Marrying Mccabe. Fiona Brand

her family’s vulnerability to terrorism. All it had taken was a couple of crank calls to her place of work and she’d been asked to leave. Roma could even understand and sympathise with her employer. If she were a parent, she wouldn’t want her child to be cared for by a woman who periodically needed an armed escort, either.

      She’d considered opening her own business, but not for long. The fact had been brought home to her that she was a potential threat to anyone who got close to her, and children were especially vulnerable. When she’d planned her career and begun training, she hadn’t imagined that the situation with Harper would continue for so many years or that, as a family, they would continue to remain so vulnerable. Somehow, through it all, a part of her had held stubbornly to the idea of a fairytale ending—the elusive ideal of a normal life.

      An older woman, casually dressed in jeans and an oversize shirt, strolled out of the house. Ben wiped his hands on the grass, straightened and walked toward her. The little girl didn’t follow him; instead she stared at Roma with the unabashed curiosity of childhood and wandered over, following an invisible zigzag path in the grass, hands shoved into her pockets.

      ‘‘Hi,’’ she said.

      ‘‘Hi yourself.’’ Roma climbed out of the truck and crouched down to the little girl’s level, relieved as the breeze tugged at her shirt and cooled her skin. McCabe’s daughter was maybe five or six years old, with dark hair cut into a shining bob, and eyes the same intense blue as her dad’s. She was wearing a T-shirt, overalls and sneakers, and still had an adorable baby softness to her cheeks. ‘‘My name’s Roma, what’s yours?’’

      McCabe’s daughter looked back at her daddy, then at the truck, as if assessing whether or not she should answer. ‘‘Bunny.’’

      She advanced a step and picked up a strand of Roma’s hair, watched it blow from her fingers. ‘‘I’d like my hair that long,’’ she announced. ‘‘Grandma says I can’t grow it yet. It’s too fine.’’

      ‘‘Your hair’s pretty like it is.’’

      Bunny nodded. Her eyes dropped to Roma’s boots. She gave her own grubby sneakers a disparaging glance. ‘‘I’d like boots like that, too. But I s’pose I’ll have to wait. Grandma doesn’t know what little girls wear these days.’’

      Roma glanced at the woman McCabe was talking to. She was tall, with imperious features and dark hair that had greyed in elegant streaks. The relationship, even if Bunny hadn’t pointed it out, was obvious. Not only did McCabe have a daughter, he had a mother.

      McCabe finished his conversation and strode back toward them. Roma straightened, watching as Bunny skipped toward her father and demanded to be picked up. McCabe obliged, hardly breaking his stride.

      Bunny wrapped her arms around McCabe’s neck, cuddling close as she regarded Roma with the clinically assessing eyes of childhood. ‘‘She’s pretty. I want her to stay.’’

      ‘‘We both have to go, honey,’’ McCabe said gently as he took a small suitcase from the back seat. ‘‘I have to work.’’

      Bunny’s jaw set. ‘‘I don’t want you to go.’’

      McCabe shot Roma an enigmatic look. ‘‘We’ve talked about my work lots of times, honey. You know I have to stay away. Grandma will look after you until I can come back, then I’ll take you to the beach. We’ll go camping again.’’

      A small set of hands framed McCabe’s hard face. ‘‘Promise?’’

      ‘‘Yeah,’’ McCabe said softly. ‘‘Promise.’’

      She sighed heavily. ‘‘Okay. We got a deal.’’

      McCabe hugged her, then set her on her feet before going down on his haunches. ‘‘Look after Grandma for me?’’

      Bunny heaved another sigh. ‘‘I s’pose.’’

      ‘‘And don’t forget to ring, otherwise I might sleep in and be late for work.’’

      She checked the tiny watch strapped to her wrist. ‘‘Okay. Seven ’clock. On the dot.’’

      McCabe’s mother, who had approached at an unhurried pace, came to a halt beside her son. McCabe made quick introductions before handing Elsa McCabe the suitcase, which was evidently packed with Bunny’s things.

      Minutes later they were heading back into suburbia.

      Roma glanced at the orange stain on his T-shirt, and decided to give conversation one more try. Anything was better than McCabe’s prickly silence. ‘‘That’s where the ice cream came from?’’

      He glanced at her, his gaze remote behind the dark lenses of his sunglasses. ‘‘Yeah. Bunny loves ice cream.’’

      ‘‘Is that her real name?’’

      For a moment Roma thought he wasn’t going to answer at all. His manner was definitely cool, withdrawn.

      ‘‘Her real name’s Eveline, a mouthful for a toddler. I called her honey, and she insisted that was her name, but she couldn’t say the ‘h.’ Bunny came out instead.’’

      The cool politeness of McCabe’s reply effectively slammed the door on any more questions about his daughter. His attitude said loud and clear that she was trespassing.