Jo Leigh - Men In Uniform - Taken By The Soldier

‘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.

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.