Elizabeth Duke - Look-Alike Fiancee

‘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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