Men In Uniform: Taken By The Soldier

He surveyed the room, absently. ‘I don’t drink.’

That didn’t surprise her. She’d never met a better candidate for alcoholism.

As if he read her mind, he elaborated. ‘I don’t like to blur my faculties. In my line of business that’s counterproductive.’

She didn’t miss his use of the present tense. ‘To running a posh retreat in the country?’

He dropped his gaze back to hers, his smile tight. ‘With you I need to stay on my toes.’ His gaze swept over her embroidered bodice so quickly she thought she’d imagined it. ‘My senses are already addled enough without adding liquor to the equation.’

The heat in his eyes told her exactly what—who—was responsible for that. Addled was a good word for how she’d been feeling all night herself. She blinked up at him.

‘What are we doing?’ she squeaked as she suddenly found herself being towed towards the dance floor.

‘It’s called dancing, Romy. People like it.’ His voice thinned.

‘You didn’t ask me if I wanted to dance!’ Okay, now she really was just picking a fight.

‘I didn’t need to. You look like you either want to be kissed or touched. Given the gathered audience, I’m going for touched.’

Her mouth gaped like the trout Clint stocked in WildSprings’s waterways. He swung her into a tiny gap on the crowded dance floor, forcing them to press close together. Extremely close together. Her body still fit perfectly against his. Her heels meant her cheek was closer to his shoulder than his chest, for a change, but otherwise the hardness of his body and the softness of hers merged as they effortlessly moved to the gentle music.

This is not heavenly, this is not heavenly…

But, oh, Lord, it was pure heaven. She didn’t have enough experience with men to know whether all dancing felt like this. Whether all men smelled like he did. Whether all kisses tingled like his had. Every living part of her wanted to crawl into the circle of his arms and never come out. To be cherished and spoiled and watched over forever. To be able to put aside the load…just for a little bit.

It was almost as seductive as the feel of his hips pressed close against hers by the crowd. And they were only dancing. Imagine how it would be if—

‘No!’ She pulled away from him. Tense heat simmered down on her but he gave her some air. If not complete freedom. She trained her focus where his hands still held her in a velvet vice.

‘I didn’t realise agreeing to come along tonight meant I’d be chained to your side all evening.’ Okay, it was a bitch of a thing to say but she had to put some space between them. And if it couldn’t be physical…

His nostrils flared, his eyes blazed, but he remained silent. And his hold on her loosened a hint further. But not entirely. She scanned the room nervously, hoping for salvation. It wasn’t that she was in any danger, but she suddenly didn’t feel…safe.

His face tightened. ‘You’re going to have to do something about the mixed messages you’re sending, Romy. They’re triggering my innate need to conquer. I’m trained to overcome obstacles and you do have a way of stacking them up irresistibly.’

Conquer. Overcome. These were not concepts she was comfortable with but they roused some slumbering beast living deep inside of her. A creature that didn’t crack open an eye very often. A fundamental, ancient need to align herself with the strongest male, one who could provide and protect.

And procreate.

The most base level of survival instincts. And Romy was struggling with the purely chemical, Darwinian response of a mammal recognising its perfect mate.

She stumbled in his hold.

‘Romy, would you like to dance?’ Steve Lawson was suddenly by her side, materialising out of nowhere. His ruddy cheeks were paler than usual but he had a determined expression on his face and, after only a moment of doubt, he met Clint’s less-than-pleased glare. ‘You don’t mind, mate, right?’

Oh, bless you and your country courage, Steven Lawson! Knights in shining armour sometimes didn’t come on a horse. Carolyn’s anxious face bobbed in and out of view across the crowded room. Romy freed herself from the strong grip keeping her captive.

‘Thank you, Steve, I’d love to. And, no, he doesn’t mind.’

She practically fell into her friend’s careful hold as Clint dissolved back into the crowd. For the first minute, Steve did all the work, holding her upright, keeping her moving, chatting away casually, and it gave her the time she needed to recover her composure.

Somewhat.

