Marrying Mccabe
‘‘I’m not an old lady,’’ she grumbled.
‘‘No,’’ he agreed. ‘‘You’re a smartass.’’
Minutes later, they approached the Arrivals lounge, and, humour and squabbling aside, Roma was glad for Gray’s solid presence beside her, even if he’d sneakily taken charge of the trolley while she’d dug in her holdall for her passport.
It was busy in the terminal, filled with noise and people, a baby crying, laughter. The acoustics amplified the sounds so that they built like a slow breaking wave. Tension gripped her as they took the final turn into the large open area. She put the tension down to a temporary paranoia that had developed since Lewis’s shooting—a knee-jerk reaction that sneaked up on her every time she was in a public place, which lately, between hospital visits and airport terminals, seemed to be most of the time.
She pulled in a deep breath, then another, willing the ridiculous, wimpy feeling of exposure to disappear, but her heart was still pounding as she searched the busy lounge, trying to pick the bodyguard out of the shifting mass of people. With the neat, dark suits they invariably wore, the military-short haircuts, cold, watchful eyes, and the discreet bulge of shoulder-holstered weapons, they might as well have been in uniform.
No one fitted the description. Roma’s knees actually went wobbly with relief. The magnitude of her relief was in itself alarming. Over the years she’d become aware that, for her, the severely suited bodyguards had become the symbol of her family’s vulnerability, but she’d never reacted so violently to the thought of having an armed escort before.
But then, you’ve never been shot at before.
Instantly she rejected the thought. The shooting appeared to be a random one, the fact that Lewis had been shot while he was with her pure coincidence. If she’d been the target, the shooter had had plenty of time to take aim and fire while she’d knelt over Lewis waiting for the ambulance, but there hadn’t been a second shot. She’d been surrounded by armed policemen and helped into the cover of a service lane where an ambulance was parked. A shirt had been magically produced and draped around her, enveloping her from neck to knee. Minutes later Lewis had been loaded into the back of the ambulance on a stretcher, and they had both been taken to the nearest hospital.
The police hadn’t found any trace of the gunman, or any reason for Lewis to be shot. The investigation was still ongoing, but with no suspect, motive, or weapon, there wasn’t much hope that the perpetrator would ever be caught, let alone his reason for shooting into a crowd ever discovered.
Roma’s gaze settled on a big, rough-looking guy who somehow managed to dominate the swirling sea of people. Maybe because he was tall, six-foot-two at least, and dark, with the kind of big, sleek build that would always catch the feminine eye. He looked like a man who would be at home in any era, just as capable of defending his loved ones with a club or a sword as with his bare fists.
In tight, faded jeans and a T-shirt that looked as if it had survived a refugee parcel, no way did this guy look like a bodyguard.
A wave of longing swept her, not for the man specifically, but for what he represented—an ordinary life with ordinary goals such as family and children, and deciding whether to have chicken or steak for dinner, of being able to have an ordinary nine-to-five job, live in a house without sophisticated security on every window and door, and go where she wanted, when she felt like it. Of being able to love those closest to her without fear they would be hurt or taken from her.
Unexpected tears burned her eyes. She blinked, pushing back the attack of the blues with a wave of grumpiness. So, okay, she was a mess—her life was a mess. Her head felt odd and floaty, because she had barely slept since the shooting. The headache that had no right to exist was getting worse. She was hungry. If anyone walked past her with food, she would probably attack them. And her brother was siccing a bodyguard on her.
Someone was going to pay for this.
‘‘I don’t want whatever suit you’ve picked out for me,’’ she stated as Gray continued to forge a path across the lounge in the general direction of the tall, rough guy. ‘‘I want him.’’
Gray spared her a glance. His black gaze gleamed with amusement. ‘‘Want me to get him for you?’’
Roma went still inside. That was not the answer she was expecting. Neither of her brothers was in the habit of ‘‘getting’’ men for her; they were more inclined to get rid of them. If they had their way, she would die a virgin. They were what she euphemistically termed overprotective.
