Miranda Lee - A Very Secret Affair

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

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

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

“And what do you mean by that?”

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

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

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

‘AREN’T you the lucky girl!’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I’ll bet he has, Clare thought tartly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘Very funny, Sam. Where is Mum?’

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

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

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

‘Matt Sheffield is the doctor from Bush Doctor.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why indeed? Clare thought bitterly.

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

‘So what’s for me, Sam? Do tell me.’

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

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