by Fiona Brand
Her arms wound around his neck. "Yes," she said simply.
A rough sound was torn from his throat. His mouth sank down hard on hers, and she whimpered with relief, her stomach jumping nervously at the decision she'd just made.
She felt the waistband of her pants loosen, the rough bunching as they were pushed down her hips, the startling glide of his fingers sliding beneath her panties. Then he was cupping her, his palm hot, the pads of his fingers rough. She had a moment to grasp the crude intimacy of his bare hand against her naked, sensitive flesh, the stunning speed with which he had moved; then she felt him parting her folds and a finger pushed shallowly inside her.
At the first shock of the intrusion she began to climax, clinging to his shoulders as he withdrew and pushed inside her again. This time the thickness of the invasion made her stiffen, and she realised he'd penetrated her with two fingers, pushing deeper than before so that she was stretched tight around him, burning and throbbing.
McCabe said something low and soft beneath his breath, and went very still against her. His chest rose and fell sharply; she could feel the rapid slam of his heart. His fingers were still lodged inside her, alien and uncomfortable, the throbbing ache existing somewhere on the uneasy border between pleasure and pain, so that part of her wanted to shrink back from the pressure and the stretching, and another part of her wanted to press against him and recklessly invite him deeper.
"You're a virgin." A moment of utter silence followed his statement. He sighed, his breath stirring her hair. His forehead dropped down on hers as his fingers slowly withdrew, leaving an aching dampness behind. "I'm glad I found out before I went any further."
A little chill went through her at the mildness of McCabe's tone. She knew he was aroused, knew that seconds ago he'd been wild for her, but the swiftness with which he'd regained his control was like a slap in the face. Apart from the obvious physical sign of his arousal, he could have been reciting a grocery list.
He pushed away from her, bent and retrieved his jacket. Suddenly awkward, Roma jerked her pants up and fastened them, yanking on the zip, her jaw clamping when the teeth snagged.
"Need some help?"
She tugged at the zip. "I've been dressing myself since I was four. I think I can manage."
She finally worked the zip up, her face flushing with heat as she straightened her top, which had twisted around her waist. McCabe had had her pinned against that wall while he'd done things to her, turning her bones to jelly and shattering her view of life in general, and sex in particular. Now she knew what the fuss was all about, and she felt like crying. She was achey and tender, her whole body throbbing, her legs so limp it was a wonder she could stand. After all these years of not feeling anything memorable, McCabe had reduced her to a trembling mass of nerve endings barely capable of thought.
It hadn't taken much. All he'd had to do was push her up against a wall and she'd climaxed. They hadn't even made love.
Bending, she snagged the strap of her holdall and hooked it over her shoulder. Her gun bumped against her hip, reminding her that she'd been careless enough to drop it and now she needed to check that it was still safe.
"Why?" McCabe demanded softly.
Roma's head came up at the cool demand.
McCabe was watching her, his expression back to unfathomable, the lines of cheekbone and jaw sharply delineated by the lamplight. With his muscular arms bare and the black utilitarian lines of the shoulder holster visible, he looked tough and controlled. Apart from the bulge in his pants it was hard to believe he'd been aroused at all.
"Were you saving yourself for Mr. Right?"
If his tone had been mocking, she wouldn't have answered. "Not especially. I just haven't been bothered."
"Haven't been bothered?" McCabe gazed at her, arrested.
Roma began to wonder if she'd grown an extra head. "What's so strange about that? Not everyone becomes sexually active the second they hit puberty."
"You're twenty-four. Most people have an interest before then."
She eyed him coolly. "Did I say I wasn't interested?"
"Okay, then … why me, and why now?" Before she could answer, he shook his head. "No. Forget I asked that. It's late, and we could both do with a good night's sleep." He turned away, shrugging out of the shoulder rig.
Her jaw squared at the dismissal. "And that's it?"
He stopped, holster dangling from his fingers, his broad back still, and she was suddenly aware that McCabe wasn't as cold and unmoved as he looked. Her stomach clenched on a jab of apprehension, and she wondered what had happened to her judgement. Goading McCabe was a bit like prodding a big battle-scarred tiger with a stick.
"Don't push it," he said softly, half turning. "You're a virgin. In my book that changes the rules."
In her book, if you loved someone, that had been the rule. She didn't love McCabe, but on some primitive level everything inside her had shouted loud and clear that it had been right with him. "I never would have picked you for a traditionalist."
"When it comes to your family, I damn well better be."
* * *
Chapter 10
« ^ »
Roma sat up in bed and fumbled for the light switch, blinking as the room flooded with golden light. Shoving tangled hair back from her face, she took a calming breath. It was one in the morning, and hot. She'd been tossing and turning for hours, and the thin cotton tank top she wore clung damply to her skin. She'd slept the day away, and now she was wide awake, her mind running over and over what had happened between her and McCabe, and every now and then, just for a change of pace, sliding sideways into the shooting.
Pushing the covers back, she climbed from the bed, walked to the window and held the curtain back. The night was clear, the stars visible, although faint—their glitter diminished by the radiant glow of the city.