When the dance ended, someone else swooped in to take Steve’s place. A complete and welcome stranger. Then another and another. Romy danced with half the town before she began to suspect Carolyn was orchestrating this social interference. Either that or the novelty of a single woman willing to dance in a female-deficient environment had caught on. Regardless, the result was the same. After one unsuccessful attempt to reclaim her, Clint had taken up post in the corner of the room, scaring off with a glare anyone who approached him.

Not that she was watching.

She was exhausted when the band finally stopped for a break, but—amazingly—she really had enjoyed being the belle of the ball. When else in her life had that ever happened? She’d met a swag of new people and, conveniently, it gave her the perfect excuse not to think about the giant thundercloud in the corner.

Or her feelings for him, more specifically.

Her pleasure at the flattering attentions of the men in the room was not a patch on the intense rush she’d experienced when Clint had first seen her this evening. He’d called her Cinderella and, standing in the glow of her Honda’s headlights clothed in a fairytale dress and shoes costing a fortnight’s salary, it was exactly how she’d felt. Like no rules applied tonight because it was a magical night.

And Clint had been her prince. His frank appraisal in the headlights had been both honest and raw. The liquid magma heating his gaze had come from a place so deep she found it impossible not to respond.

But then they’d made small talk. Danced. Argued. And the real world came crashing back in the same split second she realised she was badly attracted to Clint McLeish. Biologically attracted. Damaged, angry, military Clint. A man torn apart from the institution which sustained him—that he still very clearly wished he was a part of. A man trained in the same methodology as her father.

She reached for the table edge to steady herself.

What kind of cosmic reward was this? She’d done her best to overcome challenges in life, had never once complained about the predicament her own foolish actions had left her in. She’d studied and worked hard and had taken on a grown-up’s responsibility before she really was one. And her reward…?

To find herself perilously close to falling for the absolute worst kind of man for her.

She closed her eyes and took several deep, steadying breaths.

‘Romy?’

She spun around, blinking, her internal radar going into alarm. ‘Oh, Justin. Hi.’

His eyes narrowed, as though he heard the disappointment in her voice. ‘You’ve danced with everyone but me this evening.’

No more dancing. Not now. All she really wanted to do was go home. ‘Justin, I’m sorry. I’m all tuckered out.’

He frowned. ‘I’m serious, Romy. Every man here. Except me.’

She matched his expression, smelled the alcohol on him. ‘I understand, Justin. But I’m sorry, I’m tired.’

Justin slipped both arms around her waist and pulled her into a close embrace. ‘Dance with me…’

This close, his eyes were like his brother’s. But where Clint’s slumbered with sensuality, Justin’s swilled with liquor and raw, hard sexual interest. What was he doing? Justin only ever spoke to her on the strictest business terms—was the whole damned world upside down tonight? She pushed ineffectually against him, trying to break free. He resisted. So she did the next best thing, slipped her hands up his back and found the magic spot in his left shoulder…and pressed with all her strength.

Justin staggered to the side, his left arm dropping away uselessly. ‘Son of a…’

‘I said no, Justin. Perhaps you didn’t hear me?’ Icicles could have formed on her words. A few nearby faces turned towards them.

He glared at her, embarrassed and more than a little ashamed, judging by his colour. ‘It was just a dance.’

It was just the liquor. Her mind took her immediately to another man, one who eschewed the addling effects of alcohol. She sought him out across the room but his corner was empty. She turned back to Justin, a hollow feeling in her chest.

‘Does it still hurt?’ She knew from her martial-arts training it wouldn’t. It was a pressure-point trick. Like pinching the funny bone. But less funny.

He rubbed at the offending shoulder, avoiding eye contact. ‘No, it’s fine. I apologise. I think I’ve had too much to drink.’

You think? He was still her boss, technically. Romy erred on the side of caution. ‘Don’t worry about it, Justin. Maybe you need some air?’

He mumbled something and wandered off in the direction of the bar. Romy sighed and scooped her clutch purse from the table. Perhaps she could sit in the car until the formalities were over. She slid out of a side door and walked down the side of the building to the parking area at the rear.

Out of nowhere, steel hands closed around her waist and pulled her near off her feet into the shadows of a doorway.

‘Clint!’

‘If you’ve quite finished playing up to every man here?’ he grated.

