“I’m not in the habit of sleeping with a woman on such short acquaintance!”

Matt’s bluntness truly took the wind out of Clare’s sails.

“Of course,” he resumed, “I’m prepared to make an exception, under the circumstances.”

The breath zoomed back into her lungs—she was getting out of her depth here.

“And what do you mean by that?”

“I mean that if you’re desperate to go to bed, I’m rather tempted to oblige!”

MIRANDA LEE is Australian, living near Sydney. Born and raised in the bush, she was boardingschool educated, and she briefly pursued a classical music career before moving to Sydney and embracing the world of computers. Happily married, with three daughters, she began writing when family commitments kept her at home. She likes to create stories that are believable, modern, fast-paced and sexy. Her interests include reading meaty sagas, doing word puzzles, gambling and going to the movies.

A Very Secret Affair
Miranda Lee

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER ONE

‘AREN’T you the lucky girl!’

Clare put Mrs Brown’s blood-pressure tablets plus the repeat of her prescription into the paper bag, then looked up with a frown on her face. ‘What do you mean, lucky?’

Mrs Brown’s expression was knowing and exasperated at the same time. ‘Clare Pride! Who do you think you’re kidding? I was just over at the town hall helping with the decorations for the deb ball tonight and I saw the names on the place cards on the main table. There’s no use pretending you don’t know what I’m talking about.’

Clare’s heart fell. Oh, God. Surely her mother wouldn’t have simply gone ahead and put her on that table against her wishes. Surely not!

‘Fancy sitting next to the gorgeous Dr Adrian Archer all night.’ Mrs Brown was almost swooning. ‘That man can put his stethoscope on my chest any time he likes!’

For one mad moment Clare was in total agreement. She too had had her little fantasies while she watched Bush Doctor every Tuesday night without fail.

But she quickly remembered that that was all they were. Fantasies. The man on the screen was not real. He was an illusion. A romantic dream. In the flesh, he would no doubt prove to be the very opposite of the charming, caring, sensitive character he played on television.

One only had to read the women’s magazines to get the true picture. Hardly a week went by when his photograph didn’t grace their pages, always with a different dolly-bird on his arm. Rumour had it he went through girlfriends like a hot knife through butter.

‘He’s not a real doctor, Nancy,’ Clare pointed out drily.

Mrs Brown looked startled. ‘Of course he’s a real doctor! Look at all those emergency operations he’s performed. Not only that, he has a simply wonderful bedside manner.’

I’ll bet he has, Clare thought tartly.

‘Only a real doctor could be as kind and warm and caring as Dr Archer is!’ Mrs Brown pronounced firmly.

‘Nancy,’ Clare said patiently. ‘He’s an actor. No doubt there’s a real doctor in the wings overseeing the authenticity of the scenes, but Bush Doctor is a television show with made-up towns and a made-up doctor. Dr Adrian Archer is not a real doctor. If you look at the credits at the end, you’ll see he’s played by an actor called Matt Sheffield.’

‘Well he’ll always be Dr Archer to me!’ Mrs Brown sniffed, and, plonking down the exact coins for her prescription, swept up her parcel from the counter and marched from the shop.

Clare sighed her exasperation. Why couldn’t women like Mrs Brown tell the difference between make-believe and reality? Why did they think characters in television serials were real people? And why, she thought wearily, do I have to be cursed with a mother who doesn’t take no for an answer and who thinks she can run everything and everyone around her?

She glanced at her watch. It was almost twelve. In a few minutes old Mr Watson would take over—as he did every Saturday at noon—leaving her free for the afternoon. Usually she spent the time cleaning the flat upstairs and listening to music, but today a trip out home was called for.

There was no way Clare was even going to that ball tonight, let alone sit on the main table. She didn’t want her enjoyment in her favourite television programme permanently spoiled. She wanted Dr Adrian Archer to stay Dr Adrian Archer. If she was forced to spend time with the real man behind the mask, how could she keep the fantasy man alive in her imagination? No, it was out of the question. Definitely out of the question!

It was all her mother’s fault, of course. Really, she could not be allowed to get away with this. Give that woman an inch and she would take a mile!

