скачать книгу бесплатно
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?’
