MARRYING MCCABE Page 9

  A chill prickled at her nape, spread until it settled coldly in her stomach. She stared blindly at the lazy rotation of the ceiling fan. But then maybe he didn't want closeness? How would she know what McCabe wanted? They'd barely spoken except to argue. McCabe had held her the day before when he'd been worried about the effects of the sleeping pill, he'd comforted her last night before he'd gotten into bed with her, but apart from that he hadn't cuddled her. When she'd woken, he'd stripped and penetrated her within minutes. His lovemaking had been fierce and prolonged, and he'd taken care that she'd climaxed often, but all his touching had been sexual.

  She hadn't known until that moment what exactly had been missing, or how much she wanted softness from McCabe, but now she couldn't ignore the lack, because it was monumental. They'd met and gone to bed within a matter of hours; there hadn't been time to form a relationship, and, as earth-shattering as the lovemaking had been, it was the relationship that was important to Roma.

  She wanted all the things that most women wanted: to hold hands and cuddle, be petted and spoiled and indulged, taken out to dinner and treated like a princess. She didn't need expensive presents or jewellery. What she needed was to be loved.

  She'd taken one look at McCabe and been poleaxed; she was happy to admit that, because it was nothing less than the truth. She'd let her emotions rule her head. Then she'd made the basic mistake of equating sex with love. But McCabe hadn't.

  When the telephone had rung, he had neatly separated her from his personal life, his child; the dismissive way he'd shut her out as neat as flicking a switch.

  Yesterday he'd made it clear he didn't want to discuss Bunny with her in the truck. Now he was carefully keeping his child separate from her. She couldn't blame him. He had his responsibility as a parent to consider, and his small daughter had to rank before her in his life.

  And why would he allow her any entrée into his very private family life if he had no intention of her ever being a part of it?

  She was naive. A fool. Just because McCabe was her first lover, she'd automatically assumed they would have some kind of relationship, when, if she was brutally honest, all they'd shared was sex. Mind-blowing, drugging, all-night sex. He'd said he wanted her again. No. He wanted to have her again. There was a difference. He didn't want to make love, he wanted sex—a raw slaking of his appetite.

  She remembered waking up in the night to find him sliding in and out of her, too dazed and sleepy to do more than respond blindly. She'd lost count of the times he'd made her climax, once she'd woken up climaxing. She had no idea of the number of times they'd made love.

  But if she'd lost her head, McCabe hadn't; he had been utterly aware. Apart from the first time he'd penetrated her, he'd been careful to sheath himself with a condom and protect them both from the tie of an unwanted pregnancy.

  Her stomach tightened. McCabe must have brought a supply of condoms—not one, but a supply—with him when he'd brought her drink in. He had known he was going to have sex with her, and he'd prepared. Even though she knew condoms were a necessary part of any single person's love life, they added a cold layer of calculation to lovemaking.

  She swallowed, feeling nauseous. They had only known each other twenty-four hours.

  Twenty-four hours.

  Her mind groped with the unreality of everything that had happened since she'd first laid eyes on McCabe. He was a stranger she was powerfully attracted to, a stranger whom she'd had something of a crush on, even before they'd met. She'd been tipped off balance by the sheer unexpectedness of the first meeting, then by his cool manner. And now she'd just spent the night with him.

  She stared fixedly at the ceiling, heart pounding. She wasn't in love with McCabe. Not after just a few hours.

  Nausea welled, pushing at her throat. Shoving the rumpled sheet aside, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and started toward the bathroom. The sudden movement made her head spin, so that she wavered and clutched at the edge of the dresser. Her vision narrowed, dimmed, making her feel even sicker. Drawing a deep breath, she shuffled backward until the backs of her legs hit the bed, sat down hard and shoved her head between her knees. When the blackness receded, she slowly straightened, pushed her hair back from her face and saw herself reflected in the mirror. Her hair was a tangle, her face white, eyes dark in contrast, her mouth swollen.

