Читать книгу Look-Alike Fiancee - Elizabeth Duke - Страница 10

CHAPTER THREE

HER gaze swivelled to the window. ‘I think it’s easing off,’ she blurted. ‘I’ll take you home myself. We’ll have to leave now, so I can be back before dark.’ She knew she was gabbling, but she couldn’t help it. ‘Shall we go? I’ll just grab my purse and keys.’ She whirled out into the hall where she’d left them.

She expected him to argue, but he didn’t. Maybe he could sense that she was in deadly earnest this time. ‘Much obliged,’ was all he said as she came flouncing back into the kitchen, keys and purse in hand.

She snapped on lights as she dashed out of the door, not wanting to come back to a darkened house. Dusk would be falling shortly. Even nightfall, if they didn’t get a move on. Mike was right behind her, pulling the kitchen door shut after him.

‘You want to lock it?’ he asked, but she shook her head and plunged on. She could hear him behind her, taking long, swift strides to keep up.

She didn’t pause until she reached the double garage. There were two vehicles inside, the sturdy Toyota Land Cruiser they kept down here at Fernlea for use around the property and for pulling the horse-float, and her small, zippy Ford Laser, which she used between here and the city, and for running around back in Melbourne.

‘Like me to drive?’ Mike offered, hovering at her shoulder as she unlocked the big four-wheel drive.

‘You don’t trust me to drive you?’ she asked, her eyes coolly taunting him, even as her heart jumped at his closeness, her senses jangling at the faint scent of soap and freshly dried clothes.

‘Well, I hope you don’t drive as wildly as you rush around your yard,’ Mike remarked dryly.

Her dark eyes took on a knife-sharp glitter. So it wasn’t just a courtesy offer...or a male disliking being driven by a female. He was scared that she might land them in a ditch!

‘I guess you’ll just have to take the risk,’ she flung back, hauling herself up into the driver’s seat. He didn’t lend a hand, perhaps sensing that she’d snap his head off if he tried. He stepped round to the passenger’s side without further comment.

She backed out rather more quickly than she normally would, just to keep him on his toes. But once out of the yard and on the road—more a sealed lane than a road, though it would change to bitumen and widen at the old concrete bridge where the lane joined the main road—she slackened her speed and concentrated on where she was going. She had to. It was still raining, though thankfully not so heavily now, and the edges of the road were soft and slushy—to be carefully avoided if she didn’t want to risk sliding off or getting bogged.

Mike didn’t attempt to make conversation, obviously not wanting to spoil her concentration. Even without glancing round, she could feel the hawk-eyed tension in him, and knew that he was watching the road as attentively as she. There could be other dangers besides mud and slush. A wombat or kangaroo could emerge from the bush and cross their path. There were plenty around.

The last thing she expected to see was another car coming towards them. The road they were on led only to Fernlea. Who could be coming to visit her in this weather, she wondered, at this late hour in the day? It couldn’t be her parents. They’d gone back to town only this morning to attend a special dinner tonight.

‘Watch out!’ rasped Mike. ‘There’s a car coming.’

‘I can see it!’ she hissed, slowing down as the two cars drew closer. She reached down to switch her headlights on, just in case the oncoming driver hadn’t seen her. At once the other car’s lights sprang on too, as if the driver had had the same thought.

‘Who is it? Your father? It’s obviously someone who knows you, since he’s heading for Fernlea. Unless it’s someone who’s lost his way. It does happen around these parts.’

‘We’ll soon find out.’ She brought the Land Cruiser to a halt as far to one side of the road as she could—making sure the wheels were still on the solid ground—and opened her window to signal to the other driver to pull up too.

Mike gave a soft whistle as the other car, a sleek red sports car, pulled up a few metres away—not too close, as if the driver was wary of strange four-wheel-drive vehicles that might scratch or muddy his beautiful car.

‘Well...it’s obviously a friend of yours,’ Mike murmured. ‘Porsches don’t often appear in these parts. Or didn’t until the Conways moved in down here.’

A Porsche! Taryn’s stomach lurched. She only knew one person who drove a red Porsche. Rory Silverman...polo-playing playboy son of Rex Silverman, the mining tycoon. The Silvermans owned a huge property the other side of Warragul, less than ten kilometres from here. She’d met Rory at an equestrian function, and he’d rung her a few times since to ask her out. So far she’d had a ready excuse each time—he was far too smooth and full of himself for her liking—but he hadn’t taken the hint.

The last time he’d called her he’d told her that he might pop over to Fernlea one day to see her. ‘We must catch up with each other, Taryn,’ he’d purred, ‘before I go off overseas again.’

She’d hoped he’d forgotten. Or had been too busy. Or had already gone overseas.

Obviously not. No such luck.

‘You stay here,’ she rapped at Mike. ‘I’ll go and speak to him. I know who it is.’

She grabbed an umbrella from the back seat where she always kept one, and clambered out, snapping it open as she strode over to the Porsche.

The driver wound down his window. ‘Taryn...it’s you!’

Good-looking, tawny-haired, suave... Yes, it was Rory Silverman all right.

