Читать книгу Men In Uniform: Taken By The Soldier: The Soldier's Untamed Heart / Closer... / Groom Under Fire - Jo Leigh, Nikki Logan - Страница 11

WITHOUT the little life pressed against her chest, Romy felt strangely cold.

They’d interrupted the carer sitting to dinner with her family but on seeing their precious bundle the whole family kicked into action, apparently well used to the arrival of pouch-age survivors of roo strikes. Before Romy and Clint left, the carer’s husband took a moment to introduce some other young kangaroos, all raised by their family, all survivors of road accidents. Seeing them so healthy and grown was the only reason Romy was willing to leave her tiny charge in their very good hands. Otherwise, she was going to ask for a crash course in marsupial raising and take the baby home again.

Clint had to shepherd her with his body away from the joey as it settled in a lamb’s-wool pouch in the arms of the carer, hungrily slurping rescue formula from a baby’s bottle. There was nothing more they could do, but she’d been strangely reluctant to go. It was stupid, but it felt like their joey—hers and Clint’s.

All the more reason to leave it behind, she thought now, staring out into the thick darkness of the forest as they drove. The last thing she needed was additional reasons to feel connected to a self-confessed hermit. And an ex-military one at that. She sighed.

‘People suck.’ Given they were the first real words she’d uttered in the forty-minute return trip, they held some weight.

Clint turned to look at her, his eyes glowing in the light coming off the dash. ‘Can’t disagree with that. Why particularly?’

‘That roo was just minding her own business, getting her baby somewhere safe for the night, and…wham!’ They weren’t called roo bars for nothing. Most country vehicles had them. Great for protecting the fronts of cars, not so great for the hapless roos they connected with.

‘We saved one life tonight. That’s something.’

She sighed deeply. ‘Doesn’t feel like enough.’

His voice dropped to husky. ‘You have a soft centre, Romy Carvell.’

She snorted. ‘Yeah, I’m a regular Turkish delight.’

His lips twisted as he returned to watching the road. ‘Maybe you have to have seen the loss of life to appreciate saving one.’

Romy glanced at him. ‘Maybe so. I’ve never had anyone close to me die. Not that I remember.’

He glanced at her. ‘Grandparents?’

‘Nope. Gone pre-me.’

‘Parents?’

‘Mum died having me. Dad’s still around.’ Somewhere.

‘Consider yourself lucky, then.’

‘You’ve seen a fair bit of death.’ Not a question.

‘Seen it.’ He took his eyes off the road for longer to stare at her. ‘Been it.’

She chuckled. ‘Now I’m imagining you getting around in a hooded cape with a sickle.’

‘It felt like it some days.’

Her voice softened. ‘It would take a lot of saved kangaroos to offset that, I would imagine.’

He thought about that. ‘Not so many. Death is a process. Life is a miracle. Saving even one means something.’

They passed through the WildSprings entry statement and Romy instinctively glanced around for any signs of trouble. Hard habit to break. She noticed Clint did the same. As they reached the admin building, Justin emerged with an armful of files, heading for his 4WD. He raised his free hand in a wave. Clint responded with the obligatory country salute, a couple of fingers lifted from the steering wheel.

She glanced at her watch, wondering why Justin was working so late and gasped. ‘It’s ten o’clock! I didn’t ring Leighton.’ It was too late to call now; the boys would probably be in bed.

‘He’ll be fine. Call in the morning.’

Being managed irritated her as much as the fact that Clint was once again giving her parenting advice. She reached for her mobile. ‘What if he needs me?’

He slid his hand over hers to prevent her from flipping her phone open. ‘Then he would have called you. Seriously, Romy. Let him enjoy a night away.’

Away from me? She measured her words before uttering them. ‘You think I overprotect him.’

‘I think you’ve done an amazing job with him…’

But…

‘…but he’s growing up and he’s going to start needing some space from Mum now and again.’

Romy knew he was right, but she didn’t like having it pointed out by a virtual stranger. No, her inner voice condemned. She may have only met him a week ago but Clint McLeish was less of a stranger than the small handful of people she’d known her whole life. He just seemed to…get her.

‘Are you speaking from personal experience? Did you value your space even as a kid?’ she asked.

He looked at her, surprised. ‘I guess I did, yes. I was eight before my brother came along, so I learned early to entertain myself.’

A younger brother. No wonder he knew how little boys could be. He’d watched one growing up.

