up this time. As if sharing his difficulty around strangers wasn’t stupid enough, he’d also pretty much mauled her in the back alley of a pub. Slammed her against the wall.
Nice. Real nice.
His straining body reminded him that he’d be buried deep inside her right now if they hadn’t been interrupted. He’d be coaxing tiny sounds out of her beautiful throat. It’s where they were heading. He was, anyway. Galloping there. And not just because he had three years of abstinence at his heels. He shook his head and called himself every name under the Australian sun. It satisfactorily dowsed the surge in his trousers so he could walk inside, find their host and make apologies. Absolutely the last thing he wanted to do, but exactly the sort of thing Romy would do if she was able.
And so he did it for her.
It meant forcing himself into a room crowded with faces he didn’t know, convinced he was marked with a giant B for bastard, and certain half the room knew what he’d just done to Romy Carvell out in the alley. Heat flamed under his choking tie.
He wasn’t an idiot. He saw how the townsfolk rallied to keep her occupied on the dance floor. It meant they’d accepted her as one of their own and even taken her under their collective wing. In a way they never had with him. Even Steve Lawson had fronted him when things got a bit tense out there.
And given that Sergeant Lawson was one of very few people authorised to know what he did for a living before coming home to WildSprings, that took some fairly big cojones on Steve’s part. But he’d done it for Romy. They all had.
What was it about her that had an entire town running interference? Trying to protect her.
Had him wanting to protect her…despite tonight’s complete stuff-up.
Romy marched up and down the rows of cars neatly parked on the football field behind the pub, breathing deeply. Even a town like Quendanup and the surrounding districts could turn up a big crowd when it wanted to. The dazzling fireworks show went on overhead and insects crash-darted into her, blinded by their attraction to the floodlights that kept the forty vehicles securely lit.
She stared at a large, fuzzy moth that plopped, exhausted, onto the dusty bonnet of a Land Cruiser. It flipped uselessly on singed wings and then lay twitching in the breeze. Stupid things—they’d fly themselves quite literally to death before they’d learn not to orbit the dazzling floodlights.
Remind you of anyone?
She kicked back into gear and resumed her manic pacing.
Just. Stay. Away. How hard could that be on a property as big as WildSprings? What kind of masochistic moth was she to keep putting herself within burning distance of Clint’s brilliant glow? He wasn’t obvious and showy like the almost-day football lights. He was darker, closer to an ultraviolet black light—harmless to the naked eye but irresistible to hapless moths passing by.
And entirely deadly.
Thoughts tumbled, unordered, through her mind. Was it wrong to want to march right up there and climb back into his strong arms? To discover what their two bodies would have felt like coming together? To give herself until midnight and only then face the real world?
Lord, it tempted her.
She’d been so disgustingly good her whole life. Restrained and reasonable and safe. The single blot on her copybook was that fateful night when the Colonel’s bullying had finally driven her to brand her body and then give away her innocence to a stranger. Both of which, as it transpired, were completely irrevocable.
And now this. Letting herself get involved with the most inappropriate man possible. Damaged, reclusive, military goods. The third stupid thing she’d done in her life. But at least this she had a hope of walking away from.
‘Ugh!’
Agony shot through her left foot as two inches of her three-inch Manolo sank to the side in the soft turf of the football field while the rest of her dropped like a stun-gun victim the other way. The delicate tangle of tendons and muscles in her ankle wrenched violently.
As if her night wasn’t ruined as it was—now her beautiful dress would have grass stains. And not from anything worth getting grass stains for! She rolled onto her side to slip her foot out of the trapped stiletto, and then pulled herself up against the bumper of a nearby 4WD, drawing her foot to her body and pressing her hands around her damaged ankle. Shocked tears welled dangerously.
You’re not seriously thinking about crying?
The Colonel’s voice again. Romy sucked in a series of deep breaths and looked around urgently for something to focus on. Studying the minute details of objects—anything—had always helped her head off the tears her father wouldn’t tolerate.
Light from the fireworks bounced in a beautiful spectrum off the broken headlight of the vehicle she was half hanging onto. Her arm looped around the roo bar and she pulled herself into a more upright position, ignoring the sharp stab in her leg. Any second now it would be a nasty throb and then a horrible ache.
She stared at the way the light fragmented and bounced off the many facets of the shattered headlight, depending on where she moved her head. Amazing how light worked. It really was very pretty. The wash in her eyes trebled the effect. She swiped at them with her free arm while hoisting herself further up into a sitting position on using the heavy 4WD for ballast. Sure enough, the tears eventually subsided.
Thanks for something, Colonel.
Romy reached down and slipped her remaining shoe off and tossed it over to its offending partner. Her ankle didn’t so much scream as moan.
Twisted, then, not broken.
As she prepared to pull herself up onto her good foot, the final fireworks of the evening went off with a loud crack. Thousands of bright embers showered earthwards like a supersize sparkling jellyfish, falling harmlessly to the ground and throwing a daylight-bright glow onto everything around her. One tire of the 4WD was right next to her face and the fireworks lit it perfectly. Romy stared, knowing exactly where she’d seen that distinctive tread before.
On a seldom-used track at WildSprings.
She shoved away from the roo bar in disgust and scrambled over to her shoes, ignoring the sharp protest of her injured ankle and knowing this was the same view that kangaroo would have taken to its grave. From below, the vehicle was all wheels, chrome and bug-encrusted grille. The tread marks at the scene had been so distinctive. There couldn’t possibly be two of them in the same district.
She scrabbled for her clutch purse, pulled out her mobile phone and called up the photo from the roo-strike site. It matched these tyres perfectly. She snapped a new one, this time of the tire itself, a second and third of the vehicle emblem and the broken headlight and finally the registration plate on the 4WD.
How she’d love to get her hands on whoever was driving roughshod through her park.
Her park? Ooh, that felt way too good on the lips.
She shoved her phone back into her clutch and started to push herself up, trying to right her legs from their awkward, splayed position. Like an obscene Barbie doll someone had tossed to the ground with its glamorous outfit all hiked high.
‘Romy,
