Книга - Look-Alike Fiancee

Look-Alike Fiancee
Elizabeth Duke


His choice of wife…Taryn had no doubts that when Mike O'Malley looked at her, he was seeing another woman: the mysterious, beautiful Crystal–his former fiancée, who'd broken his heart. Everyone said Taryn was the spitting image of her….Was that the reason Mike was taking such a personal interest in Taryn? He claimed he wasn't interested in marrying anyone–but there was no denying the powerful attraction between them. Could it be that, despite his claims, Mike had marriage on his mind–and, if so, would he ever look into Taryn's eyes and see only her?"Ms. Duke captivates readers with…intense passion, a strong emotional conflict and endearing characters."–Romantic Times







“You’re visiting me without your wife? (#u73864158-0b67-521c-a7c2-e303340db346)About the Author (#u5c4cd0cc-db28-5cb4-a11e-85f0a2e70353)Title Page (#uef3e2662-3fb1-5879-a0fb-051b8badfe9a)Dedication (#u6818bfea-36ab-5aa5-b258-3efffa8b7c32)Acknowledgments (#uaaa4cbbe-7f88-5ff5-851c-a19129ee4dc9)CHAPTER ONE (#u84b04157-a32a-5585-b578-465eebdfcc4a)CHAPTER TWO (#uf8947ea6-2d0a-5032-877f-0abf512953bd)CHAPTER THREE (#u460888dc-6976-55e4-8a8b-a3346c7c10f4)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER ELEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER TWELVE (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)


“You’re visiting me without your wife?

“Assuming,” Taryn continued, “that you’ve tied the knot since you’ve been away?”

Was it possible Mike had finally stopped carrying a torch for his ex-fiancée, the irresistible Crystal, and married someone else? Or was he still a free man?

He gave a short laugh. “Marriage isn’t high on my list of priorities.”

Taryn felt inexplicably buoyed all of a sudden. Because he hadn’t married anyone? Why should that buoy her? He’d be the last man in the world she’d ever want as a husband. She’d never be able to trust him!

And she’d be the last woman he’d ever want, if his jibes in the past were anything to go by....


Elizabeth Duke was born in Adelaide, South Australia, but has lived in Melbourne all her married life. She trained as a librarian and has worked in many different types of libraries, but she was always secretly writing. Her first published book was a children’s novel, after which she successfully tried her hand at romance writing. She has since given up her work as a librarian to write romance full-time. When she isn’t writing or reading, she loves to travel with her husband, John, either within Australia or overseas, gathering inspiration and background material for future romances. She and John have a married son and daughter, who now have children of their own.




Look-Alike-Fiancee

Elizabeth Duke







www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Bryan


With many thanks for providing the background for this book and for answering my endless questions, as well as offering some brilliant suggestions of your own.


CHAPTER ONE

IT WAS wonderfully cool and peaceful in the pine forest. The only sounds were the clear flute-like calls of the bellbirds and the swish of dry pine needles beneath Ginger’s hooves. Taryn sat back in the saddle with a contented sigh, letting her fingers relax on the reins.

It was a mistake.

A kangaroo hopped out of the pines, causing Ginger to rear in fright. It happened so abruptly, so unexpectedly that it was too late for Taryn to grab hold of the reins, too late to save herself. She was already hurtling backward out of the saddle.

She landed flat on her back in a cushion of prickly pine needles.

For a second she lay with her eyes closed, trying to gather her scattered wits. She’d suffered no injury, she was sure of it. Nothing hurt. Nothing was broken. And yet...

Why did she have the feeling that she was floating...drifting away on a cloud of euphoria...dreaming a beautiful dream? Dreaming that firm, warm lips were pressing against hers...tasting...lingering...relishing...

Her eyes fluttered open.

She was dreaming. Or, if not dreaming, drowning. Drowning in a tropical blue-green sea, stabbed with pinpricks of gold.

‘Well...it worked,’ said a deep velvet-soft voice.

Her lips parted, her eyes slowly focusing on the deeply bronzed face above her. She must be dreaming. Or else she’d died and gone to heaven. Could any mortal male be this good-looking? Firm-jawed, straight-nosed, suntanned... a very masculine face, full of strength and character. And breath-stopping sex appeal.

And those eyes! She felt herself drowning in them all over again, swallowed in a swirl of turquoise and jade.

‘What worked?’ Her lips formed the question, barely more than a husky whisper. He’d woven some kind of magic spell...was that what he meant?

‘Kissing you awake. It worked for Sleeping Beauty. I thought it might work for you.’ He brushed her hair away from her face, before idly winding a glossy black strand round his finger.

She blushed. Which was a first. Taryn Conway, blushing.

The realisation that she was passively lying on the ground blushing—reacting to a man she didn’t even know, a man who shouldn’t even be there—shattered the spell.

The dream disintegrated. She wriggled away and sat up abruptly, jerking her hair from his fingers.

‘Who are you?’ She assumed her most withering tone. Not just to cover her blushes, but to cover the stark awareness that she was alone in a shadowy, deserted forest, deep in Victoria’s Strzelecki Ranges, with a complete stranger. What was he doing, skulking around in a privately owned forest, jumping out at people?