She could count the boyfriends she’d had on two hands, the ones who’d been brave enough to come home with her on one. If they weren’t intimidated by her family’s sheer wealth or the stringent security, her brothers usually managed to scare them off. There was nothing sophisticated about Gray and Blade’s methods. Cold eye contact was always good for starters. A few pointed questions usually followed, and when neither of those strategies worked, her brothers resorted to blunt warnings that bordered on rudeness. Occasionally, if they happened to be out by the pool, there was a show of raw muscle—caveman tactics all the way.
Roma watched with growing suspicion as the tall stranger turned with an abrupt impatience that denoted someone who didn’t want to be where he was and hated being kept waiting, and she saw his face clearly for the first time. Her stomach sank. Suddenly the stranger didn’t look reassuring at all. He looked familiar.
He was tanned and muscular, black-haired, olive-skinned, all clean angles and blades, with a square jaw and deep-set eyes beneath straight brows. Not pretty-boy handsome, but with the kind of strong good looks that, coupled with his size and build, would make most women go weak at the knees about two seconds before they went soft in the head.
His jaw was darkly stubbled, as if he hadn’t been near a razor for a couple of days, and there were dark shadows beneath his eyes as if he, too, hadn’t had a lot of sleep lately. But the one detail that fixed her attention was the scar that sliced across one cheekbone. Whoever had sewn the wound closed hadn’t made a good job of it, and the scar tissue skimming his tanned skin made him look more than just casually dangerous. She’d seen that scar before in photos, and woven more than a few fantasies about that hard masculine face.
Ben McCabe. One of Gray and Blade’s Special Air Service cronies—possibly the only SAS agent she hadn’t yet met in the flesh.
His head came up as if he’d suddenly registered her concentrated attention. His eyes were dark, slitted with irritation, and something more. His gaze in that first moment was frankly, sharply male. It was the lightning perusal of a man who knew women intimately, not lingering so that she became uncomfortable, but making her instantly aware of how male he was. And how female she was.
The abrupt awareness of her own sex startled Roma. Her family’s wealth and status usually provided a shield against this kind of overt attention, and she seldom went out on dates. She was completely unprepared for the flood of heat that swept her. The barrage of sensation was as overwhelming as it was intrusive, and she fought back the only way she knew how, by desperately trying to blank out all emotion.
A group of teenagers in sports uniforms cut across their path, momentarily blocking the man from view.
Roma’s stomach lurched when the stranger’s gaze locked on her again. Now that she was closer, she could see that his eyes were a pure, intense dark blue, wolf-cold and uncompromising. The jolting awareness escalated, and with it came a solid dose of irritation.
‘‘I’ve changed my mind,’’ she muttered to Gray. ‘‘I don’t want him. You win, I’ll take the suit.’’
‘‘Honey,’’ Gray said, with a dry humour that made her want to strangle him, ‘‘McCabe is the suit.’’
Chapter 3
Ben fought back disbelief as he watched Gray approach, his hunger and frustration forgotten. The woman with Gray was his sister, but Roma Lombard wasn’t what he’d expected.
He’d heard a lot about her—had even seen photographs of her. God only knew, her face was hard to miss when it was splashed across one of those glossy magazines his ex-wife used to read. But the glossy pictures he’d barely glanced at had nothing to do with the woman walking toward him now.
She wasn’t tall enough to be a model; next to her brother, she was decidedly petite, even dainty. She wasn’t wearing make-up or nail polish that he could see, no designer sunglasses or expensive designer clothes. Ben decided she didn’t need any of those things. In a soft black shirt, faded jeans and black boots, she was pure fantasy material. Her silky dark hair hung in a straight, careless fall around her shoulders; her features were neat and even, her mouth soft. The only part of her that fulfilled anything like the image Ben had formed were the exotic eyes that continued to stare dazedly back at him. They were midnight-dark, shadowed by lashes, as distant and aloof as a cat’s, and just as layered with mystery and secrets.
The blankness of her expression, the aura of sphinxlike remoteness, only served to intensify the mystery of her eyes, and Ben’s jaw tightened against his response to that unconscious challenge. He was growing hard, his loins warming with a slow, heavy ache.
He suppressed a whole string of curses as he accepted Gray’s handshake. Gray was a friend, more than a friend. And the woman Ben had been checking out was Gray’s sister.
Out of bounds, way out of bounds. Even if she hadn’t been his client.
