by Fiona Brand
She probably had been watched … by any number of people—holiday-makers—simply occupying rooms. There was no need to get spooked about it.
She had to pull herself together. Her schedule for the next two days was hectic. Evan had organised a number of fund-raising events centred around the fashion world, designed to appeal to both the wealthy and the fashion conscious, and to attract maximum media attention. He'd gathered a number of celebrities, including well-known models and designers, and there had already been a storm of publicity. Tonight there was a reception, tomorrow a cocktail party. The week of activity would culminate in a fashion show and a ball, many of the events being held here at the hotel.
With any luck, she would be so busy she wouldn't have time to think, let alone feel.
* * *
Chapter 13
« ^ »
Ben escorted Roma to the reception, which was held at the hotel, using Charlie Speers as his backup.
He'd spent the day grimly going over the complications of forming a relationship with a woman he'd known for little more than a day, the sister of two of the best friends he'd ever had.
The whole exercise had been academic.
Something essential had shifted and settled inside him. His loss of control was an issue he still hadn't resolved, but the bottom line remained that he wanted Roma in his life, despite all the possible pitfalls. They would work out the details over time.
He'd gone through the motions of researching her past, read through some of the press releases surrounding the various crises the Lombard family had weathered. Gradually he'd pieced together fragments of information that confirmed what he already knew, that Roma had lost more than a brother, she'd also lost her career in child care and, to a large extent, her freedom.
Even without the additional information, he'd already known what he had to do. He'd met Roma's parents on a couple of occasions, and he liked and respected them. He'd rung Roma's father and told him what he intended. Guido Lombard hadn't been impressed, but he'd been calmer than Ben had expected.
Once he'd hung up, he'd been impatient to get Roma alone to consolidate his position, but achieving that had proved to be impossible. The suite had been overrun with people: Charlie, kicking his heels, hotel security staff coming and going, delivering flowers and invitations, diVaggio's people delivering clothes, and Roma had actively avoided him, her gaze frosty.
He had hoped to get her alone tonight, but she'd neatly evaded him. All evening he'd stayed close, his frustration growing by degrees, but she'd kept moving, smiling, flirting, effortlessly charming. Women liked her, the media loved her, and men dropped like flies.
Her feminine understatement, that subtle air of mystery, knocked them dead. He could see the moment it happened, the dazed expression followed by a sharpening of male attention as they fell under her spell. Then they checked him out … and took a step back.
Impatiently, he checked his watch and wondered how much longer they had to stay.
Roma accepted a glass of mineral water from a waiter, stiffening as McCabe's hand landed at her back, his thumb brushing the sensitive hollow of her spine just above the low-cut back of her dress. Casually, she moved away from him, turning so he couldn't pull the same trick again. If he tried, she would find a way to accidentally empty her glass of water where it was needed most.
McCabe was grimly handsome in a black dinner jacket that clung to his big shoulders, the crisp white shirt making his olive skin glow a dark, exotic gold. With his sleek, powerful build and the slash of the scar on his cheekbone, he looked like a panther walking among tabbies.
Despite his cool reserve, women flocked to McCabe, drawn by the palpable air of danger that hung about him, wanting to touch him, wanting to know who he was and how he'd gotten that sexy scar on his cheek. He'd stayed close all night, the perfect gentleman, the perfect attentive escort, opening doors for her, getting her food and drinks. The attention was disconcerting after he'd ignored her for the entire day. The last thing she wanted to be reminded of was the fact that last night she'd been happy for McCabe to touch her wherever he pleased.
One of Evan's tall celebrity models, who'd had a little too much champagne, swayed up to McCabe and announced that she wanted to feel his muscles. McCabe eyed her with amusement, and when she pouted, he laughed, his teeth white against the stub-bled darkness of his jaw.
Roma was transfixed by the byplay. She'd never seen McCabe laugh, and the abrupt change in his features was riveting. He looked relaxed, as lazily sensual as a big cat basking in the sun, and suddenly the lack of real intimacy between them struck her forcibly.
From the very first, apart from a blunt sexual appraisal, he'd shown little interest in her as a person. He'd been cool and gruff, extending her the barest courtesies. There had been no attempt to get to know her, no endearments or love words. He'd known she was a virgin and backed off initially, yet when they'd made love, the foreplay had been minimal, penetration quick and brutal. After that, he'd kept the formula simple; he had stayed on top of her all night.
She could remember his voice, a low soothing rumble, but she couldn't remember any actual words. Suddenly it was very important that she should have had those words, but the night had been hot and murky, and she'd drifted in and out of sleep, every memory blurred by the power and intensity and strangeness of making love for the first time.
If he'd shown the least bit of interest in her as a person when they'd woken, she would have been mindlessly happy, but he hadn't. He'd been aroused but matter-of-fact about having to postpone sex until he bought lubricant.
The model slid a finger along the lapel of McCabe's jacket, still pouting prettily. Roma's eyes narrowed on the gorgeous blonde and McCabe, and one word came to mind: rat.
She was confused, angry, miserable. Now she was jealous.
And she was in love with a rat.
