by Fiona Brand
For the first time she faced the fact that it might happen with McCabe.
She sat, her spine rigid, wondering if she was going crazy. She'd done nothing but draw battle lines with McCabe, and now she was considering sleeping with him.
She remembered what it had been like to wake up in his arms, the solid, muscular wall of his chest, the hot maleness of him, and she swallowed. She'd liked it. More than liked it. Which put her in a whole mess of trouble.
The next week wasn't going to be easy. McCabe wasn't going to be easy. But she would get through it. She would figure her way through the confusing minefield of being attracted to her bodyguard, endure his impatience and his restrictions, providing they weren't too intrusive. After all, Ben McCabe was just an ordinary, mortal man; he didn't have super powers.
On impulse, Roma retrieved her holdall from the wardrobe and checked that her gun was still nestled in the folds of her sweatshirt. Her fingers closed around cold metal, and she let out a relieved breath.
If McCabe had X-ray vision and found her gun, she was sunk.
* * *
Chapter 8
« ^ »
Ben sat down at the roomy desk that occupied a recessed area of the lounge and called up a file on his laptop.
When Roma came out, he would see about ordering dinner in; then they were going to have to sit down and go through her itinerary. From what Gray had told him over the phone, Ben knew he wasn't going to like it one little bit. But as he called up street maps and the personnel he might need to use, his mind definitely wasn't on his job.
He sat back in his chair, thoughtful. He couldn't forget the stark look in Roma Lombard's eyes, the flatness in her voice, when she'd said she took the threat seriously.
He'd wanted to continue the conversation, probe a little more deeply, but the phone had rung. Now he wished he'd ignored the call.
All the years he'd known Gray and Blade, admittedly, mostly in a military setting, he'd been aware of how much the need to defend their family from terrorist threats had moulded their personalities. Gray had become grim and silent, Blade had just got wilder—but they'd both shared one common trait; they'd both become formidable forces in the shadowy world of undercover operations. They'd fought and trained, risen through the ranks on the strength of their natural skill in battle and a cold, incisive, intelligence, behind it all a single-minded, driving purpose. They'd hunted Egan Harper down, and in the process destroyed an entire terrorist network.
Roma Lombard was their sister.
She'd lived through those years of terrorist threat just as Gray and Blade had, the only difference was that she'd stayed at home.
He'd thought earlier on, when she was on the verge of losing her temper, how like her brothers she was. Now he had to accept that those years of living under siege had also moulded her, given her the kind of edge and courage that was unexpected in a woman who was so essentially graceful and feminine.
Then there was the other problem, the uncomfortable fact that he was having trouble keeping his hands off his client.
He kept seeing the dazed expression on her face when she'd first woken up, the way her hair had tumbled around her cheeks. She'd looked sleepy and vulnerable, and he'd wanted to slide into bed with her.
He was still aroused just thinking about how close he'd come to sinking his mouth down onto hers and backing her up to that rumpled bed. She was small against him, her skin so smooth and baby-soft, it would mark easily. Primitive heat flared through him when he considered how much he wanted to mark her as his. When he got her beneath him, he would have to be careful.
And he had no doubt that he would have her beneath him; it was only a matter of when. But as badly as he wanted her now, he would have to wait; the job came first.
Half an hour later Roma walked out into the lounge. She'd showered, washed and dried her hair, and changed into a pair of dark pants and a sleeveless knit top in her favourite deep red. She felt almost human after eating the muesli bar she'd discovered stashed in the side pocket of her holdall.
Ben was working at the corner desk, a laptop open in front of him, a security monitor set up next to the lap top—the screen split into four sections showing the entrance and exit to the private elevator, the interior of the elevator, and the door to the suite. As she walked toward him, he stretched his arms over his head, a lazy movement that made all the muscles along his back and shoulders ripple and flex beneath the soft cling of black interlock.
When he saw her, he got to his feet, propped his hips against the desk and folded his arms across his chest. "You look steadier. You'll feel even better when you've had some dinner."