Clare swung her dark blue Magna on to the deserted dirt road and put her foot down. The dust flew out behind her, spreading a red cloud over the still waters of the river alongside. She knew that speeding while angry was foolish, but she gave into it just this once, covering the distance from the turn-off to her parents’ farm in half the usual time.

Samantha was walking her grey gelding, Casper, through the side gate when the Magna screeched to a halt in front of the rambling wooden house. ‘Wow, sis!’ she exclaimed as Clare scrambled out. ‘You planning on entering a Grand Prix this year? What are you doing out here anyway? Shouldn’t you be getting all dolled up for the big do tonight? You’ve only got seven hours left, you know. You’d better get started if you’re to please Mum with the finished product.’

‘Very funny, Sam. Where is Mum?’

‘In her room, I think, making up her mind what to wear tonight. Brother, you sure look mad. What’s she done now?’

‘She’s put me next to Matt Sheffield, that’s what she’s done!’

Sam launched herself into the saddle before frowning down at her sister. ‘Who in heck’s Matt Sheffield? I thought the guest of honor tonight was that doctor from Bush Doctor.’

‘Matt Sheffield is the doctor from Bush Doctor.’

‘So why are you complaining? Most of the old ducks in Bangaratta are ga-ga over him. Lord knows why. He’s not that good-looking.’

Was the girl blind? The man was sensational-looking!

‘And he’s over thirty if he’s a day,’ Sam tossed off airily.

‘Oh, over the hill, definitely.’ Clare’s tone was drily caustic. ‘And thanks heaps, Sam. Am I classified as an old duck these days, am I?’

‘Well, you are twenty-seven, sis. Twenty-seven and still single. Gosh, you’re not even living with a guy. That might not make you an old duck, but it certainly makes you an old maid.’

‘You don’t live with a guy in Bangaratta, Sam. Not if you’re the town pharmacist.’

‘Then why come back, sis? Why didn’t you stay in Sydney?’

Why indeed? Clare thought bitterly.

‘You seemed happy there. This small-town life is not for you, you know.’

‘So what’s for me, Sam? Do tell me.’

Sam cocked her head on one side and gave her sister a brief but nonchalant once-over. ‘Damned if I know, sis. But I know one thing. You shouldn’t live anywhere near Mum. You two just don’t get along. Gotta go. See you, sis.’

Samantha kicked the grey in the flanks and galloped off, her long blonde hair flying out behind her. Clare stared after her young sister, who looked older every time she saw her. She not only looked older but she was sounding older too.

Maybe Sam was right. Maybe she shouldn’t have come home. But a fifteen-year-old teenager couldn’t know what it was like to live in a big city, all alone with a broken heart.

Clare was walking towards the front steps, thinking bleak thoughts, when the front door was flung open by a tall, formidable-looking woman with short permed blonde hair, a big bosom and sharp grey eyes. Just my luck, Clare thought ruefully, to inherit the eyes and not the bosom.

‘Oh, it’s you, Clare. I thought I heard a car.’

Clare sighed. Occasionally she did crave to hear something like, Hello, darling daughter, how nice to see you, is there anything wrong and can I help you? As for a hug…she couldn’t remember the last time her mother had hugged her. Hugging was not part of Agnes Pride’s arsenal.

‘What’s up? You look frazzled. Perhaps you’d better come in for a cup of tea.’

Agnes was off down the hall before Clare could stop her. She followed her mother resignedly into the large, country-style kitchen at the back of the house, pulling out one of the high-backed wooden chairs that surrounded the kitchen table.

‘Sam’s growing up,’ she remarked as she sat down. ‘You know, I wouldn’t be letting her go off on her own too much in future. Who knows who or what she might meet on the road, or in the bush?’

Agnes looked up from where she was filling the kettle with water, her mouth tightening. ‘This is the country,’ she said sharply, ‘not your precious Sydney. Out here, girls are quite safe on their own. Besides, Samantha is fifteen and she’s only going down the road half a mile to her friend’s house. And it’s not as though she’s walking. She’s riding a horse.’

‘A horse is no match for a man, Mum. Not if he’s got rape on his mind.’

‘Rape? Girls don’t get raped out here,’ she scorned. ‘We’re a decent community, with decent morals.’

‘Girls get raped everywhere, Mum,’ Clare pointed out. ‘Often by men they know.’

