MARRYING MCCABE Page 13

  The odd note in West's voice caught Ben's attention. "You still married, West?"

  "Last time I heard." He paused. "Tyler got her doctorate last year."

  "Have you seen her lately?"

  "Not lately." He lifted his beer, trailed one long finger down the moisture condensed on the bottle. "I went to her graduation."

  Carter sat bolt upright on the couch. "You did what?"

  "She didn't see me."

  "Then why in hell did you go?"

  West shrugged. "I was in town."

  Carter frowned. "Don't do it again," he said quietly. "Next time you get the urge, ring me. I'll save you from yourself."

  A rare smile slid across West's mouth. "What if I don't want to be saved?"

  Carter picked up his beer. "Too bad, I'll damn well save your useless hide anyway."

  Ben glanced toward Roma's room. He could just catch the faint murmur of her voice. She was still tied up with diVaggio, which didn't surprise him. The man loved to talk. He reached for his beer, listening to the desultory wrangling between Carter and West. Despite years of friendship, Ben still didn't know that much about West, past or present. He was the proverbial dark horse—a strange mixture of wild risk and icy control. His quiet manner, the lazy, indolent way he moved, were deceptive. When a situation turned fluid, there was no one better to have at your back, but outside of the military, West was an enigma, his private life utterly private. From all accounts, he lived like a monk. If he'd had a girlfriend since leaving his wife, Ben hadn't heard about it.

  Carter yawned and set down his empty bottle. "So what event's happening tomorrow?"

  "A fashion show. You equipped for it?"

  "I'm equipped—unless you need a rocket launcher. That might take a coupla days."

  "I'm not talking weaponry."

  A gleam of amusement entered West's eyes. "The idea is that you have to blend in."

  Carter looked quietly appalled. "Oh, jeez." He levelled a stare at West. He'd never seen any man with more clothes than West, and that included Blade, who was a walking clothes-horse. He had to own something Carter could fit into.

  West held up his hands in justifiable self-defence. "Uh-uh, forget it. I've seen what you do to clothes. Besides, you're too big. You'd wreck my jackets."

  Ben decided to put Carter out of his misery. "I've got a jacket you can borrow."

  Carter stared gloomily at his empty bottle. "Just as long as I don't have to carry one of those male handbags."

  "Cheer up," Ben murmured. "If you get to carry a handbag, you can always put your gun in it."

  * * *

  Chapter 16

  « ^ »

  From his vantage point backstage, Ben eyed the sea of people crushed into the auditorium, his unease mounting. The crowd was swollen by media people and television crews; there were cords running all over the place, and one of the aisles was mostly blocked with people in wheelchairs. Because of the heat, all the doors were open, further compromising the security, and people were clustered around them, enjoying the faint breeze.

  He rolled his shoulders, trying to ease the tension in his spine and dissipate some of the heat that prickled his skin. The body armour was lighter and less bulky than the older type, which had ceramic inserts, but the extra layer was still killing him. He was tempted to take it off, not totally convinced that he was a target, but Roma had been fiercely insistent that he wear it. And if that was what it took to make her happy and to lessen some of the tension those photos had caused, then he would damn well wear it.

  He spoke into his lip microphone, checking in with his people. Carter and West were each running a group, monitoring areas they'd identified earlier on as prime spots for anyone to set up a shot. The rationale behind offensive surveillance was to not wait for an attacker to come in close but to actively search for anyone who looked suspicious, then move in and check them out. So far they'd managed to tick off a significant proportion of the audience, but then, they weren't here for the sake of popularity.

  DiVaggio wasn't happy, but he'd calmed down when Ben had given him his choice: he accepted the security, or Ben removed Roma from the show.

  The police had searched everyone carrying a camera, but other than that, their presence was low-key. This was, after all, a charity event attended by the well-heeled and the well-known, hardly a venue for a riot.

  Ben turned his attention backstage, automatically running his gaze loosely over the seething mass of models dressing and undressing, the make-up people, and hairdressers and sundry other hangers-on, using his peripheral vision to pick out anything that didn't fit. It all fit, he decided grimly: utter chaos.