Roma went still. Something was different about McCabe. His tone was mild, his expression still neutral, so that she had difficulty pinning down exactly what had changed. "Did Evan call?"
"Several times."
"Did he leave a message?"
"Just a number. But before you call anyone, we need to get some ground rules sorted out."
McCabe indicated that she should take the chair he'd been using while he worked. His manner was still neutral, relaxed. Roma sat down and crossed her legs, inching the chair back enough that she didn't feel so overwhelmed by his physical presence. And then the change in McCabe hit her. Sometime between the scene in the bedroom and the moment she walked into the lounge, McCabe's attitude had softened. She wouldn't go so far as to say he liked her, but the dislike was no longer evident.
"Gray wanted me on this job because he knows I specialise in VIP protection, not conventional body-guarding, and he wanted the security to be discreet enough not to capture media attention. If you were a high-ranking politician, I'd look like your aide. If you were a valuable executive of a multinational corporation, I'd look like your personal assistant. Neither of those approaches will work in your case. The most obvious cover is for me to look like someone who has every right to be with you twenty-four hours a day."
She blinked, startled, hardly believing she'd heard right. "You mean you're going to pose as my boyfriend?"
He shrugged. "I could pose as a friend of the family, but the fact that I'm sharing accommodation with you messes that one up. Do you have a problem with the boyfriend scenario?"
Roma could think of any number of problems, the first one being that, physical attraction aside, she couldn't imagine McCabe in the role. "No," she said wryly, "no problem."
"Is anyone likely to object?"
"If you mean, do I have a boyfriend, the answer is no."
"What about diVaggio?"
For a bare second Roma was confused; then she realised what he was asking. Heat rose in her at the implication. "I'm not sleeping with Evan, if that's what you're asking."
The phone buzzed. McCabe answered it, then held the receiver out to her. "Speak of the devil," he murmured. "Looks like diVaggio wants to come up."
Minutes later there was a staccato rap at the door. Ben had already surveyed the monitor as diVaggio had his ID checked by hotel security before being escorted up to the suite, and he'd had plenty of time to make his evaluations.
DiVaggio was tall, broad-shouldered, his face saved from classical male beauty by a hard-ass jaw and a nose that looked as if it had been broken playing football. Rough edges aside, the man wasn't so much smooth as slick as polished steel, with a leanly muscled physique encased in a suit that had probably cost the budget of a small third world country.
Roma flung the door open, said diVaggio's name, delight in her voice, and walked straight into his arms. DiVaggio grinned, picked her up and hugged her to his chest as he stepped into the suite.
Ben's eyes narrowed at the intimacy inherent in that simple action, the low register of diVaggio's voice as he expressed his concern about the shooting.
His irritation smouldered into temper when diVaggio took his time letting Roma go. He'd been prepared for the man to be physically unimpressive. He didn't like it at all that the guy exuded a tough strength that would garner him a lot of personal space in
any company.
He liked it even less that Roma had walked into his arms so naturally. She'd said she wasn't sleeping with diVaggio. What he should have asked was had she ever slept with him. If diVaggio saw Roma as his to protect, there was going to be trouble.
Roma pulled free of diVaggio's embrace but kept hold of his arm as she turned toward Ben, grinning.
Suddenly Roma Lombard wasn't quiet or understated, she was a knockout.
Ben felt as though he'd just been kicked in the stomach. The attraction he'd so cold-bloodedly registered was obliterated by something hotter, more uncontrolled.
He took diVaggio's hand as Roma made the introductions, the shake brief, the squeeze firm, eye contact measuring. Ben decided that, in other circumstances, he could have liked the man.
"I've heard Gray talk about you," diVaggio said. "You're Special Air Service."
"Ex," Ben corrected. "I run a security firm now."
DiVaggio glanced sharply at Roma. "There's a problem?"
Ben cut in before Roma could answer. "The protection is precautionary. It'll be discreet." He held diVaggio's gaze, his own deliberately cool because he was delivering a message and he didn't want any misunderstandings. "If anyone wants to know, I'm not Roma's bodyguard, I'm her escort."
