MARRYING MCCABE

by Fiona Brand

  Oh, yeah, he was in trouble.

  When he'd read the police report Gray had given him, he'd understood why Gray had wanted him. Roma had been through a traumatic experience. She was vulnerable, whether she was prepared to admit it or not, and she needed more than simple bodyguarding. She needed comforting, babying. Normally, he was good for that.

  His jaw tightened. He didn't have to wonder how Gray and Blade would react if they ever found out he wanted to do a lot more than just lend their sister a shoulder to cry on. They wouldn't bother with conversation. They would draw straws to see who got to beat the living hell out of him first.

  He was beginning to think it might be worth it.

  * * *

  Chapter 7

  « ^ »

  Roma lifted her case onto the bed, unzipped it and began unpacking. Doggedly, she shook out clothes and put them on hangers, aligned her shoes in the wardrobe, and stacked underwear and T-shirts in the dresser that sat to one side of the queen-size bed—using the ritual of establishing her presence in the room to soothe her shattered nerves.

  The room itself was comfortable, with a ceiling fan slowly circulating the air and homey little touches. One of Aunt Sophie's cheerful watercolours was affixed to one wall, and a bowl piled with shells sat on top of the dresser, striking a beachy note.

  She touched a fingertip to the nubby sage green of a kina shell, a sea egg, which had probably been collected by one of her beachcombing cousins, a smile curving her mouth at the familiar, quirky evidence of her family.

  She stacked toiletries in the bathroom and on impulse examined the bottle of sleeping pills, shook one out, poured herself a glass of water, then carried the pill and the water into the bedroom and set them down on the bedside table.

  Her mood changed abruptly when she locked the two doors of the room, emptied her make-up case, placing the items neatly on the dressing table, then removed the false bottom of the case. The compartment held a Sig Sauer P-226, complete with a laser sighting system, a magazine and a box of ammunition, all secured with masking tape to avoid movement or damage during transit. Gray would have a fit if he knew she'd brought her gun with her; she'd broken the law just carrying it into the country, but she'd felt too shaky to leave without it.

  As security blankets went, it wasn't much, but those moments outside the cinema had stripped another layer of innocence from her. Whether she ever used the gun or not was immaterial; just the fact that she had the means to defend herself made her feel more in control.

  She peeled tape off, pulled the Sig out and wiped it clean of any sticky residue with the cloth and cleaning fluid packed in with the gun. As handguns went, the Sig wasn't pretty, but it was sturdy, all black—all business—the steel dull, the textured wooden grip plate practical. Primarily a military weapon, it had the advantage of being lighter than a lot of sporting pistols on the market, and it was more basic, easier to break down. She didn't win any prizes shooting at her gun club when put against some of the fancy custom-made pieces some of the members used, but for Roma that wasn't an issue. She simply needed to be armed with a gun that was reliable, and she needed to be familiar enough with that gun that she was confident handling it in an emergency.

  With methodical movements, she placed the Sig on the dresser, peeled tape off the magazine, wiped that down and slotted shells into it, leaving the load short one round to lessen the possibility of jamming. She slid the magazine into place, checking that the action was smooth, then critically examined the gun. If she was going to carry it with her, she would have to lessen some of the bulk. The laser sight would have to go.

  Setting it down, she removed the magazine and rummaged in her holdall for her case of tools, then carried everything over to the bed. The laser transmitter was mounted on a bracket, which was screwed onto the barrel, and a connecting cord ran from the laser down to the hand grip, where the control button that triggered the system was affixed. She would have to unscrew the grip plate of the gun to remove the control pad, then take the bracket off the barrel to dismantle the system. Flipping open the tool case, she selected a screwdriver.

  When she was finished, Roma shoved the magazine back into the housing, stood and levelled the gun, two-handed, adjusting to the changed weight. Without the sight the Sig was lighter, the balance different, less unwieldy. She would no longer have the advantage of precision targeting, but that wasn't such a big deal. She didn't often use the laser tar-getting anyway, preferring to build her skill by acquiring her targets manually, and this way it would fit better into her holdall or handbag.

