opened her mouth, the words that slid out proved that maybe she was far lustier than she’d ever imagined. “Would you… like to have a drink with me?”

Surprised flickered on his handsome face. He took a step back, as if he wanted to flee. But he didn’t. Instead, his massive chest rose as he drew in a breath, and then one husky word echoed in the empty gallery.

“Yes.”

Chapter 1

Two weeks later

Were there right and wrong ways to pee on a stick? Lana stared down at the plastic cylinder between her trembling fingers, the two pink lines as clear as a billboard in Times Square. She must be doing something wrong. This was the fourth test she’d taken in two days. Eight pink lines. It had to be a mistake.

“Attention tous les passagers,” a loud voice blared in French through the PA. The voice informed her that the train to Florence was now boarding, prompting Lana to leave the bathroom stall.

Her shaky legs carried her to the trash can near the door, where she tossed the pregnancy test before turning to examine her reflection in the mirror. Her blond hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, her face was makeup-free and there were dark smudges under her eyes. She looked tired.

Didn’t look pregnant, though.

Her gaze slid down to her abdomen, which was flat beneath her red V-neck tee. And her snug black capris fitted the same as always, comfortably circling her waist

She lifted her head, suddenly feeling silly. Of course she wouldn’t be showing yet. It had only been two weeks. Two weeks since that crazy, wonderful night with Deacon.

Quickly washing her hands, she dried them with a paper towel then dropped it in the trash, effectively covering the pregnancy test that seemed to glare accusingly up at her.

She drew in a calming breath. Okay. Okay, this wasn’t the end of the world. She was pregnant, not deathly ill. She would get on the train, go back to her apartment in Florence and figure things out.

How will you find him? a desperate little voice demanded.

Lana left the bathroom, tugging on the handle of her sleek black suitcase and rolling it behind her. The distressed plea in her mind was hard to ignore. How would she find him? She’d gone back to his hotel last night, after the first two tests had shown positive, but the clerk in the lobby informed her that Mr. Holt had checked out. Holt. At least she got a last name out of that visit.

She dodged a woman dragging an enormous suitcase, and continued down the terminal. The station was busy, filled with evening travelers rushing up and down the tiled floor. People chattered on in French, Italian and a smattering of other languages, completely oblivious to Lana’s inner turmoil.

How on earth would she track down Deacon? The hotel didn’t have a forwarding address for him, and a quick Google search on her laptop had come up with nothing. She didn’t even know what he did for a living, for Pete’s sake. A businessman, he’d said. Great. So much to go on there.

“May I help you with your suitcase?” a purser asked in French as Lana approached the track.

“Merci, oui,” she murmured.

The thin man picked up her suitcase then helped her onto the train. A loud whistle pierced the air. Travelers were bounding down the platform, boarding at the last minute, while the PA crackled again to announce the train’s departure.

A pretty woman with shiny brown hair escorted Lana to her compartment. It was a private sleeper car, and she’d already arranged for a wake-up call for tomorrow morning, when she’d need to take the connecting train in Milan. The cabin was cozy and comfortable, but Lana doubted she’d get any sleep. Probably just sit in silence for the next nine hours and try not to cry.

God, what kind of mess had she found herself in?

She sank down on the plush bench and promptly buried her face in her hands.

“Is everything all right, mademoiselle?” the stewardess asked hesitantly.

Lana lifted her head. “Everything is fine,” she managed. “I’m just tired.”

The woman stored Lana’s suitcase on the overhead rack and edged to the door. “I will let you rest then. Enjoy the trip.”

Lana muttered a thank-you, then let out a breath as the door of the compartment closed and she was alone.

Alone.

Oh, God, she’d have to raise this baby by herself.

The moment the thought slid into her mind, a surprising sense of calm settled over her. Ever since she’d taken those tests, she hadn’t allowed herself to think about what she planned to do with the baby. She was twenty-four years old, unmarried, still being supported by her parents to supplement the small income she made selling her sculptures. Having a child hadn’t been in her foreseeable future.

But circumstances had changed. She was pregnant. And no matter how unexpected this development, she knew she would keep the baby.

Her hand covered her stomach, a rush of startling joy sweeping through her as she imagined the tiny life growing inside her. A baby. Her baby.

And Deacon’s…

The joy faded into frustration. Yes, this was Deacon’s child, too. And he had no clue.