  A model swayed in off the catwalk to the strains of classical music, and another strolled on, but Ben scarcely noticed as the makeshift curtain behind him, which he'd rigged up so that Roma could have some privacy changing, was twitched aside and she moved past him to wait her turn, face pale as she met his gaze, her expression calm, almost blank.

  She hadn't said anything, but he knew what it was costing her to walk out in front of that sea of people every time. She'd been shaken by those damn photos.

  Earlier that day Ben had tracked down the firm that had done the processing, but he'd come up with close to nothing. The transaction had been carried out by an intermediary, a teenage kid they hadn't been able to trace. Payment had been made in cash. That information had sent a chill down Ben's spine. Another layer, another mystery. Their photographer might be a risk taker, but he wasn't sloppy with details.

  He watched as Roma walked out onto the catwalk. He had to restrain himself from grabbing her and carrying her away, and the hell with diVaggio. If she'd shown any signs of panic, he wouldn't have hesitated.

  For the first time Ben paid attention to what she was wearing … or wasn't wearing. The dress consisted of pieces of metallic fabric strung together with tiny chains. If there was a major design factor in the dress, it was fresh air. His jaw clamped. Next time he got diVaggio alone, he was going to wrap his hands around his throat and squeeze.

  The whole room went quiet when Roma was on the catwalk. She was muscled and sleek, with the tensile elegance of a cat. It didn't matter what she was wearing; the clothes were simply props. She had charisma, star quality, call it what you will. There were more physically impressive women there, but none of them created the jaw-dropping hush that she did.

  A man surged to his feet directly in front of Roma, a camera in his hands. Ben saw Roma freeze a split second before West was on the man, felt his own raw flare of panic.

  "Son of a bitch," he ground out from between clenched teeth. That was it; as far as Roma was concerned, the fashion show was over. DiVaggio could weep and plead, but he'd be damned if Roma was walking out there again.

  Static hissed in his ear as West checked in. The photographer had already been searched once; now he was suing.

  "Tell him to get in line," Ben muttered as Roma walked past and was immediately engulfed by diVaggio and a crowd of dressers.

  "Get her out of here," West said flatly.

  Ben went still. "What's wrong?"

  "A feeling."

  Ben swore coldly, fluently, ignoring the amused stare of an almost-naked model. If West had a "feeling," you could bet the farm on it.

  He shouldered past a gaggle of hairdressers and make-up professionals, racks of gowns, more models. Roma was at the centre of the chaos, being helped into a white gown with a full skirt. Ben felt as though he'd just been kicked in the chest; she was wearing a wedding dress. "I need to talk to you."

  "I'm about to take a walk down the aisle."

  Roma held still while her hair was twisted up into a knot and pinned. Inside, she was still shaking from the moment when the photographer had jumped to his feet. For a split second she hadn't seen a camera in his hands, she'd seen a gun. She'd frozen, but not with fear; fury had flashed through her. Then West had flowed into the picture and grabbed the camera, and she'd forced herself to move. She must have gone through all
the required motions, but she had no actual memory of doing so. When she'd walked backstage and seen Ben standing coolly watching her, his expression rock-steady and controlled, she'd calmed down. Despite the threat that hung over them, she'd never felt physically safer than when she was with Ben.

  "Let someone else do it," he said bluntly. "I want you out of here."

  DiVaggio eyed Ben coolly. "No one else can wear the wedding dress."

  Roma met Ben's gaze. She knew what was going through his mind. He thought she was scared. "I'm okay," she said calmly. "And this is the last dress." She wasn't going to let fear or threats stop her from doing what she wanted ever again. The need for security would always be there, but she wasn't going to let it put a stranglehold on her life.

  Someone pinned a drift of some gauzy fabric in her hair, anchoring it with a wreath of white rosebuds and dark green leaves. A matching bouquet was thrust into her hands. A tall, blond male model dressed in a morning suit appeared, ready to act as escort. The first strains of the wedding march played.

  McCabe moved in, blocking the model. His hand settled at her back, the heat from his palm burned through the white silk as he urged her forward. "The hell with this," he said curtly. "If you're going out there, I'm escorting you."

  She dug in her heels, refusing to move. "No."