There was a short sharp silence as Agnes stared over at her daughter.

‘Dear heaven,’ she said at last. ‘Is…is that what happened to you in Sydney, Clare? Is that why you came home so suddenly?’

‘Good lord, no. No, nothing like that!’

‘Then why did you come home out of the blue, then? You never did tell me.’

Clare opened her mouth then shut it again. She’d never felt comfortable confiding in her mother, who rarely gave constructive advice, only criticism. Agnes’ staunchly old-fashioned morals had always precluded Clare’s telling her the truth about her relationship with David. Her mother would have judged her harshly, then called her a fool. Clare craved sympathy and understanding, not condemnation. She knew only too well she’d been a fool!

‘I just felt like coming home,’ she hedged. ‘I missed Bangaratta. Look, Mum, I haven’t come out just to chat. I found out that someone has put me on the main table next to your guest-of-honour tonight and I—’

‘What?’ Agnes burst out. ‘You’ve been put next to Dr Archer?’

Clare realised immediately that she’d been wrong. It hadn’t been her mother’s doing at all!

‘I’m going to give that Flora Whitbread a piece of my mind when I get there tonight,’ Agnes blustered. ‘I told her specifically that you didn’t want to be on the main table. I even offered myself in your place. And what does she do? Puts you there anyway. Really, that woman’s getting too big for her boots!’

Clare cringed at the thought of poor Flora getting an earful tonight. Frankly, if she’d known it was Flora’s idea she might have gone along with it right from the start. She liked Flora. The old dear had a good heart and worked her socks off as president of the local progress committee. It had certainly been a feather in her cap to get someone like ‘Dr Archer’ as guest-of-honour for their local débutante ball. Flora was also hoping that the publicity might bring a real doctor to the small country town. Permanently.

Bangaratta’s only doctor had retired last year due to ill health, and, while advertisements had been placed in newspapers all over the country, no one suitable had answered. Locals were having to travel to Dubbo for medical treatment, which was a highly unsatisfactory arrangement, especially for the elderly. Flora had vowed to move heaven and earth to rectify the situation.

‘Flora probably wanted someone more Mr Sheffield’s age to sit next to him,’ Clare said by way of excuse. ‘I guess she must have been desperate. All the other eligible young women in town are going to be debs. Don’t say anything to her, Mum. I’ll just sit there and suffer in silence.’

Agnes snorted. ‘Suffer indeed! Most women would give their eye-teeth to be sitting where you will be tonight.’

Clare let that slide. Already she was feeling a little annoyed with herself for having backed down. The sacrifices one made for one’s home town! Her Tuesday nights would never be the same again.

Agnes finished making the tea, carrying a tray over to the table. No teabags for Agnes Pride. Two cups were poured, the milk added then one cup and saucer put precisely in front of Clare, the other carried down to the opposite end of the oval table. Agnes sat down, her back straight as she lifted the cup to her lips, her sharp eyes flicking over her first-born as she sipped the hot liquid.

Clare fell silent while she drank down the hot tea in long, painful swallows. Why did her mother always have to look at her like that? As if she was attempting some sort of mental make-over, yet all the time believing a satisfactory result was impossible.

‘You really should get your hair cut, Clare,’ Agnes said. ‘Down, it looks straggly and unkempt. And that bun you wear for work makes you look like a spinster. A little make-up wouldn’t go astray either. You have a very nice complexion and your eyes are quite lovely, but there’s always room for improvement. Not only that, how do you expect to catch a man’s eye wearing trousers all the time? Men like to see a woman’s figure.’

‘My first priority in life is not to catch a man’s eye, Mum. And I don’t wear trousers. I wear jeans. A man can see as much of a woman’s figure in jeans and a T-shirt as a dress. Sometimes more.’

‘So we’re to look forward to your showing up at the ball in jeans tonight, are we?’ came the tart remark. ‘I’m sure Dr Archer will be impressed.’

‘Matt Sheffield is his name, Mum. Dr Archer is the character he plays on television.’

Agnes’ blank blink showed she was as much a victim of the illusion as Mrs Brown.