"Which means I should keep my hands off." DiVaggio's eyes narrowed. "You may as well play the bodyguard, the part sounds the same."
"In my experience, it's not a lot different."
Satisfaction filled him at the subtle retreat in diVaggio's cold gaze. Ben had staked his claim, and the other man was aware of it.
"If you've both finished marking out territory," Roma said, picking her holdall up off the couch and sliding the strap onto her shoulder, "shall we decide on dinner? If I don't eat soon, you won't have anything left to guard."
* * *
Chapter 9
« ^ »
Dinner wasn't as strained as Roma had thought it would be. A bar occupied one end of the room, and most of the tables were filled, so there was a lively buzz of conversation to fill in the silences, as well as the distraction of steady traffic between tables. The conversation naturally centred around Evan's fund-raising events. McCabe seemed content to let Evan talk, occasionally cutting in with a question about location and possible security problems.
The evening finally wound down, and Evan left. McCabe held her chair, surprising her; then she remembered that in public he was acting as her escort. As she hitched her holdall over her shoulder, she noticed two women at the next table, both with their chins propped on their hands, wineglasses in front of them, as they gazed, bemused, at McCabe.
She didn't blame them for looking. Before leaving the suite, McCabe had shrugged into a shoulder holster, then pulled a black jacket over top. The effect was stark and sexy. He wasn't slickly urbane like Evan, he was bluntly male—more man in every way—and there wasn't one woman in the restaurant who hadn't acknowledged that fact with a long sideways look.
One of the women caught her eye and grinned. "Where did you get him?"
Roma shot McCabe a sideways look. "Actually, my brother got him for me."
"Oh," she said on a sigh, "you've got a nice family."
The other woman focused on Roma. "Is he Italian?" she asked wistfully. "He looks Italian. You've gotta watch them, they're fast."
McCabe's hand landed on the small of Roma's back, sending a spasm of heat through her that made her stomach muscles contract. "In that case, I'm the one who's in trouble. She's the Italian, not me."
The woman blinked, riveted by McCabe's deep, raspy voice. "In this case," she said judiciously, "I don't think nationality matters."
Roma smothered a laugh as McCabe ushered her out of the restaurant.
"I'm beginning to feel like an object," he murmured. "What were you trying to do, sell me?"
"They were ready to buy." She tilted her head back and looked at him as they walked, caught between delight at being able to tease him and the constricting inner tension that just being near him caused. "How much are you worth?"
A lightning grin flashed across his face, unsettling her even more. "More than they can afford."
They strolled toward the entrance to the casino, encased in a silence that prickled with awareness and yet was oddly intimate. His hand was warm and heavy at her back, increasing her awareness of the man at her side until her senses were so acutely attuned to that point of contact that the slightest shift of his fingers sent sharp little bursts of sensation through her.
McCabe lifted a hand to one of the security guys. Addie Carson, a permanent resident of the hotel whom Roma had met a couple of times, spotted them and stopped to say hello. A few minutes later, they continued on toward the elevator.
McCabe's hand was still firm at the hollow of her back, his touch natural, courteous, consistent with the need for them to appear close, but there was no audience now, no professional reason for him to touch her.
Seconds later, McCabe relinquished his hold to operate the elevator. Roma's fingers tightened on the strap of her holdall as the lift moved slowly upward, then stopped with a small cushioned jolt, and she finally faced the source of her panic. It was night, and she and McCabe were going about the ritual of returning to their hotel room as if they were a couple.
She felt as skittish as if he were going to jump her any second, which was ridiculous. The attraction cut both ways with her and McCabe, but the fact remained that he was her bodyguard … no matter how much she wished he wasn't.
McCabe unlocked the door and ushered her in. She walked a few steps, spine rigid with the knowledge that he was behind her. He said her name. She half turned, and he almost walked into her. His hand shot around her waist to steady her; his eyes locked hard with hers. A quiver went through her as he lowered his head.
