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 he was too serious, too controlling. To Roma’s way of thinking, her teasing was necessary; he needed someone to poke fun at him and temper all that omnipotent efficiency. Of course, he now had his wife, Sam, to fulfil that role. Since Gray had married and become a father, he had loosened up considerably. ‘‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’’ she murmured.
Gray gave her an exasperated look that was all big brother. ‘‘Hell,’’ he muttered. ‘‘That’s precisely why you need a minder.’’
A familiar case appeared on the conveyor belt. Roma cut in front of Gray and snagged it before he could, blandly ignoring his irritation. He liked to be in charge, but she didn’t exactly like being pushed aside, either. The result was occasionally an undignified tussle, but not without humour. It was a family thing.
Gray’s mouth twitched. To pay her back, he gripped her elbow again as he urged her toward customs.
‘‘I’m not an old lady,’’ she grumbled.
‘‘No,’’ he agreed. ‘‘You’re a smartass.’’
Minutes later, they approached the Arrivals lounge, and, humour and squabbling aside, Roma was glad for Gray’s solid presence beside her, even if he’d sneakily taken charge of the trolley while she’d dug in her holdall for her passport.
It was busy in the terminal, filled with noise and people, a baby crying, laughter. The acoustics amplified the sounds so that they built like a slow breaking wave. Tension gripped her as they took the final turn into the large open area. She put the tension down to a temporary paranoia that had developed since Lewis’s shooting—a knee-jerk reaction that sneaked up on her every time she was in a public place, which lately, between hospital visits and airport terminals, seemed to be most of the time.
She pulled in a deep breath, then another, willing the ridiculous, wimpy feeling of exposure to disappear, but her heart was still pounding as she searched the busy lounge, trying to pick the bodyguard out of the shifting mass of people. With the neat, dark suits they invariably wore, the military-short haircuts, cold, watchful eyes, and the discreet bulge of shoulder-holstered weapons, they might as well have been in uniform.
No one fitted the description. Roma’s knees actually went wobbly with relief. The magnitude of her relief was in itself alarming. Over the years she’d become aware that, for her, the severely suited bodyguards had become the symbol of her family’s vulnerability, but she’d never reacted so violently to the thought of having an armed escort before.
But then, you’ve never been shot at before.
Instantly she rejected the thought. The shooting appeared to be a random one, the fact that Lewis had been shot while he was with her pure coincidence. If she’d been the target, the shooter had had plenty of time to take aim and fire while she’d knelt over Lewis waiting for the ambulance, but there hadn’t been a second shot. She’d been surrounded by armed policemen and helped into the cover of a service lane where an ambulance was parked. A shirt had been magically produced and draped around her, enveloping her from neck to knee. Minutes later Lewis had been loaded into the back of the ambulance on a stretcher, and they had both been taken to the nearest hospital.
The police hadn’t found any trace of the gunman, or any reason for Lewis to be shot. The investigation was still ongoing, but with no suspect, motive, or weapon, there wasn’t much hope that the perpetrator would ever be caught, let alone his reason for shooting into a crowd ever discovered.
Roma’s gaze settled on a big, rough-looking guy who somehow managed to dominate the swirling sea of people. Maybe because he was tall, six-foot-two at least, and dark, with the kind of big, sleek build that would always catch the feminine eye. He looked like a man who would be at home in any era, just as capable of defending his loved ones with a club or a sword as with his bare fists.
In tight, faded jeans and a T-shirt that looked as if it had survived a refugee parcel, no way did this guy look like a bodyguard.
A wave of longing swept her, not for the man specifically, but for what he represented—an ordinary life with ordinary goals such as family and children, and deciding whether to have chicken or steak for dinner, of being able to have an ordinary nine-to-five job, live in a house without sophisticated security on every window and door, and go where she wanted, when she felt like it. Of being able to love those closest to her without fear they would be hurt or taken from her.
Unexpected tears burned her eyes. She blinked, pushing back the attack of the blues with a wave of grumpiness. So, okay, she was a mess—her life was a mess. Her head felt odd and floaty, because she had barely slept since the shooting. The headache that had no right to exist was getting worse. She was hungry. If anyone walked past her with food, she would probably attack them. And her brother was siccing a bodyguard on her.
Someone was going to pay for this.
‘‘I don’t want whatever suit you’ve picked out for me,’’ she stated as Gray continued to forge a path across the lounge in the general direction of the tall, rough guy. ‘‘I want him.’’
Gray spared her a glance. His black gaze gleamed with amusement. ‘‘Want me to get him for you?’’
Roma went still inside. That was not the answer she was expecting. Neither of her brothers was in the habit of ‘‘getting’’ men for her; they were more inclined to get
