Marrying Mccabe. Fiona BrandЧитать онлайн книгу.
So this was what it was like to go into shock.
She could have done with never finding out.
Chapter 2
Two days later.
Ben McCabe strode across the car park of Auckland’s international airport. A gust of warm wind broadsided him as he stepped up on the kerb, forcing his already gritty eyes to narrow against the sting of dust whirling off the pavement. The acres of glass fronting the main terminal tossed his reflection back at him: crumpled T-shirt, jeans that were ripped at one knee, stubbled jaw and tired eyes.
There was a stain on his shoulder.
A disgusted groan scraped from Ben’s throat as he passed through the doors and headed for the Arrivals lounge. The stain was small—little more than a narrow streak—but, on a white T-shirt, orange was definitely orange.
So much for looking like a hotshot security consultant, but he’d been too tired, in too much of a hurry—and too ticked off with the way Gray was calling in this favour with close to zero notice—to care what he’d looked like. He’d been pulled in from a camping trip with his daughter, and after driving half the night, he’d simply dropped Bunny at his mother’s place, gone home, showered and crashed. When the alarm had rung, he’d gotten dressed in the dark. He’d hardly noticed what he’d shoved his arms and legs into.
Gray was one of the best friends he’d ever had, but in Ben’s opinion, spending the next week playing bodyguard to his kid sister while she sashayed around all of Auckland’s best society parties was more in the line of a pain in the ass than actual work.
By anyone’s standards, Roma Lombard was rich and spoiled. She was the pampered only daughter of the wealthy Lombard hotelier family. Baby Roma hadn’t been born with a silver spoon in her mouth; it had been diamond-encrusted platinum.
Ben wasn’t impressed. He’d seen rich and spoiled, and he didn’t like it. He should know. Once he’d been dumb enough to marry it, and his ex-wife, Nicola, had given him a crash course in hell he was in no mood to repeat.
A flash of dark humour momentarily lightened his mood. Not that he would be marrying Roma Lombard, just riding herd on her for the next couple of weeks. But in some ways personal bodyguarding was more intimate than being married. There was no walking out, no slamming doors—they would be stuck together, for better or worse, until he delivered her back to her doting big brother.
The information board confirmed that the red-eye flight from Sydney to Auckland had landed just minutes ago, along with a number of other flights. Ben scanned the steady stream of passengers pushing luggage trolleys. It was summer—school holidays—and the place was crazy with people flying in for a slice of Pacific paradise.
Ben couldn’t get excited, not when he’d had to cancel his camping trip with his daughter and it looked as though he would be spending the next week with a spoiled brat.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that dinner last night had been sketchy and he hadn’t had time for breakfast. On top of everything else that was about to go wrong with today, he was hungry. Cursing beneath his breath, he began to pace.
Roma strolled with her brother, Gray, toward the luggage carousel, her mood going from bad to worse. She had a headache. She never had headaches. ‘‘I don’t need twenty-four-hour protection,’’ she said flatly. ‘‘I can’t help Evan fund-raise with a bodyguard vetoing me at every turn.’’
‘‘You’re getting protection. It’ll be discreet.’’
Discreet? Roma reined in her disbelief. After the scare just two days ago, her family had rallied around her like a bunch of hens around their only chick. As much as she loved them all, she’d had enough of all the concentrated attention and concern.
She knew she had to accept a certain level of security, but she hadn’t bargained on a bodyguard. Unfortunately, her only alternative was to catch the next flight home, and there were two very good reasons why she wasn’t going to do that. The first one was walking beside her. Any more of Gray’s security precautions and she would go crazy. The second reason was that she’d given Evan diVaggio her promise to help months ago, and she wasn’t backing out on him at the last minute.
Normally she didn’t go near high-profile social events, because she hated the media attention, but Evan’s crusade to fund a children’s cancer ward was a special case. He was a long-time friend of the family, and she’d shared in his grief when his small nephew had died of an inoperable brain tumour. ‘‘Evan’s not going to be happy.’’
Massive understatement.
Evan was artistic and temperamental; a successful fashion designer with his own exclusive house. He was a lot of fun—when he got his own way.
‘‘The hell with Evan. Your safety’s more important than his damn fashion show.’’
Gray gripped her elbow, guiding her through the thickening knots of people waiting to collect their bags. Roma did a slow, silent count to three, then disengaged Gray’s hold with a practised twist of her arm. Her brothers had always treated her like a piece of delicate bone china, despite the fact that she’d been a tomboy ever since she was old enough to lace up a pair of sneakers and tag along after them. She’d never quite figured out their logic. They remembered she was female—usually at inconvenient times—but they seemed to forget that she had camped out with them, that she could outshoot the lot of them at pool, and that she had the meanest pitching arm in Lombard history. ‘‘My safety hasn’t been directly threatened. And I gave Evan my promise months ago. I’m not letting some suit prevent me from meeting my commitments.’’
The set of Gray’s jaw didn’t alter. He’d been as upset as anyone about the loss of Evan’s nephew, but she knew that, for Gray, his own family’s safety was paramount. ‘‘We’ve already had this argument, honey. You’re getting protection.’’ His mouth quirked, the first sign of humour she’d seen in him for days. ‘‘I promise I haven’t got you a G-man this time. Come on, let’s find your bag. I don’t want to miss my flight out.’’
Roma’s eyes narrowed, her suspicions aroused by his comment. ‘‘Is he old?’’
‘‘Does it matter?’’
‘‘How old?’’
‘‘Old enough.’’
Roma drew a measured breath. The last bodyguard she’d had had been forty going on eighty. He’d been so dour and humourless that, by the time his employment had come to an end, she’d decided the only person who had ever been in any danger had been him—from her.
If she had to practically live with someone, she wanted to have some control over who that person was. She knew, though, that Gray hadn’t had time to let her pick and choose. When she’d refused to back out of the trip, he’d had to make arrangements in a hurry.
Gray’s mouth kicked up at one corner. ‘‘Don’t try it with this guy.’’
‘‘Try what?’’ she muttered, knowing exactly what he meant. She’d been an unruly teenager and hell-on-wheels to watch—a reaction against the years her family had endured tight security. At times the pressure had been intolerable, and she’d lashed out against it in ways her family hadn’t always appreciated. Despite the fact that she hadn’t pulled a practical joke in years, that reputation for trouble had stuck.
‘‘Don’t try whatever plan is hatching in that serpentine mind of yours.’’
‘‘I’m twenty-four, hardly a baby. And this is New Zealand, not some back alley in Beirut.’’
‘‘You’re a Lombard. For some people, that’s enough.’’ He gave her an irritated glance. ‘‘And what would you know about back alleys in Beirut?’’
Roma’s mouth curled lazily, delight filling her that she’d actually put a nick in Gray’s rock-solid control. She adored Gray, but sometimes