Читать книгу Men In Uniform: Taken By The Soldier: The Soldier's Untamed Heart / Closer... / Groom Under Fire - Jo Leigh, Nikki Logan - Страница 12

ANOTHER damaged fence kept Romy busy. As fast as she patched them up, more breaches appeared. Not that being thoroughly occupied was a bad thing, but her already filthy mood wasn’t improved any by spending a second afternoon in the Australian sun straining wire.

Stop your whining, girl, and get on with it. She heard the Colonel’s hard voice barking at her as though he were right there on the hill. Instinctively she sucked in her breath and straightened her spine. She yanked the final wire tight and stood back to examine her work.

It was getting harder to imagine this was only kids sneaking onto the property for an unauthorised swim or a farmer helping himself to fruit. Simone told her they’d not had breaches like this before so why the difference now? Because she’d sealed up a regular access point when she first arrived? Maybe activity was on the rise? Or could someone be making life intentionally difficult for her? She glanced around. Whichever, she was determined to solve it. To prove herself to all the knockers who were waiting for her to mess up.

She tossed her tools into the boot of her car.

Who was she kidding; most of the WildSprings staff had already accepted her, even if one or two had taken a while to warm to her. There was only one person she was trying to prove herself to and he remained entirely oblivious to her strengths.

She shook her head. Not surprising, really. It seemed as if all she’d done in Clint’s presence was confront him, disagree or wail like a banshee, all of which hardly engendered confidence. And then there was the kissing…

Romy flushed anew remembering how she’d practically climbed inside his skin back in the tree house. On all of one week’s acquaintance. It had felt so right for those blessed moments before she’d come to her senses. The fact he’d responded wholeheartedly did not lessen her embarrassment. Maybe he just hadn’t been to the city for a while?

She knew for certain he went the very next day.

That was ten days ago now and she hadn’t so much as caught a whiff of him since then. He certainly knew how to lay low. But she’d not had the same success getting him out of her head. Even now she could still feel how his body moved under her touch. The hard, living shelf of flesh over his strong heartbeat, the gentle scrape of stubble across her cheek, the feathery silk of his lips on her skin as he whispered comforting sounds in her ear. And that smell…Her lids fluttered shut.

Stop!

She braced her hands on the hood of her car and took six deep breaths. Nothing good could come from revisiting the incident over and over. Clint McLeish was officially out of bounds.

Despite what the hollow ache in her chest thought.

Did she need a flashing red light to go off every time he got too close? The man was a risk-taker, ex–special services and had closed himself off from the world. He had more baggage than a 747.

Takes one to know one, a tiny voice whispered.

She shot forwards on the track in a spray of dust and sent dirt scattering behind her car. What was his baggage all about? All she knew was he’d been a Taipan. And they were at the precision end of encounters in some of the world’s hottest war zones. He’d told her himself he’d killed people, but in the context of his regiment maybe that meant he’d killed people.

As in up close. Intensely personal. Impossible to forget.

He certainly had the haunted look of a man who’d seen too much. And he’d left that world behind and dug himself an existence here in the forest. He called it somewhere to heal but Romy looked at it as a hole to lie down and die in.

Just like any mortally wounded animal.

Her heart reached out to that part of him. The part she’d glimpsed for barely a moment that night in his house. The part, she very much suspected, that was responsible for framing and mounting his service badge and commendation.

You wouldn’t do that if you didn’t care. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t hurt so much. And the flashes in his eyes when she’d asked about it were most definitely pain.

For the first time, she saw a glint of reason to the way the military trained its people. Especially in those kinds of units. You’d need a certain level of psychological shielding in order to strap on a weapon and take human lives. Otherwise, the enormity of the job you had to do might just eat you up.

She frowned. That was how her father had trained. How he lived his life. How he tried to make Romy live hers. What happened to the people who couldn’t handle the discipline, who rebelled against the absolutes? Did they go out at seventeen and brand their bodies with vivid symbols of wild, rebellious freedom across their backs? Then get so blisteringly drunk in misery they’d fall into bed with the first person who showed them a hint of compassion?

Maybe they did.

Maybe other people failed the military test with equally spectacular results. She’d gone on to grow into a tough, resilient, capable woman. But that was in spite of her upbringing, not because of it.

She crunched the gears on her vehicle. Family sure had a lot to answer for. And now she’d gone and got herself mixed up with a pair of brothers with territorial issues. Great.