‘I do happen to own a ballgown or two,’ Clare continued. ‘I have one that is especially nice. Still, I doubt anything I could wear or do would genuinely impress a man of Mr Sheffield’s ilk.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Clare. You can be quite attractive when you want to be.’ Agnes plonked her cup noisily into the saucer. ‘Tell me! Why do you dislike Mr Sheffield so much? Have you met him before, is that it? I know you used to go to the theatre a lot when you lived in Sydney.’

Clare put down her cup also, rattling it slightly. ‘No, I’ve never met him. But handsome male actors are all tarred with the same brush. They think they’re God’s gift to women, when in fact they’re from the devil.’

An image filled her mind, of a curtain going up and a man stepping on the stage, a rivetingly handsome man. He’d looked like a Greek god. But there’d been nothing heavenly about David in the end. He’d consigned her to hell and left her there.

‘You’ve become very cynical, Clare. Sometimes I wish you’d hadn’t gone away to Sydney.’

‘You and me both,’ Clare muttered, a curl of pain squeezing her heart.

‘No one forced you.’ Her mother sounded indignant. ‘You were all for going.’

All for getting away from you, you mean, Clare thought, then felt guilty. Despite their differences, she did love her mother. But Sam was right. They didn’t always get along. ‘I didn’t have much choice, you know, Mum,’ she soothed. ‘Bangaratta is hardly the education capital of the world.’ She stood up and carried her cup and saucer over to the sink. ‘I’d better be going. I guess I’ll be seeing you tonight after all.’

Agnes walked with her to the door.

‘What’s this dress like that you’re going to wear?’ she asked once they reached the front veranda. ‘Are you sure it isn’t out of fashion? You have been back here in Bangaratta a couple of years, after all.’

‘It’ll do, Mum,’ Clare said, aware that this was a wicked understatement of the truth.

Agnes sighed. ‘I suppose it’ll have to, but it’s a pity for our guest to think that the ladies of Bangaratta don’t know how to dress. Country does not mean dowdy!’

Something deep and dark darted through Clare. ‘Some people think so,’ she murmured, but at her mother’s quick frown, Clare forced a bright, if somewhat brittle smile to her lips. ‘I doubt Mr Sheffield will give a hoot what I wear, Mum, but don’t worry, I won’t let you—or Bangaratta—down.’

The Bangaratta Town Hall hadn’t looked this grand in years, Clare thought. Built in 1886, it had always been the focal point of the small bush town. This was where the dances were held, the meetings, the wedding receptions. It had even doubled as the schoolhouse till the 1920s when the success of the wheat crops brought an upsurge in population and, of course, more schoolchildren. Of late, the building had been looking shabby, but tonight…tonight there was fresh paint on the walls, the windows sparkled, the wooden floor gleamed and high above, banners, balloons and streamers lent a festive spirit.

Clare walked up on to the wooden stage where the main table was located, her eyes sliding from her name card to the splendid table setting. Who would have believed that underneath the crisp white tablecloths and bowls of fresh flowers lay plain wooden trestles?

Flora and her progress committee had outdone themselves this time. Why, even the cutlery was not the usual catering stuff, but genuine silver. Clare gazed down at the spruced-up old building with a sense of pride. Not the sort of sophisticated venue Matt Sheffield was probably used to, she conceded, but still, it looked its very best. As did she…

Clare’s heart contracted. There was a certain irony in wearing this particular dress tonight which did not escape her. The dress had remained in her wardrobe, unworn, as a symbol of her hurt and a warning never to be so stupid again.

She was only wearing it tonight because she’d been goaded into it by her mother—she had another dress which would have sufficed—but she supposed it was a good thing in a way. It was time to exorcise the ghosts once and for all. Time to show the world—and Bangaratta—that she was not old maid material after all.

The thought of the expression of her mother’s face when she saw her designer-clad daughter did give Clare some satisfaction. Not only was her dress an original worth many hundreds of dollars, but the rest of her matched it for style and sophistication. Her hair, despite being out, was definitely not straggly. She’d spent all afternoon putting a warm red rinse through its midbrown colour, then shampooing, setting and styling it till it bounced around on her shoulders in a profusion of large loose curls, coppery highlights dancing on the crests of the waves that curved sleekly around her face.

