MARRYING MCCABE Page 12

  He retrieved her panties, and she slipped them on, but the feeling of dampness was uncomfortable. She needed a shower and a change of clothes, a chance to get her composure back.

  A short time later he escorted her from the gun club and out into the car park, his hand firm on the small of her back. Although escorted was the wrong word. It felt more like being herded by a hungry stallion. She felt dazed, light-headed, dazzled by the blazing sunlight as she kept pace with him, clutching the gaping lapels of her blouse together where the button was missing.

  It must have rained earlier, because everywhere was wet, and steam lifted from the dark asphalt, wrapping her in moist heat so that she was instantly dewed with perspiration.

  She was throbbing and tingling inside, her legs still unsteady. The wind swirled, hot and steamy, flipping at her skirt and blowing up between her legs, making her acutely aware of the dampness between her thighs.

  McCabe lifted a hand, and she saw with mortification that Alan was leaning against his car, dark glasses shading his eyes as he tracked their progress.

  Even though she was fully dressed, she felt as vulnerable as if she were naked, as if what they'd just done was imprinted all over her, from her tangled hair to the missing button of her blouse and her crumpled linen skirt.

  Logically, her mussed hair and clothing didn't matter on the scale of things, but her dishevelment somehow underlined her utter lack of control in this relationship.

  What truly mattered was that McCabe hadn't said he loved her.

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  « ^ »

  Later on that evening, Ben picked up a call while Roma showered and dressed. Reception had a delivery for Miss Lombard.

  Minutes later, one of the hotel security staff delivered a heavy envelope with Roma's name written on it in pen.

  Ben turned the big envelope over in his hands. There was nothing to indicate who had sent it. He slit the brown manila and saw what he expected, a thick wad of photos—probably from diVaggio.

  With a grunt, he tossed it down on the coffee table and went to get his own shower; they were already running late.

  Roma perched on the couch and reached for the envelope, emptying the contents onto the smooth surface of the coffee table.

  Leaning forward, she began to flip through the stack of black-and-whites. She frowned. She'd assumed Evan had sent her some prints of his designs, or the fashion shoot she'd done the day before, but these obviously hadn't come from him. There had been photographers at all of the fund-raising venues, but whoever had taken these shots hadn't been interested in the new cancer ward. All the photos were of her and McCabe just strolling around.

  She began to recognise all the places they'd been in the past couple of days, the different places they'd parked, the cafe where they'd grabbed a sandwich. The gun club earlier that afternoon.

  Her stomach tightened with unease as she looked at photo after photo of McCabe with his hand on the small of her back. McCabe lifting her into the truck. McCabe kissing her.

  Someone was watching them, shadowing their every move. Something about the photos made her frown, but she couldn't quite put her finger on what was wrong.

  "What is it?"

  Roma glanced up, and her heart did an automatic flip-flop in her chest. McCabe was dressed all in black, the clothes stark, expensive, the jacket cut to hide the bulge of a shoulder holster. With the cool blue glitter of his eyes and the lash of the scar on his cheekbone, he looked big and dangerous and sexy.

  "Someone's been taking photos."

  Ben sat beside her on the couch, took a pen out of his pocket and used it to spread the photographs out along the surface of the table, examining each one in turn. His mood turned grim.

  None of the photos in themselves were overtly threatening, but their mere existence was ominous. The person who'd sent the photos had wanted to make a bold statement. He was flaunting his knowledge, his power. He'd been following Roma. And now he was cocky enough to tell them about it. "Have you got any idea who might have sent these?"

  "No."

  Ben hadn't expected Roma to say anything else. Whoever had taken the photos had a serious problem in the head department. If it was the same guy who'd shot at her friend in Sydney, then they had big-time trouble, although there was nothing to link these photos with the shooting.

  The photographs themselves were good, professional, which didn't mean a great deal in itself; there were plenty of camera buffs around. But all the same, he would get the police to run a check on all the photographers who'd been covering the fund-raising events. He would use his own people to find out where the photos had been processed; there weren't that many places in town that specialised in developing prints of this size and quality, and in this much of a hurry.