  One of the make-up girls looked Ben up and down and grinned appreciatively. In a fitting black T-shirt, black pants and black body armour, his gun holstered at his thigh, McCabe looked as if he'd just walked out of a war zone. "The crowd'll love it. Everyone knows he's not a model."

  Evan eyed McCabe icily. "What are you trying to do, McCabe, ruin my show?"

  Ben's expression was cold enough that Evan backed up a step. "My priority is Roma. If I'd had my way, she wouldn't be here at all."

  The breath hissed from between Evan's teeth. With an impatient gesture, he leaned forward and pulled the veil down over her face. "Go!"

  Roma resisted, glaring into Ben's face. "I don't want you walking out there with me."

  "And I don't want you walking out there at all. It's your call. Are we doing this, or do we leave?"

  Her jaw squared. "We're doing it, but if anything happens to you, McCabe, I'm going to kill you."

  She caught the edge of his grin as he propelled her forward. "As long as it's in bed."

  "It won't be if you hustle me down the catwalk like you're taking me into custody. You have to hold my arm … like this."

  "Anyone ever tell you you're bossy?" When they strolled onto the catwalk, the crowd went wild, the applause rising in a wave. "They know you're my bodyguard."

  "That's not what the newspapers are saying," he muttered, restlessly scanning the crowd as they approached the end of the catwalk. "How quickly can we get this done and get out of here?"

  Roma saw West glide to the end of the catwalk at floor level, his back to them as he stood motionless, oblivious to the displeasure of the audience, head up as he stared across the sea of faces. "Hold my hand here. I have to turn around, then you lift my veil. You haven't got the ring, so you'll just have to pretend to slip it on my finger."

  After she'd turned, careful of the full skirt, Roma came back to stand directly in front of McCabe, as if they were exchanging vows. Obediently he picked up her left hand and slid the imaginary ring onto her finger with about the same amount of ceremony he used when he slotted the clip into his gun.

  "Now you have to kiss me," she prompted.

  His gaze flicked past hers and out over the audience. "Were you going to kiss that male model?"

  "Just put your lips on mine, McCabe, and hurry up."

  "You were," he muttered. "Damn, I'm gonna kill diVaggio." He lifted the veil, framed her face with his hands and laid his mouth on hers.

  Despite her tension, pleasure shivered through her at the brief caress.

  Abruptly, Ben broke the kiss. "Okay, let's scoot."

  The applause rolled and built, breaking over them in a heavy cascade of sound. Cameras flashed, half blinding her. Ben swore as the crowd came to its feet, his hand locked around her wrist.

  A shot snapped through the thunderous applause. Roma was jerked backward, her gown wrapping around her legs, veil tumbling over her face as she half twisted, hands flung out to break the fall. Time seemed to slow, stop, as she lay sprawled on her side, tangled in folds of white silk, the smothering length of gauze shrouding her vision; then normal time snapped back in. Ben had been shot.

  Her heart slammed into overdrive. Roma knew he had body armour on, but the knowledge was academic. He had been shot.

  She dragged the veil from her face, tossed it aside and yanked at the dress until she could crawl to where McCabe was lying on his back, his eyes closed.

  Fear made her clumsy as she crouched over him, shielding him while she searched for a wound. He was breathing, his mouth slightly parted, his chest rising and falling.

  She tore at the tabs of the body armour, fingers fumbling as the Velcro snagged, and shoved it enough aside that she could slide her hand beneath the layers of Kevlar. His T-shirt was damp and clung to his skin. Feverishly, she jerked the T-shirt loose from his pants and shoved her hand beneath, needing the direct contact. Heat blasted from his skin, and his belly twitched as she pushed higher over his rib cage, to the centre of his chest. His heart thudded against her palm, strong and steady. The relief barely registered as she slid her hand over the broad width of his chest, expecting at any moment to feel the wet seep of blood, the raw opening of a wound.

  Her gaze caught on a perforation in the dull, black Kevlar sheathing his chest, and she went still.

  McCabe had been shot in the chest. The body armour had stopped the bullet and saved his life, but the impact of the bullet must have knocked him unconscious.

