Read the book: «Men In Uniform: Taken By The Soldier»

For Maus

Kristi, you endured the worst year of your life while I was enjoying the best of mine. Romy is someone I’d like to have in my corner in a difficult time, I hope I was there for you in yours. Thank you for lending me your boys.

I want to acknowledge the assistance of Squadron Leader Jeff Newton of the Royal Australian Air Force (who has some of the strongest glue I’ve ever seen going on in his family) and Ammon Hontz (ret. U.S. Army) for their military insight and assistance.

To Sandra and Kate, my walking buddies and beta-readers, There’s a little bit of each of you in this one, girls. Thanks for being a fantastic cheer squad.

Chapter One

IT WAS hard to know what was putting the doof-doof into Romy Carvell’s heartbeat—the illicit thrill of slipping a fine crystal ornament unseen into her coat pocket, or the lean, mean, gorgeous machine squatted chatting to her son two aisles away. She glanced surreptitiously in the convex mirror mounted over the counter. It was supposed to help them monitor the park gift shop but, right now, it conveniently gave her a perfect tool to watch anyone watching her.

The ornament clanked gently against the two other items she’d stolen as it nestled into the deep recesses of her light coat.

Her gaze drifted back to the crouched man talking to Leighton. Her son was listening but not responding, par for the course lately. Silence or conflict. Something about being eight years old. The fact he hadn’t yet made a beeline for her side meant he was feeling comfortable about the stranger’s presence, which instantly made Romy feel comfortable about it. The man straightened and reached for something on a nearby shelf.

Her gut twisted.

Military.

Forget the due-for-a-cut hair, the three-day growth—military didn’t just wash off. This stranger had the residual carriage, the unmistakable forced casualness disguising a well-honed subliminal alertness.

He moved just like her father.

The man smiled at her son and then stepped away, giving him the space he needed. Leighton relaxed further now his escape route to his mum wasn’t closed off by a human roadblock, his gentle grey eyes searching her out.

And right on their tail was this stranger’s piercing green ones; they locked on Romy in the security mirror. She looked away, her heart thumping.

Okay…Definitely the man and not the shoplifting.

She shifted out of the mirror’s range and pulled her focus back to the job at hand, fanning herself with the tourism postcard she’d plucked from the overcrowded carousel stand. A lot rode on her success this morning and she was taking a big risk going for one more. Not because of the oblivious cashier whose attention was locked firmly on Mr Military over there—that only made her task all the easier. But those too-casual jade eyes monitoring her every move…They were the most likely danger to her chances of walking out of here with what she needed.

Romy drifted across his line of sight, feeling his focus glued on her even though his outward attention had returned to Leighton. Another military trait.

Just one more. Something spectacular. Something to really drive her message home. She picked up item after item and replaced them with care, moving casually towards the glass cabinet holding an array of opal and gold jewellery that probably sold like hot cakes to the wealthy tourists that frequented WildSprings Wilderness Retreat. The display was stupidly positioned, perfect for catching customer attention but in the worst possible spot for surveillance by the single cashier. And the mirror didn’t quite throw this far.

Which suited her fine.

With the efficiency of someone who had nothing at all to lose, she slid open the concealed base to the cabinet and picked out the most expensive-looking clunker she could find. Hardly the sort of thing she’d ever wear—her own tastes ran to something a little finer, something a lot cheaper—but she wasn’t going to have it long. She tucked the gaudy brooch deep into her inside pocket and slid the drawer silently closed.

‘Are you planning on paying for that?’

Romy was too well trained to flinch at the deep, cool voice, no matter how much her body itched to. She turned slowly, then tilted her gaze to his. Whoa. She’d thought he was a giant before…

He had to be six foot three, maybe four, and was built like the tank she was sure he would have travelled in once. All hard angles and iron. Her stomach dropped, but she plastered on an intentionally vague expression. ‘I’m sorry?’

‘Will you be buying that or just keeping the flies off with it?’ He nodded to the postcard in her hand, the one still automatically fanning her face. Her skin bristled. His tone was casual but she recognised the steel behind the smile all too well.

She’d grown up a human metal detector.

She started to move away, eager to escape the whirlpool surrounding his eyes. ‘It’s warmer than I expected, today.’

‘Could have something to do with your coat,’ he said lightly, following her. ‘Wrong sort of day for a long jacket.’

Oh, Lord, she was sprung.

Her heart hammered. If he’d had anything solid on her he would have asked her to turn out her pockets by now, but he was definitely sniffing. She frowned. What was he, security? No, she was interviewing for the position of park security officer in about forty minutes, so who was this guy, some kind of good Samaritan?

She straightened to give herself one more pointless inch against him. ‘Planning ahead. I heard the weather here on the south coast can be unpredictable.’

Those intense eyes weren’t fooled. They scanned her down and up again as though he had X-ray vision, and when they returned to hers they were arctic.

Time to go.

She turned her face a fraction but didn’t take her focus from the man in front of her. She couldn’t if she’d wanted to. ‘Leighton, honey. Let’s go.’

Three feet of dark curls and sunshine bounded over to where Romy stood dwarfed by the stranger. He held out a card with tiny, four-toed footprints printed on it, his voice hushed. ‘Mum, look. Frog prints.’

She dragged her attention down to her son and squatted. It was her personal rule. Leighton rarely sought attention these days, so when he did she gave it unquestioningly. So different to her own upbringing.

She tried to ignore the intense stare pounding onto her like a waterfall. ‘Are they real?’

‘Yeah. The frogs walked on the ink first, then the card. Non-toxic,’ he said importantly, ‘on account of the frog’s sensitive skin, Clint says.’

Romy’s hand faltered as it stroked her son’s shoulder. She bit the inside of her cheek. Clint? Lord, even the name was sexy. And somehow he’d gotten more out of her son in two minutes than she had all day.

She flipped the card over and looked at the price tag. Inflated, but not completely out of the question, particularly if she could nail this job interview. She straightened. ‘Tell you what, L, why don’t you take your frog print and my postcard to the lady at the counter and we’ll head out.’

‘Is it time for your meeting?’

Romy winced. She didn’t want Mr Military knowing her business. She handed her son the postcard and twenty dollars. ‘Go ahead, honey. I’ll be right there.’

The moment Leighton was outside hearing range, Clint spoke, suspicion narrowing his eyes even further. ‘You have an appointment?’

Not that it’s any of your business. ‘Yes, and I need to be—’

‘What kind of appointment?’

Every part of her tightened like a slingshot. Oh, you really don’t want to push that button, mister. She’d spent a lifetime being cut off by an overbearing bully. She didn’t need it today of all days. She took a shaky breath.

‘I’ve interrupted your shopping,’ she said, all courtesy. Verbal Judo 101. ‘And I must be going. Excuse me.’

She was sure it was no accident he’d positioned himself between her and the exit. She squeezed past his bulk in the narrow aisle, tucking her coat to the side so the objects hidden within didn’t clank against him. As she passed, she caught a whiff of something divine. Sandalwood, earth and…man. He might look as though he lived on the streets but he smelled heavenly. And all that bulk was hard as a rock, too, as she slid past him towards the counter, willing her heartbeat to settle.

So he hadn’t let himself go, entirely.

‘Perhaps I’ll see you around?’ He had the chest for such a cavernous voice. His words easily found her ears even though she’d moved halfway across the room. In her periphery, she saw him drift to the rear of the store and continue his browsing.

Lord, I hope not.

‘Is that all?’ the cashier politely asked.

Romy smiled at the girl, her heart beating loud enough to hear, conscious of the four stolen items hidden in her pockets and that the innocent cashier was likely to wear the temporary blame for their loss.

The angels will forgive me, she told herself.

It’s necessary.

‘You want to take the interviews?’ Justin Long stared at his brother, bemused. With good reason. Clint knew he hadn’t involved himself in the running of WildSprings for months. Years.

‘Not all of them, Justin. Only this last one.’ He tapped the lone female name on the list for the park security vacancy. It had to be her. The irony was perfect; he couldn’t pin it, but the dark-haired beauty in the gift shop was up to something. She was too tense roaming those aisles. How many women got uptight shopping?

Justin’s assistant stared at Clint as if he’d just hauled himself out of a sewer. Technically speaking, Simone was his assistant but she’d only ever worked with his brother so Clint forgave her confusion. It wasn’t her fault he’d appeared out of nowhere, after all this time, looking like a feral animal.

He stared right back. Simone nearly stumbled in her haste to pick up something to do. Clint turned back to Justin.

‘What time is this guy coming in?’ He tapped the second to last name on the list.

‘He’s not, he withdrew this morning.’

‘Can we bump Ms Carvell up?’

‘I’m not even sure if she’s—’

‘She’s here. Let’s bring her over in ten minutes.’ He’d rather see her right now, throw her off her game, but he needed the time to sharpen up or Simone wouldn’t be the only one thinking he’d stumbled in off the streets.

Justin glared at him. ‘Where am I supposed to go while you use my office?’

‘Where did you used to go before you had an office?’ He deserved the filthy look Justin threw him; he didn’t play the big-brother card very often, the boss card even less. But he wasn’t moving on this one.

