The Captive
Автор
Elle Kennedy
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PROLOGUE
Don’t worry, kiddo. There’s nothing you can do here.
Sinking her teeth into her bottom lip, Lana Kelley stared at the timeless masterpiece in front of her, the white marble’s graceful curves bringing only a fraction of the soothing serenity art normally gave her. Her older brother’s words continued to run through her mind. Why was it that when someone told you not to worry it only made you worry more?
Ever since her phone call with Dylan, she’d been debating whether to hop on a plane back to the States or to take her brother’s advice and stay put. The inner debate had eventually brought her here, to this surprisingly deserted wing of the Louvre, which housed the celebrated Venus de Milo. Throughout her entire life, she’d felt most at peace in a museum. It was as if the magnificent works of art possessed the ability to calm her, help clear her mind so she could make sense of the chaos out in the real world.
And her world, more often than not, was definitely chaotic. The youngest daughter of a United States senator and an oil heiress, Lana had spent most of her twenty-four years in the public eye, a position she hadn’t always enjoyed. She preferred holing up in the spacious studio her dad had set up for her in their California mansion, running her fingers over warm dusty clay. This past year, though, had been welcomingly unchaotic. Living in Florence, working on her master’s degree in art history—for once, she’d been able to live her life out of the public eye.
Her father, on the other hand, seemed completely incapable of discretion.
Senator’s Dirty Little Secret.
The newspaper headline she’d come across earlier today flashed across her mind, bringing a pretzel of pain to her belly. What had her father been thinking? And if the news of his infidelities had reached Paris, where she was spending her summer vacation, she could just imagine how bad things were back home.
Dylan had sounded so disgusted with their dad. Hardly a surprise. Growing up, she’d witnessed her father’s tumultuous relationship with her five older brothers, but Lana had been fortunate enough to experience a different side of Hank Kelley. She was the apple of her dad’s eye, and she loved him deeply, despite his spoiled and reckless nature.
But she loved her mother, too, and her heart ached at the thought of what Mom must be going through right now. Her stomach burned with grief and regret. She wished she were home to support her mother, and heck, even her dad, who must be horribly embarrassed and riddled with guilt over the pain he’d caused. But Dylan had urged her to go back to Florence for the new term and focus on her studies.
“We’re closing in thirty minutes, mademoiselle.” The hesitant voice of the armed guard manning the gallery door drew her from her thoughts.
Lana lifted her head, startled. She’d heard a staff member announce that the museum would be closing in an hour—hadn’t that been only a couple of minutes ago? She glanced at her silver Cartier watch and frowned. No, the guard was right. The announcement had been a while ago. She must have spaced out again.
“I’ll be leaving shortly,” she assured the guard. “I lost track of time.”
She noticed his gaze flit over the watch circling her wrist, as if he couldn’t believe she could lose track of time while wearing such an expensive watch. Stifling a sigh, Lana let the sleeve of her red wool sweater slide down to hide the watch’s diamond-studded face. It had been a gift from her father, and though she hated extravagant shows of wealth, she felt guilty when she didn’t wear the darn thing. Almost as if Hank Kelley could sense, from another continent no less, the moment she took the watch off her wrist.
“I’m sure the director would be inclined to keep the exhibit open should you require more time to peruse the pieces, Ms. Kelley,” the tall man hedged in his thick French accent.
Another sigh rose up her chest. She swallowed that one down, too. Of course. She should’ve known the director would inform the guards of her identity. Louis Dupont was an old acquaintance of her mother’s, and he always treated Lana like a princess when she came to visit.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said quickly. “I have somewhere to be anyway.”
Yet instead of gathering her purse and the small sketchbook she’d brought with her, her gaze drifted back to the beautiful statue in front of her. Not yet. She didn’t want to go yet, not when her nerves were still coiled in tense knots.
“The museum is closing in thirty minutes.”
Frowning, Lana glanced at the guard, wondering why he felt the need to remind her of something he’d uttered seconds ago, but then she noticed the warning wasn’t directed at her. A tall man in black wool trousers and a hunter-green sweater stood near the large arched doorway off to her left, and it was him the guard had spoken to.
She hadn’t noticed anyone else in the quiet, spacious room, and the sight of the ruggedly handsome stranger immediately sparked her interest. He was in his mid to late thirties, with brown hair cut in a short, military-like style, and an unbelievably gorgeous face. High cheekbones, a strong jaw and straight aristocratic nose, sensual lips—very much like the classically handsome, chiseled features of the statues gracing the gallery. Yet it wasn’t just his looks that captured her attention. There was something simmering below his perfectly sculpted surface. Something dark and powerful and very, very sexy.
The man nodded in response to the guard’s notification, but made no move to leave. Rather, he stepped closer to the Venus de Milo, his hazel eyes fixed on the statue as the guard edged back to the door.
“She’s beautiful, huh?” The question slipped out of Lana’s mouth before she could stop it. She didn’t usually strike up conversations with strangers, but the look in the man’s eyes was so very…haunting.
He turned slightly, not even blinking. “Yes. She is.”
“I always imagine her whole, with long graceful arms, adorned with jewels. We think she’s a beauty now, but can you imagine how much more beautiful she’d be?” Lana felt her cheeks grow warm as the random and somewhat pretentious remark passed through her lips. She tended to get caught up when surrounded by art, and she suddenly experienced a pang of embarrassment, unleashing an art lecture on a total stranger.
But to her surprise, his features softened. Those hazel eyes shone with intensity as he locked his gaze with hers. “Divine beauty,” he said simply.
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.”