‘What happened to your parents?’ Romy knew he owned WildSprings outright. Had they died?

‘They split after twenty-five years together.’ He coughed. ‘Mum met someone else. She moved to the US around about the same time I enlisted.’

Wow. ‘What happened to your brother?’

‘He was only ten. He went with her to America.’

She watched the tension play out across his features and tried to imagine how that would have divided a son’s loyalties, even a nearly grown one. ‘That must have been hard.’

He shrugged. ‘It made me a prime catch for the Taipans. The most effective operators have little or no family ties. Nothing to come home to. Nothing to hold them back on missions.’

Nothing to live for?

‘With his whole family gone Dad didn’t really have a good reason to stay. He sold up half the land to a neighbour and joined his brothers in Tasmania on the proceeds. He signed the remaining property over to me. To give me somewhere to come home to.’

‘To an empty house?’ Romy didn’t have to like him to empathise with that.

Clint’s smile was grim. ‘I only came here because it was empty. I was no fit company back then.’

She risked poking the stick a bit further in, her curiosity piqued. ‘Why not?’

Like an angry sea anemone, he shut down before her eyes. ‘Don’t interrogate me, Romy.’

Whoops, too far.

She sighed. ‘You should really get out with people more often, McLeish. Your social skills could do with some polishing.’

She turned to stare out into the darkness. The silence was hardly golden. The fork in the track separating her house from Clint’s came up in the headlights. He slowed the ute to turn.

‘What are you doing?’ Her head snapped around.

‘I’m following your advice. Getting out with people more often. I’m taking you to my place.’

The lurch of anticipation in her chest was warning enough. She could not be alone with him in his house. Not while she was so emotionally raw from the evening’s events. She needed fortification before she tackled this. ‘No, you’re not!’

He read the panic in her voice. Glanced at her. ‘You’ve never seen my house. You’d like it.’

‘I’d like it in the daytime just as much.’

‘I’m talking about a short visit, Romy. Grabbing something to eat. As your growling stomach keeps reminding me, I kept you out through dinner.’

Embarrassed, she pressed an hand to her belly. But being so close to him all evening had triggered a different kind of appetite altogether. And she absolutely, categorically, could not hunger for this man.

‘I have food at my house. Take me home, please.’ The tightness in her whole body seeped out through her words.

He slowed the car to the side of the track and dropped it back to a quiet idle. He turned in the seat and pinned her with his eyes, a deep frown cutting over them. ‘Romy, I’m talking about a simple meal between colleagues. Nothing loaded.’

She stared at him boldly. ‘Simple? I bet you’ve never shared a meal at home with a colleague in your life.’

His gaze fell away briefly. ‘All the more reason to break the cycle. We’ll just eat together. I don’t know…talk.’ He gestured helplessly. ‘I can work on my people skills.’

The reluctance in his expression helped her to relax. It seemed entirely genuine. Could two people want to spend time together less? Her lips quirked slightly. ‘You’ll make something normal to eat?’

He laid his large hand over the left side of his chest in a pledge. ‘No extreme cooking.’

Her breath caught at the intensity in his eyes, despite his light manner. Colleagues. Someone needed to remind her body of that, the way it was straining to lean closer to him. ‘Okay. Sorry to have overreacted.’

He looked at her seriously. ‘You weren’t wrong about my people skills—I am out of practice. I should have asked. Again.’

‘You should have, yes.’

His burning gaze threatened to flame right over her. ‘Romy Carvell, would you like to have a meal with me? See my house? No strings attached?’

Amazingly, the answer, now he was actually asking instead of telling, was yes. She nodded.

‘Thank you.’ He cranked the ute into gear and bumped off along the track.

In less than two minutes, they were there. Her breath caught high in her chest at the first sight of his infamous tree house. It was aptly named.

Built around majestic tree trunks, the timber-and-glass house seemed to grow out of the forest surrounding it. Light glowed invitingly inside and he parked the ute right beneath its sprawling supports. Moments later she climbed the timber staircase leading into the house.

‘This is amazing. You built it?’ Since when did military training encompass this level of construction skill?

‘It’s part kit home and part architect modified. I got assistance in as I needed it, but otherwise I constructed it myself.’

‘It took two years?’ He’d said something about living in her cottage for that long.

‘I wanted to get it right.’

