Jo Leigh - Men In Uniform - Taken By The Soldier

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.’