‘I might ask you the same question.’ He leaned back on his haunches, his glinting aqua eyes steady on hers. He was wearing faded jeans stretched tight over solid thighs, heavy leather boots, and a blue bush shirt with rolled-up sleeves, slashed open at the front. She averted her eyes from the skin-prickling glimpse of deeply tanned flesh and hard muscle.

‘You do realise you’re trespassing?’ She bravely eye-balled him, hoping her crisp, quelling tone would have its usual effect. She’d used it a hundred times before to crush men who deserved to be crushed. Men who were only attracted to her, she suspected, because of her family name and her father’s wealth.

He lifted a dark, taunting eyebrow. No sign of any crumbling in this man. She was the one who had to steel herself against the impact of those startling eyes. Not that she showed any reaction...not by so much as a flicker.

Now that they were at eye-level, a metre or so apart—she was still sitting, her hands curled round knees drawn up defensively in front of her—she had the chance to examine him more closely. More clinically. If it was possible to be clinical about a man with eyes that could stop a girl’s heartbeat.

She noted the powerful shoulders, the strong brown arms, the way his dark hair fell in unruly waves over his brow and ears—he was in dire need of both a comb and a haircut—and the hint of raw strength in the man’s well-muscled, super-fit frame.

She felt her heart give a disconcerting jump, and wasn’t sure if it was a flutter of fear—or admiration. At arm’s length he looked tougher, rougher, more dangerous...the blue-green eyes appearing sharper, bolder, more unnerving...nowhere near as mesmerising or as dreamlike as they’d been up close. The thick eyebrows seemed even thicker and fiercer, and there was a steely ruggedness about the stranger’s strong jaw that suggested he would be a formidable foe in any fight.

What hope would she have against him? She might be able to handle a horse—although she had doubts about even that after her ignominious tumble a moment ago—but she had grave misgivings about her hopes of fighting off this man in a struggle.

She felt her bones dissolving at the thought of him overpowering her. But it wasn’t so much fear making her weak as a devilish, heart-racing excitement...the kind of excitement she felt when she urged her mount towards a seemingly impossible jump...the thrill of facing a danger that was truly challenging, and worth facing.

It was a feeling new to her. Dangerously new.

‘Trespassing?’ he repeated, his tone more sardonic, she noted edgily, than defensive. ‘I’ve been riding up in this forest for years, and this is the first time anyone’s accused me of trespassing.’

‘Riding?’ she echoed, glancing round. ‘I don’t see your horse anywhere.’ Even Ginger had deserted her, she realised in alarm. Where was he? Not that Fernlea was all that far away. She could always walk back if necessary. If this wild-haired stranger gave her the chance...

A shivery sensation brushed down her spine.

‘I left Caesar in the orchard. You do know about the orchard?’ he enquired coolly.

She lifted her chin, feeling her control slipping and this brazen trespasser gaining the upper hand. What did he mean, he’d been riding up here for years? Not in the past year he hadn’t. Who was he?

‘I know there’s an old fruit orchard in the forest—yes.’ She scrambled to her feet, deciding she was at a disadvantage sitting on the ground. ‘What were you doing there? Stealing fruit?’

‘Stealing fruit?’ Scorn spiked his voice as he rose to his feet too, causing her to step back, her hand fluttering to her throat ‘I’ve been picking fruit up here for as long as I’ve been riding up here. The powers-that-be at the paper company don’t mind. They’re happy for the residents around here to keep an eye on the forest and help maintain the fire breaks. If they weren’t, they’d have fenced it all off.’

‘The residents?’ she echoed weakly, feeling doubly weak now that he was towering over her. She took another step back, assuming her quelling tone again to bite out, ‘You don’t live around here!’ She’d met all the locals who did. ‘Do you?’ she added uncertainly, noting the mocking curve of his lips.

‘I haven’t lived here for a while, no, but my home’s here and my father’s a long-time resident. Who are you?’ he rapped without enlightening her further. ‘An over-zealous forest ranger? An employee of the paper company? If not, then you—if you wish to quibble about it—are trespassing yourself!’

She drew herself up to her full height of five feet six inches. Which was still several inches below the square jaw above her.

‘I own this forest,’ she said imperiously. ‘At least, my family does.’

His eyes turned to glinting aqua slits. ‘You’re saying Gippsland Paper has sold this pine forest? To your family?’

‘That’s right. My father made them an offer and they accepted.’ She felt a momentary qualm as something dark and dangerous flared in his eyes. ‘They’ve been selling off some of their smaller plantations, and this one wasn’t of much use to them anyway—it’s never been thinned out. Access would have been difficult too, with all those heavily timbered hills behind and no roads. They were happy to get rid of it, I think.’

‘Your father bought it, you said.’ Now there was pure ice in his eyes. ‘Your father wouldn’t happen to be Hugh Conway, the city big shot who bought Fernlea a year ago, by any chance?’ He waved a hand in the general direction of the hill opposite, across the sweeping green valley.

She shivered at the biting contempt in his voice. ‘My father did buy Fernlea...yes.’ From here, deep in the pine forest, the gabled two-storey house on the high side of the opposite hill wasn’t visible, though there was a clear view of the pine forest from the house. ‘You have some problem with that?’