‘Rory! I...I hope you weren’t coming to visit me?’

What she really wanted to know was what, precisely, he’d had in mind. She compressed her lips. Why would he call on her at this late hour of the day, in this appalling weather...unless he was hoping to stay the night?

His long-lashed grey eyes peered up at her. ‘I called you before I came,’ he told her in his well-cultivated, smooth-as-silk voice, ‘but there seems to be something wrong with your phone. I knew your parents would be back in town—they’re going to the same dinner as mine—so I thought I’d better rush over and make sure you were all right.’

I’ll bet, she thought, unconvinced at his display of concern. He’d seen an excuse to make a move on her, more like. Rory Silverman had a reputation for chasing and bedding good-looking women. Obviously, he saw her as an easy target. The Conway girl on her own, miles from anywhere.

‘Yes, my phone is out of order,’ she conceded. ‘I don’t suppose you happened to report it for me?’

‘Uh...no. I didn’t think. Sorry. I was just thinking of you.’

Oh, sure, she thought, unable to see Rory Silverman as the gallant knight-to-the-rescue type. From what she knew of him, he didn’t have a caring, heroic bone in his svelte body! He was just out for what he could get. A woman. The richer and more glamorous the better.

Not that he’d find any glamour here today. Far from it.

‘You look different.’ Rory ran expert eyes over her, apparently not caring that he was keeping her standing in puddles of water, with rain dripping from her umbrella onto her shoulders. His gaze lingered a second or two on the curves revealed by her white T-shirt, before flicking back to her face. His brow puckered. ‘You look younger. Or something.’

Her mouth twitched. ‘I guess you’ve only seen me in my glad rags, with all the warpaint on.’

He looked startled for a second, as if he’d never thought of her in terms of warpaint. ‘You’re still gorgeous, even without make-up,’ he assured her, recovering his aplomb. ‘With those lovely dark eyes of yours and that stunning black hair...’ But it was obvious he preferred her all dolled up and dressed to kill, with her hair flowing loose over her shoulders, rather than tied back in a girlish ponytail.

‘Er...’ his gaze veered to the Land Cruiser ‘...just on your way out, are you?’ He squinted through the drizzle at the blurred windscreen and the male shape behind, as if trying to see who was with her.

‘I’m—’ She stopped. She’d been about to tell him she was just running a neighbour home, but caught back the words in time. If Rory knew that, he might insist on driving on to Fernlea and waiting there until she came back.

If it had been anyone other than Rory Silverman, she would have welcomed some friendly, amenable company to come home to, after putting up with Mike O’Malley’s cynical gibes and patronising taunts. But she certainly didn’t want to come home to Rory Silverman. She wouldn’t enjoy his company, for one thing, and she wouldn’t be able to trust him to take no for an answer. Or to go home when she asked him to.

‘Yes, afraid so...sorry.’ She gave a shrug of her shoulders. She didn’t want to sound too regretful and encourage him to try another time. ‘You’ve come all this way in the rain for nothing. Your lovely car will be a mess.’

He winced. ‘Never mind,’ he muttered, ‘a car wash will fix it.’

If she’d told him the truth about Mike and asked him to wait for her at Fernlea, his answer might have been different. Something smoother, along the lines of, Never mind, you’re worth it. But she hadn’t, and he was plainly anxious now to be on his way. With as little wear and tear to his precious car—his plaything, his status symbol—as possible.

‘Look...um...’ She glanced round to make sure Mike O’Malley wasn’t advancing on her to blow sky-high her story about being on her way out with him. ‘Why don’t you drive on to Fernlea, Rory, and turn around there? It’ll be too dangerous trying to turn around here on this narrow road. You don’t want your nice car to get bogged.’ Having to help him out of the mud would be the last straw. It was getting late enough already.

‘I sure don’t,’ Rory said emphatically. ‘OK, I will...thanks.’

‘I think there’s just room for you to get safely past the Land Cruiser,’ she told him. ‘You go ahead... I’ll wait till you’ve gone past.’ If Mike thinks Rory’s going to Fernlea to wait for me, she thought, let him. If he thinks I’ve invited Rory to stay the night, let him think that too. He’ll chink the worst of me anyway.

‘Right.’ Rory nosed the Porsche forward, snaking his head round as he crawled past the big four-wheel drive to take a peek at her passenger. As Taryn sprinted back to the Land Cruiser with water squelching in her shoes, she saw Mike give a facetious wave.

Rory ignored it, or pretended not to notice. He wouldn’t relish being cast aside for another man. That mocking wave would only rub it in.

‘Sorry about that, Mike,’ she said airily as she closed her dripping umbrella and tossed it into the back of the vehicle, before hauling herself up into the driver’s seat. It was the first time, she realised, that she’d called him Mike. The name had come surprisingly easily to her lips.

She revved the engine. ‘We’d better get a move on.’ Chatting to Rory had wasted precious daylight.

‘I can understand your anxiety to dispose of me and rush back home,’ Mike drawled. ‘A red Porsche is some bait... You’re sure you still want to drive me all the way home?’