She looked around at the open-plan sensation as he swung the entry door inwards. The two enormous tree trunks seemed to push through the floor and extend way up to a high-pitched roof. The entire front wall was glass, framed by more timber. It looked out onto the same view as Leighton’s window but from the other end of the gully.

She was almost speechless. ‘You did get it right. This is beautiful.’

The place oozed sanctuary. The mix of natural materials, space and light was healing all in itself. She turned to look at him. ‘You should be really proud of this.’

The tiniest hint of colour formed where the hard angle of his jaw started. When he flipped a light switch, huge floodlights came on outside, illuminating the trees that surrounded them. Romy gasped. Two dozen glowing eyes blinked back at them, reminding her of pink Christmas lights.

‘Can we turn it off?’ She crossed to the glass doors opening onto the deck, loath to disturb the possums’ nocturnal wanderings. ‘I love the darkness at WildSprings.’

Were there even more stars visible from this side of the gully? Impossible, of course, but they seemed to blanket the sky. She tucked her arms in against the coolness of the night and tipped her face to the twinkling brilliance.

He followed her outside, stood chest to shoulder with her. Silent. Strong. The darkness and silence were his friends, too, she remembered.

Just colleagues. The words echoed in her brain, demanding to be heeded. But as the warmth from his body reached out to her and the fragrance of the night bush mingled with his scent, she had to fight to keep them in focus.

Colleagues. She swallowed and stepped away. ‘Do you mind if I look around?’

‘Help yourself. I’ll get something cooking. Spaghetti bolognaise pedestrian enough for you?’

She sighed on a smile. Leighton didn’t like pasta so she hardly ever made it. The chance to enjoy real bolognaise on a dinner plate instead of on toast from a tin was hard to knock back. ‘It sounds wonderful. Thank you.’

Clint busied himself in the kitchen and Romy took the opportunity to put some distance between them. She padded up the sweeping timber steps to the second storey and tiptoed along the corridor. Immediately on her right was the master bedroom. She averted her gaze and pushed past, not ready to intrude into his personal space but not able to say why. She started at the far end of the hall.

The first door she tried was a bathroom, simply but tastefully decorated with an oversize glass shower recess. No bath. That didn’t surprise her in the slightest. Clint McLeish didn’t strike her as a soaker. He was all business. Get in dirty, get out clean. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. She, on the other hand, liked nothing better as a rare treat than to light a bunch of candles after Leighton had gone to bed and soak until the water turned cold in her old claw-foot bath. The getting clean part was an incidental bonus.

Mind you, they probably didn’t make baths big enough that could comfortably contain a man Clint’s size. The impromptu thought was too close to imagining him in her claw-foot bath, and so she shut the thought away with a firm click of the bathroom door behind her.

The next room was a small study, significantly less tidy than the rest of the house. Computer, desk, wall-to-ceiling bookshelves, mixed art pieces, stuff everywhere. Much more like most of the rooms at her place.

Across the hall, a spare room with a single bed and simple decoration. Some basic weight-training gear leaned against the wall. A distant part of her wondered why a man who never had visitors bothered to hide his clutter away in the study.

Romy returned to the first door she’d encountered. The master bedroom. She froze. It’s only a room…Stick your head in and then head downstairs. Simple!

Right. But, oh, she was curious. You could tell a lot about a person by their bedroom. If you had questions…

She nudged the door with her shoulder, glancing selfconsciously behind her. The sounds of occupied clanking from the kitchen encouraged her to continue. By far the most dominant feature in the room was a low-profile, king-size bed with a rich charcoal bedspread. Entirely practical for a man of Clint’s height but there was something so…decadent…about the size and shape of it. Any bed she could sleep in lengthways, widthways or diagonally was all right in her book. It was far too easy to imagine herself stretched out on it.

And not necessarily alone.

She spun around, her feet moving silently on the woollen rug. A bank of built-in wardrobes lined one wall and Clint had positioned a couple of oversize armchairs in the corner for good measure. Everything was just…big. Romy suddenly felt like tiny Jack in the beanstalk story, sneaking through the giant’s palace in search of the golden goose.

As she had the thought, a golden glint on the far wall caught her eye. A small, framed curiosity was perfectly mounted in a prominent position. On the left, a silver sword flanked by two snakes with the motto Morte prima di disonore scrolled across the bottom. Death before dishonour. The symbol of Strike Force Taipan. That’s where she’d recognised his tattoo from. The insignia and others like it had practically wallpapered the Colonel’s living room wall.