Eight minutes and a field shave later, Clint stretched back in Justin’s chair and flipped open Romy Carvell’s file. His eyes flicked unconsciously to her marriage status. She was a single mother. And trying out for a security coordinator role, despite her youth.

Interesting.

The assistant’s voice interrupted him. ‘Ms Carvell to see you, Mr, uh, sir.’

Clint snapped the file shut and pulled himself to his feet in an automatic at-ease. Romy Carvell may be up to no good but she was still a female and, in his world, a man stood for a woman. Romy smiled politely at Simone and passed her in the doorway, then stopped in her tracks when she saw who waited for her in the office.

You? She didn’t speak but her body said it for her.

‘Welcome to WildSprings officially, Ms Carvell. I’m Clint McLeish.’

She recovered her composure in seconds, sliding calmly into the vacant seat opposite his and pinning him with those amazing eyes. Battle-ash grey.

‘Do you always scope out potential staff before interviews?’ she asked, referring to their earlier encounter.

‘Purely opportunistic.’ He sank into Justin’s chair and studied the woman in front of him. Nervous, but hiding it. She wanted this job badly enough not to turn and walk out when she realised she was set up. Maybe she needed it? Clint thought about the young boy in the gift shop.

‘How old are you?’ He blurted it out before thinking.

Her lips thinned. ‘My résumé doesn’t include that for a reason, Mr McLeish.’

‘You think you’ll be judged by your age?’

‘You’re judging me now. Wondering how someone my age accrued the experience I have.’

Her darkened eyes flashed and his body matched it, deep inside. The angry flush did amazing things to her bone structure. ‘Actually, I was contemplating how you could possibly have a son Leighton’s age. You must have been virtually a child yourself?’

She gasped and shot to her feet. Clint knew he deserved the outraged expression on her face. Man, he really had been away from people too long. He stood as well.

‘Please, sit, Ms Carvell. I apologise, that was unnecessary.’ He sank back into the chair as she reluctantly did, too. ‘The point I’m trying to make—rather badly—is you appear very young for someone in the security industry.’

He did the math; she had to be no more than twenty-six.

She glared for a moment. ‘I learned a long time ago to turn my appearance to my advantage,’ she said. ‘It often gives me an edge over others. They underestimate me.’

I’ll bet they do. He looked at those doe eyes set in smooth skin over knockout bone structure. The mouth, which would be full if it wasn’t pulled tight with displeasure. Focus, McLeish. He forced his mind onto the task at hand, ignoring the daggers Little Miss Fierce stared at him.

‘Uh, can you give me a recent example, please?’ It was textbook interview protocol and he loathed that it was coming out of his mouth. But this wouldn’t be the first time he’d done something he hated based on a hunch.

She regarded him for a moment, seemed to weigh something in her mind and then reached to unbutton her coat. ‘I can give you a very recent example.’

Idiot, you didn’t ask for her coat. He mentally shook his head. Maybe his Grizzly Adams days were catching up with him.

Bottomless grey steel looked hard at him. ‘Why were you watching me in the gift shop?’

There was no good answer to that question, so he went for a half-truth. ‘You looked shifty.’

Her lips quirked, taking all the ice out of those eyes, turning them from storm-grey to kitten-grey in a blink. ‘Shifty? How?’

‘Like you were up to no good.’

‘I was up to no good. I was stealing you blind.’ She reached into her pockets and pulled out an array of items he recognised. Stock from his shop. When she placed a clunky brooch on the desk, he knew exactly when she’d nabbed it. And under whose nose. Heat flared up his throat.

Bloody hell. He’d just been scammed by a rookie.

‘You stopped me on instinct,’ she said. ‘Why didn’t you take it further?’

Because I was too busy wondering what was beneath that coat of yours, and not of the stolen variety. He glared at her and realised with some pain exactly how far the mighty had fallen. He used to specialise in hostage extraction on foreign soil, now he couldn’t even spot a shoplifter at six paces. He fought the stiffening of his body, knowing she wouldn’t miss it. Not wanting to give her the satisfaction. ‘Point taken, Ms Carvell.’

‘This is hideous, by the way.’ She pointed to the brooch. ‘Why do you stock it?’

He had no idea; someone else did the stock selection for him. Yet another thing he’d relinquished control of since coming home. ‘Because it sells?’

She shook her dark auburn hair, just like her son’s but heavier and longer, and when she smiled a tiny dimple formed on her left cheek. ‘It’s still a crime against taste.’

Clint’s brows shot up. When was the last time someone had spoken to him with frankness and honesty rather than fear and suspicion? Or pity? God, it felt good!

‘Stealing from me was a risk, Ms Carvell. What if I’d thrown you out?’

‘A calculated risk. And I figure if you’re recruiting for security you wouldn’t have anyone to throw me out.’

That dimple again. Ouch. ‘You doubt I could manage that on my own?’ He had at least twelve inches and one hundred pounds on her.

‘I figured you wouldn’t have chosen to interview me yourself only to throw me out.’ She nodded at his surprise. ‘I did my research. I was supposed to be meeting a Mr Long.’

His reassessment was immediate. She may look as though she’d just left college but she’d worked a string of good security positions; she read people well, was thorough with research and had raised a young boy alone.

And she totally had his number.

His body stirred at the challenge. ‘What would you do differently in the shop?’ he asked, trying to force the interview, and his mind, back on mission.

She shrugged out of her coat and twisted to drape it over the back of the seat. Her short blouse bunched sideways and, for a fleeting moment, it lifted to expose a stretch of smooth, pale lower back marked by black ink. Clint’s gaze fell on the stylised wedge-tailed eagle tattooed at the base of her spine. Its wings spanned the breadth of her hips and its majestic head disappeared behind the hem of her plain blouse.

He dragged his stare up to her face as she turned, his heart beating painfully. Only a handful of people knew his squad call sign was ‘Wedgetail.’ What were the chances of a civilian turning up with one tattooed so prominently on her body?

Pretty damn small.

The old feelings came surging in, the mistrust and the doubt. He fought them off with reason. How many espionage-trained operatives brought along eight-year-old accomplices? Then again, how many looked like the woman in front of him?

Only the good ones. He took a series of deep breaths and tuned in to her animated answer.

‘…and you might consider moving the counter, too. It’s perfectly positioned to watch the door but terrible for watching the whole store. Deter, detect, delay.’ Her entire demeanour changed when she was problem solving. That brightness in her eyes, the way she leaned forwards slightly, the tilt of her head to the left as she was reasoning. She rattled on for another sixty seconds. She certainly didn’t seem to have an agenda, other than showing him how crap WildSprings’s security had become while he wasn’t on point.

She reined in her galloping enthusiasm long enough to note his expression. ‘What?’

‘You noticed all of this in the few minutes you were in the store?’ Clint asked her. She shrugged. ‘Tell me why I should hire you, Ms Carvell.’

She measured him with her eyes. ‘I have immediate experience in a wildlife setting and I specialise in perimeter control. A park this size is going to be difficult to manage if you can’t secure your boundaries. I’ve also worked on retail security and I have outstanding networks in state enforcement, customs and—’

He thrust up a hand. ‘Plenty of people have the background for this job. Tell me why I should hire you.’

One perfectly shaped brow rose as he cut her off and she took a deep breath. ‘Because I’m hungry for the job. I don’t come with baggage or an agenda or some kind of burning desire to run the place. I enjoy what I do and I thrive on challenge but you won’t lose me the moment I get comfortable in the job. I’m loyal and I’m honest…’

He tried not to glance at the array of stolen items on the desktop.

‘…and I’m very good at what I do,’ she finished up, sitting high in her chair, leaning towards him intently. It would be so easy to trust those steady eyes. Except trust was a stranger around here.

‘You haven’t been very honest today,’ he said.

‘Neither have you.’

Clint sat back. She had a point. ‘So what aren’t you good at? What are your weaknesses?’ Anxiety flared and faded in those grey eyes in a heartbeat. But not so fast he didn’t see it.

‘I’m not brilliant at adhering to routine. It isn’t in my nature. I realise that might be a sticking point given your…’ She faltered. ‘Given where you’re from.’

Mental sirens started wailing. She’d looked into his past? His voice was dangerously cool as he asked her, ‘And where’s that?’

She cleared her throat. ‘Your military background.’

Only a dozen civilians knew he was a Taipan. Every hair on his body stood erect. He leaned forwards, his voice subzero. ‘What military background?’

She stared him down. ‘Every inch of you is military. Special Forces, I’m guessing, by the way you like to intimidate people. I understand if you prefer not to discuss it but please do me the courtesy of not treating me like an idiot.’

He reined in his heartbeat and sheer willpower forced the tension out of his body. ‘You don’t look intimidated.’

She straightened until he thought she might snap. ‘I grew out of the habit. It takes a lot more than arrogance to get under my skin these days, Mr McLeish.’

Thoughts tumbled through his mind in quick succession. First, that he’d really like to discover what did get under her skin. Second, it had to be her ex who’d been in the military; he’d never got a clearer anti-forces vibe from anyone. Third, she was the first person to call him arrogant to his face without even blinking. And, most pressing, that he really wanted to hear his name on her lips.