Romy didn’t share Clint’s confidence about his brother. Justin was a little too self-interested for her comfort, and his appreciation of the achievements of his staff was more to do with how that reflected on him. Still, she’d worked with his personality type before. The best strategy was to keep a safe distance and an open mind.

Maybe he was just struggling with younger-brother syndrome. Trying to prove himself to a complicated and unreachable man.

Romy laughed. Who knew they would have something in common!

Still…a little judicious internet surfing wouldn’t go astray. A few subtle questions here and there. Just to put her niggling instincts to rest.

‘Does your mum know you’re here, Leighton?’

Unlikely, judging by the sheepish shrug of little shoulders. Clint groaned inwardly. As if he and Romy needed any more angst between them. It was going to be hard enough to work together without becoming an accomplice in her little boy’s frequent misdemeanours. ‘Come on, I’ll walk home with you.’

Curious grey eyes so like his mothers stared at the tree house. ‘Can’t I come in?’

With the ghost of Romy still haunting his sanctuary, having Leighton in there was only going to double the uncomfortable rightness of it all. As though the house he thought he’d finished building a year ago was still waiting for the delivery of two finishing touches.

A wife.

A child.

Crazy thoughts when he’d built the tree house specifically to be a refuge for one. But hadn’t he wondered as he built it what it would be like growing up here? The kind of person it would help make someone into? And hadn’t he allowed his eyes to drift shut more than once and imagine a woman’s arms snaking around his neck as he sat out on the balcony of an evening? A faceless, nameless woman, more of an essence than anything.

He had.

He swallowed. ‘Maybe some other time. With your mother.’

Leighton groaned.

‘Are you still mad at her from the other night?’ Clint asked.

‘She’s mad at me. She’s always mad at me.’

He was yet to see Romy angry at him in any way other than justified. He got the sense that this little kid was a minimaster in manipulation. And his mother was too frightened of losing him to take a risk. ‘How does that make you feel?’

Leighton frowned. ‘Mad.’

Clint’s laugh coaxed a small one out of Leighton. It was hard not to enjoy this kid, his raw honesty. So like his mother. If he had a son he’d like him to be—

Whoa. Not going there. That stuff was best kept locked up tight in a secure place.

They walked on in companionable silence. ‘How was your hangout the other night?’ He remembered at the very last second not to call it a sleepover.

‘Cool!’ Leighton launched into a blow-by-blow description of everything they did, activities and stories in which Steve Lawson featured quite highly. It got them three-quarters of the mile home. Finally, the story started to wind up.

‘Sounds like a real boys’ night,’ Clint broke in on one of the rare occasions Leighton stopped for a breath.

‘Cam’s dad is so cool. He’s a copper—I saw his gun.’

Clint frowned at the little eyes looking up at him so expectantly. ‘You saw his weapon? In the house?’

‘Uh-huh.’

There’d be no more hangouts at the Lawsons’ if that was true. He stopped in his tracks and narrowed his eyes, pinning the eight-year-old hard, giving him the interrogatory stare he reserved for recalcitrant newbies in the unit. ‘Really?’

Leighton couldn’t hold it. His eyes flicked away. ‘His holster, anyway. Where the gun would be.’

Okay. Not having to break that news to his mother was a massive relief. He wasn’t confident that Romy wouldn’t hold the messenger personally responsible.

‘Yeah, Mr Lawson is way cool!’ Then, as though Clint’s feelings might be hurt, he hurried on, ‘Oh, not as cool as you, though.’

Clint smiled. His feelings were a tiny bit dented. Hero-worship from the crowds at the flaming star awards ceremony had just felt insanely wrong. He’d felt a fraud. But from this little guy…it felt good. He didn’t want to think that Leighton handed that out to just anyone.

Oh, get a grip. ‘Police officers and soldiers have a bit in common.’

‘Really?’

‘Yep. Both charged with protecting the community, both highly trained, both taught to respect the uniform they wear and what it represents.’

‘I’m going to be a soldier.’

Oh, your mother’s not going to like that. ‘Why not a police officer?’

‘Or, yeah, a police officer.’ Little grey eyes shot wide with sudden realisation. ‘Ooh! Or a fireman!’

Getting warmer…

‘What about a wildlife ranger? They have to protect the forest and they wear a uniform and have special training.’ And you’d make your mother the happiest woman on the whole planet.