It was a little bit too close to an echo from her past. Whore. She pushed against him wholeheartedly and got exactly nowhere. She glared. ‘It’s called dancing, Clint. People like it.’

His eyes smouldered in the moonlight. ‘Lord save me from smart-mouthed women.’

His gaze fell to her mouth the instant he uttered the word. Her breath puffed angrily out of it as she wrestled to be free. But she felt the touch of his look as truly as if it had been his lips on hers.

‘And smart-brained women. Can you not let me have one single point?’

She stopped wriggling and met the iron in his gaze. If she gave an inch now she’d give him everything. ‘No.’

It was too close. Much too close to the moment she discovered she wanted a man that she could never have. She couldn’t be pressed against him like this and not want more. And she did. So much more.

‘Why are you out here?’ she asked as he let her step away.

He shrugged. ‘I got tired of watching the Romy Carvell show.’

Slap. That hurt. The single time she got to be the princess for a night and he found a way of making it sound selfish. She turned out of the shadows, wrenching free on a sucked-in breath.

‘Romy, wait.’ Gentle pressure manacled her wrist, pulled her back into the doorway. ‘I couldn’t…I’m not a good mixer, like you. I struggle with people.’ His lids dropped like shutters over vulnerable eyes.

Struggle with people. That was the understatement of all time.

‘This is the first time I’ve really been out. In this kind of setting since…’ He dug his hands into his pockets. ‘I needed the backup.’

Romy blinked. Surely not? ‘What about the city?’

He looked up, bemused. ‘What about it?’

‘Well, don’t you…There’d be lots of places just like this. When you go there?’

He regarded her steadily. ‘What do you think I do when I’m in the city?’

Suddenly she sounded like Simone. Passing on idle gossip. ‘Um…’

His eyes flared briefly. ‘I see. You think I dig myself out of deepest isolation in the forest and then hit the clubs cruising for sex. Is that about right?’

There was no undoing what she’d implied, but she couldn’t bring herself to say yes aloud. But she had to say something. ‘What do you go for?’

The muffled sound of the band filled the silence stretching between them. His lashes dropped again. He shook his head, slightly. ‘Not that.’

Oh.

He took a deep breath, lifted his face to meet her gaze. ‘I only came tonight because you were here. I was relying on you to…’

She tilted her head. ‘To…?’

‘I hoped you’d be my buffer. Help me transition.’

Romy frowned. She’d left him in a room full of strangers while she danced the night away. Guilt tore through her but her subconscious fought it. She spoke gently. ‘This wasn’t a date, Clint.’

He straightened. ‘I’m not making excuses, just explaining why I’m out here. Why I’m staying here.’

The realisation hit her. This was too hard for him. Big, bad, grumpy Clint McLeish was out of his depth. At a small-town fundraiser. That was why he stood alone in the corner not talking to anyone. It had nothing to do with being elitist.

He could parachute into dangerous foreign territory but he couldn’t stomach a single night amongst strangers. Her heart softened.

She peered up at him. ‘Do you want to go home?’

His lids fluttered down for the barest of moments, and when they opened, naked flame flickered behind them. ‘You think of WildSprings as home?’

She blushed. ‘Your home.’ Then she realised how that sounded and blushed harder. Metaphorical midnight had well and truly struck and the princess was reverting into plain old, foot-in-mouth Cinders by the second. ‘We can go whenever you want.’

‘I’m quite comfortable in here,’ he said, settling closer against her.

She realised how small the doorway was they were sheltering in. If anyone should walk by…how would it look? She leaned back a little. ‘You can’t stand here alone all night.’

‘I don’t have to be alone.’ Large hands reached out and snaked around her waist, stealing her breath and pulling her gently against him, hot and exciting where they touched. ‘We never got to finish our dance.’

Walk away, Romy.

What had happened to the smart, savvy woman who’d raised a child, protected a family and sacrificed everything for her son? She fled completely in the face of the blatant desire pulsing from the oversize testosterone bomb in front of her.