Aah, yes…her face. Normally left au naturel, that too had received a lot of attention. She had spent a long, agonising hour painstakingly applying the sort of makeup that made the most of even the plainest girl. A bronze gloss now shimmered on her expertly outlined lips; blusher emphasised her good cheekbones; and after a careful application of misty eyeshadows, eyeliner and mascara, her grey eyes had taken on a more mysterious look, as opposed to the cool clarity she usually presented to her customers across the counter of the shop.

Of course, it was the dress, in the main, that would draw eyes, a turquoise Thai silk gown with a wide offthe-shoulder wraparound collar, a fitted waist and a gathered skirt which curved up and down at the front to show her best asset—her long athletic legs. With a push-up strapless bra underneath, she had contrived enough cleavage to be interesting, knowing that a lot of men were tantalised more by what was hinted at than what was flaunted.

Not for the first time that evening, Clare wondered if Matt Sheffield would find her attractive. Her innate honesty forced her to concede she hadn’t gone to all this trouble just for her mother.

Clare was a woman, after all. What woman wouldn’t want to look her best in the presence of a man as handsome and sophisticated as Matt Sheffield? Pride demanded it. Or was it something else which had prompted her to pull out all the stops?

Clare’s heart began to race nervously as she stared at the place she would fill at the table on the stage. Within half an hour she would be sitting there, next to the sort of man whose real character she knew oh so well. And while Clare knew she wasn’t a raving beauty, she was far from plain. Her mother would have been astounded at the number of men who had tried to chat her up since her return home.

Yes, she was not so unattractive that their visitor wouldn’t take a second look. What worried her was how she would act if he started flirting with her, or even made a pass? She hoped her foolish female heart would be able to differentiate the actor from the doctor he played on television. There was no doubt Mrs Brown was right about one thing. Dr Adrian Archer did have a marvellous bedside manner!

Clare dragged in then expelled a shuddering sigh. She should not have agreed to this. No matter what. She had very bad vibes about it.

‘Clare! Yoo-hoo, Clare!’

Clare looked down into the body of the hall to see Flora waving at her from near the back doors. With a resigned sigh she made her way over, trying not to cringe over the dress Flora was wearing—a loud floral which looked hideous on her plump figure. The poor sweet darling was also all pink and flustered as she kept checking arrivals out the back.

‘Oh, my, don’t you look simply stunning!’ Flora praised between anxious peers. ‘I…er…hope you didn’t mind about my putting you on the main table after all, dear. I was speaking to your father in town this morning and he said you must have misunderstood what I wanted because he was sure you wouldn’t mind at all. I…er…hope he was right.’

Clare smiled. ‘He was perfectly right. I just thought maybe you could find someone better suited than me, that’s all.’

‘Oh, goodness me, no. I told Jim that there wasn’t a brighter or prettier girl in town than you and if anyone could charm our guest it would be our own darling lady chemist.’ Flora suddenly squealed and grabbed Clare’s wrist. ‘Oh, look. There’s his car! Isn’t this thrilling?’

Clare pulled out of the other woman’s grasp, alarmed to find that her heart was galloping. She also found herself joining Flora in the avid peering through the doorway.

A shiny black car was rolling into the kerb. When it stopped, a man in a black dinner suit slid out from behind the wheel. A tall man. A nice-looking man. He wasn’t, Clare recognised with sick relief, the man himself.

‘That would be Mr Marshall. He’s our guest’s manager. Oh, there’s Dr Archer, getting out now. Aren’t you coming down to meet him?’

Clare swallowed, finding her eyes riveted on the opening passenger door. ‘No,’ she croaked.

‘Well, I certainly am.’ Flora surged down the steps towards the welcoming committee.

The passenger door was wide open now and a sleek dark head appeared, connected to a black dinner suit. Clare did not wait to see any more. Totally unnerved, she turned and fled back into the hall.

CHAPTER TWO

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.

CHAPTER THREE

CLARE paced nervously around her flat. Every now and then she would stop and rearrange the pillows on her oversized sofa, unaware that such an action might have Freudian overtones. She kept going to the back window and looking out into the lane, one moment hoping that he would hurry and the next wishing he’d never turn up.

She spun away from the window for the umpteenth time and resumed her pacing. God, what a fool I am! A blithering idiot to think I can play at games like this. The man’s dangerous. Here I am, hating him for his arrogance, his presumption, plotting to take him down a peg or two, yet, underneath, trembling with anticipation and excitement.