Justin was going to be so pissed.

‘Call me Clint, Ms Carvell. Since we’re going to be working together.’

She watched him, warily. ‘You’re hiring me?’

The harder she tried to mask her excitement the more colour stained her cheeks. He wondered if she’d intentionally hit every one of his weak points. The kid. The eyes. The virginal blush.

‘It takes guts to pull off what you did today, and also a keen understanding of operational vulnerabilities. That tells me you know your stuff and you’re prepared to take risks.’

Her body language changed in a flash and the colour drained out of her. ‘I can’t afford to take risks, Mr McLeish. I have a son to think about. If this job represents any kind of danger, then I’ll have to pass.’

‘Clint. And there is no danger—it was a figure of speech. But young boys will always find trouble if they’re looking for it. We have electric fences, deep stretches of bush between our luxury chalets.’ He paused and swallowed hard. ‘Dams. A wilderness property still has plenty of potential danger.’

She watched him warily. ‘No more than the city, I imagine. But it offers one thing the city can’t for an eight-year-old nature freak. Wildlife. Leighton will die when he hears we get to stay.’

She’s doing this for her son. The realisation hit him like a mortar. For all her extremely convincing claims to be seeking challenge, a role to get her teeth into, she was really looking for a safe place to bring up her son.

A sanctuary.

He was hardly in a position to judge since he’d come to WildSprings for precisely the same reason…

‘Are you aware accommodation is part of the deal?’ he asked. If young Leighton wanted wildlife he wouldn’t be disappointed. The mile between his house and theirs was packed with all manner of creatures. One mile. The closest anyone had come to being a neighbour in…forever. Three years at WildSprings and eleven years in the Defence Force before that. No fixed address. What the hell was he going to do with a neighbour? Apart from the obvious…

Avoid them.

‘I wasn’t, no. But it makes sense to have security on-site this far from town.’

‘Can’t imagine yourself in all this tranquillity?’

‘On the contrary.’ Her stare bored into him. ‘I look forward to the solitary existence very much.’

He straightened. Message sent and received.

Well, that was fine with him. He had no interest in playing happy neighbours no matter who her son reminded him of. The more space Romy Carvell gave him, the happier he’d be regardless of whatever this was arcing between them. There was no chance she’d let him close enough to form any kind of friendship and he had no interest in one.

Plus, he was now her boss, which put a really fat bullet in any possible chance of anything ever starting up between them. Not that she’d be seeing him again; in precisely twelve minutes he’d be returning to the privacy of his forest cabin, his massive DVD collection, his rapidly expanding library and his blessed MIA status.

Little Miss Snarky was now officially his brother’s problem. He looked at all five foot three of bristling hostility putting her coat on and grinned.

Oh, Justin was going to be so pissed.

Chapter Two

‘LOST something?’

Romy popped her head from behind the latest box to see Clint McLeish filling her new doorway. She winced, knowing how filthy she was. She’d peeled off her cotton shirt hours ago as the afternoon had warmed, and her tank top, shorts and tennis shoes were all smudged with a day full of house moving. Her hair sprang wildly about her face, what strands of it weren’t stuck to the sweat on her forehead.

Great.

Still, he was her boss. It was a good thing if he saw she was a hard worker. She glanced around. ‘Nope, just unpacking. I haven’t had a chance to lose anything yet.’

‘I meant this.’ He stood aside and Leighton squeezed past him into the house.

‘Hey, Mum,’ her boy chirped like a magpie as he disappeared up the stairs to his bedroom, dumping his backpack along the way. ‘Clint is our neighbour!’

Romy closed her eyes and groaned inwardly. Letting her minidynamo out to expend all his boyish excitement outdoors had not included popping around to visit the neighbours. She held the screen door open for Clint to enter. ‘Please tell me he didn’t turn up at your house?’

‘Not quite, but he was close.’

‘I asked him to stay on the track.’ She hated the defensive tone in her voice but knew she’d let more time pass than she realised. Great first impression. Security coordinator loses own son.

His smile was thin. ‘He did, but not on your track.’

She suddenly realised where the fork about half a mile back must lead. Her mumbled apology was entirely inadequate. The man reeked of solitude and her eight-year-old cyclone had just barged into his serenity.

‘Can I offer you something to drink? Beer?’

‘Thanks, no,’ he said coldly. ‘I don’t mean to intrude. I wanted to get your boy back to you safely. You must have been worried.’

‘Yes…’ If I wasn’t the worst mother in the world. Courtesy demanded she should persist. ‘I’m dying for a break myself. Coffee, then?’

His lips pressed together. ‘Sure, thank you.’ He glanced around cautiously and cleared a stray box from the dining table so he could sit. ‘I saw the moving van leave just after breakfast. You’ve done all this today?’

He didn’t look all that pleased to be staying, it had to be said. Romy set the kettle on to boil and followed his gaze into the living area where most of the boxes were now folded flat and stacked for storage by the stairs. A few pictures lined the walls and her lavender throws draped casually on the sofas.

‘I specialise in unpacking.’

His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘You move around a lot?’

Romy swallowed, cursing herself for opening that particular door. ‘Not any more. I wanted to get us settled in so Leighton can wake up to a fully furnished house.’ She’d have to work late into the night to pull it off, but since her dance card was conveniently blank…

Moving house at all went against everything she’d ever wanted for her child. Uprooting him from school, dragging him three hundred kilometres away into the forest. But the chance to get him away from the rotten neighbourhood they lived in—and his grandfather—had been too good to resist. Even if it brought back uncomfortable memories of being dragged from base to base.

‘Did you find the air con?’ Clint’s sceptical glance at her appearance made the question redundant.

They had air conditioning? That would have been good to know two hours ago. Romy stretched her sweaty back and ran a self-conscious hand through the damp thickness of her hair. ‘I wasn’t really warm enough to go looking.’ Liar. ‘Where’s the controller?’

He pulled his considerable bulk out of her dining chair and crossed to a small door beneath the stairs, the storage area she’d earmarked for all her packing boxes. He opened it and bent to reach inside, then emerged with a cream remote in his hand.

‘I installed it in here to keep it out of sight.’

‘You put the air-con system in?’ He didn’t strike her as the handy sort.

Most likely to survive on a deserted island with three beans and a paperclip…Without doubt.

He pointed the remote at a tiny red LED in the ceiling that Romy thought was a fire sensor and pressed it. Magically, a gentle hum resonated through the entire house and icy air wafted out of subtle vents to cool her damp skin.

‘Awesome! Air con!’ Leighton’s delighted cry drifted down from upstairs.

‘Thank you. I have a feeling that’s going to save us when summer fully hits.’ She took the remote he passed her and returned it to its hiding place under the stairs, bending forwards into the cupboard and peering around in the dim light for the cradle.

‘It’s on the facing wall.’ Deep male tones suddenly sounded right over her shoulder.

Romy backed out to look at the panel mounted by the door and accidentally knocked against a pair of tree trunks. Clint’s legs. His hands caught her hips to stop her reversing any further into him and a live current gnawed along her skin from where his warm hands rested. She choked an apology and then studied the air-con controls intently to give her scorching cheeks time to settle.

Another great moment in first impressions. Backing, butt-first, into your boss’s thighs.

She didn’t need sexual experience to know how bad it must have looked from his perspective. There was a new shadow in his expression. Her stomach dropped. Maybe he’d seen her tattoo…She tugged her tank top down and swallowed hard against her gut reaction to his unspoken criticism.

The kettle singing out gave her the perfect escape. She crossed into the kitchen and poured them both a coffee, her mind racing for something diverting to say. Inspiration completely failed her.

Clint finally ended the silence himself. ‘Do you need a hand shifting anything? Mattresses? Large furniture?’ The offer seemed genuine but he sounded annoyed that he was making it. Like his lips were working against his will.

Romy glanced around the remaining boxes and her search fell on Leighton’s three vivariums. His posse of pet tree frogs currently hung out in a temporary transport tank but she knew he’d love to get them into their regular accommodations. Seeing the five frogs settled was the fastest way to get Leighton settled, and hefting sixty kilos of glass up two flights of stairs single-handed was not high on her list of activities to look forward to.

Practicality won out over pride. ‘If you could help me upstairs with L’s frog tanks I’d really appreciate it.’

‘He keeps frogs?’ Clint took a big swallow of coffee, then moved towards the tanks to check them out.

‘Since he was about six.’ She still got the feeling he was helping her out against his better judgement. If they weren’t so awkward and the stairs not so steep she would have told him not to bother.

Bulging biceps or not.

‘That’s pretty specialist. For a kid,’ he said.

‘He’s pretty special…for a kid.’ She wiped her damp hands on her shorts. The air con was doing its job but having Clint in her house was making her plain nervous. This stilted conversation wasn’t helping any.

They bumped and heaved and lurched the first tank up the stairs like poorly partnered dancers until, finally, they crossed the threshold into Leighton’s A-frame attic bedroom. They placed the tank down gently.