Gray made the introductions. Grimly, Ben noted the brevity and firmness of Roma’s handshake, as if she didn’t want to touch him but wasn’t about to flinch from it, the cool, minimal eye contact she allowed. Most people gave something of themselves away with their initial body language; Roma Lombard was notable by her very stillness.
Her controlled reserve only intrigued him more. Ben was good at reading people—better than good—but Roma Lombard was an enigma. He considered the fact that the unexpected sexual attraction was messing up his perception, then discounted it. He was aroused, but he’d long ago learned to separate his intellect from his physical needs.
Her gaze connected with his, held just a little too long before she looked away again, a faint blush warming her cheekbones.
Damn, Ben thought mildly as Gray caught him up to date with news about mutual friends and Gray’s brother, Blade, who’d just become a father. Either Roma disliked him intensely or she was as attracted as he was. Ben was betting on the second possibility.
He needed to hit something, preferably his head, against a wall, a block of stone, something that would hurt. Anything to take his mind off the fact that he was too interested in Ms. Lombard, and that most of his interest centred around backing her up against the nearest wall and seeing if she tasted as good as she looked.
Not that he would have to go looking for bruises. If Gray or Blade ever found out he’d fallen in instant lust with their sister, all the years of shared camaraderie in the SAS wouldn’t count for a thing.
His lashes drooped as he talked with Gray, shielding his intense interest in the woman he’d been hired to protect.
He could see why photographers went wild over her, why men dropped like flies. She wasn’t flashy or charismatic; on the contrary, she was curiously understated, as if she kept even her own femininity under wraps.
Sweet hell, who was he trying to kid? She probably had that air of mystery perfected. Any man who ever looked at the lady would want her. No wonder Gray was tearing his hair out trying to keep her protected. Ben had been taken in by the aloof act, but he had to remember that she’d checked him out just as thoroughly as he’d done her.
She glanced at him again, and he discovered her eyes weren’t black, as he’d first thought; they were a rich, velvety chocolate, bare shades lighter than the dark sable of her hair.
Ben almost groaned out loud. He loved chocolate. And he would have his work cut out swatting men off left, right and centre—and that would be when she wasn’t sneaking them in the back door.
Some of the stories Gray and Blade used to tell about their cute little sister began to register. Roma was athletic and loved to run, and she hadn’t con-fined her running to the sports field. She had run away as a teenager. She had also run rings around her bodyguards, destroying more than one reputation. Apparently she’d driven any number of security personnel crazy—one by keeping him out so late at nightclubs he’d barely been able to function during the day. Another had quit after a solid week of shopping. It had sounded funny at the time. Sitting in the jungle on extended patrol, soaking wet, eating reconstituted food, and wondering if someone was drawing a bead on his spine, Ben had grabbed at the humour and laughed at the antics of Baby Roma just as hard as Gray and Blade and the rest of the guys.
They’d even made up newspaper headlines: Bodyguard Found Dead In Mall: Autopsy Reveals Death By Shopping.
Ben wasn’t laughing now. Roma Lombard might look like every man’s fantasy, but she was trouble in capital letters.
His eyes narrowed. He’d be damned if he would let her run all over him.
At Gray’s suggestion, they moved to a quieter part of the lounge. Ben accepted the envelope Gray extracted from his briefcase and automatically began examining the contents, but he was still having difficulty concentrating. His mind was firmly fixed on the one complication he could not afford—a sexual attraction to his client.
If he didn’t owe Gray any number of favours, he would have dumped Ms. Lombard’s sweet little ass on someone else’s lap.
Chapter 4
Roma could still feel the heat of McCabe’s touch. His palm had been warm, calloused, and so rough it had sent a hot shock of sensation up her arm.
Wearily, she assessed the situation. McCabe was her bodyguard, and she couldn’t do a thing about it.
He was mouth-wateringly gorgeous, even better than his photos, and she wanted him.
Yep, just as she thought, her life had just officially gone to hell.
She’d heard McCabe’s name mentioned often, although the actual personal information she knew about him was small. She knew he was a good friend of both Gray and Blade, and had been in the SAS with her brothers. He’d been married and was recently divorced, and he was now a single dad with custody of his child.
His blue gaze connected with hers again, and she decided she had one other piece of information. He didn’t like her.