  She examined the tear, her heart racing. The sense of vulnerability, of utter powerlessness, that had risen up inside her when she'd knelt over Lewis outside the cinema just a few nights ago shivered through her again, laced with a fierce rage.

  Someone had tried to kill McCabe.

  Her fingers brushed the hard butt of his gun where it was strapped to his thigh. Jaw clenched, she dragged the Glock free of the holster, thumbed the safety and swung it, two-handed, in an arc as she looked out over the auditorium.

  As abruptly as if she'd flicked a switch, sound and light and colour hit her. The place was wild with people trying to get out. The doorways were jammed, chairs overturned, the noise horrendous. Somewhere, in the midst of all that confusion, was a killer.

  Ben groaned, his eyes flipped open. Memory roared back on a flood of adrenaline. He tried to roll onto his side, but his chest hurt and he couldn't move his legs. Something was pinning them. He went for the Glock, but his hand came out clean; the holster was empty. Disbelief made his head swim; then he heard West's crooning voice and realised that the weight pinning his legs was Roma. She was crouched over him, holding the Glock in a two-handed grip, levelling it at the crowd.

  A flash went off. Her hand jerked.

  He heard West telling her not to shoot the photographer.

  "I know who to shoot and not to shoot," she retorted.

  Ben turned his head and caught West's calm gaze. "Is it clear?" he asked, knowing the question was rhetorical. If West had the time to talk Roma out of shooting a reporter, their shooter was long gone.

  "As day," West replied. "The lady's got the gun. Talk her down, mate, before the police decide she's a threat."

  Ben propped himself on his elbows, wincing at the hot pain spreading across his chest. "Drop the gun, honey. We need to get off this catwalk."

  Roma shot him a fierce look. "What if he shoots again?"

  "What if who shoots again? You see him out there? The place is crazy with people."

  Another flash went off. Ben turned his head in time to see the enterprising photographer run for the door, unaware that he was lucky to be alive. Ben pushed himself into a sitting position, gritting his teeth against the pain. Oh, yeah, the legend
continues. He could see the headline now: Lombard Heiress Protects Bodyguard. The media had crucified him over the past week, labelling him the bodyguard lover. What was left of his reputation had just officially been shot to ribbons.

  West eased onto the catwalk in a fluid movement and went down on his haunches beside Roma. In a silver-grey suit and black T-shirt, his hair caught back in some kind of antique silver clasp, he looked big and calm and exotically urbane. "There's no one to shoot, Roma." Certainty laced his soft, dark drawl. "He's gone."

  Roma eyed West solemnly. "How do you know?"

  West gently took the gun from her hands. He jerked his head toward the back of the auditorium. "He made his shot and left. I saw him slide through the door. I tried to get to him, but there were too many people in the way. But don't worry, we'll get him. We know what he looks like now, so we can start working to identify him. And if he's prepared to expose himself to that extent to make his shot, then he isn't going to be hard to catch."

  * * *

  Chapter 17

  « ^ »

  Three hours later Ben phoned down to reception to hold all calls unless they were from the Lombard family, set the phone down and peeled off his T-shirt so Carter could take a look at his chest.

  Carter eyed the grapefruit-size bruise in the centre of Ben's chest, unzipped the first-aid kit he'd brought up to the suite with him and extracted a tube of ointment. "Sit down," he said, jerking his head toward the dining table. "This is going to hurt."

  "Tell me about it," Ben muttered, easing down onto a chair, then stiffening as Carter began smearing ointment across the area. Carter was an excellent medic; he'd trained in hospitals and done a lot of medical work in combat situations and third world countries, but his bedside manner wasn't exactly comforting. "Ouch!"

  Carter capped the ointment and put it back in his kit. He glanced around the room, blue eyes cold. "Where's Roma?"

  "In the shower."

  She'd been uncharacteristically quiet ever since they'd got back to the suite, and Ben was worried, but he hadn't had a chance to get her alone yet. The phone hadn't stopped ringing, and Carter and West had been with him the entire time, sticking so close he was beginning to feel caged. They hadn't said anything, but he knew what they were doing; they were acting as his personal guard, and he knew they would stay with him until they were certain he was safe. Ben hadn't argued, because he knew there was no point. If he were in their position, he would do exactly the same thing.