  He looked at the series taken at the gun club car park, and cold resolve settled in his gut. Whoever had taken these photos had gotten close. Too close. If he came that close again, they would nail him.

  First he would brief Gray; then he would start calling in some favours of his own.

  Ben picked up his cell phone and stabbed in a short code. When the receiver was finally lifted, the voice that answered was thick with sleep and little more than a grunt.

  "Rawlings."

  "What took you so long?"

  Carter groaned. "I love you, too, sweetheart. What's the time?" He bit out a rusty string of curses when he found out just what time it was. "I'm on leave," he said in a quietly outraged voice. "I've just spent three months crawling through wet, snake-infested jungle, and you—"

  "I'm doing protection for Roma Lombard," Ben cut in. "I need you for some offensive surveillance."

  There was a moment of silence, then a gravelled curse.

  Ben briefly outlined the situation. "I need West, too, if I can get him. Do you know where he is?"

  Carter grunted. "I'll get West. We were on the same rotation and got airlifted back together. After three months in that hell-hole, we were due some R and R."

  "This won't be a picnic, Carter."

  "I know, I know," Carter mumbled, his voice distracted, as if he was searching for clothes. "It'll probably be boring, hiding behind potted plants and playing with microphones, but what the heck, it's what I do. Besides, I really want to meet the guy who thinks he can hassle Roma Lombard while he still has a face."

  Carter jockeyed his four-wheel drive beneath the covered entrance of the Lombard Hotel.

  West surveyed the gleaming sports cars and limousine ahead of them, the bustle of uniformed porters and valets double-timing it at the impressive entrance. "Maybe you should have considered washing your heap before bringing it here?"

  Carter eyed West tolerantly. West was a city boy, so he forgave him for calling his truck a heap. Besides, West had his own weaknesses. In his spare time he obsessed over Norton bikes and clapped-out Jags. Any time Carter wanted revenge, all he had to do was lift the garage door on West's equally clapped-out Victorian doer-upper. "If I wash this baby, I'll have to realise it's got a serious rust problem, and when I realise that, I'll have to do something about it."

  "Yeah, it's called buying a vehicle that does what it's supposed to do without argument and is environmentally friendly into the bargain. Look how much smoke's billowing out of the exhaust. We can hardly see that old guy now."

  Carter looked in the direction West indicated. "We can't see him because it's dark."

  West shook his head. "He's started coughing."

  Carter killed the engine. It died with a spluttering groan that made him feel like patting the dash.

  The porter was wheezing asthmatically and blowing his nose as they strode up the steps. "That's a bad cough you got there," Carter said, smiling and handing over the keys so the guy could park the truck. "You should think about seeing a doctor."

  The receptionist glanced up as two men approached her desk. The blond guy easily topped six feet, and was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that didn't do much to hide any of the hard-packed m
uscle beneath. He was deeply tanned, his Viking-blond mane streaked a startling silver by the sun, light blue eyes glittering in a face that was tough and leanly handsome. The dark guy wasn't as tall, but of the two, he looked the more dangerous. He had big shoulders and whipcord-lean hips, and walked with a sinuous, catlike grace. He was dressed casually in black jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt made of some gauzy material, his sleek shoulders gloved by a loose jacket that had probably cost six months of her salary. A dark fall of silky hair framed a face that was both dangerous and beautiful, the hard, square jaw softened by a mouth that was full and frankly sensual, his eyes arresting slits of amber.

  She wondered dreamily if she was hallucinating, or maybe she'd somehow got caught in the middle of one of those underwear ads. If she was dreaming, she didn't want to wake up anytime soon. The blond guy was mouth-wateringly gorgeous, the dark guy lean and dangerous and panther-sleek. She didn't know who to lust over the most.

  The blond guy leaned on the desk and smiled, white teeth flashing against his dark jaw. "We're looking for Roma Lombard's suite."