He gave a mirthless smile. ‘I knew it was too good to be true. A fairy-tale beauty with raven hair and stunning black eyes and a face and figure you only see in your dreams... There had to be a catch.’

‘A catch?’ She heard the huskiness in her voice, and winced. Normally comments on her looks left her unmoved. She’d been fêted and fawned over all her life—either for her looks or her father’s money—and had come to mistrust extravagant compliments. She was never sure if they were genuine or merely empty flattery because of who she was.

But this man, she had a feeling, wouldn’t be the type to indulge in meaningless flattery. Back-handed compliments would be more his style.

‘If you’re Hugh Conway’s daughter, you can’t be the girl of my dreams,’ he said flatly, cynicism hardening his voice. ‘The girl of my dreams would never be a pampered city socialite, with a doting daddy who lavishes more money and worldly possessions on his daughter than she needs or is good for her.’

She seared him with a glance, anger hiding a quick flare of hurt. A pampered socialite? How her mother would laugh at that! Her horse-mad, country-loving daughter preferring the high life in the city? That would be the day! As for pampered, she’d always been determined not to let her father’s wealth or the privileges that came with it go to her head...vowing never to become the spoilt, superficial creature this man obviously thought she was. It had made her rather cool and aloof instead, except with friends she trusted.

Only now her coolness had deserted her.

‘My you do have a chip on your shoulder,’ she bit back. ‘Do you always leap to conclusions about the people you meet?’

‘Only when their name is Conway.’ He tilted his head at her, his lips taking on a sardonic curl. ‘I should have guessed who you were from the toffy accent. Not many people around here speak with a Toorak twang.’

She seethed inwardly, unable to refute the fact that she’d lived all her life in Melbourne’s exclusive Toorak. There were, she knew, some snooty, social-climbing Toorak types who put on a studied, syrupy ‘twang’ purely for effect, but her own clipped, polished accent was as natural to her as breathing...she hadn’t carefully cultivated it.

‘What do you have against the Conways?’ she hissed at him. He had a chip on his shoulder all right. A sizable one. ‘Who are you?’

‘The name’s O’Malley. My father owns the dairy farm across the river from Fernlea.’

‘You’re Patrick O’Malley’s son?’ Her eyes gleamed as she saw her chance to turn the tables on him. ‘You’re the son who turned up his nose at dairy farming, thinking it too lowly and commonplace for him—’ she felt a stab of satisfaction as she said it ‘—and walked out, leaving his poor widowed father in the lurch?’

The icy glitter in his own eyes showed the shaft had hit home. ‘Is that what my father told you? That I walked out and left him in the lurch?’

‘Your father and mine aren’t exactly on speaking terms—as I’m sure you must be aware.’ But she didn’t want to dwell on that. ‘No...it’s common talk around here. How your father wanted his only son—you—to help him run the family dairy farm once you’d qualified as a vet, but you chucked your course to join a chemical company and study engineering instead.’

‘Chemical engineering,’ he corrected her. ‘And I didn’t chuck vet school...I’m a qualified vet. I just didn’t practise...except as a part-time emergency vet for a while.’

‘Whatever.’ She shrugged, not feeling he deserved an apology. ‘And since then,’ she ploughed on, ‘you’ve been roaming round Australia, making money selling some kind of parasite-killing chemical...forcing your father to hire a local to help him. You broke his heart, everyone says,’ she added for good measure.

The heavy brows lowered, making her wish she hadn’t repeated the gossip. But he deserved it. The way he’d reviled her and her family—so unfairly—had made her want to lash back at him.

‘My father may have been disappointed,’ O’Malley conceded, his deep voice roughening, ‘but the only time he’s been heartbroken was when my mother died. He’s backed me all the way. You shouldn’t listen to idle gossip.’

‘Neither should you,’ she flashed back. ‘You’ve obviously made up your mind about me—about my family—without even bothering to get to know us.’

‘From what I’ve heard about the Conways since I came home a couple of days ago, I’m not sure I’d want to be bothered.’

‘Oh?’ She was dismayed at the stab of hurt she felt. Not so much at what he might have heard—there was always envious gossip about the Conways—but at the derision in his voice. It was a new sensation, being scorned by a man. She tossed her head, not showing her hurt. ‘And just what have you heard?’

‘Let’s head back to the orchard, shall we, and I’ll enlighten you? Hopefully we’ll find our wayward mounts there.’

She swallowed a flare of pique that he’d been the one to think of the horses first, not herself. Honestly, what was wrong with her? She was usually so cool and in command of any situation she faced. But with this man she felt as if she were floundering in an uncharted sea.

Not sure she wanted to be enlightened, she swept past him, determined not to fall casually into step beside him. But she could hear him close behind her, his heavy boots scrunching through the pine needles.

It had become darker in the forest, she realised. Much darker. Where before there’d been fleecy white clouds above with occasional bursts of sunlight, now there was a heavy blanket of ominously dark grey above and no sign of the sun. Not that it was cold. It had been hot and humid all week, with bouts of unusually heavy early-summer rain, and it was still sultry. Not that she minded the heat. She loved everything about her rustic home-away-from-home. She had everything here...peace, spectacular beauty, fresh air...and freedom.

