MARRYING MCCABE Read online

  Her parents knew she'd slept with McCabe, and now Sophie did, too, because she must have listened in. According to Sophie the newspapers were reporting that she was "shacked up" with McCabe.

  In two days' time, when her entire family arrived to attend the ball, the odds were that every single member of her family would know she'd slept with McCabe.

  She felt like crawling back into bed, pulling the covers over her head and telling everyone to go away and leave her alone.

  She was twenty-four years old, and she'd been careful, even circumspect, with her relationships; then, the first time she slept with a man, the whole world found out.

  McCabe's head lifted, as if he'd sensed her watching him. His gaze locked with hers.

  Her stomach tightened on a jolt of pure feminine panic at the blunt male intent he made no effort to disguise. He was calmly, methodically, decimating her resistance, and she didn't know how much longer she could hold him off.

  Several hours later McCabe escorted Roma from the studio of a television station, where she'd just finished taping an interview. Instead of walking toward the rental car they'd been using, he led her to his truck, which was parked beside the car.

  Alan climbed out of the driver's seat, grinned good-naturedly at Roma and collected the keys for the rental.

  McCabe opened the passenger door for her, but when she tried to step in, her narrow skirt restricted her movement.

  "Let me." McCabe's hands encircled her waist, the warmth of his fingers instantly penetrating the lightweight cream linen of her skirt and the much lighter silk of her blouse as he lifted her onto the passenger seat. He released her immediately and walked around to climb into the driver's seat.

  Roma buckled herself in, still tingling from the pressure of his hands, and on edge as McCabe pulled out into traffic. She noticed he didn't seem to be heading back to the hotel. "Where are we going?"

  "You're free for the afternoon, so I thought I'd take you to my gun club." He glanced at her. "If you don't want to do that, I'll take you back to the hotel."

  "Why the gun club?"

  He braked for a set of lights. "To show you how to shoot a gun."

  For a moment she was so transfixed by what he'd said that she couldn't answer. "I know how to shoot a gun."

  "Why doesn't that surprise me?"

  Eventually McCabe pulled into what looked like a private country club. She looked around curiously as he pushed his door open and came around to help her down. This time she braced her hands on his shoulders. McCabe's eyes locked with hers as he lifted her from the seat. "Damn," he murmured as he set her down. "I'm getting tired of this."

  He bent, and his mouth settled on hers, the kiss hot and hungry and slow.

  A small, quivering moan of relief rose from deep in her belly as he gathered her close. He felt hot and hard against her, the scent of his body slightly sweaty and male in the afternoon humidity. He cupped her nape, massaging the sensitive skin while he tilted her head to deepen the kiss, groaning with satisfaction as she stretched out against him and wound her arms around his neck. When he finally released her, her legs felt like jelly and she had to clutch at his arms to get her balance.

  "Maybe I should take you home right now," he said, shifting the hair from her shoulder and nuzzling her neck. "My place, where we can have some privacy, not that damn hotel."

  She shivered as she felt the edge of his teeth on the curve of her neck and shoulder, the hot, wet stroke of his tongue. "You're taking a lot for granted, McCabe."

  He lifted his head. "Maybe, but I haven't got time to do this any other way. Unless I can convince you otherwise, you're only here for a few days."

  He bent, captured her mouth with his again, then released her and walked to the back of the truck to pull out a heavy nylon sports bag.

  The shooting club was largely deserted, with just the odd enthusiast using the indoor facilities, which were split into booths with partitions, which had been designed to absorb sound.

  McCabe placed the bag on a bench in the booth and shrugged out of his jacket. He extracted his handgun from the shoulder holster he was wearing over a white T-shirt and placed it in her hands.

  "This is my weapon of choice, a Glock 19, semiautomatic. It's a nine millimetre, which means it packs plenty of stopping power. It takes a seventeen-shot magazine, and it'll kick back, but nothing you can't handle."

