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 messes with my family. The warning echoed in her mind. She shrugged and made her expression nonchalant. ‘I’m just making conversation.’
‘He really bothers you, doesn’t he?’ He pushed his half-empty plate away. ‘He’s my brother, Romy. Of course I trust him. And I owe him—’
If he hadn’t cut himself off so sharply, Romy might have let it go. ‘Owe him how?’
His face closed down right in front of her. Starting with his eyes and ending with the tightening of his mouth. ‘I can’t see how that has any bearing on park security.’
Romy’s heart banged painfully on her chest wall. She sat back. Dark eyes glared at her and he tipped his head. Subject closed.
For the next ten minutes they ate in silence, a thousand uncomfortable miles apart. So much for a civilised meal between colleagues. Romy’s mind worked overtime. Brothers. Oh, joy, that wasn’t going to be any fun to get in the middle of. She had no personal experience with siblings but she’d seen them at school, swinging between fiercely fighting and fiercely defending one another. Obviously a complicated relationship, growing up with someone.
How long would it take for the family issue to raise its head? The vibes she was getting off Justin Long guaranteed it would be coming up sooner or later. And she’d be square in the middle of it.
Romy caught Clint’s gaze on her a number of times but she dropped hers quickly to mask her thoughts. He was as efficient an eater as he was in everything else and he wiped his plate clean long before Romy did. She realised the error almost immediately. He’d finished and had nothing to do but stare. She was still eating and could hardly hint at going home while food sat on her plate.
Steady eyes considered her. ‘Who was he?’
She lifted her eyes, swallowing carefully. ‘Who?’
‘The man in your life who taught you to—’ he changed tack ‘—who taught you so much about the Defence Force.’
Romy stiffened. ‘Why does there have to be a man? Perhaps I’m really interested in Australia’s military history.’
‘Are you?’
She sighed. She couldn’t lie to those eyes. ‘No.’
‘How long were you together?’
It would be so easy to let him go on thinking it was some other man who had been in the military. It would probably be smart. But those eyes, again…
‘It was my father.’
For the first time since she met him, he looked genuinely surprised. ‘Your father? I thought…You seemed so…’
‘You thought I was running from a failed relationship?’ He didn’t need to nod. ‘I guess in a way I am. But not a romantic one.’
She hadn’t been with anyone since the night Leighton was conceived. But she was hardly going to tell him that.
‘What branch was he?’
Here came the inevitable. Romy sighed. ‘He’s a colonel in the army.’
She saw the very moment Clint made the connection. His eyebrows shot up. ‘Colonel Martin Carvell is your father?’
Under his inquisitive gaze Romy felt all of sixteen again.
Clint whistled. ‘He’s a legend in the Defence Force.’
He was capable of being impressed, then. Just not by her. Her smile tightened and she pushed the remainder of her food away. ‘I’m sure he is. He lived and breathed the army.’
Those sharp green eyes missed nothing. ‘But you’re running from him?’
‘He wasn’t much of a legend as a father. I had no interest in raising my son around his influence.’ She saw no understanding in his expression. On any other day she would have let it go. Changed the subject. But not with this man. Not tonight. She wanted him to understand.
She nailed him with her eyes. ‘Do you remember your basic training?’
His scoff was immediate. ‘How could I forget? It was hell.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Eighteen.’
Romy nodded. Paused. ‘Imagine being five.’
She stood, collected both their plates and took them to the kitchen where they clattered as she dropped them into the sink. She cursed. His focus was on her the whole way. Clint’s spaghetti was the best she’d ever had but it congealed like concrete in her suddenly churning stomach. She busied herself with scraping off the scraps into his compost tub and rinsing the bowls, blinking furiously.
Out of nowhere, his large hands slid over hers, stilling their fevered activity. His body pressed against her and he spoke behind her ear. ‘Leave it, Romy.’
She froze immediately and let him pull the dishes out of her wet, trembling hands. He took one into his own large one and pulled her towards the deck. She stumbled along behind him, sick with the grief of her childhood memories. Recalling vividly what that harsh discipline had felt like to someone not old enough to understand the words, let alone the reason.
Outside, he dropped her hand and she clung to the balustrade for support, breathing deeply. She’d never let herself even think about those days, never mind talk about them. It hurt too much. She started suturing up the bursts in her protective layer. Double-reinforcing the leaks.
‘Don’t,’ he said.
She glanced at him warily. ‘Don’t what?’
‘Don’t shove it all down again. Don’t try and hide it from me. Or from yourself.’
The pain had to go somewhere. She rounded it back onto him, furiously. ‘Uh, pot…kettle…black!’
He kept the anger well contained, although she saw it flirting at the edges of his expression. ‘It’s because I know so much about it that I don’t want to see you do it to yourself.’
She fumed silently, recognising the truth.
‘How old were you when you left?’ he asked.
Facts were so much easier to deal with than feelings. ‘Nearly twenty.’
His face tipped towards hers. ‘So Leighton was…nearly two?’
‘He wouldn’t let me leave before that.’ She shoved those memories down deep, too. The misery of being trapped with a man she hated while a life grew in her frightened teen belly, then trying to protect herself and her infant son from the Colonel’s influence for