Tears streamed down Lana’s silky cheeks. “They’re just drawings,” she protested. “I promised I would tear them up when—”
The back of Le Clair’s hand came smashing down on her face, making her head slam against the wall. The tears fell harder, and Deacon fought wave after wave of red-hot fury. He was two seconds away from strangling the life right out of Paul Le Clair, when the man abruptly let Lana go, cursing in French beneath his breath.
Le Clair crumpled the drawings with one big hand and shoved them into his pocket. “You want to draw?” he said in a low, menacing voice. “Then draw some flowers or rainbows or puppies and kittens. If I see anything like this again, you won’t like the consequences, princess.”
As Lana stood there, shuddering and crying softly, Le Clair stormed out of the room.
Deacon stared into Lana’s terrified blue eyes, at her tearstained cheeks, then sighed and followed his boss. He caught up with Le Clair at the end of the dark hallway, clearing his throat to get his attention.
“You gave her this paper?” Le Clair demanded, holding up the crumpled drawings.
“The pictures are harmless, sir. You know I would have destroyed them.”
Le Clair paused for a moment, then nodded in resignation. “Yes, I know that. I may have overreacted a tad.” He smoothed out the sketch of his own face, studying it carefully. “She’s quite good. But it’s very disconcerting, seeing your own image staring back at you, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Deacon agreed. As Le Clair took a step, Deacon hurriedly added, “Sir…”
“What is it, Delta?”
“I assure you, I’m truly not trying to second-guess your methods here, and I mean no disrespect, but I’m not sure her family will be happy if any harm comes to her.” Deacon kept his tone completely neutral, almost humble. “Do you think it was a good idea, striking her?”
For a moment he thought Le Clair would explode again, but the man just sighed. “No, it probably wasn’t smart. But I’m having some difficulty with the negotiations.” He frowned. “The father is not complying.”
Deacon’s interested was piqued. “He’s refusing to pay?”
“Something like that.”
“But surely he’s desperate to get his daughter back alive.”
Le Clair curled his fist over the drawing, shoving it back into his pocket. “That may not be our end game.”
Deacon’s interest faded into suspicion. Accompanied by the wild tug of panic at his gut. “You’re not planning on returning her to her family?”
Le Clair shrugged.
“Level with me, sir. Who exactly is pulling our strings here?” Deacon pressed.
“That doesn’t concern you.” Le Clair took a couple of steps, as if he were suddenly eager to get away. “You’ll get paid, just as I promised. That’s all you need to know for now. Now go check on the princess to make sure she’s not too shaken up. We still need her cooperation.”
The other man stalked off, leaving Deacon staring after him in growing dismay. That may not be our end game. The words brought a deep chill, straight down to the bone. For the first time since he’d accepted this job, Deacon experienced a spark of fear. Was Le Clair planning on killing Lana? Had he never had any intention of letting her go?
Deacon’s jaw tensed. He was in this for the money, yes, but he’d agreed to be part of an abduction. Not murder. No, murder had never been on the agenda, and if that was where Le Clair was going with this…well, then Deacon realized he definitely needed to reevaluate.
But first things first—check on Lana and make sure she was okay. The memory of Le Clair’s hand striking her beautiful face made Deacon’s insides coil into tight, angry knots. Hopefully Le Clair had learned from the reckless action, and if he hadn’t, Deacon knew without a doubt that he wouldn’t stand by idly the next time Le Clair decided to take his anger out on Lana.
To his surprise, when he walked into the room, Lana was sitting calmly on the bed. The tears had dried up, and aside from a red mark on her cheek, she looked unharmed.
“Are you okay?” he asked as he closed the door behind him.
“That jerk sure has a temper,” she said dryly.
“Le Clair is a bit of a hothead,” Deacon admitted. He suddenly cocked his head, narrowing his eyes at her. “Who’s Bradshaw?”
She gave him an innocent look, like a child who’d just told her parents that Santa was the one who had opened all the presents in the middle of the night. “Exactly who I said he is. The owner of an insurance company and an acquaintance of my dad’s.”
“And he really owns a house in Cape Cod?”