Good, she thought tartly, squashing her bewilderment and a ridiculous pang of hurt. She didn’t want to be on intimate terms with McCabe. He was exactly the kind of male she didn’t need in her life: dominant, overconfident, a real lady-killer.
Roma frowned when she identified a thread of excitement still twining through the long list of negatives she was building against McCabe, but she didn’t question why she had to build a case against being attracted to him. He’d looked at her and she’d been turned on. The sudden attack of lust alarmed her, because she’d never lost control like that before.
His deep voice mingled with Gray’s as he methodically flipped through printed material and a sheaf of enlarged black-and-white photos. The edgy, simmering impatience had disappeared and he now radiated the cool competency of a man who was used to danger and knew just what to do with it.
Faded jeans and T-shirt aside, McCabe looked like exactly what she knew him to be: a highly trained professional, an ex-SAS assault and anti-terrorist specialist who, from the conversation, was now in business as a security consultant.
He began firing questions at Gray. Finally he looked up from the material in his hands. ‘‘Either it was a random shooting or the shot was wide. Did you pinpoint a trajectory?’’
‘‘We did better than that.’’ Gray pulled one of the photos from the stack. ‘‘We found the shooter’s nest. Second floor, third window from the right, just above the flower shop. The lady who leases the shop said there were several empty rooms with back stairs access.’’
‘‘Good position,’’ McCabe commented. ‘‘He shouldn’t have missed.’’
Roma blinked, hardly believing she’d heard right. The bluntness of McCabe’s comment flicked her on the raw. ‘‘That’s why all this fuss is for nothing,’’ she said curtly, irritated at being left out of the discussion as if she had no part in it, and stung by McCabe’s clinical assessment of the so-called attempt on her life. Stung by the memory of that single rifle shot. Anyone would think Lewis didn’t count, despite being the one with a bullet hole in his shoulder. ‘‘If the shooter was that professional and had wanted to put a bullet through me, why did he miss?’’
McCabe’s gaze fastened on hers. ‘‘Your boyfriend was hit.’’
Roma gritted her teeth. ‘‘Lewis isn’t my boyfriend, he’s a friend. There was also a large crowd. Maybe the gunman was after someone else. Maybe, as you say, it was a random shooting and he didn’t care who he hit.’’
‘‘Anything’s possible.’’
McCabe’s voice was low, with an intriguing roughness that made her tighten up inside; then it registered that he was soothing her, as if she needed to be babied out of her fears.
He switched his attention back to Gray, once again dismissing her. ‘‘Calibre?’’
‘‘Five point five six.’’
‘‘Sniper rifle,’’ he said softly.
Gray glanced at Roma. She knew what he was thinking. He didn’t like discussing the details of the shooting in front of her, but she wasn’t going to take the hint and walk away while they discussed the unpleasant facts. Besides, she’d made it her business to find out every last detail of the investigation. In point of fact, she knew more than anyone—she had been there.
McCabe eased the photographs and the report back into the envelope. ‘‘Any fingerprints?’’
‘‘Clean.’’ Once again Gray glanced at her as if she was made of delicate porcelain and shouldn’t hear gritty details.
Roma folded her arms across her chest and almost rolled her eyes with exasperation.
‘‘The room was sanitised before he left. Random target practice or not, he was a pro.’’
McCabe grunted and tapped the envelope against his thigh. ‘‘You need a lift into town?’’
Gray shook his head. ‘‘I’m catching a flight out, I’ve got a lunchtime meeting in Sydney. The family suite at the hotel is free, so that’s where you’ll be staying. Roma has her itinerary, and you’ve got my cell phone number if you need to get hold of me.’’
They shook hands; then Gray hugged Roma. ‘‘I know you think this is a lot of fuss about nothing, but if there’s even the suggestion of trouble, I want you back home and safe.’’
‘‘You worry too much.’’
A wry smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘‘Where you’re concerned, sometimes I don’t think I worry enough.’’
Roma watched Gray stride away, fighting the urge to call him back and cancel this whole trip. She didn’t get to see much of Gray or Blade these days, and the gap in years had always precluded real intimacy, so this sudden urge to cling was definitely out of character. But now that her brother had gone there was just her and—
‘‘Is this all your luggage?’’
