She let out a shaky breath. “But I get the feeling that you care.” She met his eyes. “Am I crazy? Am I pathetic for believing that? God, for all I know, you’re playing me, making me think you actually give a damn, but really—”
“I give a damn,” he interjected, stunned by the slight crack in his voice. “I’m not playing you, Lana.” He was embarrassed by the next words that popped almost unconsciously from his mouth. “I’ve never met anyone like you. That night at the Louvre…it was…”
He trailed off awkwardly, but Lana wouldn’t let it go. “It was what?” she said softly.
“It was really nice.” He lifted his shoulders, then let them sag. “It was the first time in a long time I felt…at peace.”
She bit her bottom lip. “Do you…um, have a girlfriend?”
Her question shocked the hell out of him. “What?”
“I figured I’d ask. I mean, you lied about who you really are, maybe when you told me at the hotel that you were single, you were lying about that, too.”
Her words were like an arrow to the heart. Somehow, her complete lack of trust in him made him want to hit something, namely himself. She might not hate him, but her distrust was just as bad. Still, he knew no amount of time or gestures could ever make her trust him again. She had, that night in Paris, but no more.
“I’m single,” he said, his voice rough. “I didn’t lie about that.”
“Oh.” She visibly swallowed. “All right.”
“Does it make a difference?” he couldn’t help but ask.
She lifted her head and met his gaze head-on, laughing ruefully. “I guess it shouldn’t, huh? Here I am, worrying I might have been the other woman, when at the moment, I have plenty of other things to worry about.”
As if on cue, the door swung open with such force it banged against the paint-chipped wall and brought a gust of cold air into the room. Le Clair looked annoyed as hell as he marched across the weathered wood floor and thrust the phone into Lana’s hands. “Keep it short,” he growled at her.
Deacon’s entire body went on edge as he watched Lana grab for the phone like a starving child desperate for food. “Dad, it’s me,” she said quickly. She listened for a moment, and Deacon could see her brain working overtime in that pretty blond head of hers, trying to formulate another clue.
Sure enough, in a cool and composed voice, she said, “I know you were always closer to the capital than you were to your children, but when this is over, I hope we can spend some time together, maybe accept Mr. Bradshaw’s offer to—”
“Shut up,” Le Clair hissed at her, his gray eyes shooting daggers at Lana, who gasped as he violently snatched the phone and shoved her away.
Deacon stiffened as Lana stumbled backward and nearly fell onto the bed. He forced himself to keep a cool head, listening as Le Clair lifted the phone to his ear and barked, “Time’s up. You know what to do if you want her to live.”
Lana gasped again, her eyes growing as wide as saucers. She evidently hadn’t missed the deadly note in that last sentence. The gasp became a squeak when Le Clair grabbed her shoulders with both hands and shook so hard Deacon could swear he heard Lana’s teeth rattle.
“Who the hell is Bradshaw?” Le Clair roared, his French accent becoming more pronounced in his fury. “What were you saying to your father, you little bitch?”
Lana shrank back, but Deacon had to give her credit. She played the part of cowering female to a T, her bottom lip quivering, her eyes filling with tears. Only the almost-imperceptible flicker of defiance in her gaze revealed the truth. She was playing Le Clair, and the man had no freaking clue.
Deacon hid a grin.
“Ernie Bradshaw,” she whimpered between tiny sobs. “He owns an insurance company, and D-Daddy and I saw h-him a few months ago. He invited us to his s-summer house in Cape Cod. I thought if I reminded Daddy about it, it would lift his s-spirits.”
“Next time, you keep it short when I ask you to,” Le Clair snapped. “I don’t have the patience for pathetic little anecdotes, you understand?”
She nodded quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t think…”
“Then start thinking! You’ve got a brain in that pretty head, don’t you? Well, use it.” The rage on Le Clair’s face dimmed slightly, only to ignite as the papers on the floor caught his eye.
All the air in the room went utterly icy. A tense silence hung over the space as Le Clair slowly bent down and picked up the sketches Lana had done of his men. Of himself. Without moving, he stared at the sketches, unblinking, unspeaking.
Deacon took a protective step to the side, toward Lana, but he wasn’t quick enough. Before he could move, Le Clair’s hands were on the slender blonde again and he shoved her against the wall with incredible force. “What is this?” he boomed, waving the papers in front of her face. “What the hell are you doing?”