As she headed for the old fruit orchard around which the pine forest had been planted well over a decade ago, she heard O’Malley’s voice curling around her, answering the question she wished she’d never asked. Any gossip he’d picked up about the Conways was bound to be twisted, if not totally wrong.

‘The story going around,’ he drawled, ‘is that Hugh Conway—well-known member of the Melbourne Establishment and head of the famous Conway stockbroking firm—bought Fernlea, with its thousand-odd acres, historic Federation mansion, and old English garden, to indulge his only daughter...you, Miss Conway.’

She shot a virulent glance over her shoulder, but she couldn’t deny it. Her father had bought Fernlea, basically, for her.

‘You wanted more room for your horses, it seems.’ The lazy voice wafted after her. ‘The family’s previous weekend farm closer to Melbourne didn’t provide enough space for your riding and jumping pursuits. Your father’s prize Angus cattle were beginning to overrun the available space, so a bigger and better property had to be found.’

When she made no comment, he added languidly, ‘Not that you or your parents have been living down here permanently, I gather. You’ve been flitting between Fernlea and the palatial family home back in Toorak...with jaunts to the luxury beach-house at Portsea and the odd trip to Paris and London and New York in between. You’ve spent time at international horse shows.’ He paused, then drawled silkily, ‘I’m sure you sit a horse beautifully, Miss Conway.’

‘I thought it was only women who lapped up gossip,’ she snapped over her shoulder. ‘You’ve been back home for barely two days and you think you know all there is to know about us! Well, you’ve told me more than I’ll ever want to know about you, Mr O’Malley. You should do something about that chip on your shoulder. It’s most unattractive!’

‘If I have one, it’s with good reason.’

Her step faltered. ‘Meaning?’

‘Forget it. Are Mummy and Daddy down here with you?’ he asked blandly.

She gritted her teeth and answered levelly, ‘My parents had to go back to town this morning, but they’ll be down again on Friday for a few days.’

‘Well...so for now you’re lady of the manor? Literally.’

Her eyes wavered. ‘What do you mean—literally?’ ‘Fernlea—as I’m sure you already know—was once one of the grand old homes of Gippsland. Some of the old English oaks and elms in the garden are over a hundred years old. You must have great fun swanning around your grand estate, throwing house parties for your socialite pals!’

‘It might have been a grand old home once,’ she flashed back, ‘but it was badly in need of repair when we bought it.’ A fractious frown creased her brow. He made it sound as if her father had bought Fernlea simply to indulge a spoilt daughter’s whim...as if it were no more to her than a diverting hobby farm or weekend retreat. How wrong he was! ‘We’ve been gradually repairing and renovating the place over time...’

‘Sparing no expense, I’m sure.’

‘Meanwhile,’ she said, ignoring his comment, ‘it’s quite livable. Peeling paint and frayed curtains and a sagging, rusty roof are not things that greatly bother me,’ she assured him tartly. ‘There were lots of other more urgent things that needed doing first. Like mending fences and clearing away the choking blackberries and fixing up the run-down stables and levelling off an area for a jumping course and—’

‘And buying up old Henderson’s property, Plane Tree Flats, to add to your domain...even though it’s on our side of the river and of more use to us.’ The contempt was back in his voice.

Her head jerked round. ‘You’re saying that you—the O’Malleys—wanted to buy that piece of land?’

‘That’s right. It used to belong to my family—until a bushfire and drought nearly wiped us out when I was a boy, forcing my father to sell off that chunk of land. Dad’s been wanting to buy it back for years. When the chance came,’ he ground out, ‘Hugh Conway swanned in with a higher offer and we lost out.’

‘So that’s why you hate us,’ Taryn breathed. She stopped and swung round, planting her hands on her hips. As she raised her eyes to his face, she swallowed. Hard. It was so dark in the forest by now that the granite-hard face under the mass of dark hair looked positively frightening, causing her heart to skip in sudden panic. If he hated her so much...

‘We were trying to help Charley Henderson,’ she offered in her father’s defence, aware that her voice sounded annoyingly husky. ‘The old man was badly in debt and in very poor health. He needed to be closer to town and hospital care. Now he’ll be able to live comfortably for the rest of his life, with the best of medical care at his fingertips.’

‘Oh, I’m sure your father was acting out of the goodness of his heart when he bought that prime piece of land over our heads,’ O’Malley bit back with scorn. ‘What good is it to you? It’s on the other side of the river, with no access from your property!’

‘There will be. We’re building a bridge across the river.’

‘Of course. Naturally. And I’m sure it will be a state-of-the-art concrete bridge too, not a rickety old thing like the one between your property and ours. Which is likely to wash away, incidentally, if we get any more heavy rain. The river normally fades to a trickle once the hot weather starts, but this year it’s flowing like crazy.’

She jerked a careless shoulder. She knew about the old timber bridge over the river, where it ran between the O’Malleys’ property and theirs, but with the ill feeling between the two families it would hardly matter if it did wash away. It was unlikely that either family would want to use it anyway.

‘Talking of heavy rain... ’ O’Malley glanced up at the sky ’...I’d say that’s just what we’re about to get.’

She glanced up too, and stifled a groan. The sky looked even more threatening now, and she could hear thunder rumbling in the distance. She quickened her steps.