Mounted to the right of the badge was a red ribbon with a gold star embedded in flames. Her breath died. Not Australia’s highest military honour, but it was one of its rarest.

‘It’s a Commendation for Gallantry.’

At the deep voice right behind her, she spun around, embarrassed to be caught snooping. But Clint’s attention was on the flaming star, not on her.

‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘For acts of conspicuous gallantry in action, in circumstances of great peril.’ Her mumbled words won his attention back. Instead of times tables, the Colonel had forced her to learn all of Australia’s medals, awards and commendations by rote.

He spoke just as she did. ‘How do you know this stuff?’

‘What did you do to earn this?’

Neither wanted to answer. They stared at each other in silence. Clint finally broke it, opening his mouth with a terse, ‘Spaghetti’s ready.’

She let herself be led out and down the stairs until her feet floated on the heavenly fragrance of real Italian sauce. She drifted towards the set table and searched around for something to say as they tucked into the pasta. Something to end the awkward silence.

‘So what’s Justin Long’s story?’

Clint eyed her over an enormous forkful of pasta, paused halfway to his mouth. ‘What do you mean?’

‘He’s young, to be managing a place like this.’

‘This coming from you?’ It wasn’t unfriendly. In fact, there was something decidedly warming about being gently teased. It created a charged kind of friction. It felt good.

‘I have good instincts about people. He doesn’t seem entirely…comfortable…in his role. Like a suit that doesn’t fit.’

Clint stared at her. ‘Interesting. What else?’

Romy shrugged. ‘He doesn’t like me.’

It was only a mouthful of food that prevented him bursting into laughter. After a moment he mumbled, ‘Half the staff don’t like you, according to you.’

‘He genuinely doesn’t. Since day one. It practically oozes from his pores.’

Clint shrugged. ‘It’s because I hired you. His nose is out of joint.’

‘You’re the boss. You can hire whoever you want, can’t you?’

Dark eyes studied her. ‘It’s complicated.’

Romy sighed. ‘If I’m going to be able to do my job well I need to know where the skeletons are. You know that.’

He placed his fork down with meticulous care. Took an age, he dabbed his napkin to his lips. ‘Justin is my brother.’

It was Romy’s turn to splutter. Heat roared up her cheeks. ‘What? Since when?’

‘Pretty much since birth.’

‘Ha-ha. Were you planning on telling me or were you just going to let me keep talking about him.’

‘I’m telling you now.’

There was no way a man with his training could possibly miss her simmering expression. Which mean she was being managed again. Romy took a deep breath. ‘Why have you not mentioned this before?’

‘It’s not pertinent.’

‘It most certainly is. Familial relationships in workplaces increase the likelihood of crime statistically, did you know that? Second only to romantic ones.’

He looked unimpressed. ‘Thanks for the intel. But this is a family business. He’s the last person I’d be concerned about ripping me off.’

‘How long has he worked for you?’

‘Is this a social question or a professional one?’ His careless tone screamed a warning. He kept his eyes artificially lowered.

Romy took a breath. Backed down. ‘Social.’ Gut instinct or not. ‘I’m interested.’

His grunt wasn’t convinced. ‘Mum took Justin to the US when she left. He lived there until he was nineteen. Then he…wanted to come home.’

Romy frowned. ‘He left your mum?’

‘We grow up, Romy. We all move away from our mothers eventually. Even Leighton will.’

He was changing the subject. Romy’s sensed it instantly.

‘Back to Justin…So he came home to WildSprings and you made him business manager?’

‘He’d been an assistant concierge in a big hotel in Chicago. He had the right skills and I wasn’t interested in running the place then. I’d just got back. I asked him to stay on.’

The word then struck her hard. She filed it away. ‘What hotel?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t care. Something French. Something big.’

‘You must trust him a lot. To give him the job on face value.’

Dark eyes burned into hers. ‘You don’t?’

No-one messes with my family. The warning echoed in her mind. She shrugged and made her expression nonchalant. ‘I’m just making conversation.’

‘He really bothers you, doesn’t he?’ He pushed his half-empty plate away. ‘He’s my brother, Romy. Of course I trust him. And I owe him—’

If he hadn’t cut himself off so sharply, Romy might have let it go. ‘Owe him how?’

His face closed down right in front of her. Starting with his eyes and ending with the tightening of his mouth. ‘I can’t see how that has any bearing on park security.’