The room was ideal for a young boy with a wild imagination. A single large window looked out over a tree-packed gully behind the house like a living landscape painting, and there was plenty of ceiling space between the rafters for posters and an entire wall free for the vivariums to hold Leighton’s five best friends in the world.

Lucky Leighton wasn’t quite tall enough yet to bang his head on the low end of the A-frame rafters. Romy vaguely recalled the man who’d fathered him was of average height himself—average in every way, in fact—which was why she couldn’t remember much about him nine years after the solitary night that had changed her life forever. If he’d been a behemoth like Clint McLeish, chances were Leighton would be rubbing a bump on his forehead right now.

She hauled in a breath.

His eyes flicked over the sci-fi models, reptile posters and mountain of books waiting for a yet-to-be-assembled bookshelf and turned to her. ‘You’ve done well in here. It looks…’

Again with the reluctance? If he didn’t want to speak to her why did he keep starting conversations?

‘…different to when it was my room.’

Leighton’s bright face snapped to his. ‘This was your room? Cool!’

He dropped to his haunches. ‘I grew up in this attic. Then I lived in the cottage for the past two years while I built my house on the other side of the valley. After I got back from the—’ he seemed to catch himself ‘—overseas. I always preferred the view from this room.’

The enticing flash of Clint stretched out under the A-frame roof on a hot summer’s evening draped in nothing but moonlight immediately put Romy in a bad mood. And he’d built his own house, too…

How very GI Joe.

‘Sorry?’ The glint in his eyes told her maybe she’d said it aloud.

She squared her shoulders. ‘We should get the next tank in.’

His glare almost certainly matched her own as they trundled downstairs for the second trip. There was no doubt she’d ticked him off by pointing out all the security failings in his expensive wilderness retreat, but fortunately he seemed to have put the needs of his business ahead of his colossal personal ego in agreeing to hire her. Another military flow-on, she’d bet. Corps before self, every time.

In fact, it was corps before pretty much everything, including family. Wives, girlfriends…and sad, lonely little daughters.

In the living room, he waved her help away, lifted the second tank solo and mastered it up the staircase with a great deal more ease than when the two of them had failed to coordinate their efforts. Romy followed with an aluminium tank stand in each hand, doing her best to ignore the way his muscles shifted under his T-shirt and the power in the arms that spanned the metre-long tank.

Eventually all three tanks were in place and even GI Joe was puffing slightly from the effort. She tried to visualise how she might have accomplished the same on her own. It would have involved hours of straining and a good deal of swearing. Clint did it in less than five minutes. The affront to her feminine pride and the way her traitorous body was responding to the pheromones he was pumping out in his sweat only dirtied her mood further. She plucked her tank top away from her damp skin and forced the tingles to heel.

‘Thank you for your assistance,’ she said as soon as they returned downstairs. ‘I shouldn’t keep you any longer. I’m sure you had things to do today.’ She swung the screen door wide.

Not subtle.

Clint’s regard was steady and he settled comfortably against the doorframe. ‘Nothing I can’t do tomorrow.’

Ten minutes ago he didn’t want to be here. Now he wanted to move in. Romy took a deep breath and brought out the big guns. ‘I’ve nearly finished in the living room. My bedroom’s next. Unless you were really eager to unpack boxes of lingerie…?’

He didn’t exactly bolt out of the door but her words had the desired effect. He peeled himself slowly off the doorframe and dug long fingers into his front pocket to retrieve his car keys. She glanced out of the window and saw a beat-up old utility sitting way back in her driveway. As if he’d tried not to disturb her by parking any closer.

He didn’t need a vehicle to be disturbing. Just having him in the house had thrown her composure. She hadn’t wanted to taint another household with military presence.

Too late.

She looked up at him. ‘I want to say, “See you at work,” but somehow I don’t think I will.’

He shook his head. ‘I usually don’t get overly involved in the operations of WildSprings. I have staff for that.’

The less-than-subtle reminder she was one of his staff didn’t escape her. Romy straightened on the verandah of the house and stood back, her voice cool. ‘Thanks for your help today, Mr McLeish. I appreciate it.’

At the foot of the stairs, Clint watched her brows come together in a delicate frown. So, they were back to Mr McLeish and Ms Carvell. She was yet to say his name. He turned towards his ute.

It was probably his fault. He was uncomfortable entering her house to start with, but when his hands rested on her hips as she reversed out of the stair cupboard into him, they’d been almost exactly the same span as the wings of the raptor tattooed over her spine. Two sides of him had slammed together like Norse gods—the damaged, suspicious part that took it as some kind of cosmic reminder not to get too close, and the ravenous, ex-soldier part that thought the ink art was just about the sexiest thing he’d seen in three years and wanted to feel where it branded her skin. By the time he’d marshalled his emotions she was shooting daggers at him with those extraordinary eyes.

The woman might be surveillance professional but she was lousy at hiding her thoughts. He was trained to read people—his life had depended on it for years—but Romy Carvell was a particularly open book.

And right now the book had fallen open on page ‘get the hell out of here.’

Seeing young Leighton jogging along his track had been a kick in the guts, reminding him too much of another running boy, another time, and his protective instincts had come roaring to the fore. It was an elusive taste of something he’d accepted he was never going to experience. But dropping him home had been about more than taking a rare opportunity to feel like a father for five seconds. It was a chance to see Romy Carvell in her natural habitat.

He started the ute. Out of nowhere, he got the urge not to retreat to his treetop hideaway, where his books, his music, his forest awaited. He hadn’t so much as looked in on park operations in ten months and he hated the thought that Romy would be judging him by the standards she found there when she started work first thing Monday morning.

He opened his window when he was side on to her, and raised his hand in a reluctant farewell. ‘See you Monday, Romy.’

She plastered her hands to her hips and called after him. ‘I thought you didn’t get involved in operations?’

He wondered if she knew how sexy she looked standing slung like that on the verandah of his old family home. Possibly not or she wouldn’t be wasting it on him. She’d made it perfectly clear how little she thought of the military and, by association, him. It wasn’t really too different to how he felt. He pushed his sunglasses onto the bridge of his nose and looked back out at her.

‘Usually,’ he called out, and then accelerated out the driveway.

She shrank in his rear-vision mirror until he turned the bend. When he hit the branch-off for home he kept driving. He had the rest of Saturday night and all of Sunday to play catch-up on what had been happening at WildSprings while he was AWOL from the business side of things.

Come Monday morning he wanted to have a full handle on his business.

It was probably overdue and only had a bit to do with the auburn-haired beauty now living in his parents’ cottage.

Probably.

Chapter Three

THE gift shop wasn’t the only part of the wilderness retreat in Romy’s sights during her first week. People were obliging on her first days since a pretty young thing from the city was novelty enough without her walking around with an impressive high-tech satellite phone/GPS combo, a dark blue uniform reminiscent of the police force and taking notes wherever she went.

By day four, her new colleagues were wearying of her tight focus on their operations and her recommendations for change to improve security, but they found it easier simply to comply.

It wasn’t all wins. Justin refused point-blank to consider CCTV equipment for the admissions area, arguing that some of their guests appreciated the low-key and confidential approach WildSprings offered. And the local farmer Romy busted helping himself to avocados from one of the park’s many orchards voiced his outrage all round the district of having to supplement his pigs’ expensive tastes out of his own pocket. It was hardly drug busts and high-tech stakeouts but it was enormously satisfying nonetheless, because it was hers.

New job, new home, new start.

Today’s drama wasn’t too difficult. One of her random perimeter-fence checks had turned up a breach right at the back of the park near a series of deep, crystalline dams. No doubt locals sneaking in to snare the succulent crustaceans living on the dam floor, or kids cooling off in the cold, clean depths. Except kids wouldn’t have vehicles and there were definite tyre tracks coming in off a disused access road.

‘Hey, Simone,’ Romy greeted the admin assistant as she walked into Justin’s office a few doors down from the broom closet she called her own. ‘I’m heading out to do fence repair and I’ll be taking the last roll of straining wire. Would you mind restocking from Garretson’s?’

Simone glared up from her to-do pile and mumbled, ‘Sure. What’s one more boss giving me tasks?’

She kept her voice even. ‘Everything okay, Simone?’

‘No.’ The redhead glared at her, then puffed air through her cheeks, sighing. ‘It’s not your fault. I know you have a job to do. It’s just that my workload has trebled this week what with yourself starting and Mr McLeish suddenly reappearing.’ She gestured to the work stacked on her desk.

Ah. Territory issues. ‘You look like a woman who could use a coffee break.’ She smiled. ‘Come on. I’ll fix you one.’

Simone grumbled as she emerged from behind the stack of files but followed willingly enough to the kitchenette. ‘I kid you not, Romy. I hadn’t seen Mr McLeish for a year before the day you came in for your interview. Then Monday morning I come in to a two-page to-do list.’

Romy poured two coffees. ‘A year? Seriously?’

Simone scooted up onto the kitchenette benchtop. ‘You wouldn’t know, because you’re new,’ she started in a conspiratorial tone, ‘but Clint McLeish is kind of a mystery man around here. No-one but Justin sees much of him at all.’

