Deacon swallowed down the bile suddenly coating his throat. Fun? Was he actually hearing this? Though he couldn’t say it surprised him that Le Clair had given his men free rein with the targets in the past. He was simply that sadistic.
“But this one’s different.” Le Clair’s face went grave. “She’s high-profile, and we can’t bring her back to her daddy carrying some bastard child because you knocked her up while taking your jollies. You hear me?”
“I hear you,” Deacon muttered.
“So keep your hands off her, and don’t give me any more trouble, all right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now get back inside and man the door.” Le Clair suddenly let out a laugh and glanced at Deacon with surprising sympathy. “Not your ideal assignment, is it, Holt?”
“What do you mean?” Deacon asked, wary.
“I know you’d rather be out with the other men, walking the perimeter, instead of hand-holding a rich princess. I admit, I gave you the job to punish you for your earlier outburst, but it seems like our sweet Miss Kelley responds well to you.”
If you only knew…
“She hasn’t caused any trouble thus far, so I’m inclined to keep her under your watch.” Le Clair’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t have a problem with that, do you?”
“Not at all, sir,” Deacon said quickly.
“Good.” Le Clair pulled his cell phone from the back pocket of his black pants, and with that, the conversation was over.
With a nod, Deacon headed back inside, where he leaned against the door for a moment, collecting his composure. He knew Le Clair didn’t suspect a thing, but the man’s taunt about Deacon having the “hots” for Lana Kelley had hit the mark. Hot was precisely how he felt toward the woman. Just the sight of her made his groin tighten.
And the knowledge that Le Clair had also noticed Lana’s ethereal beauty sent uneasiness soaring through him. If Le Clair even looked at her the wrong way, Deacon wasn’t sure what he would do. He’d promised to keep her safe, and he had no intention of letting Le Clair get his grubby hands on her.
But he couldn’t challenge Le Clair, either. From the moment Deacon had accepted this gig, he’d known it wouldn’t be like the others. The people he’d worked for in the past were innocent little lambs compared to Paul Le Clair. The man was a stone-cold killer, with a total disregard for other human beings, not to mention a complete lack of restraint. If Lana so much as sneezed wrong, Le Clair wouldn’t hesitate to kill her, and that troubled the hell out of Deacon.
God, his head was spinning. It was becoming tiring, trying to stay focused on this job. He had Le Clair breathing down his neck, Lana gazing at him with those betrayed blue eyes, his conscience yelling at him for his part in this, his brain reminding him that survival and self-preservation should always come first.
It was getting hard keeping it together, and the assignment had just begun.
How on earth was he going to see it through without going absolutely freaking insane?
The loud ringing of her cell phone drew Sarah Mistler Kelley from a troubled sleep. Instantly alert, she reached for the phone, which she’d set on the antique mahogany nightstand by the luxurious bed in the guest room of Vivienne Kemp’s rambling beach house. Sarah had been staying with her old friend ever since the news of her husband’s infidelities hit the tabloids. The wife of a senator, Sarah had gotten used to being hounded by the press.
But never for this reason.
Swallowing down the golf-ball-size lump in the back of her throat, Sarah glanced at the caller ID. Her bitterness heightened. Hank. The number flashing across the screen of her BlackBerry was that of her husband’s cell phone—it was not the long-distance number she’d been hoping for.
Sighing, she set the phone back down. Hank had been calling non-stop since she’d walked out of their Beverly Hills mansion. She’d diligently avoided each call, and tonight would be no different.
Sarah leaned against the headboard, listening to the sound of the waves crashing against the wooden stilts beneath the enormous house. The ocean was choppy tonight, as turbulent as her emotions. A terrible feeling had been gnawing at the pit of her stomach since yesterday evening, when her daughter hadn’t phoned as she’d promised.
Lana was a big girl, Sarah was well aware of that, but a part of her still wasn’t able to accept it. Lana would always be her baby, the tiny miracle that had come to her when she’d considered herself too old to bear any more children. And she’d forever have a soft spot for her youngest, the lone female after a long line of big, strapping boys.
The phone rang again, making her jump. She’d opted for a utilitarian ring tone, unlike the fancy Mozart symphony her husband had chosen for his phone. Hank Kelley was all about flash. Always had been, always would be.
Sarah’s lips tightened when she saw his number again. Twice in two minutes. The man must be getting desperate.
“Good,” she muttered to herself.
He deserved to feel desperate, after the way he’d treated her.