‘You didn’t answer my question,’ O’Malley growled from behind. ‘What do you want with Charley Henderson’s land? Do you intend to run cattle there? Horses? Will you be pulling down Henderson’s old house?’

‘My father will be running cattle there. It’s extremely fertile land on Plane Tree Flats, as you must know...in that wide loop of the river. And no, we won’t be pulling down the old house—if it’s any of your business. The young couple we hired to help us run Fernlea will be living there. They’ve been coming from Leongatha every day, but we want them to live here on the property so they can keep a closer eye on the place when we’re not here. Like Smudge does...your father’s right-hand man, who lives on your property.’

She flicked a glance round to add sweetly, ‘I heard about Smudge from the young couple who work for us, not from your father. Your father hasn’t been particularly neighbourly.’ She paused, then asked idly, ‘Does he dislike us because we made a higher offer for Charley Henderson’s old farm? Or does he have a chip on his shoulder about the Conways too...no matter what we do?’

‘Put it this way,’ O’Malley said, his tone curt. ‘Neither of us cares overmuch for weekend hobby farmers. And now you tell me that the Conways, not content with owning Fernlea and Plane Tree Flats, have bought this pine forest as well!’

‘You’re saying that you O’Malleys wanted the pine forest as well as Plane Tree Flats?’

‘If we’d known the Conways were after it,’ came the grating response, ‘we might have tried to prevent the sale. You’re aware, I hope, that it’s an environmental gem in these parts? The residents around here have enjoyed the use of this forest and the old fruit orchard for years. What do you intend to do with it? Raze it to the ground?’

‘Of course not! We want to keep it just the way it is...that’s precisely why we bought it. Our property overlooks the forest. We had no wish to see it logged one day.’

‘Ah! So you bought it so that your pleasant view wouldn’t be spoiled. Of course...why didn’t I guess? Next you’ll be fencing it all off, with padlocked gates, so that nobody else can get near the forest or the orchard. Right?’

‘Wrong!’ She could feel her cheeks burning. Her father had suggested fencing the forest. To protect it, not to keep the neighbours out. ‘The farmers who live around here will be welcome to keep coming up here,’ she spelt out, ‘so long as they’re careful and don’t light fires or drop cigarettes around.’

‘The farmers around here don’t light fires. They protect against fires. They help to maintain the fire breaks around the forest and they watch out for lightning strikes that might start a fire...or for people who shouldn’t be here. That’s why I left my horse in the orchard and followed you. To see what you were up to. Only to find that you Conways have bought the forest and want to keep it to yourselves!’

‘You can still ride up here,’ she protested in a muffled voice. Each word he uttered flayed a sensitive part of her that she’d never realised existed. It had never particularly bothered her before what people thought of her. But for some odd reason—some stupid reason, in light of his attitude—she cared what this man thought.

Because he was a close neighbour? Was that the only reason she cared? All she knew was that, despite his abrasive manner and the giant chip on his shoulder and his obvious loathing of people with money, she didn’t want him to loathe her.

‘You told me I was trespassing,’ he reminded her. She swallowed. ‘I didn’t know who you were then. You—you could have been a firebug, for all I knew.’

They were in the overgrown orchard by now, weaving their way through the old fruit trees...apples, pears, apricots, quinces... even a giant mulberry tree. She glimpsed Ginger ahead, nose to the ground, munching fallen apples. A whinnying sound snapped her head round. Standing nearby, pawing at the ground, was another horse. A magnificent creature with a shiny black coat and a flowing black mane. He seemed high-strung and nervous...spooked, perhaps, by the thunder.

‘No sudden movements,’ O’Malley hissed at her ear. ‘Caesar’s easily startled. He hates storms. Let’s approach nice and easy... You grab your horse first.’

As she approached Ginger, a flash of lightning lit up the pines. Just as she caught the gelding’s reins in her fingers, an explosive bang shook the earth, causing Ginger to jerk back in fright. But this time she had a tight grip on the reins and was able to control him within seconds, patting him and murmuring soothing words.

‘Hey! Come back here!’

Her head whipped round as O’Malley roared at Caesar and lunged forward. But he was too late. Caesar was bolting off down the hill, black mane flying, deaf to O’Malley’s shouts.

She bit her lip, repressing a giggle. She couldn’t help it. Served him right! Now he’d have to walk back...and to reach his father’s dairy farm from here would be a hike-and-a-half on foot!

A moment later her grin was wiped from her lips as the heavens opened and the rain came bucketing down, soaking her to the skin in seconds. Her hair, streaming with water, clung to her shoulders. Watery drops trickled down her neck and inside the collar of her shirt.

O’Malley, looking just as bedraggled, his wild hair now flattened to his head, hiding his heavy eyebrows, cursed audibly. ‘My father should have got rid of that damned horse years ago. Caesar never listens, never does what you want.’

‘You should be soulmates, then,’ she tossed back, unable to resist having another shot at him for ignoring his father’s wishes. ‘I’m sure your father would agree.’

He glowered at her. ‘My father and I—’ he began, and stopped abruptly. She saw an amazing change come over his face. The irate frown dissolved. The chilly eyes took on a soulfully pleading expression, the gruffness in his voice giving way to a playfully wheedling note.

