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‘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?’