Romy’s heart banged painfully on her chest wall. She sat back. Dark eyes glared at her and he tipped his head. Subject closed.

For the next ten minutes they ate in silence, a thousand uncomfortable miles apart. So much for a civilised meal between colleagues. Romy’s mind worked overtime. Brothers. Oh, joy, that wasn’t going to be any fun to get in the middle of. She had no personal experience with siblings but she’d seen them at school, swinging between fiercely fighting and fiercely defending one another. Obviously a complicated relationship, growing up with someone.

How long would it take for the family issue to raise its head? The vibes she was getting off Justin Long guaranteed it would be coming up sooner or later. And she’d be square in the middle of it.

Romy caught Clint’s gaze on her a number of times but she dropped hers quickly to mask her thoughts. He was as efficient an eater as he was in everything else and he wiped his plate clean long before Romy did. She realised the error almost immediately. He’d finished and had nothing to do but stare. She was still eating and could hardly hint at going home while food sat on her plate.

Steady eyes considered her. ‘Who was he?’

She lifted her eyes, swallowing carefully. ‘Who?’

‘The man in your life who taught you to—’ he changed tack ‘—who taught you so much about the Defence Force.’

Romy stiffened. ‘Why does there have to be a man? Perhaps I’m really interested in Australia’s military history.’

‘Are you?’

She sighed. She couldn’t lie to those eyes. ‘No.’

‘How long were you together?’

It would be so easy to let him go on thinking it was some other man who had been in the military. It would probably be smart. But those eyes, again…

‘It was my father.’

For the first time since she met him, he looked genuinely surprised. ‘Your father? I thought…You seemed so…’

‘You thought I was running from a failed relationship?’ He didn’t need to nod. ‘I guess in a way I am. But not a romantic one.’

She hadn’t been with anyone since the night Leighton was conceived. But she was hardly going to tell him that.

‘What branch was he?’

Here came the inevitable. Romy sighed. ‘He’s a colonel in the army.’

She saw the very moment Clint made the connection. His eyebrows shot up. ‘Colonel Martin Carvell is your father?’

Under his inquisitive gaze Romy felt all of sixteen again.

Clint whistled. ‘He’s a legend in the Defence Force.’

He was capable of being impressed, then. Just not by her. Her smile tightened and she pushed the remainder of her food away. ‘I’m sure he is. He lived and breathed the army.’

Those sharp green eyes missed nothing. ‘But you’re running from him?’

‘He wasn’t much of a legend as a father. I had no interest in raising my son around his influence.’ She saw no understanding in his expression. On any other day she would have let it go. Changed the subject. But not with this man. Not tonight. She wanted him to understand.

She nailed him with her eyes. ‘Do you remember your basic training?’

His scoff was immediate. ‘How could I forget? It was hell.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Eighteen.’

Romy nodded. Paused. ‘Imagine being five.’

She stood, collected both their plates and took them to the kitchen where they clattered as she dropped them into the sink. She cursed. His focus was on her the whole way. Clint’s spaghetti was the best she’d ever had but it congealed like concrete in her suddenly churning stomach. She busied herself with scraping off the scraps into his compost tub and rinsing the bowls, blinking furiously.

Out of nowhere, his large hands slid over hers, stilling their fevered activity. His body pressed against her and he spoke behind her ear. ‘Leave it, Romy.’

She froze immediately and let him pull the dishes out of her wet, trembling hands. He took one into his own large one and pulled her towards the deck. She stumbled along behind him, sick with the grief of her childhood memories. Recalling vividly what that harsh discipline had felt like to someone not old enough to understand the words, let alone the reason.

Outside, he dropped her hand and she clung to the balustrade for support, breathing deeply. She’d never let herself even think about those days, never mind talk about them. It hurt too much. She started suturing up the bursts in her protective layer. Double-reinforcing the leaks.

‘Don’t,’ he said.

She glanced at him warily. ‘Don’t what?’

‘Don’t shove it all down again. Don’t try and hide it from me. Or from yourself.’

The pain had to go somewhere. She rounded it back onto him, furiously. ‘Uh, pot…kettle…black!’

He kept the anger well contained, although she saw it flirting at the edges of his expression. ‘It’s because I know so much about it that I don’t want to see you do it to yourself.’

She fumed silently, recognising the truth.

‘How old were you when you left?’ he asked.

Facts were so much easier to deal with than feelings. ‘Nearly twenty.’

