Читать книгу A Very Secret Affair - Miranda Lee - Страница 7

CLARE shut the door of the back-stage powder-room and leant heavily against it. Literally shaking, she tried to calm her thumping heart and failed miserably.

Finally she managed to still the ragged, painful breathing that her mad flight had caused. Levering herself away from the door, she walked over to the seat that ran along one wall of the small rest-room.

Thank the lord, she thought as she sank down, that no one had seen her hurtling down the hall and stumbling up the stage steps. She would be eternally grateful for a country town’s obsession with the rich and famous, grateful that all eyes had been fixed elsewhere.

Clare closed her eyes and leant back against the wall. Just a few minutes, she told herself. A few minutes so that she would feel collected enough to return to the hall and take her place at the main table.

What on earth had caused her to panic like that? So she found the man attractive? So what? She had found any number of men attractive over the years. She’d even been attracted to a couple of local men since coming home. Unbeknown to her mother, she’d gone out with them too, thinking that in Bangaratta she might find a man of principle she could fall in love with and possibly marry.

But in truth, Clare had found the local men so boring, their personalities so flat and dull, that she now lived a lonely life rather than keep seeking an elusive dream. 19

Clare stood up and walked slowly towards the mirror that hung above the washbasins. Her eyes travelled slowly over her hair, her dolled-up face, her glamorous gown. When she went to push back a stray hair she was dismayed to see her hands were trembling. With a groan she leant against the bench and stared into the basin. When she glanced up again she was hotly aware of the over-bright eyes, the still racing heart.

Face it, she warned herself in a harsh whisper. The man excites you. The man himself…not the character on television. Why else have you avidly read everything printed about him? Those articles were about Matt Sheffield, not Dr Adrian Archer.

That’s why you refused to come tonight in the first place: because, underneath, you knew he was too much like David for your peace of mind. Both exceptionally handsome men. Both brilliant actors. Both, amazingly, the only sons in wealthy Sydney families, each even more amazingly headed by a politician patriarch. The similarities were quite striking.

OK, so David had given up acting shortly after leaving university to pursue a career in a law firm, presumably with his eye on politics. But lawyers and politicians were consummate actors anyway, Clare reasoned cynically.

Given his similar background, it was hard to see Matt Sheffield turning out any differently from the smoothly polished, superbly arrogant and insidiously charming type David had been. But beneath the surface appeal would lie a soul so shallow and insincere, so utterly, utterly selfish, that such a man should wear a brand across his forehead declaring to the world at large—and women in particular—that they were poison.

Oh, yes, Clare knew exactly what to expect tonight. Yet even so, the prospect of being in Matt Sheffield’s company had stirred her as no man had since David.

Fortunately, being forewarned was forearmed. With her past bitter experience to the forefront of her mind, Clare felt reasonably confident she could sustain a coolly polite faade all night, no matter how attractive she found the man, or how much he flirted with her. Any direct defensive rudeness was out of the question, of course. Flora and Bangaratta were counting on her.

Steeling herself, Clare left the rest-room. She had just walked past the gents’ room and her foot was on the first of the three steps that led back up into the right wing of the stage when a man’s exasperated voice pulled her up short. ‘Good God, Bill, this place is a lot more backwoods than I expected.’

‘You’re not wrong there. Did you get a load of the decorations? Bloody balloons, no less! Why on earth you accepted this invite, I have no idea. The appearance fee won’t even cover expenses. As for publicity…you don’t need that any more.’

‘Certainly not of the nature I’ve been getting. But I agree, this doesn’t seem to have been one of my better decisions. Talk about the back of Bourke!’

Clare cringed inside. She knew instinctively whom that superbly cultured voice belonged to. She’d heard it often enough on the TV. Normally, she liked its deep rich tones, especially when it was soothing an accident victim, or a woman in painful childbirth. But overhearing it utter words flavoured with sarcasm and contempt reminded her of that other highly educated voice from the past, brutally putting her down because she was country born and bred. The memory brought a rush of rage that overpowered her resolve to remain cool and she hurried forward to confront this pair who dared speak disparagingly of her home town.

