The Men In Uniform Collection. Barbara McMahon

You will not find that sexy…

      Her little pep talk helped for a moment. But only a moment. Clint stopped in front of the car and stared at her. All her usual Romy-isms failed her. No single eyebrow lift, no sarcastic comment, no impatient sigh. Her eyes struggled to free themselves from the compelling hold of his.

      The blood pumping through her heart ached.

      Then that beautiful mouth twisted in the glow of light and he held up a perfectly manicured hand and folded all four fingers towards him, just once. His sights remained locked on her.

       Don’t get out.

      Her driver assist started dinging as the door sprung open and she swung her Manolo Blahniks out onto the leafy earth. As she pulled herself to her feet, the silken sheath of her dress slithered back down to her calves, cool and sensual against her skin.

      Clint squinted in the headlights as she stepped out from behind the driver’s door. It was like approaching a wild animal; moving towards him was not an option, so she circled him carefully, not taking her focus off him lest he lunge. He followed her every step, focus still fixed on her, until she joined him in the headlights.

      His Adam’s apple worked overtime lurching upwards from the black tie that constrained it. Heat seemed to radiate off him, even in the relative cool of evening.

      Her spirit finally battled her way through the seductive fog enveloping her. She lifted one brow in question.

      He shook his head. ‘You look…amazing.’ His voice could have melted ice.

      She felt amazing. Doubly so as she saw herself reflected in the dark pools of his eyes. Her embroidered bodice followed the contours of her bust snugly, giving her a boost in all the right places. Her confidence not the least. Then it draped over her waist and hips and fell in luxurious fawn folds to her ankles. Green eyes grazed leisurely up the length of her.

      Her pulse thrummed in places she’d never guessed she had one. ‘You look…dangerous. But good.’ How could it feel as though he was touching her when they were a metre apart? So much for keeping a safe distance.

      ‘I’m feeling a bit dangerous right now,’ he said. ‘Maybe we should get going?’

      She turned back to the car but his large hand came out and wrapped around hers. Around the keys clenched nervously in it.

      ‘I’d like to drive,’ he said. ‘And before you protest…no, this is not a guy thing. I just…Cinderella should not have to drive herself to the ball.’

      Oh. She swallowed past the sudden knot in her throat. His fingers were warm and steady around hers as he stepped closer. Even in three-inch heels she still had to tip her head to look at him.

      ‘Will you let me drive, Romy?’

      He said drive like he meant make love to you. In a voice of pure molten lava. Her body trembled. No way was she capable of arguing.

       Stop it!

      She stepped back and released the clutch of keys to him, working hard not to simply stumble around to the passenger side. Unaccustomed as she was to serious heels, and with barely any courage left in her legs, it wasn’t easy. She sank gratefully into the leather seat and then arranged her feet and skirt modestly in front of her, smoothing nervous hands down her thighs a few times. The repetition was comforting.

       Excellent. Her obsessive compulsive disorder was coming along nicely…

      ‘You’re going to have to stop that, or I’ll drive us off the road.’

      Startled eyes shot up to meet dark ones and her hands froze. Clint’s focus dropped to where she’d smoothed the fabric tightly against her thighs as his capable, tanned hands turned the ignition. Heat blazed through the car and not all of it was coming from him.

      Sixty kilometres.

       Oh, my…

       Chapter Seven

      THE one thing Romy had not expected this evening was to have a good time.

      She’d nearly tumbled from the car on arrival, desperate to escape the intense chemistry saturating her little Honda for the past thirty minutes. Sixty kilometres was not far by country standards but she’d never taken a longer journey in her life.

      They’d made polite small talk—in the car and throughout the evening so far—while ignoring the rampant hormones swirling around them like an aura. The thing between them was not getting any less, particularly not while they were both dressed to undress.

      Arriving and melting into the throng of other similarly clad partiers helped to dilute her intense awareness of what she wore and how it affected Clint. And how him being affected was affecting her. But despite all the suits in the beautifully done up venue and all the strapping, country men wearing them, there was not a man here who so much as touched the presence Clint McLeish commanded.

      Eyes followed him wherever he went. Curious ones, ambitious ones, envious ones. And one particularly grey, particularly conflicted pair that sought him out against her will, even now, and divided their time equally between his hands and his lips.

      Romy tore her attention back to the room in general. Half the district was here and she recognised a few faces. Simone, in the corner having an animated conversation full of wild gesticulations that tossed splashes of white wine everywhere. Justin, by the bar, looking bored. She nodded and raised her drink to Carolyn and Steve Lawson, who’d been gracious enough to add Leighton to their brood having a popcorn and movie night, watched over by a child-minder. They started towards her with welcome smiles on their faces but then Carolyn suddenly reached out and halted Steve’s progress, dragging him off in another direction entirely.

      ‘Care for a refill?’ Clint appeared next to her, a glass of champagne in one hand and what looked like juice in the other.

      She caught open speculation and amusement in Carolyn’s expression a moment before her friend disappeared into the crowd.

      ‘No, thank you. I’ve had my one. Driving, remember?’

      Clint graciously handed her the juice and then dropped the untouched champagne onto the tray of a passing waiter. She looked at him curiously.

      ‘You won’t have it?’ She hadn’t seen him with alcohol in his hand all night. She frowned again. Ever, in fact.

      He surveyed the room, absently. ‘I don’t drink.’

      That didn’t surprise her. She’d never met a better candidate for alcoholism.

      As if he read her mind, he elaborated. ‘I don’t like to blur my faculties. In my line of business that’s counterproductive.’

      She didn’t miss his use of the present tense. ‘To running a posh retreat in the country?’

      He dropped his gaze back to hers, his smile tight. ‘With you I need to stay on my toes.’ His gaze swept over her embroidered bodice so quickly she thought she’d imagined it. ‘My senses are already addled enough without adding liquor to the equation.’

      The heat in his eyes told her exactly what—who—was responsible for that. Addled was a good word for how she’d been feeling all night herself. She blinked up at him.

      ‘What are we doing?’ she squeaked as she suddenly found herself being towed towards the dance floor.

      ‘It’s called dancing, Romy. People like it.’ His voice thinned.

      ‘You didn’t ask me if I wanted to dance!’ Okay, now she really was just picking a fight.

      ‘I didn’t need to. You look like you either want to be kissed or touched. Given the gathered audience, I’m going for touched.’

      Her mouth