A sharp rap on her door sent her into a spin.

He’d come…

With her heart hammering inside her lungs she fairly raced to the door. Just in time did she pull herself up, steady her breathing, drum up a mechanical smile. She opened the door. ‘Did you have any trouble finding the place?’ came her cool enquiry.

‘Not at all.’ He stepped inside without waiting to be asked, immediately removing his jacket then plucking aside the bow-tie. ‘That’s better.’ He continued to undo the buttons at his neck as his eyes roved around the flat. ‘Hmm…nice place,’ he murmured, throwing her a smile then depositing his things on the nearest chair.

‘I like it,’ she said tightly. She closed the door and turned to flick an uneasy glance around her recently refurbished flat.

Only a couple of lamps threw light into the living area and suddenly, she was reminded of what Sam had said about it the week before. ‘Wow, sis, that’s some room! Ve-ry sexy.’ While Clare had laughed about such a description at the time, now, she started seeing her choice of furnishings with new eyes.

The white shag-pile rug was overly thick and felt luxurious beneath bare feet. The focal point of the room, a wide four-cushioned sofa, was lushly covered in velvet the colour of red wine. Two overstuffed armchairs were also velvet, one black, the other a burgundy and white stripe. Sensuous fabrics. Rich, flamboyant colours.

Only one painting hung on the stark white walls. It showed a man and a woman reclining on a rug under a tree, a picnic basket nearby. Clare had always found the scene relaxing, yet now, as Matt walked over to look at it, she had a totally different view. Suddenly it seemed that the couple’s eyes were half-closed because of the drugged aftermath of making love and not due to a full lunch. She pictured them lying on that rug, oblivious to the groups of people in the background, oblivious to everything except each other.

‘Rather an erotic painting, isn’t it?’ Matt commented as he turned slowly round to fix her with a thankfully bland look.

‘I’ve never thought so,’ she managed with an airy nonchalance.

Till now, she added privately, her eyes travelling down his handsome face, past a strong, tanned neck, into the swirl of dark hairs springing up from his chest.

She’d made it down to his waist before dragging her eyes away and walking on wobbly knees to the walnut corner cabinet. With her back towards him she was able to suck in a few calming breaths and pull herself together before turning round. ‘What would you like to drink?’ she asked politely.

‘Got any port?’ He flopped down on the sofa and rubbed his forehead with a long, elegant finger.

Clare brought out a bottle of Samuel port as well as two fine crystal glasses. They tinkled as she set them down on the marble side-table nearest Matt, and it took all her control not to spill the liquid as she filled both glasses. Her enforced composure was such little protection against the sexual aura vibrating from this man. Resisting his attraction was like skating on thin ice, she fancied. One slip and she’d go under.

Those knowing blue eyes bored steadily into her while she hovered with the drinks and she was half expecting him to do something obvious like stroke her fingers when she handed him his glass. If he did, she feared she would spill the whole kit and caboodle into his lap.

He didn’t.

Her own drink in hand, Clare proceeded to sit down on the other end of the sofa, straightening her dress over her knees. Once settled, and at a reasonable distance from her adversary, she felt better. A little stiff maybe, but at least able to lean back, sip her port, and hold his gaze without wavering.

He smiled lazily at her. ‘Thank God tonight’s over.’

‘Surely you must be used to that sort of function by now?’ she said drily. ‘You should be able to go through the motions on automatic pilot.’

‘Tonight was a little different.’ He sipped his drink and eyed her closely. ‘Bangaratta has, to say the least, surprised me.’

‘Really? I would have thought it was exactly as you’d imagined, balloons and all!’

He laughed. ‘Funny you should say that. It was the first thing that struck me. The balloons!’

‘I would have thought it was Flora in her red and pink dress.’

He shot her a startled glance but made no comment. Then he said the most amazing thing.

‘You’re still in your dress, I’ve noticed.’

Her mouth dropped open. My God! Had he expected her to slip into ‘something more comfortable’? A black lace négligé perhaps? And why, damn it, did she find such an outrageous expectation so exciting?

He laughed and quaffed back half of the port. ‘I dare say that sounded terrible.’ He placed the glass back on the table. ‘All I meant was that I can never wait to get out of these penguin suits. Don’t women like to discard their finery as well?’

