The MacGregor Brides

  Amanda Holloway had killed her husband. There was no question about the deed. But guilt, by law, was another matter. She'd been battered emotionally and physically for five miserable years. Five years of broken bones and a broken spirit, Laura thought. It was easy to say she should have walked out—she should have run, and never looked back. In fact Laura sometimes caught herself thinking just that. But Amanda Holloway hadn't walked and she hadn't run. In the end, she had snapped.

  One night during the heat of high summer, after another beating, another rape, she had taken her husband's service revolver and emptied the clip into him while he slept.

  The pity of it, Laura thought coolly, was that she'd waited more than an hour after the rape. An hour equaled premeditation. The fact that John Holloway had been a cop with a file full of commendations also didn't help matters.

  Some might think that justice had been done that night, but the law trod a colder line. And Laura was determined to use the law to keep Amanda Holloway out of prison.

  Royce really enjoyed watching her. Just now, she didn't resemble the woman who'd sung in her underwear, or the coolly polite one who'd worn a simple sweater and discussed alarm systems with him. She'd tamed that waterfall of dark hair into a complicated braid that lay down the center of her back. She had simple gold drops at her ears and a slim gold watch on her wrist, along with the wink and flash of a diamond tennis bracelet.

  Her white silk blouse was very tailored, and a navy blazer hung over the back of her chair. The room smelled of leather, polished wood, and woman.

  Just now, he thought, Laura MacGregor looked classy, expensive and utterly unapproachable. Unapproachable, Royce mused, unless a man had seen her hips wiggling about in a pair of silk boxers.

  He leaned on the doorjamb. "You look like a lawyer."

  Her head shot up. He admired the speed with which she recovered. Surprise was no more than a flash in those dark chocolate eyes before they cooled. "I passed the bar last summer. I am a lawyer. Do you need one?"

  "Not at the moment, but I'll keep you in mind." The fact was, he'd kept her in mind for the better part of a week. Windswept hair, that intriguing little scar, those damn-the-devil eyes combined to make him a man a woman couldn't help wondering about. Since she didn't want to wonder, she wanted him gone. "The offices are basically closed until the end of the month."

  "So the receptionist told me downstairs. But I'm not here to hire you or your parents." He walked in—his movements making her think of a cat poised to spring—and edged a hip on the table.

  "Why are you here?"

  "I had a job to look over in the neighborhood. I thought I'd let you know we'll start installing your system Saturday morning."

  "That's fine. I'm sure my grandfather will be pleased."

  "He's got the right idea, protecting what matters to him. He's proud of you and your cousins. It shines right out of him when he talks about you."

  Laura's eyes softened, and her body lost its defensively rigid posture. "He's the most wonderful man in the world. And one of the most exasperating. If he could, he'd tuck all of us into his castle in Hyannis."

  "Boston can be a dangerous city for a pretty young girl," Royce said, in a deep burr that mimicked Daniel and made Laura's lips twitch.

  "Not bad. A little more volume and you'd have almost nailed him."

  "And he's right, it can be. You're three single women living in a big house filled with expensive things, easily fenced merchandise. One of you is the daughter of a former U.S. president, and all of you granddaughters of one of the richest men in the country. And you're beautiful. All of that makes you potential targets."

  "We're not fools, Mr. Cameron."

  "Royce."

  "We're not fools," she repeated. "We don't walk into dark alleys, open the door to strangers or pick up men in bars."

  "Well, Slim, that's commendable."

  Her shoulders were tightening again. "My grandfather is overreacting, but if installing a complicated security system eases his mind, then that's what we'll do."

  "But you don't think you need security."

  "I think my cousins and I are perfectly safe in our own home."

  "Do you consider having a man walk into your kitchen while you're dancing in your underwear safe?"

  "You had a key—and I wasn't in my underwear."

  "I'd have been inside as easily without the key as with it. And what was it, if it wasn't your underwear?"

  "Pajamas," she snapped.

  "Oh, well, then, that's different." Royce grinned down at her, enjoying the sizzle of temper in her dark eyes.

  "Look, you install the damn system, we'll use the damn system. Now I've got—" She strained backward when he leaned down. "What are you doing?" He drew in a slow breath. "Just getting the full impact. I like your perfume." And his eyes gleamed with amusement.

  "You're awfully jumpy all of a sudden."

  "I don't like being crowded."

  "Okay." He eased back, just a subtle movement of that compact body that didn't give her quite the distance she would have liked. "How long are you going to be at this?" he asked, waving a hand at the stack of law books.

