Читать книгу Look-Alike Fiancee - Elizabeth Duke - Страница 9

CHAPTER TWO

SHE blinked at him. ‘You can’t mean—’ She glanced from O’Malley to the saddle on Ginger’s back. He had to be joking!

‘After all your talk about being neighbourly,’ he cajoled, as another blinding flash lit the sky, ‘I thought you might offer me a ride back to the old timber bridge...through Fernlea. It would take me hours to walk back the long way...the way I came up.’

Thunder rocketed across the valley. Ginger threw up his head, nearly dragging the reins from Taryn’s clutching fingers. She felt O’Malley’s hand on hers as he snatched the reins from her, steadying the horse with an iron grip.

‘We’d better get out of this forest...fast,’ he gritted,

‘before we’re struck by lightning.’ Water was pouring down his face, beading his eyelashes. ‘Are you going to give me a ride or not?’ He appealed to her with the full force of his glittering gaze. ‘Or do you want me to end up with pneumonia...or drowned?’

His shirt was almost transparent, clinging to his tightly muscled chest and powerful arms like a second skin. She tried not to think about what her own sodden shirt might be revealing.

She really had no choice. How could she leave him stranded up here in a thunderstorm, in pouring rain, a long, muddy walk from his home?

‘Let’s go, then,’ she mumbled, blinking away the drops of water gathering on her own lashes.

‘You mount first,’ he said without ado. Not even a ‘thank you’, she noticed. ‘I’ll climb up behind.’

Behind? She could feel her wet cheeks sizzling as he gave her a hand up, then hauled himself up behind her. Far too close behind...his powerful arms curving around her, cocooning her in the relative shelter of his all-too-male, strongly muscled frame.

She swallowed hard, chewing on her lip, fighting down an almost uncontrollable trembling. What was wrong with her? There was nothing personal about this...he was just using her...saving himself a long tramp home in the rain.

‘You hold the reins...I’ll hold onto you,’ O’Malley shouted over the rain, and she nodded, heat still firing her cheeks.

Neither spoke—other than to shout a command or a soothing word at Ginger—as they steered the big gelding out of the orchard, through the dripping pines to the ploughed fire break skirting the forest. Luckily, the carpet of fallen pine needles had prevented the track turning completely to mud, and before long they were heading downhill, following the steep track they would both have taken coming up. It was very slippery and dangerous now, needing all their concentration.

Several times, as Ginger missed his footing and almost fell, she felt O’Malley’s grip tighten round her waist, his strong hands clamping round her like a vice. She wasn’t sure if it was to save her...or himself. She only knew that her breath quickened each time it happened.

Further down the hill the track branched into two...one following the heavily timbered slopes round—way round—to the O’Malleys’ sprawling dairy farm, the other passing through the Conways’ extensive property, which lay spread out over the hills ahead.

‘There’s no sign of your horse,’ Taryn shouted as they crossed a narrow creek—which, she knew, ran into the river further round. The upper part of an old railway carriage had been dumped in the creekbed to form a bridge.

‘Don’t worry about Caesar.’ O’Malley’s deep voice rolled through her. ‘He’s like a homing pigeon. He’ll be back home by now, under shelter. Lucky devil.’

They were climbing again now, water spraying from Ginger’s hooves as the rain continued to tumble down, though at least it was no longer bucketing down in a solid, deafening sheet. The sky remained low and black, with bright flashes from time to time, and rolling thunder in the distance.

Eventually they reached a gate and came to a halt.

‘I’ll open it,’ O’Malley offered, sliding from Ginger’s rump, taking the warmth and comfort of his arms and solid frame with him. Taryn was aware of a slight chill without his sheltering presence close behind her.

As she guided Ginger through the open gate, O’Malley squinted up at her, as if he half expected her to keep on riding, leaving him to shut the gate after her and tramp the long way back to his home on foot. She muffled a sigh as she pulled up and waited for him. How little he thought of her!

She didn’t glance round at him as he mounted behind her after closing the gate. ‘Go, Ginger!’ she urged, almost before O’Malley was settled on the gelding’s back. Her face was taut. He was never going to think well of her—of a Conway—whatever she did. The sooner she was rid of him the better!

