He was the kind of man who could make a woman go weak in the knees—about two seconds before she went soft in the head.
He wasn’t pretty-boy handsome, but he was intensely male. His jaw was stubbled, there were dark shadows beneath his eyes and a silvery scar sliced across one cheekbone.
The stranger’s head came up then, as if he’d suddenly registered her concentrated attention from across the room. His gaze in that first moment was frankly, sharply male, making her instantly aware of how male he was. And how female she was.
Roma’s stomach lurched as his gaze locked on her again. Now she could see that his eyes were a pure, intense dark blue, wolf-cold and uncompromising. The jolting awareness escalated.
So this was Ben McCabe—her new bodyguard.…
Dear Reader,
There’s so much great reading in store for you this month that it’s hard to know where to begin, but I’ll start with bestselling author and reader favorite Fiona Brand. She’s back with another of her irresistible Alpha heroes in Marrying McCabe. There’s something about those Aussie men that a reader just can’t resist—and heroine Roma Lombard is in the same boat when she meets Ben McCabe. He’s got trouble—and passion—written all over him.
Our FIRSTBORN SONS continuity continues with Born To Protect, by Virginia Kantra. Follow ex-Navy SEAL Jack Dalton to Montana, where his princess (and I mean that literally) awaits. A new book by Ingrid Weaver is always a treat, so save some reading time for Fugitive Hearts, a perfect mix of suspense and romance. Round out the month with new novels by Linda Castillo, who offers A Hero To Hold (and trust me, you’ll definitely want to hold this guy!); Barbara Ankrum, who proves the truth of her title, This Perfect Stranger; and Vickie Taylor, with The Renegade Steals a Lady (and also, I promise, your heart).
And if that weren’t enough excitement for one month, don’t forget to enter our Silhouette Makes You a Star contest. Details are in every book.
Enjoy!
Leslie J. Wainger
Executive Senior Editor
Fiona Brand
Marrying McCabe
To Leslie Wainger
FIONA BRAND
has always wanted to write. After working eight years for the New Zealand Forest Service as a clerk, she decided she could spend at least that much time trying to get a romance novel published. Luckily, it only took five years, not eight. Fiona lives in a subtropical fishing and diving paradise called the Bay of Islands with her husband and two children.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Chapter 1
The shot snapped through the humid Sydney night air, slicing through the cheerful hum of conversation as a steady stream of people exited the cinema complex. The flat one-two echo syncopated with the flash and burn of neon, a sharp counterpoint to the gentle nostalgia of rhythm and blues, the rich scent of coffee, the cloying vanilla of doughnuts and the edgier undernote of car exhaust and city grime.
Roma Lombard was jerked backward. The movement was violently at odds with the instant freeze-frame of humanity as the crowd, high on the latest romantic comedy, became eerily still, reacting as one creature with instincts that were ancient—primitive—at odds with the sleek, sophisticated cars lining the street, the expensive glitter of shop windows.
Her arms flailed as she fought to regain her balance. Her elbow glanced off the warm solidity of muscle; then a heavy shove sent her backward in an awkward sprawl, loose hair flinging in a dark veil across her face. The back of her head connected with concrete, detonating a burst of hot light behind her eyes.
For a dazed moment she lay stunned, held in thrall by the dazzling shift of colour, the shock of the fall; then something heavy slammed into her chest, punching all the breath from her lungs.
For long seconds she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t feel beyond the pain spiking her head, the stifling panic of being blinded by her own hair and the heavy weight pinning her—Lewis’s weight, she realised.
He moaned. The sound was oddly soft, distressing, sending fear and adrenaline kicking through her veins. The sharp crack had been a rifle shot, and Lewis wasn’t moving. Roma knew she hadn’t been hit. Confusion and bruises aside, she’d simply been knocked off balance, but Lewis…Lewis was hurt.
A fierce sense of disbelief gripped her as she dragged her hair from her face, her mouth, logged the sting of grazes on her elbows, the blur of movement as the street cleared, followed by a spreading silence, as if the whole city was holding its breath.
Her isolation registered, and all the small hairs at her nape lifted on a cold ripple of awareness as she struggled to push against Lewis’s weight. She didn’t know how badly he was hurt, but suddenly even that consideration was secondary. They were stranded on the empty sidewalk, spot-lighted by the glare of cinema lights, an easy bull’s-eye for even an amateur gunman. She had to get them both off the street.
She shoved at Lewis. The throb in her head kicked savagely, and she broke out in a clammy sweat. The heat she’d loved just seconds ago now closed around her like a vice. Time crawled—oddly suspended—she could feel the weight of every second as if it were her last, hammering in time with the thud of her heart, equated each beat with another shot from the rifle.
She wrenched upward, stomach muscles straining as she braced herself for more leverage, thankful her arms and shoulders were strong, her body tight and toned from regular exercise and the occasional workout with weights. Lewis wasn’t a heavy man, but he was tall—a gangly computer nerd rather than a muscled athlete. It didn’t matter; Roma wasn’t much over five foot five, so shifting him was like pushing against a mountain.
Gritting her teeth, she shoved again, twisting as she did so. Fear gave her the extra strength she needed to move Lewis’s bulk enough that she could shimmy free and roll him onto his back.
He moaned again and stirred. His eyes flickered, half opened. ‘‘Roma?’’
His voice was croaky, a thread of his normal light baritone. His eyes were unfocused, his breathing fast, face pale and shiny with sweat as he clutched at his shoulder and winced. Blood leaked from between his fingers, the spreading patch dark against his ridiculously cheerful Hawaiian shirt.
‘‘Don’t move.’’ Roma wrenched Lewis’s hand away and forgot about diving for cover, forgot there was a gunman. Her mind spun into overdrive as she shoved the heel of her palm against his shoulder, planted her other hand on top of the first, and leaned into the wound, using her weight to apply pressure. She’d done first aid courses—she knew the