The last part she could believe. The man’s manner practically screamed, Leave me alone.

‘So now I have Justin and you giving me work and Mr McLeish lurking around in the shadows by day and riffling through the office overnight. It’s unsettling.’

Romy’s spider senses started tingling. He was working alone at night? What on?

‘I get that you’re new and all,’ the redhead grizzled onwards, taking a healthy swallow of instant coffee, ‘but we all have a first week and why he feels it’s necessary to pave your way particularly, I don’t know.’

Pave her way?

Simone moaned. ‘Sorry. That sounds bitchy. This isn’t really about you. I just wish if he was going to get so involved in someone’s workload he might spare a thought for mine.’ She took another swallow of coffee. ‘This is like therapy—I feel heaps better for venting.’

‘I don’t understand,’ Romy casually dropped in, going straight into investigation mode, ‘whose work is he doing?’

Simone blinked at her. ‘Yours. At least, some of it.’

‘What?’

‘He’s coming in at night, Romy. Working on park security. I thought you knew?’

‘How would I know?’

‘We assumed it was something you did. You know, in the city.’

‘Even in the city I’d stop short on spying on my employer,’ she said. Unless there was good reason. ‘No wonder people are keeping me at arms-length.’

Simone’s face dropped as she finally realised she’d said something wrong. ‘Oh. No. That’s not what I meant. We’re all just getting to know you…as best we can…’ she finished a bit pathetically.

Romy winced. ‘Have I come on a bit strong?’

‘Not strong. Just…’

Pushy? Nosey? Determined? She’d been called all three in her time.

‘God. Sorry.’ Simone slid off the bench. ‘I’m making a real mess of this. Quendanup is the country, you know? People like to get to know everything about you. And you’re a bit private, that’s all. People here are already sensitive to that because of Mr McLeish, so…’

Romy relaxed. This wasn’t the first time she’d had the criticism. There was one sure way to end gossip. Satisfy it. ‘What would you like to know about me?’

Simone stopped in the doorway. Chewed her lip. ‘I can ask?’

‘Go ahead. I have nothing to hide.’ Ha! She leaned on the counter and forced herself to relax. ‘Three questions.’

Simone slid her cup into the sink and clenched her hands in front of her, thinking fast. She spun back. ‘Why did you leave the city?’

Straight for the million-dollar question. There was no good answer for that one. Except the truth. ‘There was…someone…I wanted to get far away from. This seemed like a sufficient distance.’ Let them think she had left Leighton’s father. And it would be ‘them’; she had no doubt her private business would run through the park staff like a strain of gastro. ‘And I didn’t like some of the kids my son was hanging out with.’

Simone thought about that and then her eyes brightened. ‘Question two. How do you know Mr McLeish?’

Romy tilted her head. ‘What makes you think I do?’

Simone laughed. ‘He emerges from his forest for the first time in a year on the day you happen to be interviewing for a job. Then he hires you, having made not one single business decision since Justin arrived. Then he helps you move house…’

How did people know this stuff? Were the forest possums running a blog?

‘…and, finally, the pair of you have enough chemistry to start a bushfire. That doesn’t evolve overnight.’

Romy shook her head. ‘You saw us together for about twenty seconds after the interview, Simone.’

‘I could feel the tension in the room. The vibe between the two of you was the closest to action I’ve had in a while, let me tell you.’

‘The only tension you felt was irritation. He was ticked off because I embarrassed him about his store security. And he hired me for the same reason. Besides, if he hasn’t emerged for that long, where am I supposed to have met him?’

‘Oh, he comes out, just not amongst people here. Supposedly he heads up to the city a couple of times a year for…You know…’

She shook her head, bemused. ‘For?’

Simone’s mouth opened and then closed again and a blush stained her pretty features.

Romy stiffened immediately. ‘Let me see if I have this right. People here think I know Clint McLeish from the city where he sometimes goes to pick up.’

Simone flushed to her roots. ‘Um…’

‘And him hiring me unexpectedly is some kind of evidence the two of us are an item? Oh, that’s right, let’s not forget the explosive chemistry zinging around when we’re together. Can’t keep our hands off each other. I suppose he’s also the father of my child, yes?’

She didn’t know skin could turn so crimson. Romy slammed her mug on the sink in disbelief. ‘Oh, you are kidding me! For the record, Simone, my son’s father is not Clint McLeish. He and I had never met. We are not secret lovers. He’s not helping me do my work. And there is no chemistry—he doesn’t even like me particularly. Can I be any clearer?’

Her pitch had risen considerably and her chest heaved with anger. Simone backed away a step or two during her outburst but then stood her ground, silently assessing. Romy stared at her through steady, furious eyes.

‘I believe you. I’m sorry if I jumped to the wrong conclusion.’

Romy could only nod.

‘I wouldn’t want anyone saying something about you that’s not true.’ Serious blue eyes stared steadily at Romy. The irony was exquisite.

Simone chewed her lip. ‘But…he is working on security at night—it’s the only thing he’s touching. I’m not mistaken about that.’

Romy’s heart squeezed with familiar pain. He was doing her work for her. She’d clearly made a very bad first impression if he thought her so incapable. ‘Then I’ll take it up with him,’ she said tightly.

Simone nodded and turned for the door. At the last moment, she put her head back in the room. ‘And, Romy, the chemistry? I’m not mistaken about that either.’ She shrugged gently before turning out the door. ‘Sorry.’

Romy did a fantastic job of internalising her irritation that Clint was helping her out behind the scenes, taking her frustration out on the damaged fence line instead. So when she glanced down and saw his distinctive, battered ute pull up to one side of the deep, blue-green dam she was working near, she knew fate wanted her to say something.

And not just one thing.

Dumping the wire strainers and her heavy gloves onto the hard earth and tugging her broad-brim hat further down her head she marched down the slope in the direction of the dam. Flies buzzed around the perspiration on her face and throat and she shooed them away with angry flicks of her wrist, every one matching words she never, ever said in front of her son. But she said them now, and not quite under her breath.

How dared he patronise her by helping her out secretly? She was perfectly capable of doing the job she was hired for. This wasn’t the first time she’d started in a new field and she had every confidence in her ability to hit the ground running. But he didn’t obviously. To sneak in at night and prepare things for her, or order new equipment, or fix things before she had a chance to. It was galling!

Her furious feet moved her quickly but when she got down to the edge of the dam, Clint was nowhere to be seen. She scanned the horizon, glanced into the ute, turned and looked back the way she had come.

Silence.

‘McLeish!’ Her call was more of a cry to battle. It echoed across the empty clearing before being swallowed up in the thick trees leading away from it.

Still nothing. Damn him!

A splash behind her had her spinning around on the spot.

‘You rang?’ Clint bobbed in the dam like a buoy, dunking under briefly, then emerging, glistening, and pushing his hair from his face. Wet, his features were all perfect angles and sharp, sparkling edges. Strong arms brought him closer to the shallows. ‘What can I do for you, Ms Carvell?’

Romy fought to ignore the slow reveal as his feet found the dam floor. ‘You can stop holding my hand,’ she called out, her heart thumping.

He stopped drifting towards her and stood straighter in the water. ‘Explain that to me.’ His fingers came up to shield his gaze from the glare and sunlight bounced off the rivulets streaming down the hard planes of his chest.

She ignored that, too.

She swallowed to put some moisture back in her mouth. ‘You’re doing my job for me.’ She didn’t have to yell now he was only metres away from where she stood on the dam’s edge. He looked so infuriatingly confident standing there like some kind of aquatic god. While she was all sweaty and revolting.

Again.

That fired her up even more. ‘I’m perfectly capable of doing the job you’re paying me to do. I don’t need your help. I don’t want it.’

‘Who says I’m helping you?’ His legs carried him through the shallows and the dam seemed to drop away from him as he approached.

Her breath hitched as first broad pecs and then a ridged stomach emerged from the water, then it released on a whoosh when his feet found the ascent to shore and pushed a pair of dark board shorts, slung low on angular obliques, into view.

Not that she was looking.

‘You’re coming in at night and doing things before I can get to them.’ Deny it, she wanted to shout.

He dragged his feet onto the sand and stopped in front of her, dropping his arm from his eyes, suspicion live in the shadowed gaze. ‘How do you know what I’m doing at night?’

Great. Another person who thought she was capable of a bit of internal espionage. But she was loath to get Simone in trouble, not after the hard time she’d already given her.

She hedged. ‘Is it true or not?’

Dark lashes clumped by water droplets blinked down over vibrant green eyes. No wonder the townspeople had such a romantic view of him; between the face and the intrigue, he was mysterious and handsome enough to be flashing on feminine radars across the south-west.

Her own was going ballistic right now.

‘It’s true I’m working at night,’ he said.

‘And…?’

‘And it’s true I’m looking at some aspects of our security—’ Romy turned to stalk off. A strong, wet hand wrapped around her elbow and drew her back. ‘But relax. I’m not doing you any special favours. Why would I? I hardly know you.’

Oh.

He might as well have slapped her across the face with a wet reality fish. Romy groaned inwardly and called herself all manners of idiot. She’d allowed her own complexes to totally feed off Simone’s skewed view of what was going on in the office after dark. He was right. Why would he help her out?

