Look-Alike Fiancee

‘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.