  Roma examined the weapon. There was nothing flashy about the Glock; it was a plain matte-black and made almost entirely of composite material, with very little metal in its construction.

  "I've used a nine millimetre before," she said, and then asked abruptly, "Why are you doing this?"

  Years ago she'd had to pressure Blade to take her to his club and show her how to use a gun, and even though he'd eventually supplied her with a gun when she'd joined the club herself, neither of her brothers had wanted her to go near a weapon. They'd preferred that she knew nothing about weapons or combat, that she stayed at home and pretended no one was ever going to shoot at her or any member of her family.

  McCabe handed her a pair of ear defenders. "A few nights ago you were in a combat situation. You have trouble sleeping … nightmares. I think you're suffering from something that's common to soldiers and cops—post-traumatic stress syndrome. It used to be called battle fatigue."

  He took a box of ammunition out of the bag and placed it on the bench. "I know how that feels. I've had my own nightmares to face. No one who has to deal with violence is immune from it."

  He shrugged out of the holster, then peeled his T-shirt off. There was a silvery puckered scar marring the bronzed flesh just above his hip. He turned and showed her two more on his back, then touched the scar on his cheek. "This one was the worst, because the knife that did this killed a friend and there wasn't a thing I could do to save him. Gray hauled my ass out of there before I got myself killed."

  "So this is therapy?"

  He pulled his shirt back on. "Got any objections?"

  For a moment she couldn't answer. McCabe was doing something nice for her—more, he was treating her as a person. If he had a male friend who suffered from the same problem, his solution would be the same. "No objections." She couldn't hide a smirk. "I just have to tell you that … I'm good."

  He went still. "How good?"

  "So good you'll probably weep. Competition standard, although I don't compete."

  McCabe leaned against the wall, arms crossed as he studied her. "Now I am in love. Just how long have you been handling guns?"

  "Since Jake died."

  "Figures. You didn't want to stay home, did you?"

  She lifted the gun two-handed and sighted the target. The Glock was slightly lighter than the Sig. "I wanted to go out and shoot Harper."

  "If it helps, I think you would have made a hell of a man."

  "No kidding." Roma slid him a sideways look. "Are you laughing at me, McCabe?"

  His mouth twitched. "Wouldn't dare."

  "That's just as well, because it's a known fact that women don't need to be men. They're way too evolved."

  "You won't get any argument from me."

  "Good. Is it okay if I empty the clip?"

  He placed his hand over his heart. "Baby, I thought you'd never ask."

  She grinned and fitted the ear defenders, then checked out the target while McCabe settled his own ear defenders in place. The target was currently set for thirty feet, with an option to go to seventy-five. Thirty feet was a doddle; she'd been shooting one hundred and fifty since she was seventeen.

  When the clip was empty, she ejected the magazine and began slotting in fresh shells.

  McCabe reeled the target in. "You want thirty again?"

  His voice was faint but audible. The ear defenders muffled sound; they didn't cut it out completely. "I'll go for the big time. Put it to seventy-five."

  He grinned. "Oh, my beating heart. You can handle my weapon anytime."

  "Cute, McCabe, very cute."

  When she'd emp
tied the clip, he reeled the target in and gave a low whistle. "What do you normally shoot with."

  "A Sig Sauer, P-226, with a laser sight."

  "That's not a sporting weapon."

  "No." She waited while he positioned another target. "It isn't."

  Between shots, she rolled her shoulders, loosening the muscles. She wondered what McCabe really thought about her using a gun. He'd started out wanting to give her some therapy for Lewis's shooting and found out that she was more at home with a gun than any normal person would ever want to be. In a way, it defined her as a member of her family—and made her even less suitable girlfriend/wife/mother material.

  Not for the first time, she wondered how much of her problem with even starting a relationship with a man was her own doing. It was easy to blame her family, and the security situation, for scaring men off, but she also had the attitude that if they ran that easily, she wasn't going to spend any time pining for them. She'd grown up with stresses and strains that weren't normal, and she found it difficult to relate to "normal" men. It was scary that the first time she'd ever been knocked off her feet by physical attraction would be with a man who was more at home with guns than she was, and had the bullet wounds to prove it.