Roma stiffened at the grimness of McCabe’s tone. One of those big calloused hands was wrapped around the handle of her suitcase. She fought the urge to snatch the case off him and wondered how he would react to the tussle. Gray would have let her have her way…eventually. She didn’t think McCabe would. He hadn’t openly revealed his dislike, but she could feel it rolling off him in waves.
‘‘If I had any more luggage,’’ she stated coolly, ‘‘I’d be carrying it.’’
He eyed her sharply then nodded. ‘‘When you’re ready…Ms. Lombard.’’
She noticed he used the impersonal address of Ms. instead of the old-fashioned but infinitely more feminine Miss.
She measured the impersonal regard of his dark blue eyes as she fell into step beside him. If there had been heat there before, it was well and truly gone. McCabe’s expression was chilly, bordering on rudeness. If this was his usual manner with paying customers, she would hate to see his client list. She would bet that no one ever hired him twice. The Lombard payroll usually commanded a high level of competency, skill and politeness. She had no doubt McCabe fulfilled the first two items on that list— Gray wouldn’t have hired him otherwise—but he looked as though he didn’t give a damn about the third.
For the first time she registered the orange stain on his shoulder. Like the casual clothes, the stain made McCabe less machine-like and distant, more human, and it reminded her that he had a daughter and a life she knew nothing about. ‘‘Is that ice cream?’’ she asked, curiosity and an impish desire to put a crack in his cool reserve getting the better of her.
His gaze settled on her. ‘‘Orange chocolate chip.’’
Nope, Roma thought, suppressing a sigh, not a glimmer of humour.
Shifting her suitcase to his left hand, he half turned, doing a quick sweep of the Arrivals area and the people using the entrance. As he did so, his T-shirt lifted slightly and settled against a bulge in the small of his back. A handgun. And it wasn’t little—a nine millimetre would probably fit snugly into his big, capable hand.
Roma controlled the spurt of apprehension caused by just seeing the gun. She wasn’t usually so jumpy, but there was no getting past the fact that Lewis’s shooting had shaken her. ‘‘I wouldn’t have picked you for a chocolate chip man.’’
Chocolate chip sounded like fun.
His narrowed gaze swung back to hers. This close, she could see the crystalline purity of his eyes, the soft, glossy texture of his hair, the stubble darkening his jaw. She could smell the clean scent of his skin, as if he wasn’t long from the shower. The details were curiously intimate, and her stomach tightened on another shot of pure sexual awareness.
‘‘I like chocolate just as much as the next guy,’’ he said evenly, ‘‘even though it gives me one hell of a headache.’’
As they strolled toward the car park, Roma decided McCabe hadn’t been talking about food. She didn’t know what chocolate had to do with anything, but she’d been right in her first assessment: he didn’t like her. He would protect her, but only because he was paid to do so. Somehow that burned, which was ridiculous, because she shouldn’t care whether he liked her or not, and she didn’t want to see McCabe as anything other than a paid professional.
But with that first eye contact McCabe had made her see him as a man, and that scared her. Men got hurt. No matter how irritable or bad-tempered, they bled and died. She didn’t want to think of McCabe bleeding the way Lewis had. Dying the way her brother Jake had.
A throb of grief hit her as she stepped from beneath the shelter of the terminal into the full glare of the sun. Blindly, Roma groped in her holdall, found her sunglasses and pushed them onto the bridge of her nose, glad for an excuse to hide the tears.
Every now and then something triggered a remnant of the intense grief, the helpless rage, she’d felt when her brother was killed. In the first weeks after Jake had died, she’d suffered recurring nightmares. She would wake, rigid with shock and distress, pillow wet with tears, then lie there, replaying the dream, trying to neutralise it by changing it, by saving Jake.
In her mind she’d saved him a hundred times, a thousand times. She’d known karate, judo; she’d been an expert shot. In her heart she’d grieved because she’d never had a chance to save him, or, like her brothers, to at least bring his killer to justice.
Lewis’s shooting had brought it all back, the grief, the fear, the anger. So far she’d managed to keep her feelings firmly under wraps, shocked by the sudden eruption of violence outside the cinema and panicked by her loss of control on the sidewalk. Maybe that had been a mistake. She should have allowed herself to cry, taken the sleeping pills the doctor had prescribed so she could at least have gotten some sleep. McCabe wouldn’t appreciate having a weeping female on his hands.