  "Until it's finished."

  "Why don't I come back, around seven? We could get some dinner."

  "No." She said it firmly, and shifted in her chair to give an open book her attention.

  "Are you involved?"

  "Obviously."

  "I don't mean with work, Slim. I mean with a man."

  "That's none of your business."

  "Could be. I like the way you look, the way you smell. I like the way you talk, the way you move. It would be interesting to find out if I like the way you… think," he ended, as her narrowed eyes lifted and fixed on him.

  "Do you want to know what I'm thinking right now?"

  He smiled, then grinned, then roared with laughter. "No. If you change your mind about the meal, you've got my number."

  "Oh yeah, I've certainly got your number."

  He chuckled, started to rise, then saw the label on the folder nearly buried under a stack of books. "Holloway," he murmured, then looked back at Laura. "The homicide?"

  "Yes."

  "I knew John Holloway."

  "Did you?" She'd liked his laugh, nearly been charmed enough by it to reconsider dinner. Now both her voice and her eyes went frosty.

  "Do you number many spousal abusers among your friends?"

  "I didn't say we were friends, I said I knew him. He used to be a cop. So did I." This time, when he started to straighten, she put a hand over his. Her eyes were focused on his face now, calculating, considering. "Did you work with him?"

  "No. We worked out of the same precinct for a few months a while back. I was transferred. He was a good cop."

  "He was…" She shut her eyes. "Oh, that's typical. He kicked his wife around for years, but he was a good cop. Wear the blue and stick together."

  "I'm not a cop anymore," Royce noted mildly. "And I didn't know much about him off the job. He did the work, he made the collars, he closed the cases. I wasn't interested in his personal life."

  "I'm very interested in his personal life." She'd watched his face while he spoke. He didn't give away much, Laura mused, but she'd go with her hunches. "You didn't like him, did you?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "Just personal taste. He made me think of a loaded gun with a broken safety. Sooner or later, it goes off."

  "You'd still have contacts on the force, know people who knew him. Cops hate talking to lawyers, but—"

  "Maybe because lawyers put scum back on the street before cops can clean up the stain." She took a steadying breath. "Amanda Holloway isn't scum. She simply had the bad judgment to marry scum."

  "That may be, but I can't help you." He rose, stepped back. "I'll be at the house between eight-thirty and nine on Saturday." He smiled again, a quick quirk of lips. "As much as I'd like to see them again, I wouldn't wear the pajamas. You'll distract my crew."
br />   "So, what does he look like?"

  In the mirror over the bathroom sink, Laura's gaze shifted from the already dark lashes she was coating with mascara to her cousin's face. "Who?"

  "This ex-cop security expert that Grandpa hired to keep us safe from Boston's nefarious criminal element." Gwen leaned over Laura's shoulder so that their heads were close.

  No one would have taken them for cousins, much less—as they were connected on both the MacGregor and Blade branches of the family tree—cousins twice over. Gwen's hair was a shiny reddish-gold cap, short as a boy's, in contrast to Laura's sweep of raven tresses. Gwen had inherited her mother's coloring, the creamy skin, the eyes that edged from blue into lavender, the rich blond hair that hinted of red.

  She had a small, almost delicate build, as well. A combination that gave the deceptive illusion of fragility. She could, when necessary, put in a double shift at the hospital, work out in the gym for an hour and still have fuel left over. She was, Laura thought, beautiful, brilliant and bossy.

  "Are you going to try to tell me you don't remember what he looks like?" Gwen prompted.

  "Hmm? No, I remember. I was thinking of something else. He's attractive enough, I suppose."

  "Details, Laura, the truth is in the details." Gwen arched a brow. "Cameron, right? A good Scottish name."

  "That would please Grandpa."

  "Definitely." Gwen ran her tongue around her teeth. "Is he married?"

  "I wouldn't think so." Laura went back to the unnecessary mascara. "He wasn't wearing a ring when he put the moves on me."

  "And he's what? About thirty?"

  "Somewhere around, I'd guess." Her gaze shifted again. "Hunting, are we?"

  "No, collecting data. He's single, attractive, runs his own business, thirtyish and a Cameron. My assessment is that Grandpa picked him out for you."

  "We already know that." Laura set the mascara down and picked up her lipstick. "Grandpa hired him to install a security system, which he'll be doing today."

  Gwen sighed, then rapped the top of Laura's head lightly with her knuckles. "Hello? You're not usually so slow. I'm talking matrimony."

