The Men In Uniform Collection. Barbara McMahon

Her body still fit perfectly against his. Her heels meant her cheek was closer to his shoulder than his chest, for a change, but otherwise the hardness of his body and the softness of hers merged as they effortlessly moved to the gentle music.

       This is not heavenly, this is not heavenly…

      But, oh, Lord, it was pure heaven. She didn’t have enough experience with men to know whether all dancing felt like this. Whether all men smelled like he did. Whether all kisses tingled like his had. Every living part of her wanted to crawl into the circle of his arms and never come out. To be cherished and spoiled and watched over forever. To be able to put aside the load…just for a little bit.

      It was almost as seductive as the feel of his hips pressed close against hers by the crowd. And they were only dancing. Imagine how it would be if—

      ‘No!’ She pulled away from him. Tense heat simmered down on her but he gave her some air. If not complete freedom. She trained her focus where his hands still held her in a velvet vice.

      ‘I didn’t realise agreeing to come along tonight meant I’d be chained to your side all evening.’ Okay, it was a bitch of a thing to say but she had to put some space between them. And if it couldn’t be physical…

      His nostrils flared, his eyes blazed, but he remained silent. And his hold on her loosened a hint further. But not entirely. She scanned the room nervously, hoping for salvation. It wasn’t that she was in any danger, but she suddenly didn’t feel…safe.

      His face tightened. ‘You’re going to have to do something about the mixed messages you’re sending, Romy. They’re triggering my innate need to conquer. I’m trained to overcome obstacles and you do have a way of stacking them up irresistibly.’

      Conquer. Overcome. These were not concepts she was comfortable with but they roused some slumbering beast living deep inside of her. A creature that didn’t crack open an eye very often. A fundamental, ancient need to align herself with the strongest male, one who could provide and protect.

      And procreate.

      The most base level of survival instincts. And Romy was struggling with the purely chemical, Darwinian response of a mammal recognising its perfect mate.

      She stumbled in his hold.

      ‘Romy, would you like to dance?’ Steve Lawson was suddenly by her side, materialising out of nowhere. His ruddy cheeks were paler than usual but he had a determined expression on his face and, after only a moment of doubt, he met Clint’s less-than-pleased glare. ‘You don’t mind, mate, right?’

      Oh, bless you and your country courage, Steven Lawson! Knights in shining armour sometimes didn’t come on a horse. Carolyn’s anxious face bobbed in and out of view across the crowded room. Romy freed herself from the strong grip keeping her captive.

      ‘Thank you, Steve, I’d love to. And, no, he doesn’t mind.’

      She practically fell into her friend’s careful hold as Clint dissolved back into the crowd. For the first minute, Steve did all the work, holding her upright, keeping her moving, chatting away casually, and it gave her the time she needed to recover her composure.

      Somewhat.

      When the dance ended, someone else swooped in to take Steve’s place. A complete and welcome stranger. Then another and another. Romy danced with half the town before she began to suspect Carolyn was orchestrating this social interference. Either that or the novelty of a single woman willing to dance in a female-deficient environment had caught on. Regardless, the result was the same. After one unsuccessful attempt to reclaim her, Clint had taken up post in the corner of the room, scaring off with a glare anyone who approached him.

      Not that she was watching.

      She was exhausted when the band finally stopped for a break, but—amazingly—she really had enjoyed being the belle of the ball. When else in her life had that ever happened? She’d met a swag of new people and, conveniently, it gave her the perfect excuse not to think about the giant thundercloud in the corner.

      Or her feelings for him, more specifically.

      Her pleasure at the flattering attentions of the men in the room was not a patch on the intense rush she’d experienced when Clint had first seen her this evening. He’d called her Cinderella and, standing in the glow of her Honda’s headlights clothed in a fairytale dress and shoes costing a fortnight’s salary, it was exactly how she’d felt. Like no rules applied tonight because it was a magical night.

      And Clint had been her prince. His frank appraisal in the headlights had been both honest and raw. The liquid magma heating his gaze had come from a place so deep she found it impossible not to respond.

      But then they’d made small talk. Danced. Argued. And the real world came crashing back in the same split second she realised she was badly attracted to Clint McLeish. Biologically attracted. Damaged, angry, military Clint. A man torn apart from the institution which sustained him—that he still very clearly wished he was a part of. A man trained in the same methodology as her father.

      She reached for the table edge to steady herself.

      What kind of cosmic reward was this? She’d done her best to overcome challenges in life, had never once complained about the predicament her own foolish actions had left her in. She’d studied and worked hard and had taken on a grown-up’s responsibility before she really was one. And her reward…?

      To find herself perilously close to falling for the absolute worst kind of man for her.

      She closed her eyes and took several deep, steadying breaths.

      ‘Romy?’

      She spun around, blinking, her internal radar going into alarm. ‘Oh, Justin. Hi.’

      His eyes narrowed, as though he heard the disappointment in her voice. ‘You’ve danced with everyone but me this evening.’

      No more dancing. Not now. All she really wanted to do was go home. ‘Justin, I’m sorry. I’m all tuckered out.’

      He frowned. ‘I’m serious, Romy. Every man here. Except me.’

      She matched his expression, smelled the alcohol on him. ‘I understand, Justin. But I’m sorry, I’m tired.’

      Justin slipped both arms around her waist and pulled her into a close embrace. ‘Dance with me…’

      This close, his eyes were like his brother’s. But where Clint’s slumbered with sensuality, Justin’s swilled with liquor and raw, hard sexual interest. What was he doing? Justin only ever spoke to her on the strictest business terms—was the whole damned world upside down tonight? She pushed ineffectually against him, trying to break free. He resisted. So she did the next best thing, slipped her hands up his back and found the magic spot in his left shoulder…and pressed with all her strength.

      Justin staggered to the side, his left arm dropping away uselessly. ‘Son of a…’

      ‘I said no, Justin. Perhaps you didn’t hear me?’ Icicles could have formed on her words. A few nearby faces turned towards them.

      He glared at her, embarrassed and more than a little ashamed, judging by his colour. ‘It was just a dance.’

      It was just the liquor. Her mind took her immediately to another man, one who eschewed the addling effects of alcohol. She sought him out across the room but his corner was empty. She turned back to Justin, a hollow feeling in her chest.

      ‘Does it still hurt?’ She knew from her martial-arts training it wouldn’t. It was a pressure-point trick. Like pinching the funny bone. But less funny.

      He rubbed at the offending shoulder, avoiding eye contact. ‘No, it’s fine. I apologise. I think I’ve had too much to drink.’

      You think? He was still her boss, technically. Romy erred on the side of caution. ‘Don’t worry about it, Justin. Maybe you need some air?’

      He