A surge of want answered deep in her body. The primal creature hungering for satisfaction. How bad could it be to give Cinderella one last dance with the prince? Clint sensed her acquiescence and pulled her gently into his arms. She let herself lean into his solid frame, tucked in closer than she needed to be even in the close confines of the doorway, and pressed her cheek to his shoulder. He gathered her up against him. Their feet started moving in time with the distant music but it was automatic. Romy couldn’t hear a thing over the march of his heart under her ear. It took only seconds for her own to fall into sync.

Thrum…thrum…thrum…

Her hands slipped around behind him, spread across his massive back, splayed and sure. He cocooned her until her face buried in the crook of his neck, comfortably, snugly. Like the safe harbour of her fantasies.

Nothing could harm her while she was in these arms.

They shuffled left and right, barely moving in the evening breeze. Seasons came and went, ages passed, continents drifted, and still they pressed together, swaying.

Clock’s ticking, Cinders.

It felt entirely natural to tilt her face and nuzzle the place below Clint’s jaw. To breathe in the scent of him. To press her mouth into the heavy, thumping pulse there. To taste smooth, male skin for the first time. Her lips roamed his throat, her breasts lifting and falling against his chest, and she pushed onto her toes so she could reach his ear to take one perfect lobe softly between her teeth. It took an eternity.

The rumble in her ears sounded like thunder, but it came from deep inside Clint. The primitive growl excited the blood in her veins as his hands slid up to pull her harder against his straining body. She pulled one hand free and shoved it roughly through his hair, anchoring herself there and using it to hoist herself upwards so she could feast on the heady taste of him. She sank into his throat like a vampire starving for blood.

‘Romy…’ It was more choke than word. Male and raw.

Her breasts strained against the bodice of her dress, almost coming entirely free as she stretched towards him. His hands found the bare, hot skin of her shoulders. The soft, sensitive flesh of her nape. The wild, flushed heat of her cheeks. They braced her jaw, tore her away from her decadent feeding and tilted her gaze upwards. She had just enough seconds to suck in a breath before those magnificent, sinful lips dropped decisively onto hers.

The heavens exploded into brilliant colours as his mouth touched hers for the first time. There was no gentle teasing, no careful initiation. Clint forced his way straight into the depths of her mouth, using only the power of his raw sexuality. She’d dreamed about those lips but even her most fever-inducing fantasies were nothing on the real deal. The actual taste and feel of his hot mouth crushing against hers. His powerful tongue thrusting in and out. His strong hands clenching in her hair.

He lifted her off her feet and spun around to press her into the wall, not leaving her lips for longer than it took to groan into the night and heave in a shuddering breath. His body alone pinned her against the bricks, leaving his hands free to roam wildly over her.

Up, down, up again. And all the while he plundered the depths of her mouth, dangerously hard and fantastically hot.

And utterly, utterly mind-blowing.

Romy moaned and pure sexual instinct made her hook her legs around his hips, securing her position, wanting to get closer. Anything to relieve the ache building deep at her core. She sank her fingers into the thick, short crop of his hair, panting heavily, and met his assault on her mouth.

He pushed the fabric of her dress hard up her legs and stroked the rounded flesh of her thighs and bottom. Her sensitised skin screamed at the torture. She thrust her head back for air. He zeroed in on her throat.

‘Whoa! People, get a room!’

Romy froze. Clint stiffened and dragged his mouth off her. In the same moment, they both seemed to realise what they were doing. And where. And with whom. The stranger wobbled away from them laughing, carrying a half-drunk beer and a spare one for later.

The bright explosion of light wasn’t in her mind, Romy realised. It was real. The fireworks entertainment had started, bringing all the fundraiser guests out into the garden, only twenty metres from where she was half naked in a doorway with her legs wrapped around a Special Forces operative.

Chapter Eight

‘LET me down.’

Her voice was tight and cold where moments ago it had been hot and wet against his lips, moaning against his ear.

Clint lowered her carefully to the ground, using his body to shield her from the view of any other drunken idiots who might wander by. He was in no condition to turn around, anyway, so giving Romy a moment to pull herself together was a win for both of them.

What the hell had he done?

