The Men In Uniform Collection. Barbara McMahon

a stun-gun victim the other way. The delicate tangle of tendons and muscles in her ankle wrenched violently.

      As if her night wasn’t ruined as it was—now her beautiful dress would have grass stains. And not from anything worth getting grass stains for! She rolled onto her side to slip her foot out of the trapped stiletto, and then pulled herself up against the bumper of a nearby 4WD, drawing her foot to her body and pressing her hands around her damaged ankle. Shocked tears welled dangerously.

       You’re not seriously thinking about crying?

      The Colonel’s voice again. Romy sucked in a series of deep breaths and looked around urgently for something to focus on. Studying the minute details of objects—anything—had always helped her head off the tears her father wouldn’t tolerate.

      Light from the fireworks bounced in a beautiful spectrum off the broken headlight of the vehicle she was half hanging onto. Her arm looped around the roo bar and she pulled herself into a more upright position, ignoring the sharp stab in her leg. Any second now it would be a nasty throb and then a horrible ache.

      She stared at the way the light fragmented and bounced off the many facets of the shattered headlight, depending on where she moved her head. Amazing how light worked. It really was very pretty. The wash in her eyes trebled the effect. She swiped at them with her free arm while hoisting herself further up into a sitting position on using the heavy 4WD for ballast. Sure enough, the tears eventually subsided.

       Thanks for something, Colonel.

      Romy reached down and slipped her remaining shoe off and tossed it over to its offending partner. Her ankle didn’t so much scream as moan.

      Twisted, then, not broken.

      As she prepared to pull herself up onto her good foot, the final fireworks of the evening went off with a loud crack. Thousands of bright embers showered earthwards like a supersize sparkling jellyfish, falling harmlessly to the ground and throwing a daylight-bright glow onto everything around her. One tire of the 4WD was right next to her face and the fireworks lit it perfectly. Romy stared, knowing exactly where she’d seen that distinctive tread before.

      On a seldom-used track at WildSprings.

      She shoved away from the roo bar in disgust and scrambled over to her shoes, ignoring the sharp protest of her injured ankle and knowing this was the same view that kangaroo would have taken to its grave. From below, the vehicle was all wheels, chrome and bug-encrusted grille. The tread marks at the scene had been so distinctive. There couldn’t possibly be two of them in the same district.

      She scrabbled for her clutch purse, pulled out her mobile phone and called up the photo from the roo-strike site. It matched these tyres perfectly. She snapped a new one, this time of the tire itself, a second and third of the vehicle emblem and the broken headlight and finally the registration plate on the 4WD.

      How she’d love to get her hands on whoever was driving roughshod through her park.

      Her park? Ooh, that felt way too good on the lips.

      She shoved her phone back into her clutch and started to push herself up, trying to right her legs from their awkward, splayed position. Like an obscene Barbie doll someone had tossed to the ground with its glamorous outfit all hiked high.

      ‘Romy, what the hell have you done?’ Clint appeared from nowhere and scooped her into a standing position, taking most of her weight. She tugged at her dress, desperate to restore some dignity. But, really, what was the point?

      She opened her mouth, about to tell him about the 4WD and its tyres.

      ‘Seriously, can I not leave you alone for five minutes?’ he muttered, shaking his head.

      She stiffened in his hold and her chest tightened up. Now that was classic Colonel. Would Clint never see her as anything other than an amusement to be humoured, comforted or rescued? Even after running his hands all over her in the alley?

      He bent to lift her into his arms. All thought of the 4WD fled. ‘What are you doing?’ she cried, lurching away from him, balancing on one leg and counterbalancing with her clutch and her shoes in the other hand.

      His handsome face frowned. ‘I’m going to carry you to the car.’

      ‘Like hell you are! I can get there myself.’

      ‘Really?’ He straightened and glared at her, all hints of desire gone. He glanced down where she held her damaged foot carefully off the ground. ‘Fine, knock yourself out.’

       With my luck I probably will.

      She braced her shoe hand on the bonnet of the 4WD and used it as a crutch, pitching away a metre. She regained her balance and then pushed herself forwards until she hit the front of the next car in line.

      ‘Romy, let me help. Please.’ He growled right behind her. ‘I’ll just pick you up.’

      ‘No.’ Her concentration frown was so intense it almost marred her view and she braced herself on the bonnet and then pushed off on her good foot.

      This might actually work.

      ‘Then let me be your crutch…’

      ‘You’re too tall.’ She lunged towards the next car in the row and nearly missed, catching herself on the bad ankle. She wasn’t quick enough to swallow the cry.

      ‘For God’s sake, let me carry you.’ He was right there, hovering.

      She couldn’t touch him again. Not without crying. ‘Clint, no! I need to do this by myself.’

      Need to? Where had that come from? Damn.

      He backed off—just a little—and let her go, shadowing close behind. It was excruciating in pain and speed but she would have dragged herself home with her fingernails to get her point across.

      She was a capable woman. He needed to see her as one.

      About halfway to her car she remembered the 4WD, and roughly three-quarters of the way there she decided not to tell him about it. She wanted to solve it first. Come to him with a resolution, not a problem. She had contacts in the police department who could run those plates on the quiet. Give her an idea of who was yahooing in the park.

      She lurched onwards.

      Finally, she reached her Honda, practically gasping with exhaustion. Clint stepped around in front of her, took one look at the unshed tears in her eyes and his lips thinned impossibly further. But his voice dropped down a measure.

      ‘Have you quite finished with the Xena: Warrior Princess act?’

      She dashed at her lashes. ‘If you hadn’t been here I would have had to get myself to the car. Why would I do any different just because you are?’ Just because I’m dying for you to hold me.

      His frown doubled. ‘If I wasn’t here, you wouldn’t have been aerating the pitch with your heels in the first place.’

      True enough. Romy collapsed onto the passenger seat and swung her good leg in, then carefully lifted her damaged one beside it. ‘Do you mind driving?’

      His expression answered for him. He crossed around to the front of the car and then slid in behind the wheel. The interior light faded as soon as his door closed and he turned the key she passed him too hard, double-jacking the motor.

      She stiffened in her seat. She and anger didn’t play well. She’d spent a lifetime trying to avoid conflict with her father; she didn’t need it in her new life in the country. Sitting right beside her.

      But it looked like conflict had found her.

      They drove out of town in complete silence, not even the radio to provide some light relief. Simply breathing felt like wading through congealed molasses. She fixed her stare out into the inky darkness, trying to ignore Clint’s tangible simmer.

      Failing.

      Angry-Romy was all tuckered