His face tipped towards hers. ‘So Leighton was…nearly two?’

‘He wouldn’t let me leave before that.’ She shoved those memories down deep, too. The misery of being trapped with a man she hated while a life grew in her frightened teen belly, then trying to protect herself and her infant son from the Colonel’s influence for two years. Her horror when, after barely acknowledging Leighton’s existence since his birth, her father had suddenly realised he had a boy-child in the house and began paying attention. The awful day he brought home a toy gun for the little soldier. Started making plans for his future. That same day, Romy looked up available support services online. It was the best thing the Colonel had ever done for her.

Even the darkness didn’t disguise Clint’s reaction. The flash of fury. ‘He hurt you?’

She dropped her eyes. ‘Define hurt?’

‘Did he touch you?’

‘Some things are more painful than a thrashing. And his precious code of honour meant he drew a line at beating a pregnant woman.’

Clint stared at her, assessing. ‘But before that?’

Pity mingled with compassion in his eyes and pain lanced through her. She was nobody’s charity case. She pushed away from the balustrade and turned for the door, blinking back tears. ‘Before that, I was a recruit to be broken by whatever means he saw fit.’

He moved quickly but she was quicker, fuelled by hurt and anger. She got halfway to the front door before he spun her back, into the wall of his chest. She resisted the bolt of pleasure that shot through her on feeling his arms around her.

‘Romy, I can’t let you go like this. So upset. Not to an empty house.’

‘I’m not your responsibility.’

He slid his hands over her shoulders and framed her face on both sides, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘Stay and talk with me. Just until I know you’re okay.’

She tried to pull away but his easy hold was like a vice. ‘I’m fine. Please let me go. Please…’ She was holding the tears in check, but barely. Don’t let me cry in front of him.

Too late.

A fat tear leaked out the corner of one eye and raced down onto her cheek. His thumb caught it and wiped it away. She pressed her lids closed, unable to bear seeing disappointment in his. At her weakness.

Carvells don’t cry!

Clint pulled her into his shoulder, threading one hand through her hair and wrapping the other firmly around her waist. ‘Ah, Romy…’

She fit against his contours so perfectly he burned to feel the stiffness of her body turn into warm, relaxed flesh. This was his fault. He never should have quizzed her about her past. He’d only done it to get her off the uncomfortable topic of his brother.

‘Shh…’

Stroking her seemed to help, and he was masochist enough to appreciate how good it felt to hold her. Just once. He willed his body not to respond to hers, not to drive her any further away than he already had, but it wasn’t easy thinking when all he wanted to do was wrap her up in his arms and never let her out.

Bit by bit, her tension softened and almost seemed to shrink in his arms. He kept up the gentle rhythm of his hands, stroking her hair, her back, trailing over her skin. It was impossible to think of her as an employee when she was like this. She was a woman—someone he’d hurt—who needed comfort.

Just comfort.

‘Shh…’

His lips pressed against the top of her head briefly. What a jerk. Why had he pushed her about the man in her past? Because you wanted to know if she was available, a little voice accused. To find out if the field was clear.

At least be honest with yourself if you’re not going to be honest with her.

She tipped her face sideways, relaxing more into his hold, and rested her cheek against his shoulder on a half sigh, half sob. His lips found her temple, touched there briefly, then stayed longer than they should have.

She didn’t push away.

Her body changed shape slightly in his arms, curling towards him like a kitten drawn to warmth in its sleep. Sweet pleasure started to race through his veins and his breath heated in his lungs. He stroked her hair away from her face and bent towards her damp, flushed skin, placing a kiss on each closed eyelid. Her heartbeat fluttered against his chest like a tiny bird.

It was drugged heaven. It was right for all the wrong reasons.

She stopped breathing and opened her eyes, fixing her smoky focus on his. A hunger he’d not allowed in years surged through him but he forced it back, made himself proceed with caution, assessing the risk before advancing. He bent his face slowly and found the place just south of her earlobe with his lips and then nibbled a trail forward along her jaw. Tasting. Experiencing.

Reconnaissance.

She whimpered but didn’t move away. His target was mere inches from him, two perfect lips that parted on a single word as she sagged in his arms.

‘Clint…’

That one syllable on her lips hit him in a place he’d forgotten he even had. Deep, deep inside. Did she even notice she’d finally said his name? God, he burned to see how the word tasted on her lips. But she had to want this, and not simply because it made her feel better.