With an impatient movement, she pushed the window wide, leaned her arms on the sill and breathed in the cool softness of the night air as she searched out the elusive patterns in the night sky. The flesh of her arms rose in response to the cooler air, the faint chill sliding through her, bringing with it a wave of loneliness that seemed to sink into her very bones. Standing in the still silence of her room, she felt isolated and alone in a way she'd never experienced before.
It had to do with McCabe. He'd backed off so fast it hurt. She recognised that rigid code of honour, had seen it operating in her brothers. She'd joked with them about it often enough when they were single. It was almost as if they had some kind of internal radar, and if they decided a woman was a virgin, she got to stay that way, regardless of what she wanted. McCabe probably thought he was doing her a favour, and maybe he was, but all the same, she couldn't help wondering what it would have been like.
The dull throbbing low in her belly sharpened, her nipples tightening until they were almost painfully tender, and so sensitive she could hardly bear the clinging softness of her tank top. She blew out a disgusted breath. She was frustrated. In male terms, horny. This wasn't supposed to happen. Every little girl struggling with puberty got to learn that when it came to sex, men were at best easy, at worst like wild animals on the prowl. In theory she should have to guard herself against McCabe.
With a sigh, she pushed away from the window and paced the length of the room. She should have a shower to help her sleep, but if she did that she would probably wake McCabe, and that was the last thing she wanted; she'd already had her full measure of humiliation for one night.
As much as she despised the sleeping pills, she wished she had one now.
Grimly, she got down on the carpet and began to do smooth sets of exercises, focusing her mind on the repetitive movements and not McCabe, working her muscles until sweat sheened her skin. If she was physically tired she had a better chance of sleeping—real sleep, minus the dreams.
Half an hour later she changed into fresh panties and a tank top, climbed back into bed and finally fell headlong into sleep.
A sound jerked
Ben awake. He rolled off the bed, naked but for a pair of stretchy grey boxers, reached for the Glock and slicked the clip into place as he moved across the room.
The sound had been low, muffled; he couldn't identify exactly what it was—the slide of a footstep, a soft groan.
He eased the drapes aside and checked the terrace. Moonlight flooded most of the area with bright silver light, plunged other parts into inky blackness. It was empty of movement except for the potted palms shivering in the faint breeze.
He left the curtains open to partially illuminate his room and ghosted into the bathroom, keeping to the shadows. Briefly, he listened at Roma's door, then silently entered her room. She was in bed, asleep, lying utterly still. He listened a moment longer, then left.
He checked the rest of the suite and tested all the locks. When he was satisfied that nothing was amiss, he flicked on a lamp, sat down at his desk and checked the surveillance cameras, then called up tapes of the last ten minutes, studying each as it played through. He didn't expect to find anything, and he didn't. The Lombard suite was isolated from every other in the hotel and had its own private lift. If anyone came up here they would have to obtain a key and the PIN number that went with it, and then they would be under constant, overt surveillance all the way. The defences had been breached—once—but since then, the Lombard family had upped the security. When they were in residence now, they had twenty-four-hour live surveillance on the lift and the short corridor leading to the suite.
He closed the programme and strolled back to his room, placed the Glock on the bedside table, unlocked the terrace doors and walked outside. The terracotta tiles were cool beneath his bare feet, and beaded with condensation. He padded to the iron railing and stared out over the glittering cityscape and the gleaming expanse of sea, nostrils flaring as he drank in the warm, damp air, the faint bite of salt.
The wind had shifted to the northeast and now wheeled in off the ocean, bringing with it a hot, wet front, fresh from the tropics, which explained why it was hot as a bitch. It was going to rain.
Seconds later, as if to prove his point, the leading edge of a heavy bank of clouds slid across the face of the moon, cutting off the stark flood of silver light. The abrupt transition from light to darkness intensified the illusion that the whole city was being slowly smothered beneath a blanket of humidity.
A low rumble of thunder sounded. Out at sea, lightning flared across the roughening surface of the water. The breeze picked up, feathering through the palms and fanning his sweat-dampened skin, although it was more a warm stirring of the atmosphere than a true breeze, and didn't provide any relief.
Ben went back inside, leaving the doors open, and lay down on top of his rumpled bed. He was tempted to sleep naked, because he was still aroused from what had happened earlier that night, his skin so ultra-sensitive he could barely stand even the soft gloving of interlock, but that wasn't an option when he was working. There were enough things that could go wrong without getting caught with his pants down.
Thunder grumbled again, closer this time, the low register of sound putting him even more on edge so that he stared at the ceiling with slitted eyes, not inclined to sleep. What he wanted was to walk into Roma's room, strip the bedclothes from her and finish what they'd started against that wall, virgin or not.
The thought made his heart pound and sweat slick his skin. He'd never felt like this, so hungry he was bordering on desperate. If he didn't have his daughter to consider, the mistake of his last marriage burned into his brain, he would be in bed with Roma now, instead of holding on to honour as an excuse.
She'd called him on it, and he hadn't lied. He didn't want to do anything to hurt either her or her family, but at one o'clock in the morning, his body tight with frustration, he was beginning to question his logic. Roma was twenty-four, and independent. If she wanted to go to bed for the first time with a man, she would, regardless of whether her family approved or not.