  Roma Lombard. Understanding filtered slowly into her oxygen-impaired mind. She remembered the instruction that had been phoned down by that other brooding stud Ms. Lombard had up there.

  Both of the men flashed IDs. Absently she noted the details, matched faces, operating purely on instinct. She explained that security would have to escort them to the suite, then watched as two tight, world-class butts sauntered away from her, only remembering to alert security as they disappeared from sight.

  When she'd terminated the call, she sighed, leaned on the desk and dropped her chin into one hand. She'd never wanted to be rich before and had always felt a little sorry for the troubles the Lombard family had had to face because of their wealth, but she could see where money would have its uses.

  As soon as she got off work, she was going to buy a lottery ticket. If she won, she knew exactly what she would buy first.

  Ben opened the door and let Carter and West in.

  "Where's Roma?" Carter demanded immediately.

  Roma rose from the couch, grinning. "Carter?"

  Ben's jaw tightened as Carter strode over and pulled Roma into his arms. "If you're finished with the touching reunion, let's get down to business."

  Carter's head came up, his stare cool and measuring. Ben ignored West's thoughtful expression.

  With slow, careful movements, Carter set Roma away from him and backed off a step.

  Roma glanced at Ben. "What's the matter?"

  "It's all right," Carter said soothingly. "I just didn't realise."

  "Realise what?"

  "That I was stepping on someone's toes."

  Ben felt some of the tension inside him ease. Carter had backed off. Maybe he was just being friendly with Roma; with Carter it was hard to tell what was really going on beneath the surface, but playing or serious, the man was pure hell on women, and Ben didn't share. Now West and Carter both knew to keep their hands off.

  West bent and gave Roma a brotherly peck on the cheek, slid a glance at Ben, lifted a brow, then strolled over to the couch. Ben felt his frustration mount. He knew that Carter and West had spent time with the Lombard family, and both were obviously at ease with Roma. He had to wonder just how many more men he was going to have to warn off.

  West began perusing the photographs on the coffee table as they all sat down. "The resolution's good," he said slowly. "He's using different lenses to get different effects—he likes the equipment. He's cool, methodical, a regular camera buff." He examined the photos taken in the car park outside the gun club and frowned. "He got in close here. That's not consistent with the other shots."

  "Tell me about it. Our man suddenly turned into a risk taker." Ben pulled the envelope with the details of the Sydney shooting from beneath the spread-out photos. "There's another problem." He handed the envelope to Carter. "I don't know if this is related. I hope not, but we have to consider it."

  Carter pulled the report from the envelope and quickly scanned the first page. His blue gaze turned cold. He glanced at Roma. "Someone tried to shoot you?"

  "Someone shot into a crowd," she amended. "I wasn't the one who got hurt."

  Carter passed the report to West.

  West flipped through the sheets, paused on the last page, then began looking at the black-and-whites. "He used a sniper rifle."

  Roma eyed him coolly. "That doesn't mean he's a sniper."

  West placed the report on the coffee table. "If someone was shooting at me with ammunition of a calibre that was consistent with a sniper rifle, I'd assume he was a sniper. Better that than to underestimate the shooter and wind up dead."

  Carter picked up one of the photos that had arrived that afternoon. "Even without the shooting, these photos are threat enough and, happening so close to the shooting, there is the possibility that they're linked. I wouldn't take the chance that they're not. Have you brought the police in yet?"

  Ben leaned forward in his chair. That was the value of Carter and West. They were coming into this cold, with no preconceptions. "The police are investigating, but they don't have a lot to go on. And whether there's an overt threat or not is immaterial. It's Roma's safety that counts."

  Roma looked up from the photos she'd been perusing. "What if it isn't my safety that's at stake?" she said quietly. "I'm not the one who's at the centre of most of the shots."

  West studied the photos she'd pointed out, stroking his chin. "She's right." He glanced at Ben. "You're the subject."

  Ben frowned. "That doesn't make sense."

