at the open-plan sensation as he swung the entry door inwards. The two enormous tree trunks seemed to push through the floor and extend way up to a high-pitched roof. The entire front wall was glass, framed by more timber. It looked out onto the same view as Leighton’s window but from the other end of the gully.
She was almost speechless. ‘You did get it right. This is beautiful.’
The place oozed sanctuary. The mix of natural materials, space and light was healing all in itself. She turned to look at him. ‘You should be really proud of this.’
The tiniest hint of colour formed where the hard angle of his jaw started. When he flipped a light switch, huge floodlights came on outside, illuminating the trees that surrounded them. Romy gasped. Two dozen glowing eyes blinked back at them, reminding her of pink Christmas lights.
‘Can we turn it off?’ She crossed to the glass doors opening onto the deck, loath to disturb the possums’ nocturnal wanderings. ‘I love the darkness at WildSprings.’
Were there even more stars visible from this side of the gully? Impossible, of course, but they seemed to blanket the sky. She tucked her arms in against the coolness of the night and tipped her face to the twinkling brilliance.
He followed her outside, stood chest to shoulder with her. Silent. Strong. The darkness and silence were his friends, too, she remembered.
Just colleagues. The words echoed in her brain, demanding to be heeded. But as the warmth from his body reached out to her and the fragrance of the night bush mingled with his scent, she had to fight to keep them in focus.
Colleagues. She swallowed and stepped away. ‘Do you mind if I look around?’
‘Help yourself. I’ll get something cooking. Spaghetti bolognaise pedestrian enough for you?’
She sighed on a smile. Leighton didn’t like pasta so she hardly ever made it. The chance to enjoy real bolognaise on a dinner plate instead of on toast from a tin was hard to knock back. ‘It sounds wonderful. Thank you.’
Clint busied himself in the kitchen and Romy took the opportunity to put some distance between them. She padded up the sweeping timber steps to the second storey and tiptoed along the corridor. Immediately on her right was the master bedroom. She averted her gaze and pushed past, not ready to intrude into his personal space but not able to say why. She started at the far end of the hall.
The first door she tried was a bathroom, simply but tastefully decorated with an oversize glass shower recess. No bath. That didn’t surprise her in the slightest. Clint McLeish didn’t strike her as a soaker. He was all business. Get in dirty, get out clean. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. She, on the other hand, liked nothing better as a rare treat than to light a bunch of candles after Leighton had gone to bed and soak until the water turned cold in her old claw-foot bath. The getting clean part was an incidental bonus.
Mind you, they probably didn’t make baths big enough that could comfortably contain a man Clint’s size. The impromptu thought was too close to imagining him in her claw-foot bath, and so she shut the thought away with a firm click of the bathroom door behind her.
The next room was a small study, significantly less tidy than the rest of the house. Computer, desk, wall-to-ceiling bookshelves, mixed art pieces, stuff everywhere. Much more like most of the rooms at her place.
Across the hall, a spare room with a single bed and simple decoration. Some basic weight-training gear leaned against the wall. A distant part of her wondered why a man who never had visitors bothered to hide his clutter away in the study.
Romy returned to the first door she’d encountered. The master bedroom. She froze. It’s only a room…Stick your head in and then head downstairs. Simple!
Right. But, oh, she was curious. You could tell a lot about a person by their bedroom. If you had questions…
She nudged the door with her shoulder, glancing selfconsciously behind her. The sounds of occupied clanking from the kitchen encouraged her to continue. By far the most dominant feature in the room was a low-profile, king-size bed with a rich charcoal bedspread. Entirely practical for a man of Clint’s height but there was something so…decadent…about the size and shape of it. Any bed she could sleep in lengthways, widthways or diagonally was all right in her book. It was far too easy to imagine herself stretched out on it.
And not necessarily alone.
She spun around, her feet moving silently on the woollen rug. A bank of built-in wardrobes lined one wall and Clint had positioned a couple of oversize armchairs in the corner for good measure. Everything was just…big. Romy suddenly felt like tiny Jack in the beanstalk story, sneaking through the giant’s palace in search of the golden goose.
As she had the thought, a golden glint on the far wall caught her eye. A small, framed curiosity was perfectly mounted in a prominent position. On the left, a silver sword flanked by two snakes with the motto Morte prima di disonore scrolled across the bottom. Death before dishonour. The symbol of Strike Force Taipan. That’s where she’d recognised his tattoo from. The insignia and others like it had practically wallpapered the Colonel’s living room wall.
Mounted to the right of the badge was a red ribbon with a gold star embedded in flames. Her breath died. Not Australia’s highest military honour, but it was one of its rarest.
‘It’s a Commendation for Gallantry.’
At the deep voice right behind her, she spun around, embarrassed to be caught snooping. But Clint’s attention was on the flaming star, not on her.
‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘For acts of conspicuous gallantry in action, in circumstances of great peril.’ Her mumbled words won his attention back. Instead of times tables, the Colonel had forced her to learn all of Australia’s medals, awards and commendations by rote.
He spoke just as she did. ‘How do you know this stuff?’
‘What did you do to earn this?’
Neither wanted to answer. They stared at each other in silence. Clint finally broke it, opening his mouth with a terse, ‘Spaghetti’s ready.’
She let herself be led out and down the stairs until her feet floated on the heavenly fragrance of real Italian sauce. She drifted towards the set table and searched around for something to say as they tucked into the pasta. Something to end the awkward silence.
‘So what’s Justin Long’s story?’
Clint eyed her over an enormous forkful of pasta, paused halfway to his mouth. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s young, to be managing a place like this.’
‘This coming from you?’ It wasn’t unfriendly. In fact, there was something decidedly warming about being gently teased. It created a charged kind of friction. It felt good.
‘I have good instincts about people. He doesn’t seem entirely…comfortable…in his role. Like a suit that doesn’t fit.’
Clint stared at her. ‘Interesting. What else?’
Romy shrugged. ‘He doesn’t like me.’
It was only a mouthful of food that prevented him bursting into laughter. After a moment he mumbled, ‘Half
