Cavanaugh’s Woman by Marie Ferrarella Page A

I’m—”
    She’d noted the way her sister shrank into herself when she first turned to look at the man. It was probably all unconscious, Moira thought, and all the more telling because of it.
    Her expression was unsmiling. “The man who gave my sister that bruise?”
    Simon looked taken aback by the accusation. “What?” The look he tossed Carrie was just the slightest bit accusing. “Hell, no. She walks into things a lot—don’t you, Carrie?”
    Carrie’s head bobbed on cue. “Uh-huh, all the time.” She flashed a weak smile at her sister. “You know how I was.”
    Moira’s eyes were steely. It took everything she had not to fling herself at the man, her nails extended. Ever since her mother had died, she’d been the matriarch, the protective one. Feelings like that didn’t fade away over time.
    “Yes, I do. Dad used to call you the steady one.”
    Carrie nervously ran her tongue along her lips. She made Moira think of a skittish animal waiting for the jaws of a trap to snap shut.
    “I’m older now,” her sister told her. “I got clumsy.”
    Moira’s eyes narrowed. What had he done to her carefree sister? “Only in your choice of men.”
    “Hey, you have no call to say that.” Simon took a step closer to her, anger flashing in his dark eyes.
    Aligning herself with Carrie, Moira indicated the door. “I’d like you to leave please.”
    Simon remained where he was. He looked at Carrie accusingly. “You didn’t tell me your sister was a bitch. C’mon, Carrie.”
    Moira moved to block her sister’s way, her eyes on the man. “No, not her. Just you.”
    He reached for Carrie’s hand, but Moira stopped him. “She goes where I tell her to go.”
    “Not anymore.”
    His expression turned malevolent. “And who’s going to stop her? You? You won’t look so pretty with your face rearranged.”
    “Simon—” Carrie protested, panicked.
    “Shut up, Carrie.”
    Moira raised her chin pugnaciously. “Neither will you behind bars. Not after a while. Pretty men like you are considered fresh meat there. You lay one finger on me—or my sister—and you’re going to have to kill me because I’ll be calling the police the second I scrape myself off the floor. Now get out of here,” she ordered, “before I call security.”
    “You women are all alike,” he growled.
    “No,” she said, her eyes shooting daggers at him. “We’re not.”
    Simon managed to grab Carrie’s wrist. “You’re coming with me.”
    Carrie began to struggle. Moira grabbed his hand and began peeling his fingers away from Carrie’s wrist.
    “Let go of her!” she shouted.
    The next second, Moira heard someone knocking loudly on the door. “Moira, are you all right?”
    Her heart leaped into her throat. It was Shaw.

Chapter Eight
    M oving Simon aside, Moira lost no time in getting to the door and throwing it open.
    Shaw glimpsed what looked like relief on Moira’s face as she stepped back to admit him. There were two other people inside the room. Well-honed instincts instantly kicked in. Shaw took one look at the man and knew this was no late-evening tryst he’d walked in on.
    He could feel the tension in the room. His eyes shifted back to Moira. “Anything wrong?”
    She could have hugged him. While she never doubted that she could handle Simon, that the man who badgered her sister around was at bottom a coward the way all abusers were, it was nice to have backup.
    “Not anymore,” she told Shaw. She looked at Simon. “This man was just leaving, weren’t you?”
    Anger smoldered in Simon’s eyes as he looked at Carrie. Whatever he’d hoped for by coming here with her sister—and Moira could make a better-than-educated guess as to what that was—it was not panning out for him. Given half a chance, she knew he would take his frustration out on Carrie. “You coming?” Simon asked.
    Moira placed herself between Simon and her sister. “No, I already told you, she’s not. She’s staying here with me.” She