‘You’re not going to make me walk all the way home in this filthy rain, are you?’


CHAPTER TWO

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eventually they reached a gate and came to a halt.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘The bridge! What’s happened to it?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I’m much younger than your—’

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

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

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

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

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

You should get out of those wet clothes...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Or maybe that was the very reason he would!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Thanks, I will.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Sorry?’

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

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

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

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

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

‘Mine? Oh, you can call me Mike.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She snapped off her thoughts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


CHAPTER THREE

HER gaze swivelled to the window. ‘I think it’s easing off,’ she blurted. ‘I’ll take you home myself. We’ll have to leave now, so I can be back before dark.’ She knew she was gabbling, but she couldn’t help it. ‘Shall we go? I’ll just grab my purse and keys.’ She whirled out into the hall where she’d left them.

She expected him to argue, but he didn’t. Maybe he could sense that she was in deadly earnest this time. ‘Much obliged,’ was all he said as she came flouncing back into the kitchen, keys and purse in hand.

She snapped on lights as she dashed out of the door, not wanting to come back to a darkened house. Dusk would be falling shortly. Even nightfall, if they didn’t get a move on. Mike was right behind her, pulling the kitchen door shut after him.

‘You want to lock it?’ he asked, but she shook her head and plunged on. She could hear him behind her, taking long, swift strides to keep up.

She didn’t pause until she reached the double garage. There were two vehicles inside, the sturdy Toyota Land Cruiser they kept down here at Fernlea for use around the property and for pulling the horse-float, and her small, zippy Ford Laser, which she used between here and the city, and for running around back in Melbourne.

‘Like me to drive?’ Mike offered, hovering at her shoulder as she unlocked the big four-wheel drive.

‘You don’t trust me to drive you?’ she asked, her eyes coolly taunting him, even as her heart jumped at his closeness, her senses jangling at the faint scent of soap and freshly dried clothes.

‘Well, I hope you don’t drive as wildly as you rush around your yard,’ Mike remarked dryly.

Her dark eyes took on a knife-sharp glitter. So it wasn’t just a courtesy offer...or a male disliking being driven by a female. He was scared that she might land them in a ditch!

‘I guess you’ll just have to take the risk,’ she flung back, hauling herself up into the driver’s seat. He didn’t lend a hand, perhaps sensing that she’d snap his head off if he tried. He stepped round to the passenger’s side without further comment.

She backed out rather more quickly than she normally would, just to keep him on his toes. But once out of the yard and on the road—more a sealed lane than a road, though it would change to bitumen and widen at the old concrete bridge where the lane joined the main road—she slackened her speed and concentrated on where she was going. She had to. It was still raining, though thankfully not so heavily now, and the edges of the road were soft and slushy—to be carefully avoided if she didn’t want to risk sliding off or getting bogged.

Mike didn’t attempt to make conversation, obviously not wanting to spoil her concentration. Even without glancing round, she could feel the hawk-eyed tension in him, and knew that he was watching the road as attentively as she. There could be other dangers besides mud and slush. A wombat or kangaroo could emerge from the bush and cross their path. There were plenty around.

The last thing she expected to see was another car coming towards them. The road they were on led only to Fernlea. Who could be coming to visit her in this weather, she wondered, at this late hour in the day? It couldn’t be her parents. They’d gone back to town only this morning to attend a special dinner tonight.

‘Watch out!’ rasped Mike. ‘There’s a car coming.’

‘I can see it!’ she hissed, slowing down as the two cars drew closer. She reached down to switch her headlights on, just in case the oncoming driver hadn’t seen her. At once the other car’s lights sprang on too, as if the driver had had the same thought.

‘Who is it? Your father? It’s obviously someone who knows you, since he’s heading for Fernlea. Unless it’s someone who’s lost his way. It does happen around these parts.’

‘We’ll soon find out.’ She brought the Land Cruiser to a halt as far to one side of the road as she could—making sure the wheels were still on the solid ground—and opened her window to signal to the other driver to pull up too.

Mike gave a soft whistle as the other car, a sleek red sports car, pulled up a few metres away—not too close, as if the driver was wary of strange four-wheel-drive vehicles that might scratch or muddy his beautiful car.

‘Well...it’s obviously a friend of yours,’ Mike murmured. ‘Porsches don’t often appear in these parts. Or didn’t until the Conways moved in down here.’

A Porsche! Taryn’s stomach lurched. She only knew one person who drove a red Porsche. Rory Silverman...polo-playing playboy son of Rex Silverman, the mining tycoon. The Silvermans owned a huge property the other side of Warragul, less than ten kilometres from here. She’d met Rory at an equestrian function, and he’d rung her a few times since to ask her out. So far she’d had a ready excuse each time—he was far too smooth and full of himself for her liking—but he hadn’t taken the hint.

The last time he’d called her he’d told her that he might pop over to Fernlea one day to see her. ‘We must catch up with each other, Taryn,’ he’d purred, ‘before I go off overseas again.’

She’d hoped he’d forgotten. Or had been too busy. Or had already gone overseas.

Obviously not. No such luck.

‘You stay here,’ she rapped at Mike. ‘I’ll go and speak to him. I know who it is.’