Narrowing her eyes against the rain, she saw the house and outbuildings ahead, partially masked by a row of huge cypresses. She was longing to get out of the soaking rain into clean dry clothes...longing to get back to the privacy and tranquillity of her comfortable country home. But she knew she’d have to take O’Malley to his home first, taking the short cut to his property across the old timber bridge over the river, down the hill below Fernlea.

She needn’t, she decided, take him all the way to his house, which she knew was way up on the crest of the hill. As soon as she was reasonably close, she would drop him off, turn tail, and go. They’d both be glad to see the back of each other!

But would she really be glad, deep down? She chewed on her lip. If only he weren’t so...so infuriatingly, heart-tuggingly attractive. If only her mind wasn’t seething with questions about him. Why had he come back? How long did he intend to stay? Had he changed his mind about dairy farming and decided to come home for good?

If he had, he would be her neighbour. A close neighbour.

Once he came to know her better, would he bury his prejudices and grievances against the Conways? Would his father? Or would they both remain antagonistic...persisting with this pernicious, rather puerile O’Malley-Conway feud?

Neither attempted to make conversation as Ginger ploughed on in the rain, heading towards the old timber bridge over the river now, rather than the sheltering haven of Fernlea. They needed to concentrate on where they were treading, and besides, the rain running into their eyes and mouths made normal conversation difficult.

When they finally came in sight of the oak-lined river, Taryn let out an audible groan.

‘The bridge! What’s happened to it?’

Stupid question. It was obvious that the rain—or rather, the gushing torrent—had swept away the rotting timber supports that had once spanned the river, leaving only a few straggly pieces of wood behind. If the river hadn’t been running so high, or so fiercely, it might have been possible for an athletic man to cross it by leaping from log to log, but at the moment it was impassable!

‘What are you going to do?’ she croaked, deliberately not saying ‘we’. This was O’Malley’s problem, not hers. It would take him hours to tramp back the way he’d come, along the track below the forest...and even longer by road, without a car.

‘If you’ll take me back to your house, Miss Conway,’ O’Malley suggested coolly, ‘I’ll call my father—if you’ll permit me—and ask him to come and pick me up in the ute.’

Her head snapped round. ‘You can’t expect your father to drive all the way here in this weather! It’ll be too hard to see. Too dangerous. He might run off the road.’

For a brief second their eyes met. She caught a faint gleam in the sharp blue. ‘Well...when the rain eases off a bit,’ he compromised. ‘If you won’t mind giving me shelter in the meantime.’

She turned away sharply so that he couldn’t see how appalled she was at the idea of sheltering O’Malley in her home until the rain stopped. That might be hours! It was late afternoon already.

‘I’ll run you home myself,’ she rapped out, ‘in the four-wheel drive. It’s in the garage...this way.’ Jerking at the reins, she prodded Ginger with her knees.

‘No, you won’t.’ O’Malley’s voice rumbled at her ear. ‘The roads will be awash right now...especially the unsealed sections. If it’s too dangerous for my father, it will be too dangerous for you.’

‘I’m much younger than your—’

‘Forget it. Look, let’s just get out of this rain. We’ll fight it out later.’

For the second time that afternoon, she had no choice. He was right. The sooner they were out of this lousy rain the better. She wasn’t even warm any more, despite the humidity in the air. She could feel the dampness chilling her to the bone.

With a shrug, she pointed Ginger in the direction of the stables...an old two-storey barn which had been there, she’d learned from old photographs they’d found in a cupboard, for as long as the house. The building was in need of repair, like everything else, but provided adequate shelter meantime, and the roomy loft above, when done up, would make ideal accommodation for guests or future stable hands.

Once there, she was tempted to stay put. The stables seemed safer, somehow, than the house, and at least they were under cover, out of the rain. She looked hopefully up at the sky, but there was no sign as yet of any lightening in the cloud cover, or any real slackening in the rain.

‘Are we going to make a dash for the house?’ O’Malley said finally. ‘You should get out of those wet clothes. I’ll stay out on the verandah if you don’t want to invite me in.’

You should get out of those wet clothes...

Her eyes leapt to his. What did she expect to see? A leer? Carnal intent? A lecherous glint as his imagination went haywire, evoking images of her removing her sodden shirt and jeans?

All she saw was cool, dispassionate reason. He was right. Again. As usual.

