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“I’m torn between throttling you and kissing you.”
His throat went dry the second the words left his mouth.
Their gazes locked again, and what he saw on her face stole his breath. She looked as she did the night in his hotel room. Cheeks flushed to a rosy pink. Lips slightly parted. The memory of how soft those lips felt pressed against his own had him moving closer, too, despite every warning bell going off in his head.
It was hard to breathe. Or think. Yeah, he really wasn’t thinking as his head dipped ever so slightly. His body went tighter than a drum, taut with anticipation.
His pulse raced.
Her eyes glimmered with reluctant heat.
Their heads moved closer, their lips mere inches away. The scent of her hair drifted into his nostrils, sweet and feminine and so very addictive. He breathed her in, drowning in the scent, while his body hummed eagerly and his mouth tingled with the need to taste her.
So he did.
Dear Reader,
Falling in love with your kidnapper… I’ll be honest—this might be the toughest premise I’ve ever had to work with. Then again, I always love a good challenge, and I think it’s sometimes fun and exciting to step out of your comfort zone and push the boundaries.
The hero of this story, Deacon Holt, believes there is darkness inside of him. So what better way to show him the light than to pair him with the beautiful, idealistic Lana Kelley, a woman who sees beauty in everything? Redemption stories have always been a favorite of mine, and I hope you enjoy Deacon and his path to redemption!
I’m always happy to hear from readers, so visit my website, www.ellekennedy.com, and drop me a line.
Happy reading!
Elle Kennedy
About the Author
A RITA® Award-nominated author, ELLE KENNEDY grew up in the suburbs of Toronto, Ontario, and holds a BA in English from York University. From an early age, she knew she wanted to be a writer, and actively began pursuing that dream when she was a teenager. She loves strong heroines and sexy alpha heroes, and just enough heat and danger to keep things interesting.
Elle loves to hear from her readers. Visit her website, www.ellekennedy.com, for the latest news or to send her a note.
Missing
Mother-To-Be
Elle Kennedy
To Marie, Beth, Gail, Carla and Cindy—I’m honored
to be part of a miniseries with such talented and
fabulous authors!
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