The two men were standing between the two sets of heavy stage curtains, their backs towards her, but their broad-shouldered, dauntingly male figures made Clare hesitate. When they resumed speaking, she found herself retreating behind a backdrop.

‘I’m certainly not looking forward to a whole evening of that woman’s inane chatter,’ Matt Sheffield said wearily.

‘You mean Mrs Pride?’

‘No, the other one. In the revolting floral dress. Flora something or other. But they both descended on me like a plague of locusts. Thank God you came to the rescue. I wouldn’t have thought to suggest a trip to the gents.’

‘That’s what I’m paid to do. Not that you really needed rescuing. You always handle women very well.’

Matt Sheffield’s laughter was dry. ‘Only some, Bill, only some. I suppose you heard I’ve been partnered with Miss Clare Pride for the evening, daughter no doubt of the aforementioned Mrs Pride. God, what a ghastly woman!’

‘Come now, Matt, Mrs Pride wasn’t too bad. Try to look on the bright side. Perhaps Miss Pride will be as well endowed as her mother.’

Clare blushed all over. Whether from anger or a sharp feeling of inadequacy, she didn’t know. She was too enraged to think clearly!

‘The way my luck is going lately,’ the guest-ofhonour continued, ‘she’ll be a flat-chested spinster whose only vice is butterfly collecting.’

Their mutual laughter sealed their fate. Or it did in Clare’s eyes. Just you wait, Mr Sheffield, she plagiarised. Just you wait…

Clare stayed where she was hidden for a couple of minutes, and when she emerged her smiling face hid an iron-willed determination to see that man in hell.

The guest-of-honour was by now standing behind his chair at the main table, with the man called Bill two chairs down on his left, Flora between them. Clare thought she was mentally prepared to meet her foe, but as she crossed the stage he swung round and fixed the most incredible blue eyes on her. She found herself speechless and staring, almost as hard as she was being stared at. With one shattered glance she took in the splendid cut of his tall figure, the well-shaped mouth, the manly chin with its tiny cleft, the strong nose, the sweep of dark brown hair. But always, in the centre of her stunned appraisal, those gorgeous blue eyes.

She must have shaken his hand, said something in greeting. She couldn’t remember. It was just as well she noticed the raised-eyebrow glance he flicked Bill’s way and the slight smugness that crossed the other man’s face. So, the exchange seemed to say. This is a turn-up for the books. Not so bad after all.

At least that was what Clare imagined they were thinking, and it was enough to snap her out of her fatuous reaction to the man.

God! How could I? she castigated herself inwardly. So the man has incredible eyes. You already knew that, you idiot!

Unbeknown to her, a look of sheer disgust slid into her own expressive grey eyes, freezing Matt Sheffield on the spot. He frowned, but was immediately distracted by Clare’s parents joining them.

‘Matt, did you meet Jim Pride?’ Flora gushed. ‘He’s Agnes’ husband and father of our lovely Clare here. Jim is our local bank manager. Fancies himself a farmer on the weekend, though.’

Everyone laughed. Everyone, that was, except Clare, who was still shaken by her own treason. How could she let herself gawk at the man like an adolescent schoolgirl? It was enough to have admitted earlier she might find his company stimulating, but to be going weak at the knees…

‘Yes we have met, Flora,’ her father said, while flashing an appreciative glance his daughter’s way. ‘We’re very proud of Clare, aren’t we, Mother?’ This while linking arms with a startled Agnes. ‘She’s a pharmacist, you know. Worked in Sydney for a while, but decided to come home a couple of years ago.’

Matt Sheffield’s mouth smiled at her again, but not the eyes. This surprised Clare. Most womanisers used their eyes to advantage all the time. Had he sensed her ambivalence perhaps? Did it bother him that she had not continued to devour him visually as most women would have? She hoped so.

