Men In Uniform: Taken By The Soldier: The Soldier's Untamed Heart / Closer... / Groom Under Fire

For the first time since she met him, he looked genuinely surprised. ‘Your father? I thought…You seemed so…’

‘You thought I was running from a failed relationship?’ He didn’t need to nod. ‘I guess in a way I am. But not a romantic one.’

She hadn’t been with anyone since the night Leighton was conceived. But she was hardly going to tell him that.

‘What branch was he?’

Here came the inevitable. Romy sighed. ‘He’s a colonel in the army.’

She saw the very moment Clint made the connection. His eyebrows shot up. ‘Colonel Martin Carvell is your father?’

Under his inquisitive gaze Romy felt all of sixteen again.

Clint whistled. ‘He’s a legend in the Defence Force.’

He was capable of being impressed, then. Just not by her. Her smile tightened and she pushed the remainder of her food away. ‘I’m sure he is. He lived and breathed the army.’

Those sharp green eyes missed nothing. ‘But you’re running from him?’

‘He wasn’t much of a legend as a father. I had no interest in raising my son around his influence.’ She saw no understanding in his expression. On any other day she would have let it go. Changed the subject. But not with this man. Not tonight. She wanted him to understand.

She nailed him with her eyes. ‘Do you remember your basic training?’

His scoff was immediate. ‘How could I forget? It was hell.’

‘How old were you?’

‘Eighteen.’

Romy nodded. Paused. ‘Imagine being five.’

She stood, collected both their plates and took them to the kitchen where they clattered as she dropped them into the sink. She cursed. His focus was on her the whole way. Clint’s spaghetti was the best she’d ever had but it congealed like concrete in her suddenly churning stomach. She busied herself with scraping off the scraps into his compost tub and rinsing the bowls, blinking furiously.

Out of nowhere, his large hands slid over hers, stilling their fevered activity. His body pressed against her and he spoke behind her ear. ‘Leave it, Romy.’

She froze immediately and let him pull the dishes out of her wet, trembling hands. He took one into his own large one and pulled her towards the deck. She stumbled along behind him, sick with the grief of her childhood memories. Recalling vividly what that harsh discipline had felt like to someone not old enough to understand the words, let alone the reason.

Outside, he dropped her hand and she clung to the balustrade for support, breathing deeply. She’d never let herself even think about those days, never mind talk about them. It hurt too much. She started suturing up the bursts in her protective layer. Double-reinforcing the leaks.

‘Don’t,’ he said.

She glanced at him warily. ‘Don’t what?’

‘Don’t shove it all down again. Don’t try and hide it from me. Or from yourself.’

The pain had to go somewhere. She rounded it back onto him, furiously. ‘Uh, pot…kettle…black!’

He kept the anger well contained, although she saw it flirting at the edges of his expression. ‘It’s because I know so much about it that I don’t want to see you do it to yourself.’

She fumed silently, recognising the truth.

‘How old were you when you left?’ he asked.

Facts were so much easier to deal with than feelings. ‘Nearly twenty.’

His face tipped towards hers. ‘So Leighton was…nearly two?’

‘He wouldn’t let me leave before that.’ She shoved those memories down deep, too. The misery of being trapped with a man she hated while a life grew in her frightened teen belly, then trying to protect herself and her infant son from the Colonel’s influence for two years. Her horror when, after barely acknowledging Leighton’s existence since his birth, her father had suddenly realised he had a boy-child in the house and began paying attention. The awful day he brought home a toy gun for the little soldier. Started making plans for his future. That same day, Romy looked up available support services online. It was the best thing the Colonel had ever done for her.

Even the darkness didn’t disguise Clint’s reaction. The flash of fury. ‘He hurt you?’

She dropped her eyes. ‘Define hurt?’

‘Did he touch you?’

‘Some things are more painful than a thrashing. And his precious code of honour meant he drew a line at beating a pregnant woman.’

Clint stared at her, assessing. ‘But before that?’

Pity mingled with compassion in his eyes and pain lanced through her. She was nobody’s charity case. She pushed away from the balustrade and turned for the door, blinking back tears. ‘Before that, I was a recruit to be broken by whatever means he saw fit.’

He moved quickly but she was quicker, fuelled by hurt and anger. She got halfway to the front door before he spun her back, into the wall of his chest. She resisted the bolt of pleasure that shot through her on feeling his arms around her.

‘Romy, I can’t let you go like this. So upset. Not to an empty house.’

‘I’m not your responsibility.’

He slid his hands over her shoulders and framed her face on both sides, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘Stay and talk with me. Just until I know you’re okay.’

She tried to pull away but his easy hold was like a vice. ‘I’m fine. Please let me go. Please…’ She was holding the tears in check, but barely. Don’t let me cry in front of him.

Too late.

A fat tear leaked out the corner of one eye and raced down onto her cheek. His thumb caught it and wiped it away. She pressed her lids closed, unable to bear seeing disappointment in his. At her weakness.

Carvells don’t cry!

Clint pulled her into his shoulder, threading one hand through her hair and wrapping the other firmly around her waist. ‘Ah, Romy…’

She fit against his contours so perfectly he burned to feel the stiffness of her body turn into warm, relaxed flesh. This was his fault. He never should have quizzed her about her past. He’d only done it to get her off the uncomfortable topic of his brother.

‘Shh…’

Stroking her seemed to help, and he was masochist enough to appreciate how good it felt to hold her. Just once. He willed his body not to respond to hers, not to drive her any further away than he already had, but it wasn’t easy thinking when all he wanted to do was wrap her up in his arms and never let her out.

Bit by bit, her tension softened and almost seemed to shrink in his arms. He kept up the gentle rhythm of his hands, stroking her hair, her back, trailing over her skin. It was impossible to think of her as an employee when she was like this. She was a woman—someone he’d hurt—who needed comfort.

Just comfort.