The kiss was short and soft and deliberate, a tester that sent a bolt of heat straight to her loins so that she stood still in his grasp, blinking, barely able to breathe.
The strap of her holdall slipped off her shoulder, and the bag dropped to the floor with a muffled clunk. She hardly noticed.
His hand settled at her nape, warm and heavy as he coaxed her forward until she was standing between his legs. "I've wanted to do that ever since I saw you at the airport."
She had time to draw a quick breath; then his mouth settled on hers, this time firm, pressing her lips apart, his tongue sliding deep.
A moan shivered up from deep in her belly and locked in her throat. Her fingers closed on the lapels of his jacket as the softly lit lounge faded into hazy oblivion. Oh, yes, she wanted this.
The first time McCabe had looked at her she'd received the instant impression that he knew his way around a woman's body just a little too well. Now she knew it. Sexual confidence radiated from him like high-octane gas shimmering off a hot runway. He knew exactly how to touch her, his palm burning the bare skin of her nape, fingers tangled in her hair, lips soft and rough in turn, tongue sliding in a hot sinuous rhythm in her mouth.
He stepped in closer, keeping his mouth hard on hers as he crowded her back against the wall. His muscled thigh slid between hers as he pressed close enough that she felt the hard ridge of his arousal against her hip.
A raw shock of awareness jolted through her. The few times she'd dealt with male arousal, she'd been repelled; it had been her signal to stop, but she didn't feel repelled now. McCabe's arousal filled her with a shivering excitement. She wanted to press closer, to rub against him, and she wondered, dazed, what was happening to her. She'd dated, kissed, necked, dreamed about how it would be, but she'd never lost control.
The kiss turned raw and primitive, his tongue shoving deep, his arm clamped around her waist so that she was arched against him, her breasts flattened against the muscular wall of his chest. Heat exploded through her, and a strangled sob worked its way up from her throat, dying a muffled death against his lips.
He lifted his mouth, shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it aside. When she slipped her arms arou
nd his waist, her hand bumped against the hard shape that was his gun encased in its holster. The presence of the weapon reminded her of who McCabe was, what he was, but that information spiralled away when his mouth settled hungrily back on hers.
The wall was hard behind her, deliciously cool, when every part of her was burning up and damp with perspiration. His hands cupped her breasts, his thumbs rubbed across her nipples, and she moaned out loud, her head falling back as the ache between her legs became feverishly hot. He said something low and rough beneath his breath; then his arm tightened around her waist, and one big hand cupped her bottom, massaging the tender, sensitive flesh as he lifted her against him, his thighs pressing hers apart so she could feel the heavy bulge of his arousal pushing between her legs, rubbing against the hot, sharp ache.
She gripped his shoulders as his hand closed around her breast, his hold firm, so that the nipple was achingly erect. He dipped and fastened his mouth on her through the layers of cloth. The strong, drawing sensation made her tense and arch, her heart pounding, all the breath gone from her lungs, so that all she could do was hold on and endure as heat gathered, intensified, threatening to swamp her. He bit down gently, and pleasure burst through her, burned between her legs where the blunt ridge of his sex was firmly lodged, the pressure insistent, as if he could penetrate her through the barrier of their clothes.
His head lifted, his blue eyes glittering, the heat and power of him overwhelming as he held her pinned against the wall. "I want you."
The words were low and strained, as if they'd been forced from him. His gaze burned into her as he waited. Roma lifted lids that felt heavy, weighted. She knew what McCabe wanted, knew that this was happening fast—way too fast—but she didn't want to resist. She was a healthy female animal, and she'd spent years being sensible, years wondering what drove intelligent women to make incomprehensible decisions about men, to merrily toss their careers and sometimes their freedom away. Now she knew. She could barely think, barely function, beyond enduring the storm of sensation that battered her. Her clothes were twisted and too tight, clinging uncomfortably to her skin; her breasts were throbbing and sensitive, so that she wanted to rub against McCabe's hard, muscled chest to ease the ache.