‘Right,’ she mumbled. ‘P-perhaps you’d like some coffee while we’re waiting for the rain to—’ she nearly said ‘stop’, but that might take hours ‘—to ease off,’ she said instead.

‘Thanks. Let’s make a dash, then,’ he rapped, and they both sprinted towards the house, not pausing until they reached the vine-covered verandah.

She hesitated as she thrust her key in the kitchen door. ‘Do you want me to bring your coffee out to you?’ she asked in a stilted voice. How could she invite him inside? Not only was he dripping wet, but her parents would have a fit if they found out she’d invited a virtual stranger into the house while she was down here alone. He might be the son of a neighbour, but he was still a stranger. And being an O’Malley, a hostile stranger.

‘I don’t suppose you’d have a clothes dryer?’ O’Malley enquired hopefully.

Her throat went dry. ‘Why?’ she asked warily, hoping he didn’t mean what she thought he meant. But what else could he mean?

‘Have you? I can’t imagine the Conways not having all mod cons.’

She sucked in a deep, quivering breath. Another sly dig at the Conways! He just couldn’t resist. She glowered up at him. ‘We have...as a matter of fact. But if you think—’

‘What I’d really like,’ O’Malley cut in, spreading his hands as if to say, Look at me...look at the state I’m in, ‘is a shower...if you have a spare one in a back room or outhouse somewhere. These wet clothes feel damned uncomfortable. You could throw my clothes in the dryer and they’d be dry by the time we’d finished our coffee.’

A suffocating sensation threatened to crush her, to squeeze all the air from her lungs. ‘You—you intend to get undressed?’ She stared at him. Trying not to imagine how he’d look if he did. A sight to behold, she traitorously thought, heat flaming through her.

He’s an O’Malley, she thought wildly. He despises you and everything you stand for. He won’t try anything.

Or maybe that was the very reason he would!

‘It would be difficult to dry my wet clothes without undressing first,’ he pointed out reasonably. ‘Naturally, I’d disrobe in private.’ His eyes glinted wickedly, as if he’d read her mind a second ago.

‘I should hope so!’ she hissed, thinning her lips and glaring at him to hide the burning mortification she felt inside. ‘Th-there’s a shower in the washroom...just along the verandah, second door along. You can use that. Wait here and I’ll unlock the door from inside.’

As she kicked off her muddy boots and let herself into the kitchen, he called after her. ‘I’d be grateful if you’d lend me a towel. An old one will do. And maybe...’ amused irony licked through his voice ‘...one of your father’s monogrammed smoking jackets, if that would be less likely to offend your sensibilities.’

She paused, gritting her teeth. She didn’t trust herself to turn round. She knew his eyes would be mocking her, if not openly laughing at her.

‘The chip on your shoulder’s showing again,’ she snapped. ‘Or is it envy? You have a secret longing for a monogrammed smoking jacket? I’ll see what I can find!’ She let the door slam behind her.

A few minutes later she jerked open the outer washroom door. Peeking out, she saw O’Malley patiently waiting on the verandah, lolling against one of the vineclad timber posts.

‘You can come in now.’ Avoiding his eye as he strode towards her, she thrust a bulging sports bag at him. ‘You’ll find a towel and something to wear in here.’ She kept her head down to hide the mischievous glint in her eye.

‘Thanks, ma’am. This is real neighbourly of you.’

Was that another dig? Or an apology of sorts...knowing that his father was less than neighbourly and wouldn’t even speak to them?

‘Throw your things into the dryer,’ she said briskly, ‘and when you’re ready come to the kitchen.’ She would put her own wet clothes into the washing machine later. ‘You know where the kitchen door is.’ Let him come in from the verandah, not through the house. ‘Enjoy your shower!’ She swung away before he could catch the impish smile on her lips.

She raced upstairs to the main bathroom next to her big double bedroom overlooking the vast tree-lined lawn.

Being such an old house, it had no en suites off the bedrooms, though the rooms were large enough to put them in at a later stage. Her father had wanted to modernise the bedrooms and put spa baths in the planned en suites, but she’d insisted the rooms must be renovated in the authentic old Federation style, with old-style en suites to match, and no modern spas. And, since she would be spending the most time here at Fernlea, her father had bowed to her wishes.