He seemed to consider it seriously and then his eyes grew more distant, hesitant. ‘My granddad was a soldier. A big one.’

Back to the soldier thing. And knowing what little he did about Romy’s relationship with her father, Leighton’s slip-up was not good news. ‘How do you know that? I thought you didn’t know your grandfather?’

Leighton slowed his steps and looked away. Clint could practically see the lie starting to take shape on his lips. ‘The truth, champ.’

He looked balefully at Clint. ‘He used to come and see me sometimes, at school. In the lunch break.’

Clint’s whole body tightened up. What the hell was his school doing letting that happen? And what the hell was a man like Colonel Martin Carvell doing sneaking around a primary school?

He kept his voice carefully neutral. ‘Does your mother know about that?’

The cautious stare turned angry. ‘Are you going to tell her?’

Clint considered him as they approached the house. How did Romy negotiate this minefield every day? This precarious balancing act called parenting. Where every word counted. ‘Nope. But might be a good idea if one day you do, just so she knows. You two shouldn’t have any secrets between you.’

‘You have secrets.’

Ah, there was that delightful eight-year-old petulance rearing its head. Clint frowned. ‘Like what?’

‘I heard Mum saying you were full of secrets.’

He couldn’t imagine her chatting freely to just anyone about him, but his gut tightened up on instinct. ‘Who was she talking with?’

‘No-one. She was doing the vacuuming and getting angry.’

He had no trouble at all picturing that. So, Romy Carvell liked to beat on him while vacuuming? He smiled. That wasn’t bad news. Not at all.

He liked that he affected her.

‘Leighton! Again?’ Romy’s frustrated wail met them from across the clearing as she stomped down the house steps. Her focus wasn’t even on Clint, but his body reacted instantly to the sight of her even at a distance. Remembering how she’d felt. How she’d smelt. How she’d almost tasted.

The hungry predator in him sniffed the air and salivated.

‘See…’ Leighton muttered, watching the steam train approaching.

Clint cleared his throat. ‘You’ve brought this one on yourself, kiddo. You know you’re not supposed to come to my place but you did it, anyway. You’re going to have to take the consequences like a man.’

Leighton stared at him, but instead of turning on the pout, Clint saw something shift in his eyes and it translated in his body, in the way he pushed his shoulders back and faced his mother.

Faced his punishment.

Only there was none. Romy looked severe for just a moment before slipping her arms around her son’s shoulders and pulling him close. Then she gave him a gentle shove towards the house. He ran off, every bit the child again. Entirely off the hook.

Clint sighed. Baby steps. Today was a start. For both of them.

He steeled himself against the woman in front of him.

Her hands went up. ‘Don’t start.’

‘With what?’

‘I’ll be talking to him later about going off without permission. I didn’t think this was the time or place.’

He burned to say something about the value of immediate reinforcement but he let it go. He had no right to tell her how to parent. Less than no right. He could clearly see how hard it was for her to discipline Leighton. He was like her Achilles heel. Besides, her full lips were dominating his focus right now. They were moving, and the pink of her tongue peeked in and out tantalisingly. And then they were pressing together. Oh…

‘Sorry, what were you saying?’ His voice was more gravelly than he would have liked. One kiss—not even that—and he was losing all composure. He had to pull it together.

She flushed, and he wondered whether she’d read his thoughts. Or maybe his expression. Well, it wasn’t him that had run away from their encounter the other night. He’d been completely onboard with it.

Then.

Now, it just seemed a patently bad idea.

‘I guess I’ll see you at work sometime,’ she repeated.

Sometime. That was code for ‘not any time soon, thanks.’ Well…If not for getting Leighton home just now, he’d be in the middle of giving Romy all the space she needed. And then some. Getting his life back on track. Back to how he liked it.

Quiet. Predictable. Everything within his control.

He didn’t want Romy and her subtle lavender scent lingering in his consciousness any more than he wanted it lingering in his house. As if he could control either of those things. That made his choice easy.

‘Maybe not. I’ve got some work to do around the tree house. I probably won’t be getting down to the admissions area much.’

At all. It couldn’t be disappointment staining her cheeks. She wanted him far away and he was taking care of that. She should be happy.

‘Oh, okay. Well, then…I’ll see you round, Clint.’