  Gradually her senses filtered back; she could hear the hum of the city waking up, feel the sheet twisted beneath her, smell the heavy, intimate scent of love-making that rose from the rumpled cotton. The fan still whispered in the air above her, and a fitful breeze sifted in through the partially open window, adding to the flow of air that feathered her skin, so that she shivered, remembering she was naked.

  Taking a deep breath, she looked down at herself, and flinched. Her breasts were reddened and chafed in places from the rasp of McCabe's jaw. There were marks on her hips, her thighs.

  She had to cover herself before he came back. Suddenly it seemed very important that he didn't see her naked.

  This time, when she stood, she was careful not to move too fast. Her head was still swimmy, but other than that, she was steady as she walked stiffly to the wardrobe, fumbled her silk robe off its hanger and wrapped herself in the familiar, comforting folds.

  She could still hear the low hum of McCabe's voice as he talked to his daughter, the pauses when he listened, and everything she didn't know about him hit her like a fist in the stomach, so that she stood, robe hugged around her, too stricken to shuffle the few remaining steps to the bathroom.

  She barely knew him. All her information was second-hand, or gleaned over the last day, when she'd been so tired, she'd existed in a haze of exhaustion most of the time.

  She knew he loved his daughter, and that he was a close friend of both her brothers. For Blade and Gray to accept McCabe into their ranks meant he had to possess a lot of the same qualities, such as honour, courage, integrity. The very fact that Gray had contracted McCabe to guard her meant he trusted him, and Gray didn't trust easily.

  She pressed a shaking hand to her lower belly, feeling the deep tender ache. She had only known McCabe for a matter of hours, and she had let him into her body, without a care for her own protection or pregnancy. Until that moment she had never thought of what it would be like to have a child; that was something for the misty uncertain future, but now reality hit her. If McCabe hadn't provided protection, she could be pregnant now. She should be thankful he'd taken care of it, even if the calculation behind the condoms was upsetting.

  She didn't regret making love with McCabe—she'd been wild for him, and after the initial discomfort, she'd loved what he was doing to her, adored the wondrous, almost violent sensations swamping her. She'd loved the feel of him moving inside her, the sheer animal pleasure of his skin against hers, the rub of his body hair, the hot male smell of him. She was stiff and sore from his repeated penetration, but she would have taken him inside her again just minutes ago.

  A horrified thought hit her. She closed her eyes briefly. He probably thought she was easy.

  There was no commitment, no relationship. What they'd had was a steamy one-night stand. As far as she knew, for McCabe, this was just a casual fling.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

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  Ben terminated the call, strolled naked out into the lounge and deposited his cell phone on the desk, and made a note to call in a couple of extra guys for support. He had broken his own rule by getting sexually involved with a client; therefore, as far as he was concerned, his contract was null and void. His company would do the security at his cost.

  Out of habit, he checked the answering machine and listened to the calls, but his mind wasn't on them.

  He'd broken more than one rule last night.

  Grimly, he considered his position. He wasn't comfortable with what had happened—it had been too fast, too out of control—but he'd made his decision before he'd walked back into Roma's room last night.

  He
was in relationship territory. Where exactly, he wasn't sure.

  The first time he'd laid eyes on Roma, he'd known he had to have her. What he felt was powerfully physical, but if it had been just sex, he could have resisted her. She intrigued and drew him in a way no other woman ever had. Reading the bare facts about how she'd protected Lewis Harrington had sent a cold chill up his spine; not many men would have risked themselves in that way. If she ever tried another stunt like that, he would tan her hide.

  The bottom line was that he wanted a relationship. On his terms. But he wasn't sure where the relationship would go, and he wasn't comfortable with his own loss of control.

  He didn't trust himself.

  That single fact made him incredulous, because he'd never been in this situation, and his fall from grace had happened fast. He needed to slow down, to back off; there was too much at stake in his life to do otherwise.