She had to find a way to contact him. Sure, he probably wouldn’t be thrilled about the news. For all she knew, he’d turn on his heel and march away without a backward glance, not wanting anything to do with this child. The notion brought a spark of pain and anger to her gut, but she wasn’t naive enough to dwell on the anger. She and Deacon were strangers. Two strangers who’d met one night and found comfort and magic in each other’s arms.

She couldn’t expect him to welcome the idea of fatherhood with open arms. She wouldn’t even blame him if he didn’t. But he still had a right to know. Lana wouldn’t be able to live with herself knowing she’d kept something as important as a child from the man.

She had to track him down. So what if he didn’t seem to want to be found? So what if it would be difficult? She was Lana Kelley, after all. Her shoulders straightened in determination. When she reached Florence, she’d call a private investigator and hire him to find Deacon. And then she’d sit down and figure out what to do about this last year of school. She could probably finish out the winter semester, but she wanted to be in the States when the baby was born. She wanted her family to—

Her family.

Lana felt all the color drain from her face. “They’re going to kill me,” she mumbled to herself.

She pictured her brothers’ faces when they heard the news and suddenly grew nauseous. Her parents might understand, maybe even support her. They might have their own problems at the moment, but everything would be straightened out eventually. Once that happened, she knew her mom and dad would help her.

Her brothers, on the other hand…

Dylan and Cole would be furious. Jake might be supportive, if he ever returned from his mysterious undercover assignment that had taken him away from them for two years now. Chase probably wouldn’t care—he’d washed his hands of the family years ago. And Jim, well, he’d probably hunt Deacon down and rip his throat out.

A hysterical laugh bubbled in her throat. At least then she’d be able to tell Deacon the news.

Reaching for the black leather purse she’d set down beside her, Lana fumbled inside it until she found her cell phone. The train was already tearing down the tracks, heading for Florence, but she couldn’t wait until she got there. She had to talk to someone. Anyone. She needed some moral support badly.

She scrolled through her contact list, hesitating on her mother’s number. No, she finally decided. Mom had her own worries right now. Regret gathered in Lana’s belly. Darn it. She hated adding any more stress on her mother’s already over-full plate.

Caitlin O’Donahue’s number was what she dialed instead. Lana considered Caitlin family, the older sister she’d never had, not to mention her very best friend. Caitlin had babysat Lana when they were growing up, and over the years had become her closest confidante.

“Hey, you’ve reached Caitlin. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you,” her friend’s voice chirped.

Lana hung up in frustration, not bothering to leave a message. I got knocked up after a one-night-stand wasn’t something you wanted to say over voice mail.

She shoved the phone in her bag and leaned her head back. What a mess. Why had Deacon checked out of his hotel so abruptly?

And why couldn’t she get him out of her head?

The memory of their night together floated into her mind like a balmy summer breeze. Her body grew hot, tight and achy, as she remembered the feel of his strong arms wrapped around her.

“You’re stunning,” he’d whispered into her neck. And then he’d looked at her with those sexy hazel eyes, as if he’d truly never known beauty until that night.

The entire encounter was still so surreal. The tangy flavor of the red wine they’d sipped. His warm breath, heating her skin. His lips, kissing their way along her collarbone, her jaw, finally pressing against her mouth.

Her skin broke out in shivers. God, those kisses. Soft and romantic, teasing, fleeting and then hot and passionate, as the heat between them exploded in a raging fire that had left her utterly sated.

“This isn’t a good idea,” he’d murmured between kisses, uncertainty flickering on his handsome face. “We’re strangers.”

Yes, they were. Two strangers who’d met in a museum, shared a few glasses of wine in a hotel room and wound up needy and naked in bed.

It had been the best night of her life.

Lana’s gaze dropped to her flat abdomen. Maybe the worst, too, yet she couldn’t quite bring herself to regret the result of their passion. A baby. God, a baby.

Those two words continued to echo through her mind, and she clung to them. The tiny life growing inside her was the only thing keeping her grounded at the moment. The only reason she hadn’t gone into a total panic and started roaming the streets of Paris in search of Deacon. She needed to be strong for this child. She needed to love it and protect it.

Protect it, she repeated in her mind, as her eyelids became heavy. She wasn’t sure why the slightly ominous notion rolled inside her head, but she clung to that, too, as sleep slowly crept in.