  The thought that she might actually have to use the gun wasn't a welcome one. Lewis's injury had brought home to her just how horrifying the damage could be, and she didn't want to inflict that kind of wound on anyone, not even a killer. But she would if she had to. Kneeling over Lewis on that sidewalk had changed her in some basic way. She didn't like guns or the necessity of an armed escort, but danger or not, never again would she leave herself so open and vulnerable.

  Checking that the safety was on, she slipped the gun into her holdall and folded a sweatshirt around it to make sure that nothing could bump against the safety switch and accidentally enable the gun. When she was satisfied the gun was safe, she stowed the bag in the wardrobe, slipped off her boots and lay down on the bed.

  Minutes ticked by as she lay staring at the ceiling and the slow stirring of the fan as it moved tepid air around the room. Apart from the occasional sound of the telephone and the low register of McCabe's voice when he answered it, the suite was quiet, the hum of the city distant.

  Memory drifted back like awkward pieces of flotsam: the airport, McCabe, McCabe's daughter, Bunny. Other unwanted images crowded on the heels of that basic recall. Handling the gun had made her tense and restless. No matter how much she'd prepared herself for violence over the years, her mind had never adjusted to the reality of it.

  Frustration pulled at her. The headache was still there, dull and persistent, and her eyes felt gritty, but she was wound up too tight to relax.

  Reluctantly, she propped herself up on one elbow and picked up the sleeping pill. The only other times she'd taken them had been after Jake's death, and again when Gray and Sam had been held hostage.

  She didn't like taking pills, didn't like relinquishing one bit of control, but she couldn't function much longer without sleep.

  She slipped the pill into her mouth, took a swallow of water, then settled back to wait, staring blankly at the ceiling.

  Ben called up a file on his laptop and began checking the security specs of the hotel, and of this suite in particular. He was already familiar with some of the details, because he'd visited this suite before, when Blade was in residence.

  Frowning, he checked his watch. It was late afternoon, and Roma still hadn't woken up. During the time she'd spent sleeping, Ben had retrieved his own packed case from the Jeep, showered and changed into clean clothes, eaten lunch and taken a quick catnap.

  The phone rang. It was the guy who'd rung twice earlier—light, honeyed baritone, hell of a vocabulary, a real smooth bastard. Evan diVaggio.

  "She's still sleeping," Ben answered calmly.

  "She'll want to talk to me."

  The blunt pronouncement made Ben's hackles rise. He sat back in his chair and coolly considered his caller. "I've got your number. She'll ring you when she wakes up."

  DiVaggio kept talking, evidently unused to taking no for an answer. Ben listened without comment, not bothering to take notes. He had enough problems with this job as it was. The hell he would be Roma Lombard's social secretary. After hanging up, he phoned reception and asked them to hold all calls until further notice.

  Four hours later, Roma still hadn't stirred and Ben was worried.

  He knocked on her door, which opened out into the lounge. When there was no reply, he knocked more forcefully. Silence. He tried the door; it was locked. He strode through his room, into the bathroom, and tried that door, then swore beneath his breath, his patie
nce gone. She'd locked that one, too.

  He called her name. No answer. Abruptly, his irritation changed to concern.

  He couldn't hear anything, hadn't heard anything for hours. Now the absence of sound bothered him. Roma had been tired enough to fall asleep on the drive to the hotel, but he also acknowledged she was an unknown quantity. He dismissed the possibility that she could have left the suite while he was collecting his bag from the truck or having a shower, because both doors were locked from the inside, and besides, she wouldn't leave without telling him, no matter how much she objected to the security arrangements. There were two possibilities. She could simply be sleeping very heavily, or she could be ill. Ben knocked once more and called her name. When there was still no reply, he stepped back, calmly considering his next move … and saw the bottle of pills.

