His mouth opened, then closed, his strong throat bobbing as he swallowed repeatedly. Her question seemed to bring him great distress, which only piqued her curiosity. No, it wasn’t curiosity, she quickly amended. She didn’t want to know a damn thing about this man. But if she could figure out what made him tick, she might be able to use it to her advantage.
Unfortunately, he decided to ignore the question altogether. “If you need anything during the night, to use the bathroom, a glass of water…just knock on the door,” he said in a rough voice.
“Deacon,” she called after him, but he was already gone.
As the door closed and the lock slid back into place, Lana sagged against the uncomfortable wooden headboard of the bed.
And started to cry.
She was trying to be quiet, but Deacon clearly heard Lana’s muffled sobs as he walked down the narrow hallway toward the living area. He’d made her cry. Somehow, that notion brought a slice of pain to his chest. A part of him wanted to turn around and comfort her, but he fought the urge. Damn it. He was losing control here.
Lana’s question continued to buzz around in his brain like a relentless hornet. Then why? Why did he need the money? Why was he doing this?
He almost wished he’d gone along with her accusations, lied and told her it was all about greed. But it wasn’t. Everything he was doing now, everything he’d done in the past, could all be credited to one simple thing: survival. He did what he did in order to survive. In order to ensure that never again would he be defenseless. Powerless.
Is that really why?
Deacon faltered. Truth was, a part of him wasn’t even sure why he still did this. He didn’t have buckets of money, but he had enough to live on modestly if he wanted to. He wasn’t a scared and hungry teenager anymore, desperate to survive. He didn’t need to take on so many assignments, especially not ones like this, that made him so damn uneasy. So why?
Because you’re a bad person.
The little voice spoke in a flat, unyielding tone. It was a conclusion he’d reached years ago, after spending too many nights lying in bed and wondering how on earth he’d gotten to this point. He supposed he could always quit. But then what? He’d spent too many years living dangerously, often on the wrong side of the law—no way could he quit now and live as a respectable citizen.
This attraction for Lana was going to get him in trouble, he knew that. Yet he couldn’t stop it. Couldn’t control the ripples of desire that shook his body each time he was in the same room as her, or the way his palms tingled, begging him to touch her. Or how every cell in his body screamed for him to whisk her away from all this. To keep her safe and protected and…happy. He wanted to make her happy.
God help him.
“How’s the girl?” Le Clair demanded when Deacon stepped into the living room.
Echo and Kilo were sprawled on the two couches, catching some shut-eye before they relieved the others, who were patrolling the perimeter. Le Clair ran a tight ship, and his men were nothing if not efficient. Trip wire had been laid around the cabin, which would go kaboom if anyone tried to get near it. Motion sensors were installed on every window, and the entire interior was rigged with explosives, too, designed to eliminate evidence in case they needed to get out in a hurry. They hadn’t bothered with cameras, since the area was so deserted they’d easily see or hear anyone approaching.
Tango and Charlie were stationed up in the hills, sniper rifles at hand and eyes on the clearing below, while Yankee and Oscar walked the perimeter, armed to the teeth. The sleeping beauties, Echo and Kilo, would man the next shift, and Le Clair had taken up residence on the front porch, muttering into his cell phone for most of the evening.
Deacon, of course, was on babysitting duty, though he was secretly grateful for the task. For some reason, he didn’t want any of the other men around Lana.
“She’s getting ready to go to sleep,” Deacon informed the boss. “I’ll stand guard outside the door for the night.”
Le Clair looked pleased. “Good.”
“I’ll just use the john and then—”
“First we need to talk,” the boss cut in.
Le Clair gestured for Deacon to follow him out on the rickety old porch. They stepped outside, and the wood beneath Deacon’s feet creaked in protest from the weight of his black boots.
“You came highly recommended, Holt,” Le Clair began, sounding wary. “But that stunt you pulled at the airstrip… I won’t tolerate that insubordination, understand?”
Deacon gave a humble nod. “I know. I was completely out of line, and I promise you, boss, it won’t happen again.”
Those silver eyes fixed Deacon with a deadly look. “You have the hots for her, don’t you?”
Deacon’s head snapped up in surprise. “What? Of course not.”
Le Clair chuckled. “Don’t apologize for it. Even I’ve noticed she’s a sweet piece of ass. And if this were any other job, I might even be lenient about it, let you have some fun with the girl.”