Page 2 of The Captive
The man seemed to hesitate for a moment, as if debating whether or not to get the heck out of there before she burst into tears or something.Lana didn’t blame him.What was she thinking, dumping her problems on a stranger?
“I’m sorry.”She laughed in discomfort.“I don’t normally burden people I don’t know with my issues.”
“It’s not a burden.”His voice came out rough.“Did something happen back home?”
She nodded numbly.“Yeah.Yeah, something happened.And I want so badly to fly back and help, but my brother says there’s nothing I can do.”
“He’s probably right.”Her stranger shrugged.“I’ve learned it’s often better to let others clean up their own messes.”
“Maybe.”Lana rested her hands on her knees.“I just hate feeling powerless.”
A wry half smile lifted his mouth.“As does most of the world.”
She smiled back.“You’re right.Nobody likes it, do they?”Impulsively, she got to her feet and stuck out her hand.“I’m Lana.”
Another beat of hesitation, and then he slowly reached out and shook her hand, oddly gentle.Somehow she didn’t suspectgentlenesswas a word you’d normally associate with this man.Now that she was standing up, she realized exactly how big he was.Well over six feet, and the muscles rippling beneath his green sweater looked rock-hard.
A thrill shot through her body, which surprised her.This had never happened to her before, such a quick, visceral attraction, the almost eerie awareness of this man asmale.She didn’t have much experience in the attraction department, aside from high-school crushes and that one disastrous relationship when she was doing her undergrad.“Deacon.”
That timber-rough voice jolted her from her thoughts.Deacon.She tilted her head to meet his eyes again.Yes, he looked like a Deacon.It was a strong name, very fitting for this man who just radiated strength.
“Deacon,” she echoed, a mere whisper.
His hazel eyes went darker, burning with something unidentifiable.As if the sound of his name on her lips had elicited something inside him.
“You’re an American,” she added, a statement, not a question.His accent wasn’t Parisian.Not European, either.
“I grew up in Boston,” he confirmed, and then his lips tightened shut, as if the revelation displeased him.
“East coast,” she said, a teasing note to her voice.“I’m from the west.Just a spoiled little rich girl from Beverly Hills.”
Those sensual lips relaxed, lifting slightly.“Somehow I don’t think the wordspoiledapplies to you.”
She offered another smile.“But maybe I am.Maybe I’m spoiled rotten.”
Deacon shook his head.“No.Money doesn’t interest you.”His gaze slid down to her fancy watch.“I think you would even give that watch to a beggar on the street if you didn’t have change.”
Surprise jolted through her.“You sound very certain of that.”
“Am I wrong?”
“No,” she admitted.“I’m not interested in material things.And Iwouldgive this darn watch away, if it hadn’t been a gift.”
Deacon had that look about him, the smug one of a man who’d totally pegged her.“I bet you even gave your trust fund to charity, didn’t you, Lana?”
Her lips twitched.Yep, he had her pegged.“The day I turned twenty-one,” she confirmed.She neglected to mention that her irate father had promptly deposited the same amount back into her account.She didn’t have the heart to give the second trust away; spoiling her gave her father such silly pleasure.
“So…” Deacon cocked his head thoughtfully.“If money doesn’t interest you, then what does?”
His question gave her pause.“Family,” she replied.“And sculpting.I could never give up my art.”
“Ah, you yearn to make the world a more beautiful place.”There was a slight edge to his tone.
“Why not?”She shrugged carelessly.“There’s so much ugliness in the world these days.What’s wrong with wanting to replace some of it with beauty?”
“An idealist.I should have known.”
She studied his face.“You don’t believe in the power of beauty?”