She wasn’t sure how long she slept, but when her eyes snapped open a while later, it was pitch black inside the cabin, and all she saw out the window was darkness. The train was still moving, the wheels making a metallic click-clack sound as they sped along the rails.

Lana glanced at her watch and saw it was almost five in the morning, a half-hour before her scheduled wake-up call. Rubbing her tired eyes, she stood up and went to the small sink in the corner of the cabin, where she brushed her teeth and washed her face. Then she sat down again, wide awake as she waited for the train to reach Milan.

The wake-up knock sounded from the door thirty minutes later, and when the train’s wheels finally screeched to a halt, Lana was more than ready to get off and board the connecting train to Florence. She should’ve just hopped a flight, it would’ve gotten her home a lot sooner, but she’d always thought traveling through Europe by train was charming.

Now she just found it time-consuming.

She was at the door of the cabin when the train came to a creaky stop, so when the second knock came, she already had her hand on the door handle.

“I’m all ready,” she said as she opened the door. “My suitcase is—”

Her words halted in her throat as she laid eyes on two very large, very menacing-looking men. The taller of the two had a shaved head and a lethal jagged scar along his left cheekbone. The second man was shorter, but not lacking in muscle. He had the shoulders of a linebacker, dark skin the color of rich chocolate and a pair of chilly brown eyes.

There was a third man behind them, but he had his back turned, as if he were scouting the narrow corridor of the train.

A lookout.

The thought flew into her head swiftly, making her hands grow cold. “Can I help you?” she asked cautiously.

Scar Cheek seemed to be smirking, though his lips were snapped together in a rigid line. It was Cold Eyes who responded to her question. “You’re going to need to come with us.”

He spoke in English, and the harsh look on his face brooked no argument.

Lana argued. “I’m sorry, you must have me mistaken for someone else. I’m not—”

Her sentence died with a squeak. Cold Eyes had just shifted the bottom of his long black trench coat, revealing the sleek gun in his right hand.

“Listen to me, and listen carefully,” he said, his voice eerily soft. “You are going to follow us off this train like a good little girl. If you scream, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes. If you try to run, I’ll put one in your leg. Understood?”

She nodded dazedly, terror circling her spine like icy fingers. What the hell was going on? Her first thought was that this might be a terrorist attack, that the train had been hijacked, but the corridor remained as silent as a church. No frightened screams, no terrified whimpers.

These men…

They were here for her.

“Now pick up your suitcase,” Cold Eyes ordered, his hand still resting on the butt of his weapon.

As her heart thudded like a bass drum, Lana numbly bent down to grab the handle of her suitcase. Her fingers shook so wildly she could barely get a grip on the bag. Finally, she did, heaving it off the ground.

“Good girl,” Cold Eyes said with mock encouragement. “Now follow us. And remember what I told you.”

Her feet felt cold and heavy, but she forced them to move. The two men immediately flanked her, keeping her sandwiched between them like bodyguards. The third man she’d noticed walked in front of them. He wore a long black coat like his fellow henchmen, and all she saw of him was a head of dark, close-cropped hair and broad shoulders. But something about his gait, those confident but wary strides… it was very familiar.

Alarm skittered through her as they walked. Cabin doors were beginning to open, bleary-eyed passengers stepping out into the corridor ready to disembark. Lana felt a sudden spike of adrenaline. There were people around. Cold Eyes might be hiding his gun underneath his big coat, but no way would he pull that thing out in front of all of these people.

Would he?

Her palms went damp, sweat coating the handle of her suitcase. Should she call their bluff? Scream like a banshee? They wouldn’t shoot her with so many eyewitnesses. They wouldn’t—

“Don’t even think about it,” Cold Eyes murmured, glancing at her with a pleasant smile.

“You won’t do it,” she murmured back, her voice shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. “You won’t shoot me with all these people around.”

“Maybe not,” he replied casually. “But one phone call and your mother dies.”

Panic slammed into her. Mom? No, he was bluffing. Her mother was staying with an old girlfriend at Martha’s Vineyard, according to her brother Dylan. No way could these men know that.

“A friend of mine is staring through the scope of a rifle as we speak, and your mother’s pretty little face is in his sights. The Vineyard is lovely this time of year, don’t you think?”