She sagged into him, her blond hair tickling his chin as she rested her head against his shoulder. He quickly scouted the lot and led her to a small Toyota near the back. An older model, didn’t even have an alarm. Deacon hotwired the thing in less than two minutes flat and then they were on the road again, heading out of the city.
They wound up at a small, weathered-looking motel beyond the Virginia border. Deacon would’ve kept driving for several more hours if not for Lana’s injury. He needed to clean up that bullet wound and take a closer look at the damage. At least she hadn’t lost consciousness. She’d been awake the entire ride, her gaze glued out the window. She hadn’t said a single word.
Shock? Or had her confession troubled her as much as it did him?
Deacon kept his head low as he ducked into the tiny office and paid for a room. The guy at the desk, a skinny teenager with a shaved head and a nose ring, didn’t even react when Deacon signed a fake name on the registry. Deacon paid cash, accepted a big red key with the number 8 on it and got back in the car, steering it toward the far end of the lot.
He parked in front of room eight and turned to Lana. “We’re here,” he said gruffly.
She just nodded and reached to unbuckle her seat belt. The two of them got out of the sedan and Deacon unlocked the room door. He went in first, drawing his weapon out of habit to clear the room before Lana stepped inside. When he flicked on the light, she blinked like a disoriented Alzheimer’s patient. Her blue eyes took in the ugly orange bedspread, splintered wooden table and frayed brown carpet. She seemed completely unaffected by the shabbiness.
“Sit down on the bed,” he said, already bending down to unzip his duffel.
He took out the first-aid kit and sat next to Lana. She winced as he gently removed the scrap of material from her arm. Dried blood was caked onto her fair skin, bringing a rush of fury to his gut. Those bastards had shot Lana. As the rage-inducing revelation entered his brain, Deacon curled his fists and drew in a calming breath. He wanted to strike something, but he couldn’t. Not now, not until he made sure Lana was all right.
After that, though…well, he knew that he’d hunt down the man who’d pulled the trigger, even if he spent the rest of his life hunting. Echo, Tango, Oscar—he didn’t care who it was. The man was dead.
Lana made a hissing sound as he placed a piece of gauze soaked with rubbing alcohol directly on her skin. “Sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll be quick.”
He skillfully cleaned the wound, not a stranger to the task. He’d had to self-treat dozens of times over the years. Once her arm had been cleaned, he examined the injury, pleased to find that the bullet hadn’t even gone through. It had simply grazed her, leaving a red streak resembling a burn on her skin.
“Almost done,” he murmured.
Lana didn’t say a word as he gently placed a square bandage on her arm and taped it down. When he’d finished, he picked up the bloodstained gauzes, threw them into the garbage can in the closet-size bathroom and returned to the room to find Lana rubbing her stomach with shaky hands.
Her blue eyes met his. “I guess I should have told you sooner.” Her voice was soft, wry almost.
“Probably,” he agreed.
He moved back to the bed and sat down. Their knees touched. An involuntary wave of heat swelled inside him. He forced the rising arousal down. This wasn’t the time. The adrenaline high from the past couple of hours had succeeded in making him hard, a common affliction among soldiers apparently, but right now, he needed that arousal to go away.
“It happened the night at the Louvre.” And then, as if he’d questioned her, she added, “You’re the father.”
“I figured as much.”
A short silence fell.
“Are you…” He cleared his throat, searching for some thing to say. The right thing. Anything. “You haven’t been sick.”
“No. Maybe it’s too early.” She shrugged. “Or maybe I’ll be one of the lucky ones who don’t suffer from morning sickness.”
“Can you…can you feel it move?” The crack in his voice stunned him.
She shook her head. “Definitely too early for that.”
Another heavy silence. Deacon’s brain couldn’t keep up with the conversation, and they were barely talking. A baby. Those were the only two words he could grasp at the moment. Lana was pregnant with his baby.
“A baby,” he mumbled under his breath.
For the first time since she’d gotten hurt, a tiny smile lifted the corner of Lana’s mouth. “I know, right? I’ve known for two months, and I’m still surprised by it.”
Surprised? Try scared out of his wits.
What on earth would he do with a baby? He wasn’t equipped for this. Send him into the jungle with a machine gun, and he’d level anything in front of him. Put a baby in his arms?
His pulse sped up, panic gathering in his stomach. He’d lived up to his promise—he’d rescued her from Le Clair. Did he owe her more than that? Did she expect him to be a father to this kid? Did he want to be?