O’Malley, no doubt, would see it differently. He’d see it as the pampered daughter getting her own way again. Getting whatever she wanted.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. What a sight! She looked like a drowned bush rat! Where was the pampered socialite now? Socialite! She snorted, her lip curling. O’Malley had a lot to learn!

She showered and dressed in double-quick time, throwing on a clean white T-shirt and her oldest, most faded pair of jeans. She wanted to avoid giving O’Malley a chance to taunt her for wearing expensive designer jeans or a famous-label shirt. Not that she didn’t possess such items...she did...mostly picked up at sales, and only well-cut, top-quality gear that she knew would last better than the cheaper variety.

She pulled back her still damp, shoulder-length hair into a ponytail, securing it with a black scrunchie. She left her face bare of make-up, not even bothering with lipstick. Her lips were full enough and pink enough to get away without lipstick, and her lashes, being as thick and black as her hair, needed no enhancing.

It was just as well she hadn’t been wearing make-up earlier, she mused, or her mascara would have run down her cheeks and her lipstick would have been smeared across her chin! She could just imagine how O’Malley would have teased her about that!

She suppressed a giggle as she ran down the stairs to the kitchen. Now she was going to get her chance to laugh at him!

There was no sign of him as yet She set about preparing the coffee, filling the pot and taking two mugs from hooks on the wall. It was a big old country-style kitchen with cupboards and benches lining the walls and a long table in the middle, with several chairs. She’d recently made new curtains and given the walls a new coat of paint.

She heard O’Malley’s voice at the door. ‘Hullo there.’

‘Come in,’ she called, glancing round, biting her lip in wicked expectation.

Her eyes bulged as O’Malley stepped into the kitchen, her face flaming as she saw that he’d outsmarted her. All he was wearing was a skimpy white towel, wrapped round his waist!

‘Wh-what happened to the dressing-gown I gave you?’ she squeaked, her eyes riveted for a stunned second to his bare, bronzed chest and powerful tanned legs. ‘I... It was the nearest thing I had to a—a smoking jacket.’

‘Pink’s not my colour.’ He shrugged, and spread his hands—both of them, causing her to bite back a gasp and jerk her head away, expecting the towel to unravel. ‘And it was a bit tight and flimsy across the shoulders. I didn’t want to rip it and incur your wrath. It’s obviously your very best negligee.’

She hissed in her breath. ‘I’ve never worn it,’ she growled, attending to the coffee as if her life depended on it. ‘My mother gave it to me. She likes frilly, frivolous things. I don’t.’

‘I’m sure it would look charming on you,’ he demurred, and she could almost feel his eyes undressing her.

‘I just keep it for guests,’ she muttered, her hand unsteady as she poured the coffee. Female guests—though she would have given anything to have seen O’Malley prancing around in it, frills and all. She felt a giggle bubbling to her lips.

‘You must have some very odd male guests,’ he commented gravely. ‘I’ve often wondered how you social set get your kicks.’

She flounced round, thrusting his mug of coffee at him. ‘OK, so you called my bluff,’ she scratched out. ‘Let’s drop it, shall we?’ She snatched in a horrified breath as his hand moved to the towel. ‘No! Not the towel!’ She shut her eyes. ‘Look, I’ll go and find you something else to wear...’

He caught her arm as she tried to dash past him. ‘No need. I’m not cold. Sit down and have your coffee. Haven’t you ever seen a naked male chest before?’

‘It—it’s not that—’ She snapped her mouth shut, horrified at the way she was stammering. It was so unlike her. Normally nothing fazed her.

‘It’s not my chest?’ he enquired blandly, pulling out a chair.

She held her breath and averted her gaze as he lowered himself down.

‘Look, if it’s any help,’ he drawled, sounding amused, ‘I’ve a pair of boxer shorts under the towel. The ones you threw in with the negligée.’ He paused. ‘One of your male guests must have left them behind.’

She sank into the chair opposite, relief trickling through her. She’d forgotten about the boxer shorts. ‘They—they’re my father’s...and they’re new. They were still in their original pack. I—I didn’t think he’d mind.’

‘I trust not. I felt I should avail myself of them...if only to save your blushes.’ Tilting his head at her, he added musingly, ‘You know, I expected Hugh Conway’s daughter to be older and more—’ he pursed his lips ‘—more hard-boiled. More the jaded, seen-it-all-done-it-all, sophisticate. Are you really as young and ingenuous as you seem? You look about sixteen.’

