Miranda Lee - A Very Secret Affair

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

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

‘Seven years.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘I watch it occasionally,’ she lied.

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

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

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

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

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

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

For a few breathtaking moments she was almost taken in.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matt…

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

‘Something wrong, Clare?’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Her face must have confirmed his guess.

‘What? No further apologies?’

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

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

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

‘Clare…’

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

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

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

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

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

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