HEART OF MIDNIGHT

by Fiona Brand

  "Don't you need to phone someone?"

  His dark gaze swept over her face. "Jack was right," he drawled. "Beautiful, but mouthy."

  Sam's gaze narrowed. She had been used as bait, deceived, kidnapped, tumbled around in a rolling van, bound and gagged, frog-marched through a steaming rain forest by a madman. Her head hurt from who knew which bang it had received, and she had been scared to within an inch of her life by the amount of blood that had streamed from Gray's arm. He insisted the ugly gash on his arm was just a scratch. That was like calling the Pacific Ocean a puddle.

  The cold-eyed warrior standing in front of her had done his duty by her. He wanted Harper. He would go after him.

  She lifted her chin and eyed him coolly, preparing herself the only way she knew how for the hurt that would follow. The only defence she had left was her pride. "I told you before that I understand … what you need. You can send someone to get me when it's all over. I'll be perfectly safe here while you go after Harper. I don't need you to baby-sit me."

  Gray watched the fierce gleam in Sam's eyes fade to that opaque blue that said the door had once again been slammed in his face. She was shutting him out, pulling back behind that wall of reserve.

  The control he had been exercising for hours broke.

  He had almost gone crazy when he had found out that Sam had probably fallen into Harper's clutches. He'd had to watch her risk herself for him not once, but three times: outside the church, by the van, then at the logging skid. She had trekked through the bush with a gun jammed in her back, her heels blistered and raw. She hadn't complained once. Gray was beginning to understand the depth and strength of Sam's will, and the uncomfortable fact that the woman facing him was just as stubborn, just as single-minded in her own quiet way, as he was. Now she was closing up on him, pulling that ladylike reserve into place as neatly as if she were rearranging the fall of her skirt at a tea party. She was saying she didn't need him. She was telling him to go.

  The hell he would go.

  Sam eyed Gray warily as he advanced on her. There was something heated and reckless in his eyes, and his jaw was set. Her confusion increased as he caught the edge of her T-shirt and began pulling it over her head. "What are you doing?"

  "There's blood on it. It needs washing."

  He tossed the T-shirt on the counter, then started working on her jeans. Sam automatically shielded her breasts as he stripped denim and panties from her. "I don't understand."

  When she was naked, he began undressing himself. "You will."

  He extracted what she recognised as her bra from the pocket of his pants, before tossing them aside and strolling, naked, to the sink. He tipped water from the bucket he'd brought in earlier over the clothes and began washing them.

  "You're wasting time," she said a little desperately.

  He cocked his head to one side, and his lids lowered lazily, shading the hot glitter in his eyes. "Bite me," he drawled.

  Suddenly the room was overheated and way too small. Sam swallowed, wondering what he would do if she did just that.

  This obviously wasn't a good time to pick a fight with him. He was edgy, and he was naked. They were both naked. She glanced down, her gaze drawn against her will.

  Gray snagged her gaze, holding it effortlessly as he prowled toward her, the T-shirt in hand. When he reached her, he began stroking the cool, wet cloth across her skin, her breasts, cleaning the last remnants of his blood from her, she realised.

  "I have more important things to do than go after Harper."

  The movement of the cloth was unintentionally arousing. Or was it? A moan slipped from her lips as the cloth lingered on her breasts, and they tightened, her nipples peaking almost painfully hard. She was tired and bruised; all she should want to do was sleep.

  Her breath released slowly, softly. "Such as?"

  "Make sure you don't tackle any more terrorists. If you turn up at the altar with a bullet hole in you, my mother will have my hide."

  The cloth glided down her belly, stroking, caressing, the gentle pressure sending tingling hot streamers of sensation through her.

  "If I had wanted Harper," Gray continued slowly and deliberately, as if it was important that she understand every word, "I could have had him last night. I could have had him within half an hour, probably sooner. I'm good at that kind of thing. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  The cloth slipped between her legs. Her knees threatened to buckle. "You're very good at your job."

  "Going after Harper's sorry butt would have meant leaving you, and that wasn't an option. I didn't save your life so you could rush off and try to get killed again the second I turned my back."