‘Why do you care, anyway?’ He lifted a towel from the tray of his ute and patted his face and neck dry. That was when she saw the tattoo, beautifully positioned on his left bicep. A sword surrounded by a garland of snakes.

‘Because I’m more than capable of doing any part of this job. I don’t need backup.’ Before he could open his mouth, she barrelled on. ‘So whatever you’re working on it might be smart to keep me in the loop so we’re not double-handling.’

He slung the towel over his shoulder. ‘It doesn’t matter—I’m nearly done, anyhow.’ Dismissed. His imperious tone got right up her nose. Reminded her of another man. An older man.

‘Going back into hiding for another twelve months?’ She could have bitten her tongue off the moment the bitchy comment slipped out.

He shook his head. ‘Are you always this unpleasant?’ His words were as cool as the water evaporating off his skin. They just begged to be challenged.

She took a deep breath. ‘I don’t buy this whole brooding, damaged act, you know. I’m sure it does great things for your reputation in town but it’s been a couple of years—don’t you think it’s getting a little old?’

His eyes narrowed to slits. ‘So now you’re familiar with my past and all? That’s a bit like me saying your high-and-mighty act is getting tired.’

A needle stabbed through Romy’s chest. High and mighty? Why that hurt particularly, after everything she’d been called in life…Yet her voice was tight when she responded.

‘You’ll have to do better than that, McLeish. I’ve had every name under the sun thrown at me and survived it. I’m resistant to sticks and stones, too. Too many calluses.’

He blinked slowly and considered her. ‘By who?’

Whoa. How did they get here? She only wanted to call him on the extracurricular night-school activity. She backed off, fists clenched tight. ‘I have to get on with the fence. Excuse me.’

‘You were out here working?’

She pointed to the fence line silhouetted against the glare at the top of the hill and he followed her gaze sceptically. ‘Relax, McLeish. I’m not stalking you. Why would I? I hardly know you.’

His own words flung back at him, he smiled. ‘You know how to string a fence?’

The doubt in his voice got her blood racing. ‘You think you’re the only one who gets to be capable? What is it with you military types?’

His rebuttal was soft. ‘The question is, what is it with you and military types?’

She glared at him. ‘That is none of your beeswax.’

Good one, Romy, you sound all of twelve years old.

Ignoring the amused sparkle in his eye, she tossed her hair back over her shoulder and powered on up the hill, swishing at the flies the whole way.

‘Let me give you a hand with that.’ Clint appeared behind her and held out a pair of gloves.

Having assured herself with a quick glance that he was fully dressed now, Romy focused on the wire in her hands. ‘I don’t need help, thanks.’

‘I know you don’t, but I’d like to…’

She squinted into the open sincerity on his face and made to thank him. Then he went and ruined it.

‘…and I’m the boss, so what I say goes.’

She tightened a smile around the retort she was dying to spit and turned back to the torturous fence. She saw Clint flick a glance at her broken wire strainers on the ground and the arrangement she’d rigged up by proxy with a screwdriver twisted into the wire. Thanks to her angry yanking, the ratchet had broken at the crucial moment, leaving her to tighten four strands manually in century-plus heat. Every turn of the screwdriver pulled the wire that bit tighter but it was a hellish way to do it.

One strand had taken her twenty minutes.

‘Go ahead,’ she relented, standing carefully and letting him into her place.

He squatted at the fence line and spoke from under his Akubra hat, getting a feel for the wire. ‘Can I ask you a question?’

Romy hesitated. Something told her it wasn’t going to be about work. ‘Sure…’

He twisted, once, twice, and then he retested the wire. The strength in the contoured triceps emerging from the sleeves of his T-shirt was distracting. He gave it two more twists until he was satisfied, then he levered the screwdriver free and turned to look up at her.

‘Where’s Leighton’s father?’

She stared at him. She preferred the direct approach to Simone’s whispered speculation but she wasn’t entirely ready for the question, despite dreading it half her life. Every clever answer she’d ever imagined abandoned her.

‘I don’t know.’ That was as honest as she could be.

The beat-up Akubra tilted curiously and the flash of green was disconcerting. ‘Doesn’t he see his son?’

‘No.’ Again, short but true.

‘You don’t want to talk about it?’ He balanced on his haunches as though he could sit there all day.

Not with you. ‘I’m not used to talking about it.’

‘No-one’s ever wanted to know? I find that hard to believe.’

Romy kicked the dust at her feet. ‘Most people would think it was a rude question to actually verbalise.’

His hat lifted slightly with his eyebrows. Was that a blush creeping up his throat? Her mouth curved at the realisation it simply hadn’t occurred to him not to ask. The hint of humanity made her more inclined to answer.

‘He and I…parted ways a long time ago,’ she said.

The understatement of all time. The spectre of the Colonel loomed. Whore. Worse.

Clint studied her, then spoke quietly. ‘Does he know he has a son?’

Bang, right on the money. Instincts like that would have been wasted anywhere other than a specialist role. Commandos, maybe? Or Tactical Assault. She struggled to keep her anger in check as old hurts oozed up.

‘I doubt he even knew he’d had sex,’ she muttered grimly.

Those sea-green eyes flicked away for the barest of moments, then locked onto hers again. ‘Right. Next topic?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Yes, please.’

And just like that it was over. She’d shared her shame with someone. The absolute last someone she would have expected to be opening up to but he hadn’t sneered or even judged her. There was nothing but compassion in those twin depths.

‘Can I ask you a question?’ she risked.

‘Maybe.’

She perked up. ‘What branch of the military were you in?’

‘If I told you I’d have to kill you.’ His laugh was only half joking.

‘Seriously…’

He looked at her, his voice tighter than the wire he was straining. ‘Does it matter?’

She kept her gaze steady. ‘No. But I’m curious.’

‘Don’t be.’

A big part of her wanted to smack that hat right off his head. But she reined it in. ‘Hey, I’ve just stripped myself naked for you. The least you could do is drop one article.’

Those powerful hands stopped working entirely and a deep chuckle followed like a distant rumble of thunder. ‘You do have a gift for expression, Romy.’

Not deflected, she stared down into his broad shoulders until the silence grew tangible. He sighed and twisted up to her. ‘I was an operative with Strike Force Taipan. Tactical Assault and Extraction.’ His voice turned from grudging to irritated. ‘Why are you smiling?’

Taipans. It fit. She could see him slipping over the edge of a Zodiac all camouflaged at midnight. ‘Just revelling in the momentary pleasure of knowing everything. It happens very rarely.’

‘Is that right?’

‘I have an eight-year-old particularly gifted at pointing out when I’m wrong.’ He took after his grandfather.

He chuckled again, only this time she watched the grin spread over his face. It really transformed him, as if he wasn’t striking enough already.

In a kill-you-with-a-well-placed-thumb kind of way.

‘All done.’ He pulled off the gloves and wiped his hands on his jeans, then returned to his usual position, towering over her. Romy realised how accustomed she’d become to gazing up at him. Despite always being short, it was possibly the only time she’d felt…fragile. The thought had her scrambling away from him, her voice breathy.

‘Okay. Well, thanks. I guess I should be grateful nature endowed one of us with muscles.’

That smile again. ‘There’s more to life than brute strength. Besides, you virtually repaired this single-handed. I just got to swan in at the end and be the hero.’

At his own words, the light dimmed from his eyes. They clouded with something dark. He glanced towards his vehicle and then busied himself collecting the tools scattered across the ground. She joined him. When her toolkit was packed and there was no good reason to linger, she pulled her hat off and ran her fingers through sweat-dampened hair.

He hadn’t met her eyes for minutes now. ‘I guess I should get going. Thanks for the help…’

‘You’re welcome.’ Still no eye contact but critically polite. He collected up the broken strainer and turned towards his ute at the foot of the hill. Romy frowned. What had she said? Why did she even care? This man was nothing to her, only her employer.

But she did.

She sighed and turned away from him.

Clint felt the loss of her grey, almond-shaped eyes. It hadn’t been hurt simmering away in those smoky depths; she was too protected for that. It was caution. Confusion. And something else, something older that didn’t belong to him. But he felt like a heel, anyway.

‘I’m sorry, Romy. I’m not angry at you.’

‘Who are you angry at?’ Her whispered reply drifted to him on the warm breeze. Anxious. The playful spark in her expression completely absent. Yet another thing he’d killed in this world. It was a reasonable question but impossible to answer. Hadn’t he tried all these years to figure it out? Lord knows he’d had plenty of time. Somewhere along the line it got easier not to think about it any more.

He stared long and hard at her. ‘Do you swim?’

Her confusion doubled. ‘Why?’

‘If you swim, don’t do it in the dams around the cottage. Come here. This is the best for swimming.’

‘I’d already gathered that.’

‘Swim here.’ Why was he obsessing on this?

She straightened. ‘That sounds vaguely like an order.’

‘Will that have more impact?’

‘I’d prefer you to ask me.’

He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his board shorts. ‘Ah, sorry. Occupational hazard.’