  "Matri—" On a choked laugh, Laura set down the tube of lipstick. "Not a chance."

  "Why not? Grandpa's been making noises for the past year about how not one of his grandchildren has the common sense, or the sense of duty, to settle down and raise a family."

  "And Grandma's pining for babies to bounce on her knee," Laura finished dryly. "I'm telling you, there's no way he's fixed on Royce Cameron as a potential grandson. The man isn't the type an over-protective grandfather chooses." Gwen perched on the long rose-colored counter. "Because?"

  "There's something dangerous about him. You can see it in the eyes—something not quite tame."

  "Mmm. Sounding better and better."

  "For a lover, sure. I imagine he'd be amazing in bed." Laura smirked as she brushed back her hair. "I doubt that's what the MacGregor would have in mind."

  Idly, Gwen picked up the lipstick, swiveled the creamy red tube up and down. "On the contrary, I'd say it would be exactly what he'd have in mind. The boy has spirit," she continued, in a deep, exaggerated burr. "He's got fire in his blood. He'll breed strong sons and daughters."

  "Ridiculous." But Laura experienced a sick sensation deep in her stomach. "That's absurd. He couldn't… He wouldn't."

  "Could and would," Gwen disagreed succinctly. "And so far I'd say it's working."

  "What do you mean, what are you talking about?"

  "I mean it's Saturday morning." Gwen angled her wrist to check her watch. "Just eight o'clock on a Saturday morning, when you don't have to be anywhere. Not only are you up, but you're dressed. You're wearing mascara, which you don't even need, and lipstick, and—" she leaned forward and sniffed "—your best perfume."

  "I'm only—"

  "And she's got a new blouse lying out on her bed," Julia added as she stepped into the doorway and leaned against the jamb. "A red silk blouse."

  "Aha, a red silk blouse for a Saturday morning at home." Gwen slid off the counter, patted Laura's shoulder. "My diagnosis, honey, is a strong case of physical attraction."

  "I am not attracted to him. I'm just… I'm thinking of going shopping, that's all. Christmas shopping. So I'm up and dressed."

  "You never shop on Saturday," Julia pointed out ruthlessly. "You hate to shop, period, which I find very sad. And you never start your Christmas shopping until the middle of December."

  "I'm making an exception." Annoyed, Laura maneuvered by them both and stomped toward her room. The blouse lay on the bed like a bright red alarm. She hissed at it. Then, slamming her door, she decided to wear it anyway. She liked strong colors, she thought as she yanked it off the bed. She liked silk. Why shouldn't she wear the damn thing?

  She muttered to herself as she buttoned it up. She was not attracted to Royce Cameron in the least. He was far from her type. The man was arrogant, rude and self-congratulatory. And, she reminded herself, he'd seen her at her most ridiculous. And in the fourth place, she thought as she slipped on dark gray trousers, she wasn't looking for a relationship. Not that a man like Royce would be interested in something as civilized as a relationship, but for herself, she wanted a few more years of absolute freedom. A man in general, and a mate in particular, could wait.

  She heard the front door buzzer, sniffed. She took her time putting on her shoes. Then, to prove to herself that she didn't care how she looked to Royce or any other man that morning, deliberately turned away from the mirror before heading downstairs. He was in the foyer. A scarred leather jacket, faded jeans, dark, tousled hair. He was talking to Julia and Gwen, and he laughed at something Julia said. Laura made it halfway down the stairs before he turned his head, before those oddly intense blue eyes, with their dark fringe of lashes, met hers. Before that slow, dangerous smile curved his mouth.

  Before her heart gave one jerky kick that warned her she might be in trouble after all.

  "Morning, Slim," he said, giving her a very slow once-over. "Nice shirt."

  Chapter 3

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  Royce didn't pursue women. He particularly didn't pursue a woman who indicated a lack of interest—or one who was sending out mixed signals. When he met a woman who attracted him, he let her know it. Straight out, no games, no pretenses. He figured it was up to the woman in question to pick up the ball from there.

  Since Laura MacGregor wasn't picking up the ball, hadn't even acknowledged that he'd tossed one in her direction, he should have shrugged it off, forgotten her and gone about his business.

  But he wasn't having any luck in doing that.