  Gray tossed the T-shirt back in the basin and ran his hands over her arms. "I don't intend to make the same mistake I made seven years ago. I was young and arrogant, and I let you get away. Now I'm older, and I'm probably still arrogant, but I'm sure as hell not letting you out of my sight."

  He bent and kissed her gently on the mouth. "I'm not much good at this stuff," he said, low and taut. "I love you, baby. I'm sorry it took me so long to figure it out, and I'm sorry you've been hurt, but I'll take care that nothing hurts you ever again." He eased her closer, dropped his forehead on hers. "I'm not perfect. I can't ever promise to be. I let Harper go for one reason, and one reason only: I wasn't capable of leaving you. In case you haven't noticed, ever since we got here, I haven't been able to leave you alone."

  Sam stared, dazed, into Gray's fierce glare. "You've been outside."

  "Yeah. Trying to keep my hands off you. It didn't work."

  She shook her head, even more confused. That was why he had been so taciturn? "Why would you want to keep your hands off me?"

  Gray's eyes narrowed. "Damned if I know. I thought you might be in shock, exhausted, bruised, traumatised … little things like that."

  Sam fixed on the most startling thing he had yet said, the thing she couldn't quite believe yet. "You … love me?"

  His hands came up, cradling her face, rough and warm and gentle. "I'm crazy about you. I always have been." He dipped and kissed her with a sweetness that made her ache.

  Sam wound her arms around his neck, stunned and still not quite believing she'd heard right. She wanted him to love her so much it was hard to take in that he actually did. A tremor rocked him as she fitted herself against him.

  He lifted his head. "If you don't want to be made love to up against the wall, you'll have to let me pull some mattresses on the floor. I can't fit on one of those sardine-sleepers."

  He dragged all four squabs off the narrow bunks, lined them up on the floor, then pulled her down with him.

  Sam snuggled against him, mindful of his sore arm. "Are you sure you should—"

  "Have I got a pulse?" he growled.

  Sam slipped her palms up over his torso, feeling the heavy slam of his heart, then down further to a piece of his anatomy that also had a pulse but was hotter, and much smoother, much silkier, than his chest. "I don't think you're in any danger of suffering from heart failure."

  A rough sound was torn from his throat as she cupped and gently stroked him. "I'm not wearing a condom again. Do you mind?"

  Sam gave him a bemused look. "Who, me?"

  Gray reversed positions, kneeing her legs apart and settling himself between them. "Yeah, you," he said deliberately, "and nobody else. I don't have a condom with me, and even if I did, I still wouldn't want to wear one. I don't want to be separated from you by anything. I want to feel you around me, and I want to know that I could make you pregnant." His voice dropped, shook slightly. "We didn't use a condom the last time we made love, so you could already be pregnant. I want you pregnant, Sam. If you don't want my baby, you'd better say so now."

  Why would she want to argue about what she had always wanted? Sam smiled, tears blurring her eyes at the same time. Sheer happiness burst inside her, rippling outward on a shimmering wave that swamped the empty places inside her. All she had ever wanted was a chance at happines
s, a beginning, and this was it. "I'm not arguing."

  "Good." His voice was tight with strain. He didn't know if he could have stopped now in any case; his control was debatable.

  Drawing in a breath, he began to move, gloving himself with exquisite slowness, every muscle corded as he held himself in check. It seemed incredible that they had made love only the day before. It felt like a week, a lifetime, ago. Relief shuddered the length of his frame as he withdrew, then drove deep again. Sam clung to him, lifting her hips to meet each thrust. Her response made his throat tighten. He couldn't bring the baby they had lost back, but they had both had their season of grieving. It was time, past time, to move on, and he was fiercely eager to do so. The sheer hope in the simple act of lovemaking flooded him. It was life, pure and simple – the opposite of death – and he gloried in this simple act of mating, and of creation.

  Sam was his. He would never let her go. They belonged together, and he was prepared to do whatever it took to convince her of that fact. If he had to keep her beneath him for a month, he would do so. The thought made him light-headed, and he instantly decided they needed a honeymoon. A long one. At least a month.