‘You can take the man out of the corps…’

‘What do you know about the corps?’

‘Unit. Corps. God. Country,’ she said. ‘Doesn’t leave much room for being human.’

He squinted. ‘You know the code?’

‘I lived with the code.’

Her simple grimace was telling. He knew only too well the personal price soldiers paid for honouring that ideal. Family came in a poor fifth right behind your unit. The men who kept you alive, who had your back.

Or were supposed to.

For all those big, beautiful eyes seemed to know about loss, he doubted they knew squat about betrayal. The things he’d seen, things he’d done. The things others had done that he’d never been able to reconcile. She didn’t have a clue. Romy Carvell was like a fresh set of combat camos: unsullied, crisp at the seams. The sort of thing you could slip into and feel clean, just for a moment until the sand leached in.

‘I’m asking you, Romy. If you or Leighton swim, please make it here. Okay?’

She considered him long and hard. Then she shrugged. ‘It’s your property.’

Something deep inside him staggered with relief. ‘What are you doing this evening?’

She blinked at his rapid change of direction. ‘Uh…Helping Leighton with a science project.’

‘Friday, then. There’s something I’d like to show you on the estate.’ And there was. But mostly it was an excuse to spend some more time with her, to sit close to those crisp, new khakis and think about how good it would feel to be clean again. ‘Can you meet me in the afternoon?’

‘Where?’

‘I’ll find you.’

She nodded and he turned down the hill, towards the twinkling green water he swam in daily, trying to baptise himself for a new beginning.

Chapter Four

I’ll find you.

The words kept pinging around in Romy’s head. It was only her favourite quote in her favourite movie of all time. Except now, whenever she heard it, she’d think of a jade-eyed, square-jawed giant instead of Daniel Day-Lewis in a loincloth.

Okay, so not the worst trade-off…

She tipped her head back and let the cool water from the showerhead tumble over her.

I’ll find you. When a man like Clint McLeish promised that, you knew he wasn’t kidding. He would find a polar bear in a blizzard in the Arctic Circle. He was just that kind of…doer.

Nothing quite as sexy as a capable man.

She twisted the cold-water tap off hard, warning herself away from those thoughts. There was a very hazy line between capable and overbearing and she’d lived half her life with the latter.

She glanced at her watch and gasped. Leighton’s school bus would be dropping him at the gates to WildSprings in about four minutes. If his day was anything like hers, he’d be hot, bothered and ready for the air conditioning.

It took her two minutes to throw on some clothes and get to the car. As she reached for the doorhandle, a growing plume of dust through the trees caught her eye. A blue Nissan cruised into her drive and pulled up nearby. A rosy-cheeked, blonde gnome popped her head out of the driver’s side window and then pushed the door open.

‘Hi! You must be Leighton’s mum? I’m Carolyn Lawson, Cameron’s mum.’

Cameron? Romy bent to glance in the rear of the Nissan. Her son seemed absorbed in discussion with a blond boy about the same age. A ratty blue heeler with a lolling tongue was squished in there with them. Carolyn Lawson was five foot nothing and nearly as round as she was tall. But her smile was instant and her confidence infectious. Romy’s people metre blinked happily in the green. She held out her hand and accepted Carolyn’s firm shake.

‘I hope you don’t mind me dropping Leighton home,’ she said. ‘I wanted to introduce myself so you’d know who we were when he came to stay.’

‘To stay?’ Her Leighton?

Both boys scrabbled out of the car and the blue heeler exploded out the door to snuffle in the nearby long grass. Carolyn scolded the dog as he christened the verandah with a well-aimed stream of urine.

Romy looked at her son, her socially awkward, struggles-to-make-friends son. ‘Like a sleepover?’

Cameron groaned. ‘Girls sleep over. Boys hang out,’ he said, pointedly.

She laughed. ‘My mistake. Does that make it a hangover?’

The children frowned at each other in confusion but a cackle burst from Carolyn Lawson. ‘No, that’s what I’m likely to have after having two young boys in the house all night!’ she said. ‘Steve and I will both be home to keep things civil and you’re welcome to call if you want to check in.’

Romy was unprepared for this eventuality. Her baby had never been on a sleepover and it hadn’t occurred to her his very first one might be with a family she didn’t know. Her uncertainty must have shown. Carolyn shoved a business card in her hands.

‘This is our address and my mobile’s on the reverse. Does it help to know Cameron’s my fourth? And my husband is Quendanup’s copper?’

Romy looked at her son, at the blind hope and trepidation in a face that was a miniversion of her own. The realisation he was expecting her to say no struck her like a snake. How often had she stared hopefully at her father like that? How often had he let her down? She dropped her voice and her focus to the little boy at her feet.

‘You’d like to go to a sleepover, L?’

‘Hangout, Mum!’

She took that as a yes. Hard to say what was more moving; the fact Leighton had made a hangout friend already or that he was trying so hard to look cool in front of him. And with a policeman in the house…

She turned to Carolyn Lawson. ‘Thank you for the offer. Yes, I’m happy for—’

She got no further. Both boys started whooping it up in the driveway and an excited dog got in on the act, dashing around and barking.

It took ten minutes to get the Lawsons and their mad dog back in the Nissan and her overexcited son into the comparative cool of the house. Romy tried to imagine what kinds of things might happen at a kids’ sleepover. Yet another experience missing from her childhood. She frowned. Had she never been asked to someone else’s house, or had she said no so often the girls in her class simply stopped asking? It went without saying she’d never hosted one. Not only would the Colonel not have tolerated a gaggle of children in the house but she wouldn’t have foisted him on them either.

‘Mum. Can I take the frogs with me to Cameron’s?’ Leighton burst into the room.

Romy laughed. ‘No. They’re happy where they are. They’d hate being dragged to school. If you want Cameron to see them you can invite him here sometime.’

‘Oh, cool!’

The fact it had never occurred to him to ask instantly highlighted the truth that he’d never brought a friend home in his life. Sorrow soaked through her. She added that to her list of things she was convinced she’d robbed him of. Like grandparents and the father-figure he so desperately craved. Only this one she could do something about.

‘Leighton?’ She fixed him a sandwich while he settled from his excitement. ‘Would you feel okay about that? Bringing Cameron here?’

‘Yeah! He can see my room. And I can show him Frog Swamp.’ A muddy pocket at the base of the gully, teeming with life and riddled with wild frogs.

Boy heaven.

Romy’s tension eased. Even now, the ghost of her father still had her doubting herself. Her parenting. She shook her head to clear it and turned to her boy.

‘Okay. So let’s talk science project…’

‘Leighton?’ Romy called into the silence and then listened.

Nothing.

Ugh. It was so not the evening for this. As if she wasn’t already grumpy enough from continuously catching herself looking out for Clint. For a plume of dust approaching. Now Leighton had pulled another disappearing act after dinner, right when they were supposed to be preparing his science project for Friday science class.

Not the first time he’d done a runner. ‘Eight-year-olds,’ she muttered, turning to the house.

Fortunately, she had just the tool for this eventuality. Some mothers gave their kids phones to keep track of them; Romy gave hers a GPS transmitter. Not that he knew it. Telling him it was sewn into the hem of his backpack was the fastest way to ensure he never remembered to take the bag again.

She rustled in her work kit and pulled out her PDA. It was satellite phone, scanner and GPS tracker all in one. Swiss Army knife for the twenty-first century.

Please let him have it with him…

She got a reading almost immediately. It placed him within twenty metres of the kitchen. She frowned and looked at the timber ceiling above her. Damn…

A quick bolt to the top of the stairs confirmed her suspicion. The backpack lay tossed in the corner of his shambolic attic room. So much for technology; she was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. Romy pocketed the PDA and let herself out the screen door to the rear of the house. She glanced one way, up the long track leading past Clint’s to the park entry, and then the other way, down through the trees leading to the base of the gully.

Frog Swamp. It’s where she’d be if she was an eight-year-old amphibian fanatic trying to avoid homework. And if Leighton didn’t have his pack it meant he’d planned to stay close.

There wasn’t a child alive who knew more about snakes than her reptile-mad son so she didn’t worry on that score, but the Australian bush was full of holes to twist an ankle in, poisonous critters with fangs to sink in their self-defence and baffling thickets of trees that could swallow a young boy’s sense of direction in a heartbeat.

Turning left, she started picking her way along the old trail that led to the bottom of the gully where the wetlands were. It was increasingly beautiful as the earth dropped away at the foot of towering trees stretching to the heavens. Small lizards scurried across her path and butterflies flitted kamikazelike back and forth. She slowed her descent and glanced about, appreciating the beauty of the bush around her at dusk.

As she worked her way quietly to the gully floor she heard a hint of noise off to the left. She was tempted to call out but the utter silence around her restrained her. If Leighton was frog watching he’d scarcely appreciate her dulcet tones echoing through the valley and sending every living creature darting for cover. Besides, she was being calm, cool Mum today, not anxious, clingy Mum.

That mum wouldn’t kick in for at least another five minutes.

A flash of bright red caught her eye. Her shoulders sagged with relief and she started towards her son. Then suddenly a shift of blue right next to him. A sky-blue T-shirt stretched tight over a broad back. She stumbled to a halt.

