Romance In Paradise. Sarah Mayberry
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no flirting, no walking around naked.’
There was that arrogance again, and she hated the fact that it turned her on. Determined to show him that he didn’t affect her, in any way, she lifted her nose in the air. ‘I’ll try and restrain myself.’
‘You do that, Duchess.’
* * *
Noah stood on the balcony in the bright sunshine and looked down into the leafy greenness of Central Park, idly noticing that the park was full of early-morning joggers, cyclists, walkers. Whoever would have thought that Noah Fraser, that angry boy from Glasgow, would be standing here looking at one of the best views in the city. Certainly not him. If he ignored the fact that Morgan was a kidnapping target and he couldn’t touch her now, it was one of those stunning spring days.
Spoilt, unfortunately, by his father’s voice whining in his ear...on and on and on.
Noah had been sixteen when he’d lost his mother and taken over the care of his paralysed and violently angry father and his two brothers, six and four years old. And if Michael had been a mean bastard on two legs then he’d become even worse on none.
Noah had cooked, cleaned and cared for his siblings while Michael had cursed God and cursed them. By keeping Michael’s attention directed on him, he’d managed to shield the kids from the worst of his verbal and—when he had the opportunity—physical abuse.
Noah had adored those little monsters, and it had nearly killed him when Social Services had moved them into the care of his aunt—his mother’s sister. It had been the right thing for them—Michael could have scarred a psychopath—but he’d felt as if his heart had been torn out of his ribcage. Aunt Mary had offered to take him in too, but someone had had to look after Michael; his mam would have turned in her grave if he’d been left on his own.
‘You might be poor, Noah, but poor men can act with honour too.’
‘What is honour exactly, Mam?’
‘It’s taking responsibility and keeping your word. Seeking the truth and acting with integrity. Doing the right thing whether people are looking or not. Being better than your circumstances.’
Those words, part of a discussion they’d had a couple of months before her death, had defined the rest of his life.
It was because of those words that he’d endured three years of being belittled, insulted, punched when he was within range, before he’d cracked. It had been the most terrifying moment of his life when he’d come back to himself and realised he was holding...
Don’t think about it. Don’t remember. Put it back into the cage you keep it in.
He seldom relived the full memory of that horrible day, but every day he recalled how close he’d come to the edge after losing control. The consequences of which would have been far-reaching and...dismal. Catastrophic.
The very next day he’d joined the army—the best decision of his life. Yeah, it had been tough at first, but he’d got three square meals every day and, while he’d been shouted at all the time, he’d realised that it wasn’t personal. He’d tolerated it at first and then he’d loved it; it had become, in a way, an inadequate substitution for the family he’d lost.
He’d moved around in the Forces, eventually ending up in the SAS.
Before leaving for Catterick, for his initial training, he’d arranged for a local care-giver to provide Michael with the help he needed: cooking, cleaning and, he’d hoped, occasional bathing. The cost of his care had come out of his meagre army salary, but it had been a small price to pay for his freedom.
He was still paying.
‘Your brothers haven’t called or visited for over six months.’ Michael moaned.
He didn’t blame them.
‘Useless, both of them. Living with those Robinsons has made them soft... Mike is working as a nancy photographer and Hamish is no better. A bloody chef... Jaysus...and you paid for their education. Waste of money, I tell you. They’ll never amount to anything.’
The fact that Mike was working on a respected national newspaper and Hamish was working in a Michelin-starred restaurant as a sous-chef had passed Michael by. With their crazy schedules the brothers didn’t spend nearly enough time together, Noah thought. While they emailed and called regularly, they didn’t meet often and he missed them.
He had to make more time for them...
‘I said I wouldn’t take your calls any more if you slag off Hamish and Mike, Michael. Don’t do it again,’ Noah warned.
He wished he could break the ties with this old man but he was his father. Family. Warped, possibly nuts...but you didn’t just walk away from your responsibilities. You took what was tossed at you and you dealt with it. But, hell, hadn’t he paid enough, done enough, sacrificed enough?
Michael did have one use, though: he was a reminder of how dangerous Noah could be if he lost control. Apart from Michael, the only person who’d managed to push his buttons, to get past the steel lid he kept on his emotions, was that blonde bombshell next door.
And that scared the bejesus out of him. Why her? He’d met a lot of women over the past fifteen years. He’d had successful girls, poor girls, crazy girls and, after he’d finished guarding them, a couple of famous girls.
None of them had made him think of what ifs or maybes, of moving below the surface stuff of good sex and a couple of laughs. No one except Morgan had ever tempted him to walk into the minefield that was a committed relationship. He’d grown up watching his mother trying to keep her head above water with his crazy, cruel father and he had no intention of being swept away by love and spending the rest of his life trying to get back to shore.
But the fact remained that nobody made him crazy like Morgan Moreau.
* * *
Morgan looked up as Noah entered the kitchen via the balcony door. He looked decisive, authoritative, commanding: a natural leader that others looked up to. Dark suit, a white shirt over that broad chest, sombre grey tie hanging loose down his shirt to be tied later.
He also looked freakin’ hot!
A shoulder holster held what looked like a very nasty gun...whoa!
‘When did you get a gun? And from whom?’ Morgan demanded, wide eyes on its black matte handle-butt-thingy poking out from the holster.
‘It was dropped off early this morning,’ Noah replied, heading for the coffee machine and reaching for a cup from the shelf above it. ‘Don’t worry, I’m licensed to carry a concealed weapon.’
Morgan gripped the back of one of the kitchen counter stools. ‘You didn’t have one in Cape Town.’
Noah flipped her a look over his shoulder as he tossed sugar into his black coffee. ‘Yeah, I did. You just never saw it. Ankle holster when I was wearing jeans. Tucked into the back of my shorts or in my rucksack when we were on the beach. You weren’t considered too much of a target so we took the decision not to scare you.’
‘Huh.’ Morgan wrapped her hands around her now cold coffee cup. Had she been that oblivious? Sure, she’d been nineteen, and blinded by the mammoth crush she’d had on Noah. He could have had a third leg and she would have ignored that too...
So, had anything changed? Morgan wondered. Actually, yes. There was a difference between crushing on him and crushing on his body. This thing between them was purely, utterly, comprehensively physical. That’s my story and I’m sticking to it, she thought.
* * *
‘Have they heard anything else about the other kidnappers yet?’ she asked. If she knew anything about Noah then she knew that he would be on top of the situation, demanding updates as any came in.
‘It’s only been twelve hours, Morgan. And they’ve probably gone underground. New York is a city of eight million people; it’s