  He didn't want to; he wanted to be with Roma, keep her close. And if he was with her today, he knew he wouldn't be able to resist making love to her. But he wasn't about to let sex force his hand in a relationship ever again. He wanted more, a lot more … and it was going to happen at his pace.

  If he spent today with Roma, he would protect her to the letter of the contract, but he couldn't guarantee she wouldn't be pregnant at the end of it.

  When Roma walked into the lounge, McCabe was standing, his back to the open bifold doors, a mug in his hands. Two men sat sprawled on the sofas, sipping coffee and talking in relaxed tones. She immediately recognised one of the men, Mike Fa'alau, who was head of security at the hotel. She'd met both Mike and his father, Tony, who now co-managed the casino side of the operation with Blade.

  Mike got to his feet when he saw her, a slow smile spreading across his darkly handsome face as Roma walked up to him and gave him a hug. Mike was tall and impressively built, with all the reserved power and grace of his Pacific Island heritage. He was also happily married, with three gorgeous children. The entire Fa'alau family was a delight; it encompassed several generations and overflowed with a powerful, protective love for anyone within their ranks—including any honorary members, like her own family.

  When Mike let her go, McCabe introduced the young blond man who had risen to his feet.

  "Alan works for me. He'll be looking after you today. When Alan finishes his shift, Charlie Speers will take his place. You'll meet Charlie later."

  Roma stiffened at the cool, professional courtesy in McCabe's voice, but she was careful to keep her face blank. "You won't be accompanying me?"

  "Not this morning. I've got a few things I need to attend to."

  The phone rang. McCabe strolled to the desk and picked up the call, his back to the room as he spoke.

  He was busy. Too busy to personally escort her.

  For long seconds Roma couldn't move. She felt frozen, all her muscles locked tight, and then a wave of cold pain prickled through her, breaking the strange stasis. She should have been prepared for this. She had been prepared for this. She didn't have anything high profile happening today, just a fitting session with Evan and some publicity work at the hospital. She didn't need a bodyguard, and she didn't need McCabe, but that wasn't the point.

  Roma shook Alan Charter's hand, her movements mechanical. He was medium height and chunkily built, with a crisp military-short haircut, and he was wearing lightweight trousers and loafers, and a dark green collared T-shirt. A gold hoop winked in one ear.

  "I know," he said amiably, fingering the earring. "One of these days it's going to get ripped out."

  Roma smiled, said something polite in reply, chatted with Mike for the few minutes that McCabe was on the phone, then excused herself and walked blindly out onto the terrace.

  The morning breeze tugged at her hair, cut through the lightweight cotton of her cream halter-neck top and pants, as refreshing as a dip in the sea. The sun was hot and strong, burning down onto her bare shoulders. She gulped down a deep breath, then another. She felt numb, stupid, but at least her position was clarified.

  She was no longer a virgin, which didn't upset her unduly; the age when women were chattels and their virginity was a commodity to be bartered was long past. The only value she'd ever placed on virginity was a personal one. She felt that it should be given with love, and she had given it with love.

  She refused to say she'd made a mistake in having sex with McCabe. That hadn't been what she'd wanted out of the encounter, just what she'd ended up with. She had wanted to make love with him, to grab on to something special.

  She lifted a hand and smoothed it through her wind-tangled hair, listened to the melancholy cries of the seagulls and grimly faced the death of another illusion. Maybe she'd been living in fairy land, expecting perfection, saving herself for it. In going to bed with McCabe, she'd gotten a dose of reality instead.

  The watcher fitted the camera to the tripod, adjusted the zoom. Long brown fingers cupped the lens, stroked the shutter release, sending the motor-driven mechanism into short, rapid-fire bursts. When the roll was finished, he ejected the used film and loaded another with the slick, silent precision of a sniper.

  The young woman on the terrace was alone, finally. The big bastard guarding her was efficient. He didn't allow her much space.

  "C'mon baby," he crooned. "Turn. Let me see your face."