  Sam arched and clung, and he felt the moment she shivered and turned to sleek, hot liquid around him; then the dark magic took him, too, slamming into him with all the power of an iron fist, ripping a hoarse cry from his throat as he plunged deep and poured his very essence into the sweet, warm crucible of her womb.

  *

  They had just finished a meal. Sam opened the window over the counter a little wider and tossed the basin of water she'd used to rinse their plates out onto the struggling shrubs outside. The T-shirt she was now wearing flapped around her thighs. It was still slightly damp, and so large it was like wearing a tent, but it was all she had.

  "Come here," Gray said lazily from their makeshift bed.

  Sam padded back toward him, a delicious glow suffusing her, anticipation shivering down her spine. They had made love, gone to sleep, then made love again.

  Gray was sprawled on the mattresses, and finally decent now that he'd pulled on his pants. His bronzed torso, the dark hair clinging to his chest and muscled abdomen, was primitively beautiful in the mellow light of late afternoon.

  Sam smiled, eluding his grasp. "Don't think you're going to get treated like this all the time."

  "I cooked."

  "You poured hot water on some dried lumpy stuff and waited for it to congeal."

  A slow smile curled his mouth. "Like I said, I cooked."

  He held out his hand again, and this time she took it, still giddy with delight that he had said he loved her, that he had stayed with her, that he intended to stay with her.

  He pulled her down beside him, not taking his alert, heavily lidded gaze from the door. A dark shadow coalesced in the opening. The shadow was dripping.

  Sam tensed. Gray's arm stroked down her arm in reassurance. "Blade," he said softly.

  Sam had never met Gray's younger brother before, but she would have recognised him anywhere. They were of a similar height and build, and had the same high, exotic cheekbones and deep-set black eyes, the same rock-hard jaws and sinful mouths. Blade also had a ponytail and a rueful edge to his smile.

  He acknowledged Gray; then his gaze cut straight to Sam. "You any relation to that crazy old lady at the Royal?"

  "Are you talking about Sadie or Addie?"

  His mouth curled whimsically. "Yeah."

  "In that case, yes. They're honorary aunts."

  "Figures." Blade transferred his gaze back to Gray. "Does that mean they'll be related to us?"

  "'Fraid so."

  "Hell's teeth."

  Gray pulled Sam closer. "Is it done?"

  Blade's expression turned icy. "Yeah. Crazy son of a bitch did himself – ran right over a cliff screaming something about some big wild cat coming after him. Have to say, I'm damn disappointed, I was looking forward to doing the honours. They're air lifting the body and the team out, then they'll come back and pick us up."

  Gray drew a deep, shuddering breath and pulled Sam close.

  She knew then that much of his composure had been the steely restraint that would always be a part of him. She wouldn't want that to change; she loved him because he was so strong. Perhaps subconsciously she had always been so attracted to him specifically because of his iron will, even though it had kept them apart for so many years. She needed a strong mate, one who could give her reassurance that he would survive, even against terrible odds. He had given her that reassurance, and he had given her the gift of choosing her over Harper, choosing love and life over the obsession that hunting the terrorist had become. Nothing could completely obliterate the purgatory of the last seven years, but they had made a start – a beginning.

  It would take time, but now they had all the time in the world.

  Sam heard the distant beat of rotor blades.

  "Here come the cavalry," Blade drawled. He consulted his watch. "With any luck, we'll still make it home for Christmas."

  "Christmas? What's the date?" Sam asked, then shook her head in disbelief when she got her answer. "It's Christmas Eve."

  Gray's arms tightened around her; she sensed his smile rather than saw it. "Merry Christmas, baby," he rumbled lazily. "Turn your head so I can give you your present."

  "What's my present?"

  The smile glittered deep in his eyes as he bent to her mouth. "Me," he said simply.

  Epilogue

  Gray had one minor detail to clear up before they caught their flight out to Sydney.