Her chest heaved with her gasping breath, highlighting her perfect cleavage a treat from his height. The shadowed curves begged him to worship them. That’s what he’d done. Let his hormones overrule his head. The thing he was trained never to do. Sex, alcohol, fear—none of which were supposed to affect his judgement or his precision.

Except it wasn’t only hormones. His heart was getting involved now, and where in his many years of training did anyone say anything about hearts?

‘I need to get out of here…’

Her face was pale, her hair and makeup dishevelled. No way could she go back in there tonight looking as if she’d been doing exactly what she had been. It was hard to tell what upset her more, getting hot and heavy with him…or being caught doing it.

‘Romy—’

She thrust both hands in front of his face. ‘Don’t, Clint.’

He stepped away. Her shields came up faster than on the Starship Enterprise.

‘I need a minute…’ Her breathing was erratic.

She pressed past him and his stupid, starving body still leapt at her touch. It hadn’t been that long surely? Did he have no resistance left whatsoever? Blinding flashes of colour went off above them. Each one painted her face a different shade of pale.

She started to stumble off. ‘I’ll meet you by the car.’

‘I’ll just go in and give our—’ she was gone before he’d finished ‘—apologies.’

He closed his eyes and punched both fists against the wall on a curse. He’d really screwed up this time. As if sharing his difficulty around strangers wasn’t stupid enough, he’d also pretty much mauled her in the back alley of a pub. Slammed her against the wall.

Nice. Real nice.

His straining body reminded him that he’d be buried deep inside her right now if they hadn’t been interrupted. He’d be coaxing tiny sounds out of her beautiful throat. It’s where they were heading. He was, anyway. Galloping there. And not just because he had three years of abstinence at his heels. He shook his head and called himself every name under the Australian sun. It satisfactorily dowsed the surge in his trousers so he could walk inside, find their host and make apologies. Absolutely the last thing he wanted to do, but exactly the sort of thing Romy would do if she was able.

And so he did it for her.

It meant forcing himself into a room crowded with faces he didn’t know, convinced he was marked with a giant B for bastard, and certain half the room knew what he’d just done to Romy Carvell out in the alley. Heat flamed under his choking tie.

He wasn’t an idiot. He saw how the townsfolk rallied to keep her occupied on the dance floor. It meant they’d accepted her as one of their own and even taken her under their collective wing. In a way they never had with him. Even Steve Lawson had fronted him when things got a bit tense out there.

And given that Sergeant Lawson was one of very few people authorised to know what he did for a living before coming home to WildSprings, that took some fairly big cojones on Steve’s part. But he’d done it for Romy. They all had.

What was it about her that had an entire town running interference? Trying to protect her.

Had him wanting to protect her…despite tonight’s complete stuff-up.

Romy marched up and down the rows of cars neatly parked on the football field behind the pub, breathing deeply. Even a town like Quendanup and the surrounding districts could turn up a big crowd when it wanted to. The dazzling fireworks show went on overhead and insects crash-darted into her, blinded by their attraction to the floodlights that kept the forty vehicles securely lit.

She stared at a large, fuzzy moth that plopped, exhausted, onto the dusty bonnet of a Land Cruiser. It flipped uselessly on singed wings and then lay twitching in the breeze. Stupid things—they’d fly themselves quite literally to death before they’d learn not to orbit the dazzling floodlights.

Remind you of anyone?

She kicked back into gear and resumed her manic pacing.

Just. Stay. Away. How hard could that be on a property as big as WildSprings? What kind of masochistic moth was she to keep putting herself within burning distance of Clint’s brilliant glow? He wasn’t obvious and showy like the almost-day football lights. He was darker, closer to an ultraviolet black light—harmless to the naked eye but irresistible to hapless moths passing by.

And entirely deadly.

Thoughts tumbled, unordered, through her mind. Was it wrong to want to march right up there and climb back into his strong arms? To discover what their two bodies would have felt like coming together? To give herself until midnight and only then face the real world?

Lord, it tempted her.

She’d been so disgustingly good her whole life. Restrained and reasonable and safe. The single blot on her copybook was that fateful night when the Colonel’s bullying had finally driven her to brand her body and then give away her innocence to a stranger. Both of which, as it transpired, were completely irrevocable.