The Men In Uniform Collection. Barbara McMahon

the power of his raw sexuality. She’d dreamed about those lips but even her most fever-inducing fantasies were nothing on the real deal. The actual taste and feel of his hot mouth crushing against hers. His powerful tongue thrusting in and out. His strong hands clenching in her hair.

      He lifted her off her feet and spun around to press her into the wall, not leaving her lips for longer than it took to groan into the night and heave in a shuddering breath. His body alone pinned her against the bricks, leaving his hands free to roam wildly over her.

      Up, down, up again. And all the while he plundered the depths of her mouth, dangerously hard and fantastically hot.

      And utterly, utterly mind-blowing.

      Romy moaned and pure sexual instinct made her hook her legs around his hips, securing her position, wanting to get closer. Anything to relieve the ache building deep at her core. She sank her fingers into the thick, short crop of his hair, panting heavily, and met his assault on her mouth.

      He pushed the fabric of her dress hard up her legs and stroked the rounded flesh of her thighs and bottom. Her sensitised skin screamed at the torture. She thrust her head back for air. He zeroed in on her throat.

      ‘Whoa! People, get a room!’

      Romy froze. Clint stiffened and dragged his mouth off her. In the same moment, they both seemed to realise what they were doing. And where. And with whom. The stranger wobbled away from them laughing, carrying a half-drunk beer and a spare one for later.

      The bright explosion of light wasn’t in her mind, Romy realised. It was real. The fireworks entertainment had started, bringing all the fundraiser guests out into the garden, only twenty metres from where she was half naked in a doorway with her legs wrapped around a Special Forces operative.

       Chapter Eight

      ‘LET me down.’

      Her voice was tight and cold where moments ago it had been hot and wet against his lips, moaning against his ear.

      Clint lowered her carefully to the ground, using his body to shield her from the view of any other drunken idiots who might wander by. He was in no condition to turn around, anyway, so giving Romy a moment to pull herself together was a win for both of them.

      What the hell had he done?

      Her chest heaved with her gasping breath, highlighting her perfect cleavage a treat from his height. The shadowed curves begged him to worship them. That’s what he’d done. Let his hormones overrule his head. The thing he was trained never to do. Sex, alcohol, fear—none of which were supposed to affect his judgement or his precision.

      Except it wasn’t only hormones. His heart was getting involved now, and where in his many years of training did anyone say anything about hearts?

      ‘I need to get out of here…’

      Her face was pale, her hair and makeup dishevelled. No way could she go back in there tonight looking as if she’d been doing exactly what she had been. It was hard to tell what upset her more, getting hot and heavy with him…or being caught doing it.

      ‘Romy—’

      She thrust both hands in front of his face. ‘Don’t, Clint.’

      He stepped away. Her shields came up faster than on the Starship Enterprise.

      ‘I need a minute…’ Her breathing was erratic.

      She pressed past him and his stupid, starving body still leapt at her touch. It hadn’t been that long surely? Did he have no resistance left whatsoever? Blinding flashes of colour went off above them. Each one painted her face a different shade of pale.

      She started to stumble off. ‘I’ll meet you by the car.’

      ‘I’ll just go in and give our—’ she was gone before he’d finished ‘—apologies.’

      He closed his eyes and punched both fists against the wall on a curse. He’d really screwed 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