  Leroy was just closing up when Gray stepped into the claustrophobic confines of the trendy black and white salon. Leroy was dressed to match his elegant little bolthole in a loose black shirt tucked into white linen trousers. Jewellery winked from his ears. A medallion lay against the V of smooth tanned chest that was on display.

  Leroy eyed him uneasily as he shoved items into a sleek, black briefcase. "I'm just closing."

  "I don't want a haircut."

  Leroy went still, then tried for a professional smile. "I heard on the news that there was some terrorist guy on the loose. Something to do with your family. Did they catch him?"

  "Yeah. We caught him. No thanks to you."

  "Me?"

  "That's right, Leroy, you. I heard you were keeping company with a certain gentleman. A Mr. Soames."

  Leroy's golden tan faded to a sickly yellow. "Mr. Soames was the terrorist?"

  Gray knotted his hand in Leroy's pristine collar and jerked just enough that he had to come up on his toes. "Mr. Soames," he repeated neutrally. "Harper was his real name. Egan Harper. He's wanted in a dozen countries for various crimes, including rape and murder. You told the bad guy that the woman managing the Royal wasn't Sam."

  Gray felt the bulge of Leroy's Adam's apple rippling against his knuckles as he tried to swallow.

  "I didn't know," he gasped as Gray tightened his hold.

  "No," Gray agreed smoothly. "You didn't know, but you managed to cause trouble anyway."

  "He – he really was a bad guy?"

  "The worst."

  "A killer?"

  "He liked knives, Leroy. He was a real artist. If I had time, I could show you pictures of just how artistic he could be. I've lost count of the number of people he's killed."

  Leroy's eyes went wide. "He could have killed me."

  "You're not out of danger yet. I could kill you."

  The Adam's apple did its little trick again. Disgusted, Gray let Leroy's collar go.

  He crumpled back against the wall, hands automatically smoothing his clothes, setting his medallion to rights. "Is Harper locked up?"

  Gray toyed with the idea of letting Leroy think that Harper was still on the loose, and that he might be looking for Leroy next, but he would learn the truth soon enough. A sanitised version of Harper's demise would be in the news.

  "He's dead."

  Relief flooded Leroy's features. "Then he can't get me."

  Gray
's eyes slitted. "You don't get it, do you, Leroy? Sam nearly died because of the information you supplied Harper."

  Leroy finally seemed to realise where the real danger lay. He licked his lips, edging sideways. "So … what do you want?"

  Gray could think of a number of things he wanted quite badly, but Sam had made him promise to give up violence. He was trying, but Leroy just wasn't helping. "I want you where you'll never come into contact with my wife again. I don't want her to see you, or even remember you. I don't want one single thing to bring back the horror of what she has just been through. That means you have to leave town."

  "This is my business. I can't leave!"

  "How much?"

  Leroy's eyes narrowed. He named a figure.

  Gray's jaw clenched, the violence was looking better and better. "I wouldn't be too greedy, Leroy," he said softly. "You've stepped on a lot of toes recently, Sadie and Addie Carson's included. Those two ladies have a real fondness for Sam, and they aren't exactly the retiring kind. If they thought you were being difficult, I wouldn't put it past them to leak your name to the press."

  Leroy shuddered and quoted a lower figure.

  Gray smiled coldly. "My solicitor will be in touch. I don't care where you move. After this, I don't want to ever so much as think about you again. Just make sure you move to a city that doesn't have a Lombard hotel in it and is never likely to have one. And the next time you get the urge to get involved in international terrorism, Leroy," Gray said, letting his voice drop to a menacing purr, "squash it. You're better at blue rinses."

  Ten months later

  Gray Lombard was asleep.

  Four-year-old Bunny McCabe gave her uncle Gray a considering look. He was lying on the grass, in the sun, in her back yard, and he just didn't have time to be sleeping. He had work to do.

  She poked his chest. One eye opened a slit, and she giggled. "You're hairy."

  Gray peered up at the chubby four-year-old. Her dark pigtails swung silkily against her cheeks, and her McCabe-blue eyes were fixed on him like a couple of lasers. "Your dad's hairy," he rumbled in justifiable defence.