Clint.

Leighton was smiling. Not a polite, adult-pleasing smile. A bright-eyed, face-splitting, genuine boy grin, as he looked back and forth from where Clint lay next to him in the dirt to the swampy soak in front of them. She stopped and watched. Neither of them spoke but they seemed to be communicating in a kind of sign language. Clint’s efficient hand symbols reeked of the military but Leighton’s overengineered, highly dramatic efforts did somehow manage to communicate.

Her heart gave a little lurch. They were dusk frog watching together. It was postcard perfect. Everything she’d never had with her father.

And her son would never have with his.

Leighton was laid out like a miniature version of Clint. He unconsciously mirrored the exact way the older man lay in the earth, short legs stretched out next to long ones, torso propped up onto his elbows like his adult shadow. The ultimate Hallmark moment.

Never mind that L’s feet stopped a good metre higher than Clint’s. It put them dead parallel with a sinfully well-packed, denim-clad rear which was why it was so easy for Romy’s gaze to drift and linger there. She tore them back to her son. His wildly gesticulating hands were telling a silent story she couldn’t quite interpret. Clint seemed to be keeping up, though, and he gifted Leighton with his absolute, undivided interest.

Romy’s chest squeezed, watching how her son ate up the attention. How he blossomed. How the two of them were so very comfortable in each other’s muddy, mute presence.

Lord, what would it be like to feel comfortable around Clint McLeish? And what would that gentle gaze feel like if it was fluttering down on her instead of her son? It was a side of him she’d never seen.

It was a side of any man she’d never seen.

Instinctively she knew that he could be gentle. He would be gentle. In-between intimidating the heck out of her. The sudden fantasy of those enormous, mud-covered hands tracing over her skin took her by surprise. Her body physically jerked as though fingers really were sliding over her shoulders, or learning the lower curve of a breast. Her breath came out in short puffs.

Whoa—desperate much, Carvell?

Clint turned and his eyes found hers amongst the trees and locked on hard. He might as well have sensed her X-rated thoughts. Their burning regard held her frozen where she stood and her breath died mid-fill even as her heart thundered. The green depths were unfathomable but steady and sure, holding a promise. A question.

Romy wasn’t sure she wanted to know the answer.

‘Leighton.’ His words were for the boy by his side but his eyes stayed glued to Romy’s. Leighton turned to where she stood in the trees. His cheeks coloured.

‘Mum…’

Uh-oh. That was not his happy voice. She cleared her throat. ‘Leighton, you didn’t ask to come down here. You have homework.’

‘Not now, Mum.’

Romy’s eyebrows shot up with her tension levels. Here we go…‘Leighton. Home. Now.’

He turned back to the frogs. ‘Later.’

Clint’s eyes hadn’t left hers. Romy was critically aware of their intense focus, of the expectation live in them. She was his security coordinator. She had to manage her son.

‘I won’t ask again…’ Her heart thudded painfully. Her father’s words spilling out of her mouth. She felt the rising anger of a parent being challenged in the same breath as she relived the memories of a child sick to death of battles. Her gut tightened.

His little body didn’t so much as move.

‘Leighton Carvell…get your butt back up to the house.’

This time he moved, but only to turn his head back over his shoulder and glare at her. That expression was so familiar. It was her own from twelve years ago.

‘Or what?’ He frowned.

She saw Clint’s eyebrows lift, just slightly. Crap! She didn’t want to do this. She didn’t want to threaten Leighton. Or mess with his mind. Or, God forbid, get physical. But Clint was measuring every move she made.

She went for threat.

‘Or I call Carolyn Lawson and say the sleepover is off.’ Her voice shook enough that nobody could miss it. Clint’s narrowed eyes certainly hadn’t.

Leighton scrambled around and up onto angry feet and screamed at her. ‘Hangout!’

Deep breaths, Romy. ‘Whatever. It’s off if you don’t get back up to the house and start your science homework.’

Stupid. Why were they fighting? He was probably learning more here in the boggy gully than fourth-grade science would ever teach. Still those green eyes watched. Assessed.

Leighton finally weighed his options and turned petulant eyes to the man lying still as a stone next to him. He turned the tantrum off in an eye blink. Strategically. ‘’Bye, Clint.’

Clint’s voice was carefully neutral. ‘See ya, buddy. We’ll do this again.’

Leighton nodded silently and then huffed past Romy, not meeting her eyes. A tight fist clenched around her lungs, but she forced words out as he passed. ‘Watch out for that pout, mate. You might trip on it.’

She turned to watch him go. When she trusted that he was genuinely heading for the house she turned back to her boss, humiliated that he’d witnessed the family altercation. He was on his feet, brushing off the loose, damp dirt. ‘Sorry about that,’ she said on a puff.

‘You asked again.’ His gaze was steady, half veiled.

‘What?’

‘Leighton. After telling him you wouldn’t ask him again to do his homework, you asked.’

‘So? He wasn’t getting me.’

‘Oh, he was getting you all right. He was ignoring you.’

‘Thank you, I’m well aware of that. Am I about to get a parenting lecture?’

‘Depends. Do you need one?’

Romy let her mouth drop open. Attractiveness be damned. ‘You knowing so much about parenting, of course.’

His eyebrows lifted. ‘I know something about little boys. Young men. I’ve trained enough of them. And it looks like I know a hell of a lot more than you about maintaining discipline.’

Romy settled both fists onto her hips. ‘Am I getting paid for this?’

It was Clint’s turn to look confused. He blinked at her.

‘If you’re about to give me some skills-development training? Is this on the clock?’

‘Romy…’

‘Don’t tell me how to raise my son!’ Her voice echoed through the little gully. Frogs and birds flew for cover in all directions.

Clint kept his cool. ‘When you say you’re not going to ask again and then you ask, Leighton wins. He’ll remember. And he’ll use it in his next combat.’

‘This is not a war. This is a family. My family.’ At least, she was working damn hard to keep it that way.

‘Sometimes there’s no difference. It’s the same psychology.’

‘I prefer a different kind of psychology. One based on love and compassion rather than threats and punishments.’

His laugh was genuine. ‘Let me know how that works out for you.’

‘He’s an eight-year-old child, Clint. Not a soldier.’ Just like she’d been.

‘Last time I checked, only one of us has been an eight-year-old boy. Trust me on what works for them.’

‘Trust me on what works for my son.’

He held her gaze, breathing in and out calmly. ‘Love and compassion has made Leighton the boy he is. He’s a great kid. But he’s going to start pushing your buttons more and more. Stretching you. Testing you. Trying to dominate you. I recognise the signs.’

She turned to follow her son up the hill. ‘That may be what you were like but it’s not Leighton.’

‘It’s all boys, Romy,’ he called after her. ‘It’s imprinted on us. We’re built to try to take charge.’

She spun around. ‘If you are so fired up about parenthood why don’t you sire a brood of your own? Go bully your own kids.’

He sprinted up the steep slope in three easy steps and swung around in front of her, halting her with a hand on her shoulder. ‘Managing your son does not make you a bully.’

She shrugged her shoulder away and glared. ‘Well, badgering me makes you one. And I think there’s a bunch of workplace laws that protect me from that.’

He dropped his hand and ran it through his thick hair. ‘Romy. I’m not trying to get under your skin—’

She stalked off, around him. ‘You do not get under my skin.’

Liar.

‘I just want to help you,’ he called after her. ‘Use some of what I’ve learned over the years.’

She turned back around and glared at him from the actual—and moral—high ground. ‘Well, Sensei, this little grasshopper is not interested in your wax-on-wax-off wisdom. Thanks all the same.’

He swore as she carried on up the gully, and then shouted an order after her. ‘We’re still on for tomorrow afternoon.’

She just held up an angry hand and scrambled, shaking, up the path to safety.

‘Ready to go?’

After a night of angry stewing and then a day of having to force her mind to stay on the job, Romy was more than ready. The faster they got started, the faster she’d be back home. She turned to where Clint stood in her doorway. ‘I’m not sure this qualifies as afternoon any more. It’s closer to evening.’

‘I thought I’d stay out of your way while you were working. You looked busy. Besides, you need to see this near dusk to appreciate it.’

He’d watched her working? How, when all her senses were finely tuned to any sign of his arrival? Then again, he was trained in stealth.

‘Do I need anything?’ She glanced around her spotless kitchen.

‘Nope. Just yourself.’

Out of habit, she grabbed her rucksack and locked the house behind them. Country or not, she would hand in her security licence before she’d leave it open to anyone passing, even with Leighton out for the night at Cameron’s. Clint waited patiently by his ute until she was done securing her home.

Her plan to remain detached and disinterested lasted about twenty-five seconds. The sight of all six foot four of him leaning casually against his vehicle waiting for her excited her pulse.

Relax, it’s only a drive. Not looking at him would make this much easier. She climbed in and fixed her focus out the front windscreen. ‘Where are we going?’

‘We’ve had reports about trafficking activity in the area. Cockatoos and reptiles. I wanted you to see WildSprings’s roosting sites so you know what to be watching for.’