‘I dare say,’ he drawled, ‘that the local lads are grateful for that.’

More laughter and an angry colour from Clare. Of course, she reasoned bitterly, a woman is never to be congratulated for her academic achievements, just reminded of her prime function in life: that of being a sex object, a mere decoration, placed here on earth for the sole purpose of pleasuring the male of the species.

‘You’re embarrassing our girl,’ Flora admonished, but coyly. ‘Besides, she doesn’t always look as glamorous as this, do you, Clare? Your visit has brought out the best in Bangaratta.’

Clare found this supposedly soothing remark even more humiliating, as though she had deliberately gone out and tarted herself up, just for this man’s benefit—a fact that was disturbingly close to the truth. She saw the speculation in that blue-eyed gaze and felt like cutting Flora’s tongue out, the soft-hearted fool!

‘Everyone and everything looks marvellous,’ the guest-of-honour flattered, his gaze sweeping the hall.

Oooh! You hypocrite, she fumed, but kept her mouth clamped firmly shut. He would keep.

‘We’ve done our best,’ Agnes said with pompous pride.

Clare was happy to fall silent and let her mother and Flora hold the stage. Empty chit-chat continued and it was only the appearance of several ladies anxious to serve the banquet dinner which was to precede the presentation of the débutantes that made everyone finally sit down.

Clare was relieved to find Stan Charters seated on her right. He was the local grocer, a fat jolly man in his fifties, another member of the local progress committee and quite a talker.

‘You’re looking particularly delightful tonight, Clare,’ Stan complimented her warmly straight away. ‘That’s some dress!’

‘Why, thank you, Mr Charters,’ she said sweetly. With a bit of luck she’d be able to chat away to him all night and totally ignore Matt Sheffield. In approximately four hours, she continually reassured herself, she would be safely back in her flat, and this little episode would be nothing more than a bad memory.

But Mr Charters was not to be Clare’s saviour. Her mother was seated on his other side and constantly claimed his undivided attention. Flora, who was seated between Mr Sheffield and Mr Marshall, was a valuable ally for a while, buttering up her prized guest with a stream of compliments. Bearing witness to such effusive flattery had a detrimental effect on Clare’s already nettled frame of mind, however, so that when Flora turned her attention to Mr Marshall on her left, and Matt Sheffield did turn to speak to her, she was hard pushed to be civil.

‘Those were very good prawns,’ he said to her as she was about to dissect the last one in her seafood cocktail. The note of surprise in his smooth voice did nothing to help her antagonism.

‘They’re Sydney prawns,’ she informed him. ‘Probably flown in especially for you.’

‘Aah… Nothing better than a good Sydney prawn.’

‘I dare say.’ Her tone was bored. She could feel his eyes on her but be damned if she was going to give him the satisfaction of turning in his direction.

‘And why, Miss Pride,’ he asked softly after a few seconds’ silence, ‘would you want to bury your considerable talents in a small country town?’

She took a steadying breath, dampening down the upsurge of irritation. This time she did turn her eyes his way, deceptively wide and innocent eyes. ‘Bury, Mr Sheffield? This is my home, not a cemetery. I like living here. But aside from that, I was also needed here. Bangaratta’s only chemist was getting too old to work full time and they couldn’t get anyone else. We’re having similar trouble filling the position of town doctor after our last physician had to retire through ill health. Professional people these days seem reluctant to go bush.’

He was nodding. ‘So Flora told me. She also explained the sort of commitment a doctor would have to make if he came to work here. The money might be good but the workload and hours are horrendous. Not too many doctors are prepared to make such a commitment.’

‘Commitment does seem to be a problem with men these days,’ she said, trying not to sound sour.

‘Not all doctors are men,’ he pointed out. ‘Maybe a woman doctor would be better suited. Or were you thinking of killing two birds with the one stone?’

