None of Roma Lombard's high-society
friends knew anything about the mystery man who was suddenly
everywhere the wealthy heiress went. And that was exactly the way she
wanted it - because her new "lover" was really her bodyguard, there to
protect her from the killers who were stalking her ...
Ben McCabe said they had to keep up
this deadly charade - by pretending to be married! The trouble was, the
more time she spent with her devastatingly handsome protector - day
after fear-wracked day, night after passion-filled night - the more she
ached to make this "marriage" the real thing ...
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 theory — but she'd never seen a gunshot wound
before, and the violent reality of it was paralysing. She had to force
her sluggish brain to think past the frightening blankness, to remember.
She began talking, her voice hollow,
jerky, rising over Lewis's high-pitched moan as he tried to curl into a
foetal ball, almost dislodging her hold as she explained what she was
doing, that he had to be still, that she would get help.
Help. Her head jerked up, gaze swinging
wildly as she searched for assistance. She saw with a renewed sense of
shock that she and Lewis were alone except for a couple crouched behind
a nearby car. There were people huddled in the cinema complex; she could
see faces peering out from behind movie posters. A man made eye contact
with her and pointed at his cell phone as he talked rapidly into it.
Roma felt like closing her eyes against
a raw punch of disbelief. She was shaking with reaction and the
aftershock of adrenaline, her arms and shoulders aching from the strain
of her position, yet just minutes ago she'd been relaxed and happy,
enjoying the upbeat atmosphere of the movie crowd, the balmy evening and
Lewis's terrible jokes. She could still hear music, smell coffee and
doughnuts. The city, the street, the night, were the same, yet in a
split second everything else had changed. The protection of the crowd
had melted away, leaving her kneeling, solitary and exposed, over Lewis.
Blood continued to well. In
desperation, Roma wrenched off her shirt — not caring that she had only
a bra on underneath — wadded the soft, white cotton into a pressure pad
and jammed it over the wound, fisting it down tight.
The ambient air temperature was warm,
she should have been fanning herself against the heat, but she didn't
feel warm now. A slight breeze flipped hair across her face, slid over
her almost-naked back, roughening her damp skin with the chill of
invisible fingers. She noted that Lewis was no longer conscious, and
fear formed an icy knot inside her.
back
to Fiona's booklist
