The Soldier's Untamed Heart Page 2

  ‘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.