Fiona Brand - Marrying Mccabe

He never brought women home to Bunny, because she’d made it clear she wanted a mother and Ben didn’t want her fixating on a woman who might never fill the job. She’d had enough instability in her life; he would be damned if he’d introduce any more. When he’d finally gotten full custody just months ago, he’d vowed to do all he could to make up for the upheaval of the marriage split and give her a settled childhood.

He called Roma’s name. When she didn’t respond, he reached out and shook her lightly. She stirred but didn’t waken. Reluctantly, he gripped her shoulder again, noting the sleek firmness of muscle beneath his hand, and shook a bit harder.

Roma came out of sleep fast, the abrupt transition from a deep, fathomless slumber to alarmed wakefulness making her heart pound and her breath catch in her throat. For a raw moment she was trapped in a disorienting limbo, caught between dream and reality, the darkness of her surroundings making fear rise in her throat, until she recognised the dim, bunker-like surrounds of the hotel’s underground car park.

‘‘You okay?’’

McCabe’s dark, clipped voice brought her head up with a jerk. Pain shafted up her neck and made the tender spot where she’d hit her head on the sidewalk outside the cinema throb. She blinked and rubbed at her eyes, gradually coming to grips with the embarrassing knowledge that she had fallen asleep while McCabe had been driving and had probably been asleep for a good half hour in his presence. She massaged her neck, tested the kink there with a turn of her head, then reluctantly glanced at the big grim man sitting beside her. ‘‘Fine. Just a little…startled.’’

McCabe regarded her for a moment longer, giving her the impression that he was going to say something more; then he climbed out of the truck and walked around to the rear to get her case.

They picked up the keys from reception and took the lift up to the Lombard family suite. McCabe dropped her bag just inside the door, did a quick tour of the rooms, then came back into the main lounge area.

Roma had already done her own tour of the room she wanted—one of the big airy double rooms with bifold doors that opened out onto a sun-dappled terrace. It was the room she always had when she could grab it. Of course, that depended on how many of her family were in residence. Sometimes the place was a zoo and she’d had to fight for a single bed in the smallest room.

McCabe strolled into the lounge and motioned to one of the comfortable leather couches grouped around a coffee table. ‘‘I know you probably want to take a nap, but before you do that, we need to talk.’’

Roma’s stomach tightened at the curtness of McCabe’s tone, and the fact that she had to share the suite with a man who was little more than a stranger for the next few days hit her forcibly. She had only ever been in this situation with a bodyguard a couple of times, and she couldn’t be comfortable with the necessity. Usually there was family around to act as a buffer against the reality of around-the-clock protection.

She sat down on one of the big, soft hide couches that dominated the lounge and mentally braced herself for McCabe’s list of rules. Gray had said the security would be discreet, but that meant to outside observers only—it had nothing to do with the impact the protection would have on her own life.

McCabe perched on the arm of the couch directly opposite. ‘‘I want to know your version of what happened with the shooting.’’

For a moment Roma’s mind went blank, and she wondered if she’d heard right. This wasn’t the discussion she had expected.

‘‘I gave my version to the police. All the relevant facts are in the report Gray gave you.’’

‘‘I know the facts,’’ he said calmly. ‘‘What I want from you are the things you might not have told the police.’’ His gaze fastened on hers, dark and still, giving the impression of utter coldness. ‘‘Were you scared when it happened?’’

‘‘What do you think?’’ she demanded quietly. ‘‘Lewis was hurt, and there was the possibility of a second shot. I was so scared all I wanted to do was run.’’

‘‘But you didn’t. You stayed and gave your friend first aid.’’

‘‘He was bleeding. If I’d left him, he would have died.’’

He crossed his arms over his chest, his expression neutral, cop-cool. ‘‘Did you think the shooting was random?’’

‘‘There’s no proof it was anything else.’’

He was silent for a moment. ‘‘You were scared when I woke you in the Jeep. Would you mind telling me why?’’

Resentment stirred. Not only did McCabe look like a cop, he was questioning her like one. ‘‘I woke up in an unfamiliar place. I was…off balance.’’

‘‘If you have information about the shooting that I should know,’’ he said softly, ‘‘you’d better tell me. I can’t do my job effectively unless I know all the facts.’’

The sluggish aftermath of her nap and the odd sense of disconnection that went with it evaporated on a hot rush of anger. McCabe thought she was withholding information. Lying. More…he was interrogating her as if she were a suspect in the shooting, not a victim. ‘‘I don’t know anything about the shooting other than that the person I was with got hurt,’’ she snapped. ‘‘Everything there is to know is included in the report in that envelope.’’

Keeping her expression carefully blank, Roma stood up and collected her case, strode toward her room and dumped the case just inside the door. Too angry to leave the conversation hanging, she spun on her heel and almost ran into McCabe’s chest. She stared at the sleek gold skin of his throat and the pulse that jumped there, trying to steady the hard pounding of her heart. ‘‘What made you think I might know anything more?’’

‘‘You were scared when you woke up. And you’re evasive now. I need to know why. I have staff who’ll be involved in your protection programme. Their safety’s important. I have to check out all the angles.’’

All the angles. She took a deep breath, every nerve in her body jangling at his closeness. He was blocking the doorway now, one hand resting on the jamb, muscled bicep gleaming in the sunny glow of the room.

Hurt and resentment warred with common sense. Common sense won out. He was doing his job, asking the questions he had to ask. But if he’d been nicer about it, explained what he was doing, there wouldn’t have been a problem. She would have been happy to discuss the shooting with him. ‘‘I panicked while I was giving Lewis first aid,’’ she said flatly. ‘‘I’m not proud of it, but for a few seconds I did think I was being watched. I did think I was a target.’’ She met his gaze squarely. ‘‘I didn’t put that in the police report for a good reason. It was paranoia, pure and simple.’’

‘‘I’m sorry if I offended you, but you were so jumpy I had to find out if you felt directly threatened.’’ He shrugged. ‘‘Gray doesn’t think there’s a threat, but given your family’s past history, he’s not taking any chances. I’m not taking any chances, either.’’ His voice had dropped, the low, rough register making her tighten up inside. ‘‘If at any point you feel that someone is after you, then tell me. It’ll make a difference to the way I protect you.’’

Roma eyed him warily. He’d used that same dark, honeyed tone at the airport. It was probably the one he used for escaped mental patients. Or for seducing women. Warmth spread through her at the thought of being seduced by McCabe. ‘‘What if it turns out to be my overactive imagination?’’

‘‘It wouldn’t matter. As long as the protection makes you feel safe.’’

The concern in McCabe’s voice startled her, and she wondered if he was actually on the verge of offering her comfort. His face was half in shadow, half out of it, wide mouth distractingly soft, set as it was against the square line of his jaw. His scent filled her nostrils, musky and hot in the warm room.