Not if he saw her first. All it took was that hint of gentle confusion in her eyes and the wild thing in him was clawing to be released. Until he could guarantee his stomach wouldn’t lurch when he smelled her and his eyes wouldn’t stray to her when she walked by…

The best defence was absence.

Until he could get complete control of his faculties when she was around. And if that was never…well, then…

He’d work out how to deal with that.

How could she have forgotten what Clint looked like filling a doorway? In only a week?

He braced himself with casual arms on top of the doorframe to the office kitchenette, the stretch pulling his muscles into intriguing angles. If not for the simmering storm in his eyes, Romy’s heart might have lurched for very different reasons.

He was clean-shaven today. And that shirt looked new. He still seemed terrifying.

Beside her, Simone’s jaw dropped in a most unladylike fashion and her coffee mug tilted perilously close to losing its contents. But when he finally dragged his glare from Romy to her, Simone ditched the mug and turned to make a rapid excuse.

‘I…Um…’ Nothing came. ‘Okay, ’bye.’

Clint stepped aside to let her flee and then filled the gap again, effectively cutting off any further escape.

Romy shook her head. She’d been just seconds away from ferreting out the information she needed about where Justin had worked in the US. ‘You really don’t try with people, do you, Clint?’

He prowled in through the door and leaned against the bench, his arms folded across his chest. ‘Good morning to you, too.’

She matched his pose. Minus the casual lean. Her smile was tight, her sarcasm honed. ‘Good morning, Clint. What can I do for you?’ It wasn’t as if he was in the neighbourhood. He’d tracked her down for a reason.

Dark eyes pinned her. ‘How are you?’

They were not seriously going to do this? ‘I’m fine. And you?’

He looked out at her from under very non-army-issue lashes. ‘Okay, let’s start again.’ He nudged the kitchen door shut with his size-eleven boot and shifted closer to her. She shuffled back a little. Straight into the cabinetry. ‘I’m sorry about what happened at my house. I didn’t mean for it to…go that way.’

She read sincerity in his expression. Her shoulders loosened. ‘I meant what I said. I can’t afford to…I can’t see past…some things. But it’s not personal. I don’t hold it against you.’

‘That’s good.’

It was in the change of light in his eyes—from an intense glowing to a loaded gleaming. She narrowed hers. ‘Why is that good?’

‘Because I was hoping…What are you doing Friday night?’

Her eyebrows shot up. Had all that solitude affected his brain? Surely she wasn’t going to have to say it again?

He pushed on. ‘The Hohloch Foundation is having a fund-raiser in town. It’s part of the million-acres habitat-protection program and all the major landowners in the region are expected to go.’ His swallowed nervously. ‘I’d like you to come along. Meet some of the locals. It’s a good opportunity to network.’

There was a strange kind of vulnerability about him. ‘So this is a work thing?’

‘If that gets you there, yes,’ he said. ‘But you’ll need a dress.’

The empathy evaporated completely. She pressed her lips together. ‘You say that like I might not have one!’

‘I mean a dance dress. A gown. It’s formal.’

Her arms crossed protectively in front of her. ‘Just because you’ve never seen me in a dress doesn’t mean I don’t own one! Every woman has a formal dress.’

He raised two hands. ‘Ceasefire, cadet. I just wanted to make sure you understood what kind of a gig it was.’

She knew what fundraiser meant. How many kinds of idiot did he think she was? ‘You think I might embarrass WildSprings? Turn up in my underwear?’

His green eyes flared.

‘You’re the hermit, McLeish. I’d be more worried about what you’ll be wearing.’

He ignored that. ‘So you’ll come?’

‘If it’s a work thing, yes. I’ll be there. In a dress.’

He straightened and turned to release the door. ‘Great. I’ll pick you up at six.’

‘Wait! Why do I need a lift?’

He looked at her, quizzically. ‘We’re neighbours going to the same event, sixty clicks away. You think we should drive separately?’

Nice one, Carvell. Way to appear more competent in his eyes. Think, think. She had to wrestle back some control. ‘Um, I could collect you?’

He stared her down. ‘You want to pick me up?’

No. She lifted her chin. ‘Yes. It seems only fair.’

He smiled and shrugged. ‘Fine. I’ll be waiting for you at six.’

