The Men In Uniform Collection. Barbara McMahon

broiled in Clint’s gut. Not because the Colonel had tracked his daughter and grandson for the past six years but because of the impact that news had on his wife. She didn’t tremble or stiffen further, but her skin went icily cold.

      ‘The whole time?’

      He kissed the delicate coils of her hair, lingering as though his lips alone could warm her back up. ‘I’d do the same, Rom, if you were taken from me. I’d have to know you were all right.’

      She clung to the sharp creases of his dress uniform. ‘That’s because you love me.’

      He let her think about that. She pulled back, looked up at him with anguished eyes, shaking her head. ‘No. He doesn’t love me.’

      ‘Not in any conventional way. I think maybe…in his own way…He just can’t show it.’ He let her digest the information for a moment. ‘He sounds broken, Rom.’

      Broken, but still a hard man. Clint got that after three minutes on the phone. Romy endured it for twenty years.

      Her eyes clouded over and she pressed her body hard against his. ‘I don’t want to talk about him tonight. Not tonight.’

      His arms came up to stroke the bare flesh of her back, drifted blindly down to where the eagle stretched its wings over her hips. Where his code name branded her flesh beneath the softness of her dress. The shivers that Mexican-waved their way through her body suddenly had no relationship to thinking about her father. There was one sure way he could help undo the damage the Colonel had inflicted on Romy’s gentle soul.

      Love. In all its forms. Unconditional. Passionate. Eternal.

      The familiar high rushed through him. But it was adrenaline of a new kind, the kind only this woman could elicit. He smiled against her flower-braided hair.

      ‘Are you nervous, Mrs McLeish?’

      She tipped her head back and lifted her chin, failing abysmally to be brave. Every Neanderthal instinct in him came surging forth, most of it mustering to his south. This was their first night together. Why wouldn’t she be nervous?

      Look at how her last experience had ended up.

      The desire to plant his seed deep inside the woman he loved was so immediate, so primal and raw, he had to force himself not to sweep her up into his arms and make her his on the spot. He sucked in a deep, shuddering breath.

      ‘I will never hurt you, Romy. As far as I’m concerned, this is your first time, as though you’ve never made love.’ She met his gaze with a molten one of her own and his heart lurched.

      ‘I have never made love,’ she said. ‘That’s one hundred percent true.’

      Clint dipped his head and kissed her, his fingers going automatically to the polished buttons of his military dress coat, his lips keeping his woman close. As soon as the jacket hit the nearest chair, he yanked at the strangling tie, burning up with the taste of her.

      His shirt was the next target. Given it was the last time he’d ever wear his dress uniform, donning it for his wedding seemed appropriate. A symbolic transition between his previous life and his new one. His CO had been surprised to hear from him, but not surprised to hear he was retiring from the force as soon as his contract expired. With an honourable discharge, his reputation and his belief in himself restored, in order to focus on his family.

      His new family.

      The beige shirt fluttered down to join the coat and his fingers brushed Romy’s trembling ones as they joined in removing his belt. Dangerously close to a part of him that was about as sensitive as a hair-trigger landmine right now. He sucked in his belly sharply as her fingers traced the definition of his obliques. Urgency made them both fumble. They’d been holding back for weeks, desperate to know every part of each other but determined to start their life together in a way that was respectful of her son.

      Clint slowed to a halt at the power punch to his heart. Their son.

      He smiled. He was a father. The wonders of this day were only just starting.

      Romy peered up at him, her high cheeks flushed, her eyes the colour of stacked clouds during an electrical storm. ‘Clint? You better not be changing your mind…’

       Not a chance.

      He captured her small hands in his and dragged them up between them, away from their dangerous play. It was no effort at all to spin her in his arms, and drag her against his body. The heat now flaring from the bare skin of her back soaked into his chest and his lips found the soft rise of her shoulders.

      Romy sagged as she felt his lips press along the arch of her neck. Those magnificent hands gently encouraged the strap of her wedding dress down over one shoulder. Sheer modesty brought her hands up to capture the dress against her breast as the other strap followed.

      ‘Let me see it, Romy,’ he purred against her ear.

      Delight whispered along her sensitised skin. She knew what he meant, what it meant to him. Knew he’d been extraordinarily patient. It was crazy, but there was no other part of her she was more shy about revealing.

      ‘I want to see my name on your body.’

      Clint’s mouth was hot, wet torture as it worked its way over Romy’s shoulder blades, down her spine and then followed the scoop of the fabric to his destination. He knelt behind her, his large hands reaching around to slip the dress completely off and let it fall to her hips, exposing her back and revealing her tattoo.

      His lips traced the delicate artwork of the living raptor sealed into the skin of her lower back and her lashes fluttered shut. The scorching, sensual slide of his mouth over what had been her private shame was erotically charged and pangs of desire ricocheted through her. Her body curved like a marble statue, her head fell back and her breathing quickened as Clint explored the giant eagle, feather by excruciating feather.

      Discovering his call sign was ‘Wedgetail’ had only confirmed what Romy had already known. They were meant to be together. She tore herself away from the sweet torture, kicked off her heels and scrambled across the enormous bed, sucking in desperate breaths, needing to put a tiny bit of distance between her and the blazing furnace of heat that was all hers.

      Their hasty wedding date had been the scandal of the district but already the gossips were bartering something else—the arrest of Justin Long and the exposure of the smuggling ring.

      Clint had seen to that. Her wonderful, capable, brilliant hero. Husband. He’d sacrificed his pride and privacy for hers. He’d also spoken convincingly for his brother in the preliminary court case convened a week after Justin’s capture. The ordeal would stay with Clint forever but he’d done what he could to help his wayward brother. Romy loved him all the more for it.

      She sank against the king-size bedhead, clutching her slip to her breast and eyeing the mountain of a man she’d married. He rose back to his feet, predatory but exciting. She’d never felt safer with anyone.

      He dispatched his footwear and trousers without taking his sights off her. Her heart hammered in her fragile chest. This must be how a gazelle feels right before the lion strikes. Except for her, the slow-motion waiting was a whole different kind of torture. The last time she’d seen his powerful body so revealed had been that day by the dam. Only there were no swimming trunks between them now.

      She swallowed hard.

      He stood, massive and strong, at the foot of the bed, looking every bit the defender of a nation. A wall of muscle tapered away from the smooth, round shoulders she loved so much—loved to drape herself off, loved to press her lips to, loved to feel under her fingertips. His body was a geometric work of art, all rigid planes and hard, defined edges. About as far from her ample, soft curves as possible.

       Vive la différence!

      He knelt on the end of the slab of a bed and crawled towards her, his smoky eyes locked onto their target with thrilling intent. Romy’s mouth dried up completely. He stretched out