She'd been denying it all day, sick to her stomach that after all these years she'd finally fallen in love, but with a man who had all the emotion of a chunk of granite and, when it came to sex, the practicality of a mechanic checking out a car engine.
She wondered if he'd bought lubricant today. She could almost wish he had; she knew just what she wanted to do with it, although McCabe might be a little surprised which orifice it ended up in.
Carefully, she set her drink down on a nearby table, made her excuses, then walked toward the ladies' room, keeping her gait steady. She had to get away, breathe air that didn't have McCabe in it, before she tossed her mineral water in his face.
That line from Shakespeare—"hell hath no fury like a woman scorned"—only began to describe how she felt.
Her jaw tightened. If her bodyguard had a hankering to check out any more car engines, he had plenty to choose from here. Hers had officially seized.
She waited for a few moments in the elegant anteroom, feeling suffocated by the heavily perfumed, overheated atmosphere. She left with a chattering group of ladies, then detached herself from them to walk briskly toward the large double doors of the ballroom, threading her way between groups of people and quickening her step as she went. Her dress was long and red, the skirt narrow, which made it hard to be inconspicuous, and she was wearing high heels, which impeded her progress, but she made it through the doors and out into the thickly carpeted foyer without attracting the attention of either McCabe or his sidekick, Charlie Speers.
She was almost at the elevator when something made her glance over her shoulder. McCabe was coming after her. Her stomach flipped in panic as she turned the final corner and grabbed a handful of skirt, hiking it up so she could walk faster. She reached the elevator, fumbled her key card out of her beaded purse, inserted it and stabbed in the code. The doors swished open just as McCabe called her name.
She stepped into the elevator and jabbed the button to close the doors, her heart thumping in her chest. McCabe's hand caught the doors just before they slid shut.
He stepped into the opening. "If you wanted to leave, you sho
uld have told me."
"The hotel's crawling with security. I didn't think there was much risk in going up to the suite. Besides, you were busy."
"I was with you."
"You're my bodyguard. You're paid to be with me."
"I changed the terms of the contract. I stopped being your bodyguard last night."
She eyed him coolly. "If you're no longer my bodyguard, then what are you doing here?"
"Protecting you, but I'm not doing it for money. I've put Alan and Charlie in place for backup."
There was a discreet cough behind them.
McCabe glanced over his shoulder. Charlie Speers and a member of the hotel security staff were standing just outside the elevator, looking vaguely embarrassed. McCabe acknowledged hotel security and dismissed Charlie for the night, then stepped into the elevator and hit the door control. Bare seconds later they stepped out of the lift, and he unlocked the door to the suite.
As soon as she got inside, Roma made a beeline for her room. She needed to think about McCabe's decision to withdraw from being paid to protect her. If that decision was motivated by a sense of pity or obligation, she would sooner call in a different firm to do the security.
She was just inside the door when McCabe spoke, halting her. "I rang your father today."
She turned slowly, hardly believing she'd heard right. "You did what?"
"I rang your father and told him we were involved."
For a moment, Roma wondered if there had been something alcoholic in the mineral water she'd been drinking. Or maybe it was McCabe who was drunk. "You told him we slept together?"
She adored her father, but he was definitely old-fashioned, old-school, and even less inclined for her to have anything to do with the male of the species than both her brothers put together.
"Not exactly."
She closed her eyes briefly. So, okay, the hit squad was on hold … for a few days at least. "Why did you ring him! What happened last night was between you and me, my family doesn't come into it."
"I rang him because your family trusted me to protect you, and I broke that trust." He shoved his hands into his pockets. "I'm sorry about today, but I had things to organise, things to think through."
Understanding dawned slowly. She'd thought he'd simply decided he'd made a mistake in getting involved with her, but it went deeper than that. "You had me checked out."
His gaze was cool, watchful. "I can't make a decision about any relationship without considering Bunny."
"Right. I'm a Lombard, and you've got a child to protect."
She saw the answer in his eyes and cut him off before he could speak. "Are you in love with me?"
He hesitated. "I want you in my life."
But he didn't want the trouble that went hand-in-hand with the Lombard family.
McCabe did want her, which was something. He wanted a relationship, which was more than she'd expected. But he wasn't anywhere near in love with her. Number one on his priority list was to protect his child. From her.
She knew it was an unfair assessment. That wasn't exactly what McCabe was doing, but it felt that way, and who could blame him? He had probably read about how she'd quit her job so she wouldn't put the children at risk. And no one who'd been involved in the hunt for Egan Harper, as he had been, could miss the fact that anyone hooking up with the Lombard family was fair game for terrorists. Jake's fiancée had died, and a few years later Gray's wife, Sam, had come close to being executed.
McCabe wanted her, but he wasn't anywhere near committed, and he wouldn't let her into his life—or anywhere near his daughter—until he was. That stung, despite the fact that she agreed with his need to protect Bunny. If she were in the same position, she would do exactly the same thing.
Her fingers clenched so tightly on her purse they began to ache, but she wasn't going to cry. She would be damned if she would cry.