‘In what way?’

He smiled in what seemed like a secret amusement. ‘Why, supplying the town with a doctor and yourself with a suitable life-partner, of course. I would imagine a highly intelligent and attractive lady like yourself might be hard to satisfy in that regard. Tell me, Miss Pride,’ he said, teasing lights glittering in his beautiful blue eyes, ‘do you personally interview all the applicants? Is that why the right man hasn’t been found for the job yet?’

Clare could have reacted to this provocative sparring in a few different ways. She could have blushed prettily—except she hadn’t blushed like that in years and didn’t think she could rustle one up. She could have come back with a suitable put-down. Hell, she should be good at those. Living with her mother had given her plenty of practice at sarcasm. Or she could try a hand at the sort of witty repartee she hadn’t indulged in for three years. There hadn’t been anyone in her life lately who liked that kind of thing.

Clare knew that to do so went against the way she had vowed to act tonight, but she couldn’t seem to stop herself.

‘Well actually, Matt,’ she murmured, leaning his way in a highly flirtatious fashion, ‘there was this one divinelooking chap last week who had potential, but I took him to dinner then back to my flat for a more in-depth interview, and quite frankly, he just didn’t measure up.’ With this, she dropped her eyes down to his crotch, then back up to his face. ‘It’s a pity that you’re not a real doctor, because I’m sure I’d give an application from you one hell of a thorough looking into.’

His delighted chuckle did things to her nerve-endings that should have been warning enough. But, like all forms of intoxication, such dizzying effects were easy to become addicted to. Clare had forgotten what it was like to be in the company of an attractive sexy, clever man, and to have him dance attention on her. Quite suddenly, she was loving it.

‘This evening is turning out to be far more entertaining than I ever imagined,’ he said smilingly, his eyes caressing hers. ‘So tell me, Clare, how long did you live in Sydney?’

She noted his dropping of the Miss Pride tag, but could find no fault in it. She liked the sound of her name on his tongue, liked the way Matt had rolled off hers.

‘Seven years.’

‘Seven years! You must have gone into withdrawal when you came back here. Don’t you miss the bright lights, the faster pace of living?’

Yes, she did miss those things, had never stopped missing them. Sometimes she simply longed for a night out at the theatre or the ballet. Or just a stimulating evening’s chat with the circle of friends she’d once had. No…be strictly honest, a tiny voice said. They were David’s friends. Never yours.

‘I…I like Bangaratta,’ she defended, but not with much conviction.

‘You surprise me. You look…out of place here.’ He picked up his wine glass and as he sipped, his eyes continued to hold hers. God, they were beautiful, those eyes, and far, far too intuitive.

‘What looks out of place,’ she said, glancing away as she pushed her plate away, ‘is the dress.’

Her breaking eye-contact plus the memories the dress brought back snapped Clare out of her momentary weakness. God, what did she think she was playing at here? Where was her damned pride? Get this conversation back on track before you make a right fool of yourself.

‘So, will Bush Doctor continue into the New Year?’ she asked abruptly. ‘I only ask because the women around here would die if the wonderful Dr Adrian Archer wasn’t there to fill their empty Tuesday evenings.’ She hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic, merely matter-of-fact, but somehow a caustic tone had crept in.

‘I see you’re not a fan yourself,’ he returned slowly.

‘I watch it occasionally,’ she lied.

‘But you can live without the wonderful Dr Adrian Archer.’

His drily mocking tone got to her. ‘I certainly can. I can live without the man behind the mask too.’

He was stunned, she could see, jerking back in his seat to stare at her. For her part, she was instantly consumed with shame and guilt.

‘I’m sorry,’ she blurted out. ‘That was unforgivably rude of me. Please…I…I don’t know what got into me. You’ve been so kind, coming all this way, and now I’ve spoiled things.’ Tears of frustration were distressingly close.