Sixteen! Sparks lit her eyes. This was too much!

‘I’m twenty-three years old,’ she snapped, ‘and I’ve just finished an arts degree at university.’

‘Goodness...twenty-three!’ Mock wonder danced in his eyes. She clenched her hands into fists, realising he’d teased her into blurting out the truth. ‘And an arts degree, eh? Well done. Not just a pretty face, then.’ The edges of his mouth twitched. ‘Perhaps not the idle, empty-headed socialite I imagined.’

Her fingernails dug into her flesh. He didn’t have to sound so surprised! ‘Are you being condescending because I’m the pampered Conway girl,’ she grated, ‘or are you always this patronising with women?’

‘I was congratulating you.’ He defended himself with an injured expression. ‘Do you intend to go on with your studies?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘There’s not much one can do these days with an arts degree on its own...’

‘I realise that, but no, I won’t be doing any more study for now. I’ll be too busy. It was just an interest, to keep my mind active.’ Damn, she thought. That sounds so smug and self-indulgent! No wonder he thinks I’m a bored, pampered socialite with nothing better to do!

She lifted her coffee mug and drained the contents, avoiding his eye. ‘I compete in horse shows, which means lots of training and travelling around,’ she told him, keeping her voice steady with an effort. She shouldn’t care what this insufferable man thought of her, but for some reason she did! ‘It meant I could only go to uni part-time, so I took longer to get my degree.’

‘So it was more of a part-time hobby...between horse shows,’ he murmured, ‘than a serious, full-time commitment with a professional career in mind?’ He nodded, as if it was no more than he expected. ‘You’re more interested in parading around the arena with your peers. Gathering ribbons. Gathering applause. That’s where your ambition lies.’

There was a new note in his voice, a coldly cynical note that raised her hackles.

She scraped back her chair. ‘My ambition,’ she said through gritted teeth, ‘is to compete in the Sydney Olympic Games. Not just compete, but hopefully to win a gold medal for Australia!’ She jerked to her feet and stepped over to the bench. ‘More coffee?’ Rain was still drumming on the roof. She had an unhappy feeling that she was stuck with him for some time yet.

‘Thanks, I will.’

As she reached for the coffee pot, he added smoothly, ‘Well...the Olympics, eh? That’s some ambition. And aiming for gold...for the top...I’m impressed.’ If he’d only stopped there she might have believed him. But of course he didn’t. Not O’Malley.

‘Is it likely to happen?’ he asked, a bantering note in his voice now. ‘Or just wishful thinking?’

He didn’t think she was serious about her lofty ambition...let alone believe for one second that she would ever reach such an exalted standard. To him, she was the pampered socialite to whom everything came easily. The spoilt rich girl who’d had everything handed to her on a silver platter. To reach Olympic standard would mean hard work...sacrifice...a long, tough, arduous grind. Words the cosseted Conway girl wouldn’t know!

Well, I’ll show you, O’Malley, she vowed under her breath. One of these days you’ll come grovelling...begging my forgiveness for having doubted me.

The thought of O’Malley grovelling to anyone was a diverting thought. Not that she could imagine it happening in the next million years!

‘You’d cut quite a dash, I’d imagine,’ O’Malley drawled, his tone pure velvet now, ‘in tight-fitting jodhpurs and a smart nipped-in jacket, with a neat little helmet perched on your head.’

She could feel his gaze burning over her from behind, bringing a tingling warmth to her skin. And a spark of battle to her eyes. Swinging round, she stomped back to the table and poured coffee into his mug. Tempted to pour it over him. The condescending, patronising, insufferable... Words weren’t strong enough to describe him!

‘Thank you, Miss Conway.’ He glanced up at her. ‘Much obliged.’

‘Taryn,’ she ground out, hating that patronising ‘Miss Conway’.

‘Sorry?’

‘Taryn. That’s my name.’ She poured some coffee into her own mug, annoyed at the way her hand was shaking, then turned away to replace the coffee pot on the bench, taking her mug with her. Instead of sitting down again, she strolled over to the window, staring dismally across the rain-soaked yard to the misty hills beyond. Would this wretched rain never stop? What if it kept on until nightfall?