She wanted it all and always had: marriage, babies, growing old together. For the first time in her life, she had glimpsed the possibility of that future for herself. She didn't know exactly what McCabe had glimpsed—wanting her in his life covered a lot of ground—but she did know one thing: he might be happy with half measures, but she never would be.
Her fingers found the edge of the door. "Thanks for deciding you can be involved with me, but no thanks."
The door snapped closed in Ben's face.
Ben turned the knob and met resistance. She'd locked him out.
His chest rose and fell. Slowly he released the knob and took a step back.
He'd made a mess of that.
Abruptly, he turned on his heel and strode out onto the terrace. The sea breeze cut through the heat of the night, sliding across his skin, sifting through his hair. He lifted his face to the wind and gripped the iron railing. It was late, but fading light still rimmed the horizon to the west, burnished copper slowly giving way to the glow of city lights. To the east, a huge yellow moon slid clear of the ocean to float, ponderous and belly-full, just above the smooth, flat surface of the water.
Turning, he leaned against the railing, arms folded across his chest as he stared broodingly into the lounge, and adjacent to that, his bedroom, with the big, empty king-size bed. The breeze drifted against his back, cooler now, so that the skin along his spine tightened.
He'd made mistake after mistake with Roma, although, looking back, he couldn't see how he could have reacted any differently. He'd had to be wary of getting involved with her—with any woman, for that matter. He had to consider his daughter's needs, and in this case, there were the added problems of the media attention and security risk associated with the Lombard family.
He would have to work damn hard to regain her trust, and he wasn't confident of the outcome. Something squeezed hard in his chest. For the first time in years, he felt completely at a loss with a woman. His first instinct was to batter down her door—and her defenses. But if he tried that angle, he would lose her for sure. He wasn't quite sure what he'd gotten in Roma—she was an odd, mystifying, fascinating personality—but he did understand that he was on the verge of losing something precious.
Abruptly, he turned, gripping the cold metal railing and drinking in the cool drift of air. The glitter of light off the hotel opposite captured his attention.
He frowned. The building gave him a cold itch up his spine. It was new, a smoked-glass monolith which had been constructed over the site of a set of older, much lower buildings, and it faced right into the Lombard suite. In security terms, it blew their protection out of the water. He would have a word with Gray about relocating the suite to the other side of the building or, better still, suggest he buy a secure house away from the hotel.
* * *
Chapter 14
« ^ »
For the next two days Roma was constantly escorted by McCabe. She became so used to his presence that she missed him when he wasn't near.
She knew what he was doing and could have protested, but the plain, miserable fact was that she wanted to be close to him. The only time they didn't spend together were the hours they slept, but even in sleep she was restlessly aware of him, waking often, and tossing and turning in the heat.
It was a seduction, and they both knew it. A cat-and-mouse game she was losing inch by inch as McCabe wore down her resistance.
The media loved it. Photographers and reporters hounded them, taking pictures, probing for information, wanting to know who the mystery man in her life was. It didn't take them long to find out that McCabe was a longtime friend of her brothers, and that he'd been a member of the Special Air Service team that had hunted down Egan Harper. The interest escalated, and all the old stories about the terrorist attacks were dug out and resurrected; speculation was rife.
Evan wasn't happy about the shift in publicity—he liked to be centre stage—but he was philosophical; the attention Roma and McCabe were getting would naturally spill over onto the charity functions.
Her father rang her on her mobile phone and threatened to
come over early. Roma fended him off, reminding him that she was an adult. She was fine, and she was busy, and, in any case, the entire family would be there in two days' time for Evan's ball.
Her mother wasn't inclined to let it go when she came on the phone. Bridget Lombard was fiercely protective of all her children, and Roma knew she could sense that everything wasn't fine, but she let Roma have her way, promising to have a long talk with her when she got to the hotel.
Seconds after her mother had hung up, the phone rang again. This time it was Aunt Sophie. She didn't mince words.
"I hear you're sleeping with that big stud, McCabe."
Roma closed her eyes. Sophie was sixty-five going on thirty, a widow with no children. She'd had a very settled, staid marriage, but since her husband of over forty years had died, she'd been making up for lost time, determined to make the most of what she called her "twilight" years.
"Did you use protection?" Sophie demanded.
Roma rolled her eyes. "Yes."
"Good," she said with some satisfaction. "Then he hasn't got you pregnant yet." There was a pause, a fumbling sound, as if Sophie was checking to make sure no one was listening in. Her voice dropped to a husky whisper. "It was in the newspaper that you're shacked up with McCabe, but there's no sense in restricting yourself in this day and age. You want to give that nice blond boy a spin. What's his name? Charter. Play the field while you can, girl, before McCabe puts a ring on your finger."
There was a loud click, then silence. Sophie had hung up.
Roma slipped the phone back in her holdall and glanced around the room. The sun was shining, glinting prettily off the breakfast things on the dining table; a light breeze swirled through the potted shrubs and palms on the deck, filling the room with the rich scent of gardenias. McCabe and Alan were going over her itinerary, marking the route on a street map and discussing the locations, their voices a low rumble in the background. For a moment she was disoriented at the sheer normality of the scene, considering the conversations she'd just had.