She grabbed an umbrella from the back seat where she always kept one, and clambered out, snapping it open as she strode over to the Porsche.

The driver wound down his window. ‘Taryn...it’s you!’

Good-looking, tawny-haired, suave... Yes, it was Rory Silverman all right.

‘Rory! I...I hope you weren’t coming to visit me?’

What she really wanted to know was what, precisely, he’d had in mind. She compressed her lips. Why would he call on her at this late hour of the day, in this appalling weather...unless he was hoping to stay the night?

His long-lashed grey eyes peered up at her. ‘I called you before I came,’ he told her in his well-cultivated, smooth-as-silk voice, ‘but there seems to be something wrong with your phone. I knew your parents would be back in town—they’re going to the same dinner as mine—so I thought I’d better rush over and make sure you were all right.’

I’ll bet, she thought, unconvinced at his display of concern. He’d seen an excuse to make a move on her, more like. Rory Silverman had a reputation for chasing and bedding good-looking women. Obviously, he saw her as an easy target. The Conway girl on her own, miles from anywhere.

‘Yes, my phone is out of order,’ she conceded. ‘I don’t suppose you happened to report it for me?’

‘Uh...no. I didn’t think. Sorry. I was just thinking of you.’

Oh, sure, she thought, unable to see Rory Silverman as the gallant knight-to-the-rescue type. From what she knew of him, he didn’t have a caring, heroic bone in his svelte body! He was just out for what he could get. A woman. The richer and more glamorous the better.

Not that he’d find any glamour here today. Far from it.

‘You look different.’ Rory ran expert eyes over her, apparently not caring that he was keeping her standing in puddles of water, with rain dripping from her umbrella onto her shoulders. His gaze lingered a second or two on the curves revealed by her white T-shirt, before flicking back to her face. His brow puckered. ‘You look younger. Or something.’

Her mouth twitched. ‘I guess you’ve only seen me in my glad rags, with all the warpaint on.’

He looked startled for a second, as if he’d never thought of her in terms of warpaint. ‘You’re still gorgeous, even without make-up,’ he assured her, recovering his aplomb. ‘With those lovely dark eyes of yours and that stunning black hair...’ But it was obvious he preferred her all dolled up and dressed to kill, with her hair flowing loose over her shoulders, rather than tied back in a girlish ponytail.

‘Er...’ his gaze veered to the Land Cruiser ‘...just on your way out, are you?’ He squinted through the drizzle at the blurred windscreen and the male shape behind, as if trying to see who was with her.

‘I’m—’ She stopped. She’d been about to tell him she was just running a neighbour home, but caught back the words in time. If Rory knew that, he might insist on driving on to Fernlea and waiting there until she came back.

If it had been anyone other than Rory Silverman, she would have welcomed some friendly, amenable company to come home to, after putting up with Mike O’Malley’s cynical gibes and patronising taunts. But she certainly didn’t want to come home to Rory Silverman. She wouldn’t enjoy his company, for one thing, and she wouldn’t be able to trust him to take no for an answer. Or to go home when she asked him to.

‘Yes, afraid so...sorry.’ She gave a shrug of her shoulders. She didn’t want to sound too regretful and encourage him to try another time. ‘You’ve come all this way in the rain for nothing. Your lovely car will be a mess.’

He winced. ‘Never mind,’ he muttered, ‘a car wash will fix it.’

If she’d told him the truth about Mike and asked him to wait for her at Fernlea, his answer might have been different. Something smoother, along the lines of, Never mind, you’re worth it. But she hadn’t, and he was plainly anxious now to be on his way. With as little wear and tear to his precious car—his plaything, his status symbol—as possible.

‘Look...um...’ She glanced round to make sure Mike O’Malley wasn’t advancing on her to blow sky-high her story about being on her way out with him. ‘Why don’t you drive on to Fernlea, Rory, and turn around there? It’ll be too dangerous trying to turn around here on this narrow road. You don’t want your nice car to get bogged.’ Having to help him out of the mud would be the last straw. It was getting late enough already.

‘I sure don’t,’ Rory said emphatically. ‘OK, I will...thanks.’

‘I think there’s just room for you to get safely past the Land Cruiser,’ she told him. ‘You go ahead... I’ll wait till you’ve gone past.’ If Mike thinks Rory’s going to Fernlea to wait for me, she thought, let him. If he thinks I’ve invited Rory to stay the night, let him think that too. He’ll chink the worst of me anyway.

‘Right.’ Rory nosed the Porsche forward, snaking his head round as he crawled past the big four-wheel drive to take a peek at her passenger. As Taryn sprinted back to the Land Cruiser with water squelching in her shoes, she saw Mike give a facetious wave.

Rory ignored it, or pretended not to notice. He wouldn’t relish being cast aside for another man. That mocking wave would only rub it in.

‘Sorry about that, Mike,’ she said airily as she closed her dripping umbrella and tossed it into the back of the vehicle, before hauling herself up into the driver’s seat. It was the first time, she realised, that she’d called him Mike. The name had come surprisingly easily to her lips.

She revved the engine. ‘We’d better get a move on.’ Chatting to Rory had wasted precious daylight.