  McCabe stepped behind her. "Sore here?"

  His thumbs dug into the exact spot that ached between her shoulder blades. She almost moaned aloud at the release of tension. When he was finished, his arms came around her waist.

  "Keep shooting."

  She sighted, squeezed off. The recoil nudged her back against his chest.

  His arms tightened, steadying her; his breath stirred in her hair. "I promised myself I wouldn't do this."

  He took off her ear defenders and tossed them onto the bench with his own. His arms tightened around her as he bent; his teeth fastened on her lobe. A hot shock wave of pleasure buckled her knees. McCabe caught her hard against him, a low growl of approval vibrating from deep in his throat. He nuzzled her neck. One big hand splayed over her belly, heavy and warm.

  Roma fought the urge to turn in his arms and bury her mouth against his. Her heart was slamming in her chest; she was hot and trembling, her hands shaking. "I'm not going to hit anything at this rate."

  "Just shoot, baby."

  This time she leaned into McCabe while she squeezed off, letting him absorb the recoil. The solid jut of his arousal rubbed against the cleft of her bottom, making her even hotter than she already was. "I thought you were supposed to be rubbing my back?"

  She could almost feel his grin. "I had a better idea."

  His hands slid up over her rib cage, cupped her breasts, the heat of his palms burning through the silk and the lacy bra beneath. Her hands jerked; the next shot went wild.

  She bit into her bottom lip, aiming for dead centre. His thumbs rubbed over her nipples. The gun jerked again, but she waited it out. He nuzzled the sensitive hollow beneath her ear, the hot stroke of his tongue made her shiver. This time she hit the neighbouring target.

  He lifted his head. "Having trouble?"

  "I was in the ball park."

  "On the wrong target."

  "I didn't think you were watching."

  "With you, I'm always watching." He undid a button of her blouse and slipped his hand inside.

  Her breath came on a rasp. "If I can't hit anything, it's because my instruction's suspect."

  He took the gun from her. "Your instruction was lousy."

  Methodically, he filled the clip, snapped it into place, then took up his stance, all his actions performed with a slick economy of movement. He could probably have done it blindfolded, and taking into account his years in the SAS, he had most likely trained to operate in pitch-blackness.

  The stench of cordite filled the air. When he was finished, he put the gun down. "Now you do it. This time I promise I'll behave."

  Roma picked up the gun, released the magazine and began slotting shells.

  His arms came around her again when she began firing. "McCabe, you're a bare-faced liar."

  "I said I'd behave," he murmured. "I didn't say how. And considering what I'm about to do to you, you should start calling me Ben."

  She closed her eyes, took a deep breath. "And just what is it that you think you're going to do to me?"

  He told her in blunt terms exactly what he had in mind. Roma swallowed, placed the gun carefully on the bench and turned in his arms. A girl could only stand so much.

  "But I'll do whatever you want," he said quietly. "Just tell me."

  She had the sudden urge to reach up and cup his face, rub her hands over the stubble that darkened his jaw, then rise up on her toes and press her mouth against his. Just the thought of reaching for him sent a sharp ripple of awareness through her. He'd made no bones about the fact that he wanted her. It wasn't enough, but she was beginning to despair of ever having what she wanted. It had to be better than the relationship desert she'd lived in for years. The trick was to try not to have expectations.

  With a sigh, she rose up. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him. It was surrender and she knew it, had known it when she kissed him out by the truck, but she didn't care. "I give up. I surrender. You win."

  She felt his hands in her hair, cupping her head. He eyed her warily. "And what does that mean, exactly?"

  "It means, okay, we'll try it your way. For a while."

  "Does that mean you'll stay with me?"

  "Are you asking?"

  "Yeah, I'm asking."

