The Men In Uniform Collection. Barbara McMahon
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tastefully decorated with an oversize glass shower recess. No bath. That didn’t surprise her in the slightest. Clint McLeish didn’t strike her as a soaker. He was all business. Get in dirty, get out clean. Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. She, on the other hand, liked nothing better as a rare treat than to light a bunch of candles after Leighton had gone to bed and soak until the water turned cold in her old claw-foot bath. The getting clean part was an incidental bonus.
Mind you, they probably didn’t make baths big enough that could comfortably contain a man Clint’s size. The impromptu thought was too close to imagining him in her claw-foot bath, and so she shut the thought away with a firm click of the bathroom door behind her.
The next room was a small study, significantly less tidy than the rest of the house. Computer, desk, wall-to-ceiling bookshelves, mixed art pieces, stuff everywhere. Much more like most of the rooms at her place.
Across the hall, a spare room with a single bed and simple decoration. Some basic weight-training gear leaned against the wall. A distant part of her wondered why a man who never had visitors bothered to hide his clutter away in the study.
Romy returned to the first door she’d encountered. The master bedroom. She froze. It’s only a room…Stick your head in and then head downstairs. Simple!
Right. But, oh, she was curious. You could tell a lot about a person by their bedroom. If you had questions…
She nudged the door with her shoulder, glancing selfconsciously behind her. The sounds of occupied clanking from the kitchen encouraged her to continue. By far the most dominant feature in the room was a low-profile, king-size bed with a rich charcoal bedspread. Entirely practical for a man of Clint’s height but there was something so…decadent…about the size and shape of it. Any bed she could sleep in lengthways, widthways or diagonally was all right in her book. It was far too easy to imagine herself stretched out on it.
And not necessarily alone.
She spun around, her feet moving silently on the woollen rug. A bank of built-in wardrobes lined one wall and Clint had positioned a couple of oversize armchairs in the corner for good measure. Everything was just…big. Romy suddenly felt like tiny Jack in the beanstalk story, sneaking through the giant’s palace in search of the golden goose.
As she had the thought, a golden glint on the far wall caught her eye. A small, framed curiosity was perfectly mounted in a prominent position. On the left, a silver sword flanked by two snakes with the motto Morte prima di disonore scrolled across the bottom. Death before dishonour. The symbol of Strike Force Taipan. That’s where she’d recognised his tattoo from. The insignia and others like it had practically wallpapered the Colonel’s living room wall.
Mounted to the right of the badge was a red ribbon with a gold star embedded in flames. Her breath died. Not Australia’s highest military honour, but it was one of its rarest.
‘It’s a Commendation for Gallantry.’
At the deep voice right behind her, she spun around, embarrassed to be caught snooping. But Clint’s attention was on the flaming star, not on her.
‘I know,’ she whispered. ‘For acts of conspicuous gallantry in action, in circumstances of great peril.’ Her mumbled words won his attention back. Instead of times tables, the Colonel had forced her to learn all of Australia’s medals, awards and commendations by rote.
He spoke just as she did. ‘How do you know this stuff?’
‘What did you do to earn this?’
Neither wanted to answer. They stared at each other in silence. Clint finally broke it, opening his mouth with a terse, ‘Spaghetti’s ready.’
She let herself be led out and down the stairs until her feet floated on the heavenly fragrance of real Italian sauce. She drifted towards the set table and searched around for something to say as they tucked into the pasta. Something to end the awkward silence.
‘So what’s Justin Long’s story?’
Clint eyed her over an enormous forkful of pasta, paused halfway to his mouth. ‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s young, to be managing a place like this.’
‘This coming from you?’ It wasn’t unfriendly. In fact, there was something decidedly warming about being gently teased. It created a charged kind of friction. It felt good.
‘I have good instincts about people. He doesn’t seem entirely…comfortable…in his role. Like a suit that doesn’t fit.’
Clint stared at her. ‘Interesting. What else?’
Romy shrugged. ‘He doesn’t like me.’
It was only a mouthful of food that prevented him bursting into laughter. After a moment he mumbled, ‘Half the staff don’t like you, according to you.’
‘He genuinely doesn’t. Since day one. It practically oozes from his pores.’
Clint shrugged. ‘It’s because I hired you. His nose is out of joint.’
‘You’re the boss. You can hire whoever you want, can’t you?’
Dark eyes studied her. ‘It’s complicated.’
Romy sighed. ‘If I’m going to be able to do my job well I need to know where the skeletons are. You know that.’
He placed his fork down with meticulous care. Took an age, he dabbed his napkin to his lips. ‘Justin is my brother.’
It was Romy’s turn to splutter. Heat roared up her cheeks. ‘What? Since when?’
‘Pretty much since birth.’
‘Ha-ha. Were you planning on telling me or were you just going to let me keep talking about him.’
‘I’m telling you now.’
There was no way a man with his training could possibly miss her simmering expression. Which mean she was being managed again. Romy took a deep breath. ‘Why have you not mentioned this before?’
‘It’s not pertinent.’
‘It most certainly is. Familial relationships in workplaces increase the likelihood of crime statistically, did you know that? Second only to romantic ones.’
He looked unimpressed. ‘Thanks for the intel. But this is a family business. He’s the last person I’d be concerned about ripping me off.’
‘How long has he worked for you?’
‘Is this a social question or a professional one?’ His careless tone screamed a warning. He kept his eyes artificially lowered.
Romy took a breath. Backed down. ‘Social.’ Gut instinct or not. ‘I’m interested.’
His grunt wasn’t convinced. ‘Mum took Justin to the US when she left. He lived there until he was nineteen. Then he…wanted to come home.’
Romy frowned. ‘He left your mum?’
‘We grow up, Romy. We all move away from our mothers eventually. Even Leighton will.’
He was changing the subject. Romy’s sensed it instantly.
‘Back to Justin…So he came home to WildSprings and you made him business manager?’
‘He’d been an assistant concierge in a big hotel in Chicago. He had the right skills and I wasn’t interested in running the place then. I’d just got back. I asked him to stay on.’
The word then struck her hard. She filed it away. ‘What hotel?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t care. Something French. Something big.’
‘You must trust him a lot. To give him the job on face value.’
Dark eyes burned into hers. ‘You don’t?’
No-one