Scandalous Secrets. Michelle Douglas

hand on his, the way her body had seemed to melt into his as she’d edged him aside to stop him doing the unthinkable—flipping his eggs!

      Why did it suddenly feel as if his world was tilting?

      There was no reason at all, he told himself and headed out to make sure the hens were locked up for the night.

      ‘Who is she?’ It was Donald—caring for the chooks was his job. But increasingly Donald forgot. Age was beginning to fuddle him, but he didn’t seem to notice that Matt double-checked on most things he did.

      Donald had run this property alone for fifty years. He was a confirmed bachelor and to say he treated women as aliens would be an understatement. Penny’s presence, it seemed, had shocked him to the core.

      ‘I pulled her out of the creek,’ Matt told him. ‘She was taking a dumb shortcut. She’s stuck here until the water goes down.’

      ‘Stuck. Here.’ Donald said the two words as if they might explode and Matt almost laughed. He thought of the ditzy little blonde in his kitchen and wondered if there was anything less scary.

      Although there were scary elements. Like the way his body reacted to her.

      Um...let’s not go there.

      ‘She can cook,’ he told Donald as he shooed the last hen into the pen and started collecting the eggs. ‘The shearers’ cook is stuck on the far side of the floodwater. If she can keep the team happy...’

      ‘She can cook!’ Donald’s mother had run off with a wool-buyer when Donald was seven. His opinion of women had been set in stone since.

      He grinned. ‘I hear some women can.’

      Donald thought about it. ‘Rufus seems to like her,’ he conceded at last. ‘I watched her scratch his ear so she can’t be all bad. What’s that bit of fluff she’s got with her?’

      ‘A poodle.’

      ‘A poodle at Jindalee! What next?’

      ‘I’m thinking of getting him to help drafting the mobs in the morning,’ Matt said and Donald gave a crack of laughter.

      ‘He might end up getting shorn himself. I wonder what the classer’d make of that fleece?’ He grinned. ‘So you’ve got a woman and a poodle in the homestead. Want to kip in my place for the duration?’

      ‘That’d be a bit of overkill. I’ve put her in your old bedroom and you know I sleep at the other end of the house. I think we can manage.’

      ‘Women reel you in.’

      ‘That’s eighty years of experience speaking?’

      ‘Eighty years of keeping out of their way. Mark my words, boy, it’s like a disease.’

      ‘I’ve been married, had a kid and have the scars to prove it,’ Matt said, his grin fading. ‘I’m immune.’

      ‘No one’s immune.’ Donald shook his head and gestured to the house with a grimy thumb. ‘Don’t you go in till she’s safely in bed and leave before she wakes up. Have your cornflakes at my place.’

      ‘I’ll be careful,’ Matt promised him and smiled, although suddenly for some reason he didn’t feel like smiling.

      He thought of Penny—maybe Donald’s advice was wise.

      Lifting eggs from the nesting boxes, he enjoyed, as he always did, the warmth, the miracle of their production. He’d never quite got over the miracle of owning this place. Of never being told to move on.

      He found himself thinking of his mother, going from one disastrous love affair to another, dragging her son with her. He’d learned early that when his mother fell in love it meant disaster.

      She’d left and finally he’d figured he didn’t need her.

      After that...his first farm, financial security, finally feeling he could look forward.

      And then deciding he could love.

      Darrilyn.

      And there it was again—disaster. Because Darrilyn didn’t want him. She wanted the things his money represented. Two minutes after they were married she was pushing him to leave the farm he loved, and when he didn’t...

      Yeah, well, that was old history now. He didn’t need Darrilyn. He didn’t need anyone. But Donald was right.

      He needed to be careful.

       CHAPTER FOUR

      THEY LOOKED BEAUTIFUL.

      Penny gazed at the table in satisfaction. She had two plates of lamingtons ready to go. She’d rolled her cakes in rich chocolate sauce, coated them in coconut and filled them with cream. She’d thought of the difficulties of plates and spoons over in the yard so she’d gone small, but she’d made two each to compensate.

      She’d piled them in beautifully stacked pyramids. They looked exquisite.

      But this wasn’t a social event, she reminded herself. Two lamingtons might not be enough, so she made a few rounds of club sandwiches, bite-sized beauties. She cut them into four-point serves and set them on a plate in the lamingtons’ midst. They looked great.

      She glanced at the clock and felt a little swell of pride. She had the ovens hot for the frittatas for lunch. They were almost ready to pop in. She had fifteen minutes before smoko and she was totally in control.

      Matt would walk in any minute.

      And here he was. He looked filthy, his pants and open neck shirt coated in dust, his boots caked in...whatever, she didn’t want to think about it. His face was smeared with dust and his hair plastered down with sweat. ‘Hey. Nearly ready?’

      She lifted her lamingtons for inspection. ‘We can take them over now if you like.’

      He glanced at the table and his gaze moved on. ‘Where’s the rest?’

      ‘The rest?’

      There was a pregnant pause. And then... ‘This is all there is?’

      ‘Two lamingtons, two points of sandwiches each. How much more...’

      He swore and headed for the pantry, leaving a trail of filthy footsteps over her nice, clean kitchen floor.

      Her kitchen. That was how she felt when she worked. This was her domain.

      Um...not. Matt had flung open the pantry door and was foraging behind the flour sacks. He emerged with three boxes.

      Charity sale Christmas cakes. Big ones.

      ‘They hate them but they’ll have to do,’ he snapped. ‘Help me chop them up. They’ll stop work in half an hour and if this is all you have...’

      ‘But there’s plenty,’ she stammered and he gave her a look that resembled—eerily—the one her father gave her all the time. Like: You’ve been an idiot but what else could I expect?

      ‘This isn’t your society morning tea,’ he snapped, ripping cartons open. ‘It’s fuel. Grab a knife and help me.’

      She was having trouble moving. This was supposed to be her domain, the kitchen, her food—and he was treating her like an idiot. She felt sick.

      A memory came flooding back of the dinner a month ago. She and her parents in the family home, the mansion overlooking Sydney Harbour. It had been her birthday. She’d like a family dinner, she’d told them. Just her parents, her half-sister and her fiancé.

      And she’d cooked, because that was what she loved to do. She’d cooked what Brett loved to eat—stylish, with expensive ingredients, the sort of meal her father would enjoy paying a lot of money for in a society restaurant. She’d worked hard but she thought she’d got it right.

      She’d