  "It does if the Sydney shooting is linked," Carter said slowly. "Roma wasn't hurt, it was the guy with her who collected the bullet. In the photos, you're the guy with Roma. If the two incidents are linked, there's your motivation."

  "It's still damned nebulous."

  Carter shrugged. "Maybe, but don't forget, we're dealing with the Lombard family here. This isn't the first time someone has tried to mess them around." He smiled faintly in Roma's direction.

  Roma caught Ben's gaze. "Maybe those photos are linked with the shooting and maybe they're not, but why take chances?"

  West relaxed back into the soft hide couch. "I agree with Roma. Why take chances? Carter's right. She wasn't the one who got shot in Sydney. It was the boyfriend."

  Ben met West's gaze for a long moment. He wasn't comfortable with what they were saying, but he had a lot of respect for West's judgement. His insight was sharp, his instincts spooky. "So, what do you suggest?"

  "What's the itinerary?"

  Ben briefly outlined the schedule for the next two days.

  "Cancellation," West murmured. "Or else get yourself some body armour."

  "In thirty degrees? I'll die of heat stroke."

  Carter sprawled back in his chair and stretched out his legs. "But you'll die a hero. Think of the headlines."

  "Believe me, I am," Ben muttered as he uncoiled himself from the couch. He strolled to the fridge and extracted a six pack of beer. "Any more bright ideas?"

  West twisted the lid off his bottle. "Yeah. If you need a Lombard for the fund-raiser, how about substituting Blade? He's pretty enough, and you'd need a silver bullet to kill him."

  Ben grinned. "A substitute's not a bad idea, but I don't see him in one of diVaggio's dresses. He doesn't shave his legs."

  Carter snickered, and Roma rolled her eyes. "A substitute's out of the question. And apart from the publicity angle, Evan's designed a whole range of clothing specifically for me. Maybe you haven't noticed, but I'm not that tall. If I cancel, he won't be able to get another model on short notice."

  A phone buzzed. Ben and West both reached inside their jackets.

  "It's mine." Roma pulled her cell phone from her evening bag and got to her feet. "It's Evan," she said as she strolled toward her room. "Probably wondering why we're not at the dinner."

  Ben eyed the sleek, slim phone in West's hand. "That's new."

  West tossed the phone to Ben. "I
designed it, along with a couple other devices. Telephone company's after me now."

  "That means you're either dead or rich."

  West smiled lazily. "I didn't choose death."

  Carter put his empty beer bottle on the table. "Sold his soul to the devil instead, signed on the dotted line and took a chunk of shares. Now he's in deep with Gray and Blade."

  Ben tossed the phone back to West.

  West caught it and slipped it into the inside pocket of his jacket. "I went into partnership with Gray and Blade," he said in answer to Ben's raised brows. "Designing communication equipment and special forces weaponry." He picked up his beer. "Now the Libyans are after me."

  "Speaking of partnerships," Carter murmured, eyeing Ben, "what's going on with you and Roma?"

  "We're in a relationship."

  West looked at Ben, arrested. If anyone was relationship-shy, it was Ben. His ex-wife, Nicola, was a beautiful woman, but she'd burned him all the way through. She'd liked the uniform and the mystique of the SAS, but whenever Ben was away, and that was a lot, she hadn't stayed at home, either. When she'd left Ben high and dry with his baby daughter, she'd already been pregnant with some other guy's child. "I can't blame you," he said slowly. "She's gorgeous, but…" He shook his head. "Roma Lombard. You're buying into a complicated load of trouble."

  "It's trouble," Ben agreed. "But there's nothing complicated about it."

  "Yeah," Carter chipped in. "Those big brothers of hers pretty much simplify the equation. Gray plus Blade equals maiming. If you're lucky, death. Either one of them could kill you in his sleep. Then there are all those millions of dollars."

  "I'm not interested in her money."

  "Mate, whether you want the money or not is academic. It's there."

  Ben broke out another beer for Carter. "I didn't plan to get involved."

  "Who does?" West said laconically.