His hand unexpectedly closed over hers where it lay clenched on the table and when she looked up she noticed for the first time the dark shadows around his eyes, the weary lines of exhaustion. My God! The man’s tired, she realised. Terribly, terribly tired.

‘It’s all right, Clare,’ he murmured. ‘Obviously I must have said or done something to upset you. Perhaps you thought I overstepped the mark earlier, that I was coming on to you. If that’s the case, then I’m sorry.’ He looked deeply into her eyes, holding her. ‘Really sorry…’

For a few breathtaking moments she was almost taken in.

Wait on there, experience jumped in to warn her. Maybe he is tired, maybe his defences are genuinely down, maybe his irritation backstage was just exhaustion talking and not contempt. But only maybe. I’m the lost sheep here, remember? The only one around not worshipping at his altar. Tread carefully.

‘I think we should get on with our dinner, don’t you, Mr Sheffield?’ she said stiffly.

He nodded and Clare sighed inwardly with relief. God, she’d almost made two faux pas then. Not only insulted the man but almost been won over by him. Not that she could entirely blame herself. He was even more devastatingly attractive than David. He exuded sex appeal and threw charming lines as cleverly as a fisherman. Plenty of women would be caught by such a bait, but not sensible once-bitten Clare.

As if to prove her wrong, they had just finished the main course when he leant close. ‘I have a favour to ask of you.’ His breath was warm against her cheek. It stirred her hair and much, much more.

‘When the dinner and débutante business is over,’ he continued in that same low, husky tone, ‘don’t leave me in the clutches of Flora Whitbread. Stick by my side. Promise?’

She nodded, all coherent thought and resolve gone out the window. She hardly noticed the lady taking her empty plate and replacing it with dessert.

‘And do call me Matt,’ he added quietly.

Matt…

A smooth name for a very smooth man. God but she was weak. How could she possibly be letting herself be taken in by him?

‘Something wrong, Clare?’

She looked up to find Matt frowning over at her. ‘You haven’t touched your dessert,’ he pointed out.

Her grey eyes narrowed, seeing not his face sitting beside her, but another equally handsome face. The memory was sharp, the pain momentarily strong. And then her gaze cleared. ‘Sorry,’ she muttered. ‘I was away in another world.’

Matt was still frowning at her. ‘Not a happy one,’ he commented. ‘Is there anything I can do?’

‘No,’ she said far too sharply. You’d be the last man on earth who could wipe away my pain, Matt Sheffield! She picked up her dessert fork and jabbed at the cheesecake.

Over coffee, Flora stood up and made a blessedly short but simpering speech of gratitude to their guest-ofhonour. Matt’s reply was a witty, obviously off-the-cuff speech which mentioned Bangaratta’s plight in not having a town doctor. A few journalists were there, taking notes, Clare saw, and the photographers were busily snapping away. Who knew? Maybe some good would come of this. When Matt sat down, the applause was deafening.

‘You were marvellous,’ she said when he looked across at her. And she meant it. She wasn’t so prejudiced that she couldn’t give praise when praise was due.

His stare was so intense that Clare imagined he was in fact reading her mind. ‘True praise indeed,’ he said in a low voice, ‘when it comes from a hostile audience.’

She scooped in a sharp breath. ‘Matt, I…’

‘Come now, Clare.’ His smile was sardonic. ‘This man behind the mask is not a sensitive creature.’ He fixed a deadly eye on her. ‘You have it in for me for some reason, but be damned if I know what it is.’

Her face must have confirmed his guess.

‘What? No further apologies?’

For a moment she thought of Flora’s committee and distress flashed into her eyes.

‘Don’t back down. I like honesty. But I must admit I have found your attitude quite intriguing. What have I done, I ask myself, to instil such antagonism in the most desirable woman I have ever met?’