  He examined the label and frowned. Sleeping pills. He unscrewed the cap and shook a few out onto his palm. There weren't many, but he had no way of knowing how many pills had been in the bottle, or how many she'd taken.

  Slipping the small bottle into his pocket, he strode out and rummaged through one of the bags of security gear he'd had delivered that afternoon and extracted his tool kit. Minutes later, with the aid of a small screwdriver, he'd dismantled the lock on the bathroom door and pushed it wide.

  She was lying, fully clothed on top of the bed, curled up on her side, her shirt twisted slightly, her feet bare.

  Ben said her name, his voice startingly loud in the dim room. When she didn't respond, he walked over to the bed and shook her shoulder. She stirred, her eyes barely flickering before she sank back into sleep.

  He shook her shoulder again and when there was no response he went down on his haunches beside the bed, picked up her wrist and measured her pulse. It was normal.

  Ben assessed the situation. She probably hadn't had much sleep since the shooting. Adrenaline and shock could do that to you. He'd seen guys in combat, jittery with nerves for days after they'd had an enemy contact. But there was also the possibility she'd taken too many pills. He didn't think so, but he wasn't about to dismiss that possibility out of hand.

  His decision made, he sat on the side of the bed and lifted her into a sitting position, supporting her with one arm around her shoulders. Her head bumped his chin, nestled against his shoulder; dark, silky hair slid over his arm, making him tense. She was warm and pliant against him, and the light female scent of her rose up, teasing at his nostrils. "Come on, honey," he muttered, "Wake up."

  The demand in the dark male voice finally penetrated the thick fog of sleep that wrapped Roma as cosily as a soft wool blanket. She tried to turn away from the voice, but when she found she couldn't, settled for staying where she was, nuzzling into the warm, solid, ungiving pillow and wondering if she was caught in one of those peculiar dreams that take on the trappings of reality: heat, touch, sound … scent.

  The scent clung in her mind when everything else drifted away. She breathed in more deeply, automatically trying to identify the separate components. The scents were pleasing, masculine… Clean skin and soap, a faint resinous bite of cologne … just enough to tease.

  For a moment she was blank, her mind still essentially closed down, body relaxed into the slackness of sleep. Then awareness hit. Her eyes popped open and fastened on the lean dark face so close to her own. McCabe.

  His arm was wrapped around her shoulders, supporting her in a sitting position. She was surrounded by him, practically in his lap. One big hand cupped her chin, tilting her head back against the warm hollow of his shoulder, the pads of his fingers rough against her skin. Heat radiated from him, burned her with an electrical tingle wherever his bare skin touched hers, but his gaze was cool, clinical.

  "What is it?" she said, her voice husky from sleep. "What's wrong?"

  He released her and stood, digging a bottle out of his pocket. "These."

  Her sleeping pills.

  "How many did you take?"

  Roma was abruptly aware of the dimness of the room, the sense that a great deal of time had passed. She checked her wristwatch and saw with a sense of shock that she'd slept the entire day away. The insomnia and that one sleeping pill had knocked her sideways. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she stood, still feeling woozy, and remembered that she hadn't eaten all day. "One pill, that's all I took." She let out a disgusted breath. "The last one I'll ever take."

  "Good." His fingers closed around the bottle. "Because I'm throwing them away. And there's one more thing we need to discuss. You'd better lose the fortress mentality fast. When you didn't respond, I had to unlock the door with a screwdriver to get to you." His voice was calm, neutral, but there was an underlying coldness that made her stiffen. "Don't lock the doors against me again. Maybe you don't think you need a bodyguard. That issue is irrelevant, because you have one. If you're going to fight me on standard safety precautions, this isn't going to work. I want you to admit the possibility that there is a threat, no matter how remote, and let me do my job."

