Deacon’s eyebrows knitted together in a frown as he cut the sandwich in half and set it on a chipped yellow dish. He knew Lana was growing frustrated, too, and deeply im patient. He checked on her frequently, and their afternoon walks had become a daily ritual. At first she’d pressed him about his childhood, trying to get more details about his parents’ deaths, but she’d eventually given up when he remained vague about it, and proceeded to chatter on aimlessly about her own life. He knew it was her way to get her mind off her current predicament, but Deacon had started clinging to the stories she told.
He felt as though he knew everything about her now. She told him wry anecdotes about her overprotective older brothers, spoke of her parents with deep emotion, raved about art, modestly described some of the sculptures in her recent body of work. The more time he spent with her, the more he liked and respected Lana Kelley. Which was why this assignment was starting to trouble him. He didn’t want to see her get hurt, and the way Le Clair angrily muttered into that cell phone of his didn’t bode well for Lana.
“Lunch,” he said gruffly as he entered the back bedroom.
Lana’s head lifted at his arrival. She was sitting cross-legged on the floor, hunched over a sheet of sketching paper. Her long blond hair fell onto her face, and her slender fingers were stained black from the charcoal.
“Thanks,” she said absently, her hand moving quickly across the paper, adding details to the face in her sketch.
Deacon was startled when he realized it was his face. She was drawing him, and from the looks of it, the likeness was uncanny. Apparently she was very, very good at what she did.
After adding one last smudge underneath his left eye, she set down the charcoal and stood up, accepting the wet napkin he handed her and scrubbing at the tips of her fingers. Then she picked up the plate and took a bite of the grilled cheese, chewing fervently.
“I’m starving,” she said between mouthfuls.
Deacon hid a smile. He glanced at the portrait she’d left lying on the floor, noticed the other papers scattered next to it and realized she’d done a few more sketches. Faces.
He frowned. Tango’s sharp mouth and prominent scar glared up at him, while another sheet displayed Le Clair’s feral features and thin lips curled in a sneer.
“You’re drawing us,” he said uneasily.
She chewed slowly, nodding. “It’s not like I have any other subjects.”
His uneasiness intensified. “Can’t you sketch the mountains?”
“I already told you, I do faces. That’s what my work is about, bringing interesting faces to life.”
Maybe so, but she’d done a lot more than that here. She’d cataloged each one of her kidnappers, producing accurate sketches that any law-enforcement agency could use to nab each and every one of them. Including Deacon.
Lana gave him a knowing look. “I’ll rip them up when I’m done. Don’t worry, Delta, the cops won’t see these.” She swallowed the last bite of her sandwich and set the plate down on the desk. “But you will get caught,” she added. “You know that, right?”
He didn’t respond.
“You guys won’t get away with this,” she continued, her blue eyes glittering with defiance. “My family will find me.”
Her words made his chest squeeze in the most disconcerting way. You guys. It sent a streak of agony through him that she associated him with the others. But why shouldn’t she? He’d been a full participant in this abduction, and she had every reason to despise him. Yet she didn’t seem to.
“Why?” he burst out.
Her forehead wrinkled. “Why will they find me? Because they’re—”
“No,” he cut in. “Why don’t you despise me?”
She fixed him with a sad stare. “Who says I don’t?”
His heart twisted. “Do you?”
Her silence tore at his insides like a ravenous scavenger. He didn’t know why, but the thought of Lana hating him was almost unbearable. He knew he was the bad guy here, that he’d taken her against her will in order to score a wad of cash, but he didn’t want to be the object of this woman’s hatred. Lana Kelley was…she was an incredible woman. She’d handled her two-week stint as a hostage with the utmost grace, and the inner strength that radiated from her pores impressed the hell out of him. She was smart, gorgeous, funny when she dropped her guard long enough to loosen up around him. She was a woman he’d be proud to call his own, if he weren’t such a cold, lifeless ghost of a human being.
“No.”
Lana’s quiet voice sliced through his thoughts, making him glance up in shock. “No?” he echoed.
“I don’t hate you.” She shook her head in bewilderment. “I should, right? I should want to rip your throat out for what you’re doing to me. So why don’t I?”
“I have no idea,” he admitted hoarsely. “You have every right to hate me.”
“Maybe…maybe it’s because I don’t believe you’re one of them.” She gestured to the door, as if to point at the men beyond it. “They’re all greedy. Heartless. Especially Le Clair. He doesn’t seem to care one bit that he’s got me locked up in this cabin like a prisoner.”