‘Romy…’ His voice was thick with lust, his body screaming for things he hadn’t addressed in a long time. ‘I’m going to kiss you.’

That sexy mouth twisted in a satisfied smile and her thick voice was almost drowsy with desire. ‘You are kissing me, Clint…’

He moved in closer, his mouth scant millimetres from hers, hovering a hair’s-breadth from heaven. Her soft breath brushed warmly against his lips.

Just millimetres…

‘No. Really kiss you.’

He was aware, at once, of every place her body pushed against his. The softness of her belly where his hips pressed, the sensation of full breasts crushed low against his chest, the angle of her face as she tipped her mouth up to nearly touch his. His body jerked. So very nearly…

‘I’m asking, Romy…’ His words were mostly a whisper against her lips. ‘I’m looking for permission to proceed.’

It was pure instinct. The language that was such a part of him tumbled off his lips unconsciously. Romy’s eyes flew open and stark desperation frosted them over. She suddenly found strength and pushed hard against him, staggering away from the kiss he still burned to seal against her lush lips.

‘Oh, God…’ she choked, backing off. ‘What am I…? What are we doing?’

Easy, McLeish. She was like a live grenade. Sans pin. He took a step towards her, trying to lessen the distance she’d forced between them. If she bolted out of here now she was just as likely to hurt herself. And possibly never return.

‘I think we were about to test the definition of colleagues,’ he said.

She latched onto that. ‘You’re my boss! I can’t do this!’

He held her eye. ‘If you can’t, that’s okay. But don’t hide behind the boss thing. The two of us were never going to have a conventional employee-employer relationship. And you know it.’

‘No!’ Her breasts heaved up and down, hypnotically distracting in his periphery. Clint forced himself to keep his eyes on hers. Her fear was signposted in them.

‘I’m a different man, Romy. I’m not him,’ he said.

She backed hard into the kitchen bench. He raised his hands carefully to his side to try and lessen the impact of him standing between her and the door. That wasn’t going to improve matters.

‘You’re military!’

‘That’s what I did. Not who I am.’

She shook her head, her senses returning with a vengeance. ‘No. You are every bit military, regardless of how long you’ve been out of it.’

‘That still doesn’t make me like him.’ Although in his gut he knew it did. In part.

She took a deep breath. ‘Take me home.’

He stepped towards her. Her hands came up. ‘Romy…’

‘Then I’ll drive myself, give me the keys.’

‘Don’t do this…’

‘Fine, I’ll walk.’

She pushed away from the bench and straight past him, more than ready for a fight. He stepped clear and let her pass, but dogged her heels to the exit and down the outside stairs. He’d led enough men to know when a strategic retreat was required.

Time to regroup and reassess.

‘I’ll drive you, Romy. And I’ll leave you at your door. And I won’t so much as touch you again.’

Tonight.

She turned and stared at him through enormous, bright eyes. Great…this is how they got into this mess. He was a sucker for waterworks.

The mile drive was brutal. Neither of them spoke—no surprise, but he’d never considered his old friend silence an adversary before. It ate at his nerves as he pulled up in front of her cottage. He no longer thought of it as his parents’ place, only Romy’s.

The moment he yanked on the handbrake, she was out the door. His father’s manners made him step out of the driver’s seat. She turned when she hit the front verandah.

‘This is not about you, Clint,’ she disarmed him by saying, not quite able to meet his eyes. ‘But this is about what you do. Did. I cannot be with a man who has any part of my father in him. I can’t have Leighton exposed to that. If you can honestly tell me there’s no part of you that’s like him, then I’ll listen. I swear I will.’

Her eyes were like dinner plates in her pale face. Clint thought about his time as an operative. The good men he’d pushed just short of breaking point. The things he’d seen…done. And the things he’d been unable to reconcile himself to. The military was deeply embedded in his soul and, even now, he struggled to remember he wasn’t about unit, corps, God, country, any more.

He was nothing like Leighton’s grandfather…yet everything like him.

And so he stayed silent. Even though every part of him wanted to fight to get back the moment they’d so very nearly shared. The moment when something fundamental had shifted in his universe. In his soul.

Instead, he stared silently at her.

She nodded sadly and turned for the house. ‘Goodnight, Clint.’

Then she was gone. He slumped in the ute and slammed his hand against the aging dash. He’d spent a lifetime controlling his emotions but it took him more than a minute to get them under command now.