  Her chin shot up and heat surged into her cheeks, burning away the drowsiness as she met McCabe's gaze. He'd changed into a black T-shirt and black pants, and in the shadowed room the clean-cut angles of his face seemed even more harshly honed, his eyes hooded, the scar more prominent. Not for the first time, she wondered how he'd come by the slice on his cheekbone. She decided it was entirely possible that a woman had done it.

  McCabe believed she'd locked the doors against him. Well, she had, but only so she could conceal the fact that she had a gun. She'd simply forgotten to unlock the doors before she'd gone to sleep. She wondered why he hadn't continued the interrogation by asking her why she'd locked the doors, but apparently he didn't need clarity on that point. Maybe he expected her to be rabbit-scared and lock her room against him like a terrified spinster, or maybe he thought she was so traumatised by the shooting that she had to barricade herself in her room, crawl under the bed and hide.

  "I won't lock the doors again," she said flatly. "And I do accept the possibility of danger."

  "But you're not taking it seriously."

  Roma took a deep breath and did a quick count to ten. The tactic worked, just. Lewis's shooting, the years of fear when Harper had stalked her family, sat hard and cold and unresolved inside her. For all her reluctance to have a bodyguard, it had never been because she'd denied the possibility of danger. She simply wanted to live a normal life, not the half life she'd had forced upon her by a series of security crises. Whenever possible she tried to walk away from it all and just be. Hard to explain to a security professional. McCabe's world was black and white, his purpose easily defined: to protect. "Oh, I take it seriously. Ever since I was fifteen."

  McCabe's gaze locked with hers, darkly glittering in the dim room. It took a moment to register that even though his expression hadn't changed, the way he regarded her had.

  "I'm sorry," he said in a low, rough voice. "I keep forgetting what you've been through."

  Something kicked hard and deep inside her. Her breath came in on a rush, as every nerve ending in her body sprang to sharp, tingling life. McCabe hadn't stepped closer, hadn't moved on her in any way, but she was suddenly unbearably aware of the intimacy of having him in her room.

  A phone rang, the low buzz jolting.

  McCabe said something beneath his breath, slid a cell phone from his pocket, flipped it open and put it to his ear, his gaze still fixed on her in a way that made her heart pound. After a few curt words, he abruptly turned away, strode from the room and continued the conversation out in the lounge.

  Roma sank back onto the edge of the bed. Something had happened.

  Her heart was hammering, and she felt odd, unsettled, as if she'd just run a race or fought a battle—and the result was still in the balance.

  She wrapped her arms around her waist, hugging herself against the strangeness of her feelings. McCabe didn't like her. They didn't like each other. They'd spent all their time fighting and yet the pull of attraction was ther
e, so strong sometimes that it threatened to knock her off her feet. It was alien territory for Roma. She'd always imagined that when she fell in love it would be sweeter, gentler.

  She stopped. Whoa… Back up a step.

  She wasn't in love. In lust, maybe, although she didn't accept that, either. Old-fashioned or not, casual sex was something she shied away from, although she didn't require the permission of marriage. If she'd ever fallen in love with any of her ex-boyfriends she wouldn't have been coy, she would have gone to bed with him, but that had never happened. All around her people she knew were settling into marriages, having babies, but Roma had never come close to falling in love or had a relationship that had in any way approached permanency.

  The same restless dissatisfaction that had had her picking up the phone two nights ago and ringing Lewis gripped her. She'd been tired of being alone, and she'd wanted to go out. Lewis was a safe escort and good company, but that hadn't been enough. She'd wanted what every other healthy, red-blooded woman out on the prowl on a Saturday night wanted: to find her man. It was basic and primitive. She was tired of being alone; she wanted to be loved, and she wanted to make love. She wanted to know what it was like to sleep with her man, to have him on top of her while she wrapped her legs around him and took him inside her. She wanted to rub herself against him, wallow in the different textures of skin and hair, run her hands over the muscular width of his back and glory in his male strength.

  She wasn't naive; she knew that sex could be hot and sweaty and messy, maybe even painful the first time. She didn't care; she wanted it.