She muffled a groan, trembling at the dire—very real—possibility.

‘Taryn.’ He repeated the name. ‘Taryn Conway.’ The bantering note was back in his voice. ‘I might have known it wouldn’t be Jane or Mary. Nothing plain or ordinary for the Conway girl. That wouldn’t do, would it?’

She drew in her lips. Usually people reacted to her name with remarks like, ‘What a pretty name’ or ‘How unusual’, but O’Malley, of course, had to be different and make it into a personal attack. Not that he’d actually said he disliked the name. But it was obvious he thought it too elaborate, chosen purely for effect. As far as she knew, her mother had simply plucked it from a book of names because she’d liked it.

‘And your name is...?’ She cast him a withering look. Heaven help him if it was anything more unusual than Tom, Charlie, or Jack!

‘Mine? Oh, you can call me Mike.’

Mike... She pursed her lips. Well, she could hardly call that elaborate or unusual. Mike... Michael O’Malley. It suited him, she decided, distracted for a second. Sort of tough, masculine, no frills. And very Irish. Not that he sounded the least bit Irish. But then he wouldn’t. The O’Malleys, from the snippets she’d heard about them, had lived in Australia for generations.

‘Won’t your father be getting worried about you?’ she asked tetchily. ‘Especially if he happens to see your horse come back without you.’

‘If my father has any sense he’ll be sheltering inside out of the rain, and won’t even notice if Caesar’s there or not. As for Caesar, he’ll head straight for his food bin and a roof over his head.’

‘But he might be worried,’ she persisted. ‘You should give him a call and—and let him know you’re safe.’

She felt his eyes on her. ‘Your concern for my father does you credit, Miss Conway...sorry, Taryn.’ He paused, slanting his head. ‘Yes...the name does suit you,’ he decided, but he didn’t spell out why. ‘All right...I’ll let him know I’m here. I’ll get him to send his young farmhand to pick me up in the ute. Smudge is much younger and fitter than Dad, so you won’t need to be concerned about him.’

Something shimmered in his eyes as he said it, causing her own eyes to waver. Was he wondering if her concern for his father was genuine?

‘I’d better check on my clothes,’ he said, ‘and see if they’re dry enough to put back on.’ He rose slowly, with a sigh, as if reluctant to leave the table.

Or reluctant to let his father know he was at the Conways?

That was more like it. Patrick O’Malley had made it plain he wanted nothing to do with his new neighbours. Not simply because they were the rich, high-flying Conways—mere hobby-farmers or ‘townies’, as he apparently saw them—but for what he perceived they’d done to him. Buying the rich slice of land he’d wanted to buy. Or rather had wanted to buy back.

Within minutes Mike was back, fully dressed in the jeans and bush shirt he’d taken from the dryer—looking a bit crumpled, but dry. She breathed a sigh of relief. It had been getting harder and harder to avoid looking at that expanse of deeply tanned chest...the taut golden muscles...the trail of dark hair that ran—

She snapped off her thoughts.

‘The phone’s over there...on the wall.’ She waved a hand, her heart picking up a beat as he reached for it and stabbed it several times with his finger. How would his father take it when he heard his son was here at Fernlea? At the Conway house?

‘Damn.’ Mike lowered the phone with a frown. ‘Your phone’s dead. The rain must have soaked into one of the junction boxes. Or a tree’s come down somewhere.’

‘Are you sure?’ She grabbed it from him in disbelief. He had to be making it up! He didn’t want his father knowing he was here. Or he was using it as an excuse to stay here a bit longer. All night, perhaps?

Over my dead body, she thought, a prickling sensation crawling along her skin.

She clamped the phone to her ear. And had to gulp in suddenly needed air. There was silence at the other end. Dead silence. She banged it with her open palm. She frantically pressed some buttons. She shook it

‘I don’t think that’s going to do much good,’ Mike said calmly.

‘We’re completely cut off,’ she moaned. And touched her throat with unsteady fingers, realising what it meant. Now there was no way he could let his father know he was safe. No way he could let his father know he was sheltering here at Fernlea. No way he could get his father’s hired hand to come and fetch him.

Well, you’re not staying here, Michael O’Malley, her eyes told him. No way.