It was a suitably tantalising note to end their conversation on. And he knew it, Clare decided, watching agitatedly as he joined Flora and Co. for the presentation of the débutantes. Clare could only stare after him, her stomach in knots. With that parting shot he had stirred up a hornet’s nest inside her. Oh, Matt, you are a clever, clever man, she realised through her fluster.

‘Clare…’

Clare’s head jerked round at her mother’s voice.

‘Something wrong, dear?’ came the enquiry. ‘You look…flushed.’

Clare drummed up a covering smile. ‘I’m all right. A slight headache. I might go home soon.’

‘But you can’t do that! The debs are about to be presented. And you might be needed later to help entertain the guest-of-honour. Come over and sit down with me and your father.’

Clare sighed and gave in graciously. It was the best way with her mother.

The music started up—it was taped music, the committee unable to afford an orchestra or a band on top of their expensive guest. Clare sat in silence while the five white-gowned girls were presented, listening while her mother raved on about how lovely they looked, how charming their guest was and how wonderful the night had turned out to be. She determined to slip away once the official proceedings were over and the dancing began. Someone else could help ‘entertain’ the guest-ofhonour.

It didn’t prove to be that easy. People kept claiming her attention, all of them eager to tell her how stunning she looked. Still, after her mother’s disappointing silence on the subject, it was some balm to her ego and she couldn’t say she disliked the flattery. Not only that—while she was busy chatting to the townsfolk, she was safe from the enemy’s attentions.

Not that she wasn’t aware of where he was and what he was doing every single moment. One only had to find the largest circle of women and there he would be, holding court in the middle of them. Truly, the man was a menace. He was standing at that moment with a group of elderly women who were all laughing and smiling. Clare felt a reluctantly admiring smile pull at her mouth as she watched him in action.

Suddenly he turned his head and caught her eye. For a moment he just stared and then he turned aside and whispered something to Bill Marshall. Clare knew instinctively that this interchange had something to do with her, and a wave of unease swept through her. She watched, with increasing alarm, as Bill made his way towards her.

‘Care to dance, Clare?’

She blinked her surprise but quickly found herself on the dance floor.

‘Matt said to tell you he’d be leaving shortly, ostensibly to go back to the motel. But he wants to know if he could meet you somewhere private for a drink.’

Clare was dumbfounded. And furious! She’d heard of pop stars sending their henchmen out to collect some groupies for the night, but this…this was outrageous!

‘Tell me, Bill,’ she began with an innocent air, ‘do you always procure Matt’s women for him? Or is it only on these out-of-town jaunts?’

Bill didn’t appear the slightest bit offended. Clearly being unflappable and unoffendable were required qualities in a big-time agent. ‘I see,’ came the cool reply. ‘I presume the answer, then, is no.’

‘Please don’t presume, Bill,’ she swept on, her voice cool but her heart pounding with anger. ‘I wouldn’t dream of turning down such a prize. I just hope he realises that a drink will be all he’ll be getting!’

‘Matt is a gentleman,’ he stated, then added with what Clare thought considerable irony, ‘Where can he meet you?’

Clare could hardly believe this was happening. Two years of dealing with country men had made her forget how daring and aggressive some city men could be. They did what others only thought about. Her temper rose, her vow earlier in the night to see this man in hell catapulting back into her brain. She couldn’t deliver hell exactly, but she sure as heck would teach him a lesson or two!

‘I live in a flat above the pharmacy in the main street,’ she said, smiling. ‘There’s access from the back lane. I’ll leave the porch light on. Tell him to just walk up the steps and knock.’

‘You leave first,’ Bill said, projecting a secrecy Clare found disgusting, though predictable. ‘Matt will be with you as soon as he can.’ He strode briskly away, a hint of smugness playing on his lips.

She stared after him, still disbelieving. She watched him go up to Matt, held her breath as he whispered in his ear. Matt was frowning and then his head was turning. Those incredible blue eyes locked with hers. Her heart stopped, then seemed to tremble.

My God, what had she just done?

For the second time that night, Clare fled.