Romy fumed as he walked out of the kitchenette. Damn him! Finding her, cornering her in the kitchen, insulting her wardrobe. And her professionalism. Her chest heaved with unvented passion. Then her indignation started to settle as the reality set in. Sixty kilometres there, a full night out and then sixty home. Together. Alone. With the man she’d been unable to get her mind off but couldn’t be in the same room as.

And—brilliant!—she was driving him so she couldn’t leave early with one of the other staff. She roared her frustration as she tossed her half-drunk coffee into the sink. Damn! She’d just been played by an expert.

And—damn!—she’d have to buy a dress.

Oh, Lord…

Romy saw him the moment she pulled up at the base of the tree house sharp on six o’clock. He looked like a model striding towards her on a catwalk made of beams from her headlights.

She swallowed. He’d cut his hair short. Not quite military enough to make her nervous but close enough to highlight the square line of his jaw and to reveal the smooth arc of a forehead that served as a canvas for his fringed, sage eyes.

How on earth had he ever found a coat to fit those shoulders? It wasn’t a tuxedo, but the expensive black fabric draped on him like a second skin. Black suit, black shirt, black tie. She suddenly got a flash of what he must have looked like in full Taipan ops gear. He would have carried himself and fifty kilos of equipment with the same easy grace as he sauntered towards her now.

You will not find that sexy…

Her little pep talk helped for a moment. But only a moment. Clint stopped in front of the car and stared at her. All her usual Romy-isms failed her. No single eyebrow lift, no sarcastic comment, no impatient sigh. Her eyes struggled to free themselves from the compelling hold of his.

The blood pumping through her heart ached.

Then that beautiful mouth twisted in the glow of light and he held up a perfectly manicured hand and folded all four fingers towards him, just once. His sights remained locked on her.

Don’t get out.

Her driver assist started dinging as the door sprung open and she swung her Manolo Blahniks out onto the leafy earth. As she pulled herself to her feet, the silken sheath of her dress slithered back down to her calves, cool and sensual against her skin.

Clint squinted in the headlights as she stepped out from behind the driver’s door. It was like approaching a wild animal; moving towards him was not an option, so she circled him carefully, not taking her focus off him lest he lunge. He followed her every step, focus still fixed on her, until she joined him in the headlights.

His Adam’s apple worked overtime lurching upwards from the black tie that constrained it. Heat seemed to radiate off him, even in the relative cool of evening.

Her spirit finally battled her way through the seductive fog enveloping her. She lifted one brow in question.

He shook his head. ‘You look…amazing.’ His voice could have melted ice.

She felt amazing. Doubly so as she saw herself reflected in the dark pools of his eyes. Her embroidered bodice followed the contours of her bust snugly, giving her a boost in all the right places. Her confidence not the least. Then it draped over her waist and hips and fell in luxurious fawn folds to her ankles. Green eyes grazed leisurely up the length of her.

Her pulse thrummed in places she’d never guessed she had one. ‘You look…dangerous. But good.’ How could it feel as though he was touching her when they were a metre apart? So much for keeping a safe distance.

‘I’m feeling a bit dangerous right now,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should get going?’

She turned back to the car but his large hand came out and wrapped around hers. Around the keys clenched nervously in it.

‘I’d like to drive,’ he said. ‘And before you protest…no, this is not a guy thing. I just…Cinderella should not have to drive herself to the ball.’

Oh. She swallowed past the sudden knot in her throat. His fingers were warm and steady around hers as he stepped closer. Even in three-inch heels she still had to tip her head to look at him.

‘Will you let me drive, Romy?’

He said drive like he meant make love to you. In a voice of pure molten lava. Her body trembled. No way was she capable of arguing.

Stop it!

She stepped back and released the clutch of keys to him, working hard not to simply stumble around to the passenger side. Unaccustomed as she was to serious heels, and with barely any courage left in her legs, it wasn’t easy. She sank gratefully into the leather seat and then arranged her feet and skirt modestly in front of her, smoothing nervous hands down her thighs a few times. The repetition was comforting.

Excellent. Her obsessive compulsive disorder was coming along nicely…

‘You’re going to have to stop that, or I’ll drive us off the road.’

Startled eyes shot up to meet dark ones and her hands froze. Clint’s focus dropped to where she’d smoothed the fabric tightly against her thighs as his capable, tanned hands turned the ignition. Heat blazed through the car and not all of it was coming from him.

Sixty kilometres.

Oh, my…