  It had been nearly three weeks since he first saw her, four days since he last saw her. And she was still on his mind. Not just the picture of her in that sexy little outfit she'd worn in the kitchen—though that image certainly popped into his mind with annoying regularity. It was her face that hounded him, he thought, the cold courage in it when she'd whipped up that knife and faced him down. It was the intelligence and determination in her eyes when she'd spoken of law and justice. It was the cocky smile curving that incredibly tempting mouth as she'd walked down the stairs the day he began the installation of her security system. It was, he was forced to admit, the whole damn package.

  In his small, crowded office off Boylston, he rubbed his tired eyes, ran his hands through hair badly in need of a trim. She was keeping him up at night, and it was ticking him off. What he needed to do was pull out his address book and find a companionable woman to spend an evening with. Someone uncomplicated and undemanding.

  Why in the hell didn't he want someone uncomplicated and undemanding?

  He'd be damned if he was going to pick up the phone and call Laura. He'd asked her out, she'd refused. He'd told her he'd be available if she changed her mind. She hadn't changed it. He hadn't made a fool of himself over a female since he was twelve and fell madly in love with his best friend's older sister, the sixteen-year-old go
ddess Marsha Bartlett. He'd mooned over her for two months, followed her around like a slavish puppy and suffered the taunts of the entire seventh grade of Saint Anne's Elementary. Marsha Bartlett had never paid any attention to him, and had gone on to marry an oral surgeon. And Royce didn't moon after females anymore. "Grow up, Cameron," he ordered himself, and turned back to his computer screen to fiddle with the proposed security system on an office building in South Boston.

  When the phone shrilled, he ignored it until the fourth ring. Swearing, he snatched it up. Obviously his secretary was off powdering her nose again. "Cameron Security."

  "And this would be Cameron himself?" Royce recognized the voice. There was no mistaking that full-blooded Scot. "It would be, Mr. MacGregor."

  "Good, just the man I'm after. You've seen to my granddaughters."

  "The system's up and operative." And the bill, he thought—the hefty bill—was in the mail. "It's the best money can buy."

  "I'm counting on that, boy. I want my wife's mind at rest. She frets."

  "So you said."

  "And you tested the system personally?"

  "As you requested. Any attempt to break in or undermine the system sends an alarm straight to the nearest cop shop and my own personal beeper."

  "Good, good. But those girls have to use it to be protected. They're young, you know, and busy with their interests. My wife's worried that they may be careless and forget to turn it on altogether."

  "Mr. MacGregor, I can only guarantee the system if it's in use."

  "Exactly, exactly. Why, I was telling Anna just this morning that you've done everything you could do. But she's got this in her mind now, and is worrying on it. I was thinking, just to soothe her, we could do a test. If you'd go by sometime—tonight's as good a time as any—and just see if you can get inside…"

  "Hold it. Let me get this straight. You want me to break into your granddaughters' house?"

  "Well, you see, if you manage to do it, then we'll know we need to adjust the matter a bit. And if you can't… well, then, I can ease my wife's mind. She's old," Daniel added in a low voice, keeping an eagle eye on the doorway. "I worry about her health. We're more than happy to pay you for your time and trouble."

  "Do you know what the cage time is for nighttime breaking and entering, Mr. MacGregor?" Daniel laughed heartily. Indeed, he'd picked a rare one for his Laura. "Now, Royce, as a former officer of the law, I'm sure you'd know that well enough. And you'd know how to be sure you weren't caught at it. I meant to tell you that I'm considering having a new security system installed here, at my home. It's a large house, and I'd want only the best. Cost would be no object." Royce leaned back in his chair and stared, meditatively, at the ceiling. "Are you bribing me, Mr. MacGregor?"

  "Indeed I am, Mr. Cameron. Are you an enterprising young man?"

  "Indeed I am. And this is going to cost you."

  "What's money compared to the peace of mind and safety of those we love?"

  Royce tipped back in his chair, waited a beat. "I've met a lot of demons and clever people in my life, Mr. MacGregor. You could give lessons."

  Daniel's roar of laughter had Royce's ears ringing.

  "I like you, lad, damned if I don't. Camerons, strong stock. You get back to me when you've checked this matter out. And we'll arrange for a time for you to come up here and modernize my security."

  It was going to earn him big bucks, Royce calculated the zeros as he slipped out of the moonlight and into the shadows of the grand old trees that guarded the house.

  He stood studying the dark windows. It was easy enough for Royce to think like a thief. He'd handled countless burglaries during his years on the force. It was for that very reason that he'd decided to go into private security. Most people had no idea how vulnerable they were while they dreamed in their beds.