Эль Кеннеди – Missing Mother-To-Be (страница 2)

His husky voice made her heart skip a beat. It was deep, rough, like a gruff purr.

“Exactly,” she murmured. When he didn’t respond, she awkwardly clasped her hands together in her lap. “I love it here,” she found herself blurting. “Just looking at all these pieces makes me feel… at peace. Does that happen to you?”

The stranger’s eyes never left hers. “Yes. It does.”

“It’s as though all the problems in the world just fade away,” she went on, a faraway note entering her voice. “At least that’s what usually happens. Right now, I can’t stop thinking about everything going on back home. My family… God, what a mess.”

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 suspect gentleness was 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 as male. 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 word spoiled applies 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 I would give 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?”

Deacon went quiet. His hazel eyes locked with hers once more, and there it was again, that intense ripple of energy beneath his surface. Only this time it was accompanied by heat. Heavy, sizzling heat that seemed to hang in the air, hovering over them, crackling between them.

“Yes,” he finally said, his voice thick. “I believe in the power of beauty.”

His gaze swept across her body, resting on her breasts, her hips, and then moving back to her face. Her heart jumped again. And her breasts were suddenly achy, her nipples tingling against her bra. What was this? Lust at first sight? No, she didn’t lust over strange men. She was far too levelheaded for primitive urges.

And yet, when she opened her mouth, the words that slid out proved that maybe she was far lustier than she’d ever imagined. “Would you… like to have a drink with me?”

Surprised flickered on his handsome face. He took a step back, as if he wanted to flee. But he didn’t. Instead, his massive chest rose as he drew in a breath, and then one husky word echoed in the empty gallery.

“Yes.”

Chapter 1

Two weeks later

Were there right and wrong ways to pee on a stick? Lana stared down at the plastic cylinder between her trembling fingers, the two pink lines as clear as a billboard in Times Square. She must be doing something wrong. This was the fourth test she’d taken in two days. Eight pink lines. It had to be a mistake.

“Attention tous les passagers,” a loud voice blared in French through the PA. The voice informed her that the train to Florence was now boarding, prompting Lana to leave the bathroom stall.

Her shaky legs carried her to the trash can near the door, where she tossed the pregnancy test before turning to examine her reflection in the mirror. Her blond hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, her face was makeup-free and there were dark smudges under her eyes. She looked tired.

Didn’t look pregnant, though.

Her gaze slid down to her abdomen, which was flat beneath her red V-neck tee. And her snug black capris fitted the same as always, comfortably circling her waist

She lifted her head, suddenly feeling silly. Of course she wouldn’t be showing yet. It had only been two weeks. Two weeks since that crazy, wonderful night with Deacon.

Quickly washing her hands, she dried them with a paper towel then dropped it in the trash, effectively covering the pregnancy test that seemed to glare accusingly up at her.

She drew in a calming breath. Okay. Okay, this wasn’t the end of the world. She was pregnant, not deathly ill. She would get on the train, go back to her apartment in Florence and figure things out.

How will you find him? a desperate little voice demanded.

Lana left the bathroom, tugging on the handle of her sleek black suitcase and rolling it behind her. The distressed plea in her mind was hard to ignore. How would she find him? She’d gone back to his hotel last night, after the first two tests had shown positive, but the clerk in the lobby informed her that Mr. Holt had checked out. Holt. At least she got a last name out of that visit.

She dodged a woman dragging an enormous suitcase, and continued down the terminal. The station was busy, filled with evening travelers rushing up and down the tiled floor. People chattered on in French, Italian and a smattering of other languages, completely oblivious to Lana’s inner turmoil.

How on earth would she track down Deacon? The hotel didn’t have a forwarding address for him, and a quick Google search on her laptop had come up with nothing. She didn’t even know what he did for a living, for Pete’s sake. A businessman, he’d said. Great. So much to go on there.

“May I help you with your suitcase?” a purser asked in French as Lana approached the track.

“Merci, oui,” she murmured.

The thin man picked up her suitcase then helped her onto the train. A loud whistle pierced the air. Travelers were bounding down the platform, boarding at the last minute, while the PA crackled again to announce the train’s departure.

A pretty woman with shiny brown hair escorted Lana to her compartment. It was a private sleeper car, and she’d already arranged for a wake-up call for tomorrow morning, when she’d need to take the connecting train in Milan. The cabin was cozy and comfortable, but Lana doubted she’d get any sleep. Probably just sit in silence for the next nine hours and try not to cry.

God, what kind of mess had she found herself in?

She sank down on the plush bench and promptly buried her face in her hands.

“Is everything all right, mademoiselle?” the stewardess asked hesitantly.