‘Oh…’ She just had to look down, terrified that her expression would give her away. ‘Well, I haven’t really had time and I’m not that uncomfortable.’

‘You look uncomfortable.’

Her heard jerked up. ‘Well, I’m not!’ she retorted. There was a certain safety in anger.

Again he laughed. ‘You do have a short fuse, Clare. Don’t worry, you have nothing to fear from me. And don’t deny what you’ve been thinking.’

That shook her. Surely he couldn’t see right inside her mind.

‘Bill told me what you said,’ he added.

‘Did he now?’

Matt grinned and picked up his port again. ‘He thought it only fair to warn me.’

‘And was I right?’ The provocative words fairly tumbled from her mouth. ‘Was this invitation for a drink together just a cover for an expected sexual rendezvous?’

The laughter died from his eyes, replaced by a puzzled frown. ‘Do you want a truthful answer to that or not?’

‘You said you admired honesty. In yourself, or only in others?’

‘Both, I hope.’ The blue eyes hardened as they swept over her. ‘I’ll make a bargain with you. I’ll answer your question honestly if you answer mine first.’

A charge of adrenalin shot through Clare at the uncompromising ruthlessness in his eyes. He was looking at her in a way that chilled her soul, but at the same time aroused her body, and try as she might, all she wanted was more and more…

‘Not the fairest of bargains, perhaps,’ she countered, heart pounding, ‘but I’m game.’

‘Good. Then tell me… Is it me personally you dislike? Or all actors?’

‘That’s easily answered.’ She sipped her drink, her grey eyes challenging him over the rim of her glass. ‘Both.’

There was the minutest raising of an eyebrow. ‘And might I request an explanation?’

‘Aah…’ Her smile was sardonic. ‘That was not part of the bargain. Now you have to answer my question.’

‘What was it again?’ He poured himself a second port. ‘I’ve forgotten the exact wording.’

‘Liar!’ she accused, thoroughly enjoying the battle of words. ‘You, Matt Sheffield, would never forget words. Or lines. You’re just trying to embarrass me by making me say it.’

‘Say what?’

‘That it was sex you were expecting, not merely a drink.’

He fell irritatingly silent, savouring his port and giving her another of those disturbing looks.

‘Well?’ she prompted. ‘Is that what you were expecting?’

‘And I’m to be honest?’

‘Of course.’ A tingle shot up Clare’s spine as she waited for his answer.

His gaze was unnervingly frank. ‘I had no lecherous intentions when I asked to meet you for a drink. All I wanted was to get away and relax with someone who both interested and intrigued me. I thought I might find out why you seemed to like me one moment then despise me the next.’ He leant back, crossing his ankles. ‘Actually…I’m not in the habit of sleeping with a woman on such short acquaintance.’

His bluntness truly took the wind out of Clare’s sails, making her feel horribly cheap, as though she had been the one to suggest sex.

‘Of course,’ he resumed, a mocking sound in his voice, ‘I’m prepared to make an exception, in the circumstances.’

The breath zoomed back into her lungs, propelled by sheer anger. Or was it fright? She was getting out of her depth here. ‘And what do you mean by that?’

‘I mean…’ he began swirling the drink in his glass ‘…that some women bring up the subject uppermost in their minds. If you’re desperate to go to bed, I’m rather tempted to oblige.’

‘Oh!’ She jumped up, and several drops of port sloshed over the glass onto her beautiful rug. ‘How dare you? Who do you think you are, saying such things? Brother, you’ve got a nerve. You asked to meet me for a drink, not the other way around.’

‘You accepted,’ he said quite calmly, ‘believing it was for more than a drink.’

‘Only because I wanted to show you that living in the backwoods didn’t make a woman a pushover! I wanted to get up your hopes so that I could spit in your face!’

As soon as the ghastly words were out of her mouth she regretted them. She closed her eyes tight and a trembling sigh shook her body. ‘Oh, God,’ she rasped. ‘God…’

He must have stood up, for he took the drink out of her hand. ‘Have you got anything to sponge down this rug with?’ he said, completely ignoring her outburst.