  He waited, comfortable in his stillness, ignoring all the aches and pains that drifted up on him as he stood behind the expanse of smoked glass, the pinching in his spine from the bullet he'd taken while on recon in Borneo in '65, the shrapnel ache in his thigh, courtesy of the Viet Cong in '68.

  A lot of people had tried to kill him over the years. Too bad none of them had had enough talent. A bare whisper of humour moved through him at the thought, the humour quickly superseded by a tingling sensation in his head. The tingling increased in intensity until it was a dull burn, momentarily distracting him. When he reacquired his target, the focus was blurred. He frowned as he adjusted the lens, then went still when he realised that the problem wasn't with the focus.

  A prickle of alarm went through him. This was something new, and he didn't like it. The one perfect faculty he still possessed was his sight. He couldn't afford to lose it now.

  He blinked rapidly. Abruptly, his vision cleared.

  The blurring could be a side effect of the experimental drug he was taking—he would check with his source and maybe adjust his dosage down. That was one of the risks with self-medicating, but he was cool with that. The way he figured it, he couldn't do much worse than the damn quacks who'd tried to turn him into a vegetable just months ago.

  Of course, the burning tingle and the blurring could be happening for a more ominous reason, but damned if he would dwell on that.

  Roma Lombard turned, lifted her dark head to the wind and stared across the deep abyss separating his building from hers—straight into his camera. The eye contact was eerily direct. The illusion that she was standing close enough to touch sent a small shock up his spine, so that all the hairs on the back of his neck lifted and he got hard.

  "Oh, yeah," he breathed, "that's it."

  Her face blew him away every time. The first time he'd caught that pretty face in his binoculars, his sniper's emotional distance had been ripped away. He'd held the power of life and death in his hands, and he hadn't been able to take her; he'd chosen other members of her family instead.

  That decision had done something to him.

  Always before, the kill had been close to academic. He'd never allowed himself to become personally involved. He'd planned meticulously, and he'd always worked his plan. One bullet, one moment, then turn away, clean the site, pack his gear and walk—job over.

  His inability to consider Roma Lombard a target had driven him crazy, and his mind had dwelled on it the way a tongue prodded a sore tooth. He'd gone back to look at her time and again, trying to figure out what had gone wrong.

  At first he'd told himself that she'd been on the periphery of one of his biggest k
ills and that was where the fascination lay, until he'd finally had the guts to recognise what he was feeling. Somehow, despite all the years of rigid discipline, in the moment when he'd first trained his binoculars on her face, he'd lost a part of himself and never wholly gotten it back. The fact that he'd felt anything at all had amazed and alarmed him; the habit of control had become so ingrained that he'd thought himself exempt from emotion. He'd tried to purge the feelings by having other women, but that hadn't worked.

  He'd begun spending all his spare time watching her. For a while, given her youth and innocence, he'd even convinced himself he was guarding her. Another dry wisp of amusement curled his long, thin mouth. Guarding her. Oh, yeah, that was funny, he thought whimsically, when he was the guy straight out of her nightmares.

  Now he was taking risks he wouldn't have believed himself capable of, exposing himself in ways he would never consider if he was on a professional assignment. But damned if he would just lie down and die quietly.

  She didn't know he existed yet—much less who he was … although she had begun to feel his presence.

  In the street, outside the cinema, three nights ago, she'd felt him watching her, had felt his intensity in the crosshairs settled on the creamy skin at the centre of her spine. He'd held the gun there, finger on the trigger … and it had been the closest he'd gotten to sex in a long time.

  She was being watched. Roma stared at the building across from the hotel, a prickling tension crawling the length of her spine, for a moment oblivious to the wind whipping tendrils of hair across her cheek.

  A lone gull wheeled above, its high, thin cry breaking the stasis. With a shake of her head, Roma forced her gaze from the impersonal smoked-glass frontage of the new hotel opposite, turned on her heel and walked back inside, wincing a little at her stiffness.