‘I can understand your anxiety to dispose of me and rush back home,’ Mike drawled. ‘A red Porsche is some bait... You’re sure you still want to drive me all the way home?’

She felt a twinge of something like disappointment, mingled with irritation. So he did think Rory was going to Fernlea to wait for her. Well, of course...he would! Her mouth tightened. He would always think the worst of her.

‘What choice do I have?’ she growled. Mike O’Malley could think what he liked. She didn’t care. If he wanted to believe that she was encouraging Rory Silverman, she wasn’t going to tell him otherwise. Why should she? He wouldn’t believe her anyway.

‘You could always make me walk.’

‘Oh, sure.’ She hunched over the wheel, her tone fractious. ‘Just let me concentrate, will you?’

They didn’t talk after that, and she reached the bitumen road at the bridge without further mishap. Instead of turning right as she normally would, she swung the Land Cruiser round to the left, in the direction of the O’Malleys’ property, knowing she had to pass a couple of other farms first.

The rain had eased at last to a light drizzle, and the road they were on now was wider and in better condition, making progress quicker and easier.

‘Pity you haven’t built your new bridge yet between Fernlea and Plane Tree Flats,’ Mike said after a while, a hint of steel in his voice at the mention of the property the O’Malleys had once owned and had wanted to buy back—until her father had supposedly snatched it from under their noses. ‘We could have taken a short cut through Henderson’s old farm and saved driving all this way round.’

‘It’s no trouble,’ she said, her own tone brittle as she wondered what kind of reception she could expect from his father—if Patrick O’Malley happened to be around when she dropped off his son.

She was tempted to drop Mike off at the gate leading into the O’Malley property when they reached it, but it was still drizzling and it seemed a bit petty, with his house still some distance away...and up a steepish climb.

And Mike had instructions for her anyway.

‘If you’ll drive right up to the house,’ he directed, ‘I’ll check our phone before you go home. If ours is OK, I’ll ring up and report yours for you.’

She flicked him a faint look of surprise, oddly touched that he’d remembered...and would bother about her problems. ‘Thanks. And what if yours is dead too?’

‘If it is, maybe you could ask your Porsche-driving friend to report the problem for both of us...when he goes home. Assuming he’s going back home tonight?’

She sucked in her breath. He was fishing. She had a feeling that whatever answer she gave he would manage to twist it around somehow—or at least make some cynical gibe about the company she kept. Well, let him fish. She wasn’t biting.

‘Let’s just see if your phone’s working.’ It was a husky growl. ‘They might have fixed the line by now.’

‘Anything’s possible.’ She heard the cold edge to his voice and almost wished, contrarily, that she’d told him the truth...that she hadn’t even asked Rory to wait for her, let alone to spend the night with her.

But why should she tell him? she thought in the next breath, remembering how Mike O’Malley despised her, simply because her family had money and spoke with a bit of a ‘twang’, and because they’d bought some land his father had wanted. It was none of his damned business!

‘Stop here for a sec,’ Mike said abruptly as they reached the milking sheds. ‘I’ll just let my father know I’m back.’

She tensed. His father...the man who despised the Conways most of all. ‘I really don’t want to hang around,’ she muttered peevishly. ‘It’s starting to get dark.’

‘I know... That’s why I need to see him. To tell him I intend to follow you back in the ute...just to make sure you get back in one piece.’

Her eyes widened. ‘Don’t be silly, that’s not necess—’ She stopped, her eyes narrowing. ‘You sure you don’t just want to check up on who I might be entertaining for the evening? Or the night?’

That would be more like it, she thought. Michael O’Malley wanting to gather more ammunition to throw at her.

He gave a snort of laughter. Harsh, derisive laughter. ‘If that’s what you prefer to think, be my guest.’ She flinched at the ice-cold edge to his voice. ‘And if that’s the type you go for, good luck to you.’

He threw open his door as he spoke, and jumped down, leaving her fuming. He’s not, she wanted to shout after him, but she didn’t. What was the point? He’d made up his mind about her.

‘Michael!’ A different voice rang out. She saw a man approaching from the yards. He was tall, lean-hipped and wide-shouldered like his son, with a tough weathered face and a thatch of almost-white hair. ‘So you’re back, are you? Where’s Caesar?’ His eyes, Taryn suspected, would be the same piercing aqua as his son’s, though it was hard to tell in the dimness.

‘Hi, Dad. I’m afraid Caesar bolted in the storm and left me to—’

‘No! It can’t be!’ Patrick O’Malley’s voice sliced over his son. ‘Not you!’ He was staring up at the driver’s side of the Land Cruiser now. Staring up at her. He took a step closer, his face twisting in fury and disbelief, causing Taryn’s fingers to tighten on the wheel, her heart pounding.

Did Patrick O’Malley hate the Conways that much? she wondered shakily, flicking her tongue over her lips. And how had Mike’s father recognised her? She’d never even met the man! Patrick O’Malley had refused to have anything to do with the Conways.

‘Crystal!’ he spat out, his eyes glinting slits in his leathery brown face. They were his son’s eyes all right. ‘I don’t believe it! What in hell’s name are you—?’ He stopped, clamping his mouth shut, as if realising he’d made a monstrous mistake.





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