The thought of her lying naked beneath another man made his hands tighten into fists. He was beginning to think he'd been crazy turning her down. Crazy, and commitment shy.
Minutes ticked by. The thunder continued to rumble, the vibration low-key, sporadic. Shafts of hot, intense light seared through the gloom as lightning periodically lit up the sky, but the rain held off, and the sultry heat built until the air was heavy and charged with ozone.
Abruptly, the breeze strengthened, whipping the gauzy curtains and sending the first scattering of rain into the room. Ben got up to close the doors just as the heavens opened and rain came down in a torrent.
Damp muslin plastered against his thighs, the rain soaking him in seconds as he fastened the doors. Grimly, he shoved a hand through his hair, slicking the moisture back so that it ran in a tepid rivulet down his spine as he walked into the bathroom for a towel. His gaze fixed broodingly on the door that opened into Roma's room as he jerked his towel off the rail and began drying his hair. It was going to be a long night.
The sound catapulted him from sleep. It was louder this time, a low howl that sent cold spearing down his spine, making all the hairs at his nape stand on end.
He reached Roma's room, the Glock in his hand, and swung the door wide. It banged softly against the wall. The howl came again, low and rending, like an animal in pain, and he froze, then let his arms drop, the Glock held loose in his fingers.
Roma hadn't pulled the curtains, and the ambient light produced by the inner city cast a dim glow into the room, enough for him to see that she was asleep, despite the noise she'd made. He laid the gun down on the bedside table and flicked on the lamp. Something twisted inside him. She was crying in her sleep.
Roma surfaced at the first touch, immediately aware that McCabe was bending over her, his hand gripping her shoulder. She was also aware that at some time during the night she'd kicked the covers off and now her skin was damp and clammy, and she was shuddering as if she were in the grip of a fever.
He made her sit up, grabbed the feather-soft blanket that was draped at the end of the bed and wrapped it around her, brushing aside her apology for waking him.
The mattress sank as he sat down beside her and picked up her wrist. The clasp of his hand sent a tingling jolt up her arm.
His gaze pinned her as he measured her pulse. "Do you need me to call a doctor?"
She took a steadying breath, caught somewhere between embarrassment and resignation, and relieved when he released her wrist. This was the third time McCabe had surprised her while she was asleep. She felt like saying, "We've got to stop meeting like this," but instead repeated what she'd said earlier. "I'm sorry I woke you. It was just a dream … a bad dream I have sometimes."
Only this one had been worse than usual. Much worse.
Instead of getting up and leaving, as she'd expected, he remained where he was. "Care to tell me about it?"
His invitation surprised the words out of her. "I dream about Jake."
Her statement hung starkly in the silence of the room, and she wondered how she could have told him something so intimate, when she hadn't talked about the dreams with any member of her family.
But maybe that was it. McCabe wasn't family, and there was a sense of relief in finally telling someone. The dream had been with her for years, drifting through her nights, sometimes surfacing in daydreams. It had haunted her, but now that she'd given it its first tentative airing, it didn't seem nearly so painful or mysterious.
She loosened the soft folds of the blanket as the warmth became uncomfortable, letting it slide from her shoulders to puddle around her waist. "They never found his body." Even now flinching from saying that dehumanizing word "body". "Rafaella washed up, but not Jake." She rubbed her fingers over her forehead, pushed tangled hair back from her face. "I keep dreaming that he's alive."
Ben's chest tightened on an intake of air. He'd never met Jake, but he'd seen photos of him. He was a year or so older than Gray, big and vital, larger than life in every way. Over the years, with the hunt fo
r Jake's killer, the oldest Lombard brother had loomed large in Ben's life, despite the fact that he was dead and gone. Even now, it was hard to imagine all that bright burning power snuffed out. "You haven't talked to your family about the dream?"
Her head came up sharply. "They don't need to know."
The hell they didn't, he thought grimly. She'd been shaking, crying in her sleep. Her whole system had gone into shock.
The shooting three nights ago had obviously triggered the old trauma. He'd seen that happen after combat situations, especially if there'd been a death. Guys would put on a good face, seem to shrug it off. The next thing, they were in the psych unit undergoing evaluation.
All the stories he'd heard about Roma suddenly clicked into place in his mind. She'd been a teenager when Jake had been killed, little more than a child, and she'd let off steam in her own way—a way that had made her family laugh when they hadn't had a lot to laugh about. As she'd moved into adulthood the wild antics had stopped and she'd closed off, pulling into herself and repressing the fears, which was a natural enough process, but now he was worried about her. She hadn't cried or complained or asked for comfort while she was awake. Her vulnerability had only surfaced during sleep, wrenched out of her with that unearthly howl.
If he tried to question her, she would treat him to more of the same blank routine. He would have to find out in more subtle ways. He didn't want to scare her or make her any more wary of him than she already was. He wanted her to trust him, to let down her barriers.
He went still inside, aware of the decision he'd just made. Nothing was settled between them, but right or wrong, the next time Roma dreamed about Jake, she wouldn't be alone.