Her eyes flew open to find him standing in front of her, a tightly cold expression on his face. An agonised groan of dismay escaped her lips when she finally saw the state of her rug and she dashed for the sink. Snatching up a wet sponge, she flew back to the damage, got down on her knees and rubbed away at the offending stains. ‘Oh, God!’ she sobbed again, but not because of the rug.

‘I think I’d best be going,’ Matt said with a weary sigh.

‘No…’ She staggered to her feet and threw him a beseeching look. ‘Please… I have to explain…’

‘You don’t have to. It’s quite obvious that you overheard me talking to Bill earlier this evening and decided to teach me some sort of lesson. I must admit, though, that it was unfair of you to condemn me for being an actor this evening. Your performance has been exceptional. Just the right amount of coolness, then the flashes of interest. I even detected a hint of desire. Damned how you managed that! I take my hat off to you.’

‘It wasn’t like that.’ She felt and sounded desperate. ‘I…I did overhear you and I was angry. I thought you were belittling us. But later I…it wasn’t…wasn’t all acting.’

‘No?’ He was sceptical, with good reason. He took a step forward, his hands reaching out to close firmly over her upper arms. Even through the collar of her dress, her skin leapt at his touch. ‘Then tell me what it was, then.’

Oh, lord, this was awful. Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest and her stomach was turning over and over. All she could do was shake her head dumbly.

‘What in hell does that mean? You certainly weren’t lost for words earlier.’

‘Nothing… Nothing…’ She tried to pull away from his disturbing touch but his fingers tightened, preventing her from breaking free.

‘Tell me!’ he ground out. ‘And stop pulling away from me. You want me to touch you almost as much as I want to touch you, God damn you!’

She stared at him and what she saw, frightened her. She shook her head from side to side, eyes falling to the floor.

‘You just won’t admit it, will you?’ One hand left her arm. It reached up to force her chin upwards so that she had to look at him. ‘Is it because I’m actor? Do you think we’re all liars? Egomaniacs? Incapable of true feelings? That’s not true, Clare. I have feelings. I can be hurt. And you’ve hurt me tonight.’

‘Matt…please…I didn’t mean to…’

‘No?’ Anger turned those blue eyes to slate. ‘I’m no fool, Clare. You had your mind made up before you even met me, well before you overheard that conversation. You wanted to hate me. I was a condemned man in your eyes. You sat there like that iceberg waiting for the Titanic, a mass of destruction lying beneath the surface. Well, I hit you, but you’re the one who’s going down, honey. I’m a bloody good swimmer.’

‘But I don’t hate you,’ she blurted out. ‘Not really. You…you reminded me of someone. Someone who hurt me once, very much.’

His sigh was deep, the tension in his bruising fingers draining away. ‘Aah…so that’s it…ah, yes, I see.’

‘No…no, you don’t see. You couldn’t possibly see.’ How could he ever see that she was terrified of these feelings exploding up through her body?

He reached down to pull the twisted sponge from her clenched fingers, throwing it away. And then his arms were winding around her and he was kissing her, slowly and surely, kissing her with an expertise not even the most sophisticated woman could resist.

Clare did not even try to resist. She couldn’t. Her mouth flowered open beneath his, her immediate submission sending a groaning shudder through Matt’s body. His hands wound up into her hair and he was pulling her head back, keeping her mouth open, thrusting his tongue deeper and deeper into its eager, compliant depths. With each thrust a hot dart of fire shot through Clare, racing up into her head where the blood began pounding in her temples like a jungle drumbeat.

A tortured moan struggled from her throat.

Immediately he drew back, a dazed questioning look in his eyes. Clearly, he had mistaken the sound for one of distress and Clare realised foggily that he was giving her the chance to stop. Don’t think, her aroused senses screamed at her. Don’t think! And for God’s sake, don’t stop!

Swiftly she pulled his mouth back down on to hers, winding her arms around his neck then pressing her throbbing breasts into his chest. Her own tongue slipped past his lips with a passion that would later astound her.

Somehow Matt’s shirt was discarded and they made it over to the sofa. He sank down first, pulling her on top of him, their mouths still melded together. His hands left her hair to rove hotly over her back and the wild waves cascaded in a curtain over their faces. Clare’s head began to spin from lack of breath and reluctantly, she pulled back to gasp briefly for air.

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