She felt a twinge of something like disappointment, mingled with irritation. So he did think Rory was going to Fernlea to wait for her. Well, of course...he would! Her mouth tightened. He would always think the worst of her.

‘What choice do I have?’ she growled. Mike O’Malley could think what he liked. She didn’t care. If he wanted to believe that she was encouraging Rory Silverman, she wasn’t going to tell him otherwise. Why should she? He wouldn’t believe her anyway.

‘You could always make me walk.’

‘Oh, sure.’ She hunched over the wheel, her tone fractious. ‘Just let me concentrate, will you?’

They didn’t talk after that, and she reached the bitumen road at the bridge without further mishap. Instead of turning right as she normally would, she swung the Land Cruiser round to the left, in the direction of the O’Malleys’ property, knowing she had to pass a couple of other farms first.

The rain had eased at last to a light drizzle, and the road they were on now was wider and in better condition, making progress quicker and easier.

‘Pity you haven’t built your new bridge yet between Fernlea and Plane Tree Flats,’ Mike said after a while, a hint of steel in his voice at the mention of the property the O’Malleys had once owned and had wanted to buy back—until her father had supposedly snatched it from under their noses. ‘We could have taken a short cut through Henderson’s old farm and saved driving all this way round.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ she said, her own tone brittle as she wondered what kind of reception she could expect from his father—if Patrick O’Malley happened to be around when she dropped off his son.

She was tempted to drop Mike off at the gate leading into the O’Malley property when they reached it, but it was still drizzling and it seemed a bit petty, with his house still some distance away...and up a steepish climb.

And Mike had instructions for her anyway.

‘If you’ll drive right up to the house,’ he directed, ‘I’ll check our phone before you go home. If ours is OK, I’ll ring up and report yours for you.’

She flicked him a faint look of surprise, oddly touched that he’d remembered...and would bother about her problems. ‘Thanks. And what if yours is dead too?’

‘If it is, maybe you could ask your Porsche-driving friend to report the problem for both of us...when he goes home. Assuming he’s going back home tonight?’

She sucked in her breath. He was fishing. She had a feeling that whatever answer she gave he would manage to twist it around somehow—or at least make some cynical gibe about the company she kept. Well, let him fish. She wasn’t biting.

‘Let’s just see if your phone’s working.’ It was a husky growl. ‘They might have fixed the line by now.’

‘Anything’s possible.’ She heard the cold edge to his voice and almost wished, contrarily, that she’d told him the truth...that she hadn’t even asked Rory to wait for her, let alone to spend the night with her.

But why should she tell him? she thought in the next breath, remembering how Mike O’Malley despised her, simply because her family had money and spoke with a bit of a ‘twang’, and because they’d bought some land his father had wanted. It was none of his damned business!

‘Stop here for a sec,’ Mike said abruptly as they reached the milking sheds. ‘I’ll just let my father know I’m back.’

She tensed. His father...the man who despised the Conways most of all. ‘I really don’t want to hang around,’ she muttered peevishly. ‘It’s starting to get dark.’

‘I know... That’s why I need to see him. To tell him I intend to follow you back in the ute...just to make sure you get back in one piece.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Don’t be silly, that’s not necess—’ She stopped, her eyes narrowing. ‘You sure you don’t just want to check up on who I might be entertaining for the evening? Or the night?’

That would be more like it, she thought. Michael O’Malley wanting to gather more ammunition to throw at her.

He gave a snort of laughter. Harsh, derisive laughter. ‘If that’s what you prefer to think, be my guest.’ She flinched at the ice-cold edge to his voice. ‘And if that’s the type you go for, good luck to you.’

He threw open his door as he spoke, and jumped down, leaving her fuming. He’s not, she wanted to shout after him, but she didn’t. What was the point? He’d made up his mind about her.

‘Michael!’ A different voice rang out. She saw a man approaching from the yards. He was tall, lean-hipped and wide-shouldered like his son, with a tough weathered face and a thatch of almost-white hair. ‘So you’re back, are you? Where’s Caesar?’ His eyes, Taryn suspected, would be the same piercing aqua as his son’s, though it was hard to tell in the dimness.

‘Hi, Dad. I’m afraid Caesar bolted in the storm and left me to—’

‘No! It can’t be!’ Patrick O’Malley’s voice sliced over his son. ‘Not you!’ He was staring up at the driver’s side of the Land Cruiser now. Staring up at her. He took a step closer, his face twisting in fury and disbelief, causing Taryn’s fingers to tighten on the wheel, her heart pounding.

Did Patrick O’Malley hate the Conways that much? she wondered shakily, flicking her tongue over her lips. And how had Mike’s father recognised her? She’d never even met the man! Patrick O’Malley had refused to have anything to do with the Conways.

‘Crystal!’ he spat out, his eyes glinting slits in his leathery brown face. They were his son’s eyes all right. ‘I don’t believe it! What in hell’s name are you—?’ He stopped, clamping his mouth shut, as if realising he’d made a monstrous mistake.