  A muscle throbbed along his jaw; abruptly his mouth fastened on hers. He crowded her back against the wall and she hummed with pleasure, stretching and rubbing herself against him as the long, drugging kiss continued. She felt a tug on her blouse, then a button went flying. Her bra loosened, and she shuddered as he took her breast into his mouth, aching heat bursting through her as his tongue worked the nipple, drawing strongly so that she climaxed and sagged, dazed, in his hands.

  He said something low and rough beneath his breath. She felt his hands working her skirt up until it was bunched around her waist, the tug as he pulled her panties down her legs. The rush of air circulating around her bare bottom was vaguely shocking as she leaned limply against the partition and watched as he took a foil packet from his pocket, shoved his jeans down far enough to free his arousal, then calmly sheathed himself.

  Tension settled in the pit of her stomach. She knew condoms were practical, safe, and anyone with any brains should use them, but somehow the mechanics of putting the condom on put their lovemaking in context. Despite her surrender, McCabe wasn't lost on a tide of passion, and he wasn't going to make the mistake of making love to her without protection.

  She wound her arms tightly around his neck as he lifted her so that her feet were dangling inches from the floor and pinned her back against the wall. "Wrap your legs around my waist and hold on."

  Awkwardly, she closed her legs around his waist and slung one arm around his neck while she dragged up his T-shirt. The white interlock was half way up his belly when he began penetrating her.

  The drag of latex against her delicate inner flesh registered. Her fingers dug into his shoulders as he thrust short and sharp, working himself inside her in steady increments.

  She didn't like the condom.

  The layer of latex was thin, but somehow dehumanising, rasping her nerve endings so that she quivered with each thrust, growing more and more unhappy.

  Despite that, her body responded helplessly, the hot tingling excitement taking her over so that she clung to McCabe, heart pounding, breasts tight and throbbing where they pressed against the muscular wall of his chest.

  Sultry heat seemed to explode in the room, so that it was hard to breathe, and her clothes, twisted and uncomfortable, clung damply to her skin where they touched. Her breasts exposed where her blouse swung open, the rough texture of the wall scraped against her bare bottom, and one of her shoes dangled from her toe, then dropped with a little thud to the floor. The other shoe was still firmly on. Some
how that detail was distressing.

  The percussion of shots echoed, startling her. That meant that somebody else had entered the range and was using a booth. Someone strolled by, the top of a dark head visible over the stall door. If the person had been taller, he would have seen in.

  Misery and pleasure combined, twisted through her. If McCabe was lost to passion, maybe the unsettling feeling of exposure wouldn't matter so much, but his expression was closed.

  He was expert at making love, an expert at making her feel.

  Already he knew her body intimately, knew exactly how to touch her so that she was helpless in his grasp. She felt him glide deep. The sensation shoved her over the edge and she began to climax again, tears seeping from beneath her lids as she clenched her jaw to keep from making any sound. McCabe watched her from between lowered lids, prolonging her climax until she sagged against his chest. He continued to move inside her, more easily now because she'd climaxed twice, until finally she felt him pulsing deep inside her, and yet that, too, seemed cold and controlled because he wasn't truly touching her.

  She wanted him to touch her.

  She didn't want him to wear a condom, and she didn't want that cold control.

  And the thought of making love without a condom and risking pregnancy didn't scare her the way it should.

  Stricken, she examined her feelings. They were deep and painful, and they weren't going away, no matter how much she tried to fight them. When he'd touched her, pushed her up against the wall, she'd shivered with relief because she'd wanted him so. She hadn't been capable of refusing him, and she hadn't cared where they were, let alone that anyone might walk in and find them.

  She had wanted him to touch her, hold her, make love to her. Instead, they'd had sex against a wall.

  Seconds later McCabe withdrew and set her down on her feet. She stumbled slightly, because her legs were so wobbly, and she had one shoe on and one off. He steadied her as she fumbled her skirt down over her hips and righted her clothes. She searched, without success for the button off her blouse. McCabe found the button, then bent and fitted the dropped shoe to her foot.