Look-Alike Fiancee. Elizabeth Duke
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