Snowfire

’I want you to go to work,’ said Conor, in a low, controlled voice, and Olivia could feel Sharon’s hostility clear across the room. ‘If it’s necessary to phone Marshall, I’ll do it.’

’Oh …’ Sharon’s mouth tightened. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

Conor didn’t say anything then. He just looked at her. But Olivia had the feeling that the message he was emitting was loud enough. Sharon evidently thought so too, because, after only a slight hesitation, she offered a brief word of farewell and departed. The sound of the outer door slamming was a flagrant indication of her feelings, however, and Olivia made a conspicuous effort to avoid Conor’s knowing gaze.

It wasn’t difficult. Her surroundings were so familiar that it was easy to find another outlet for her thoughts. Incredible as it seemed, little had changed in the eleven years since she was here last. The room had been redecorated, of course, and the sofa, on which she was reclining so unwillingly, had been re-covered. But the tall cabinets that had contained Sally’s collection of Waterford crystal were still there, along with the writing-desk in the window where Keith used to keep the accounts. Even the ornaments adorning the Victorian mantel were pieces Conor’s parents had collected on their frequent trips to the Continent. They used to spend their summers camping in the south of France, she remembered. She had even gone with them a couple of times, when Conor was six or seven years old.

’I’ll get the coffee,’ he said now, as if realising she needed a few minutes to relax. ‘I won’t be long. I was making a pot before—well, before I saw you.’

Olivia didn’t have time to think of a response before he had left the room. In any case, she was still stunned by the fact that the house had evidently not been sold, after all. Her grandmother had never mentioned it before she died, and Olivia had never thought to ask. But then, after moving into the nursing home, Mrs Holland had lost touch with many of her friends. She hadn’t even attended Sally’s and Keith’s funeral.

Taking a deep breath, Olivia used her hands to ease herself to the edge of the sofa. Then, with some trepidation, she lowered her feet to the floor. Her leg still hurt, but the pain was bearable now. An indication that she was improving, she thought wryly. If only it had improved earlier, before she had got herself into this predicament.

’What are you doing?’

Conor’s impatient voice arrested her appraisal of her condition. Not that it mattered really. There was no way she could leave here without his co-operation. Even if she insisted on taking a taxi, she would have to use his phone.

Now Conor came into the room carrying a tray bearing two beakers, a cream jug, and a pot of coffee. Hooking a low end-table with his foot, he positioned it near the sofa, then set down his burden before subsiding on to the seat beside her.

His weight brought a resulting depression in the cushions, and Olivia had to grasp the arm of the sofa closest to her to prevent herself from sliding towards him. It was a timely reminder—if any were needed—that Conor was no longer the skinny youth he used to be. Without his jacket, which he had apparently shed somewhere between here and the kitchen, his upper torso was broad and muscular beneath the knitted shirt he was wearing. She couldn’t help noticing his legs, too, as she shuffled uneasily towards her end of the sofa. Spread as they were, to allow him easy access to the coffee, one powerful thigh was barely inches from the hand with which she was supporting herself. She knew a momentary urge to spread her fingers over his thigh, but happily that madness was only fleeting. It was just so amazing to remember him as a child and compare that image with the man he was now.

’Cream?’ he asked abruptly, and Olivia blinked.

’Oh—no. Just black,’ she said hurriedly. Maybe the strongly flavoured brew would help to normalise the situation. Just at the moment, she had a decided feeling of light-headedness.

’So,’ he said, after handing her the beaker of coffee, ‘d’you want to tell me what you’re doing here?’

Olivia cradled her cup between her palms, and cast him a sideways glance. He wasn’t looking at her at the moment, and she was grateful. It gave her an opportunity to study his features without fear of apprehension, and she needed that. Dear God, she thought, her gaze moving almost greedily over lean cheekbones, a strong jaw, and a wide, thin-lipped mouth—she had not dreamed he could be so familiar to her, not after all these years. But he was. Older, of course, and harsher; but essentially the same. She wondered how long he had been in England. Not too long, she guessed, judging by his tan. And those sun streaks in his sandy hair; he hadn’t acquired them in this northern climate.

Conor finished pouring his own coffee, and Olivia quickly looked away. Concentrating her attention on the fireplace, she noticed the ashes lying in the grate. Although the house was centrally heated, someone had had a fire the night before. The image of Conor and his wife sharing this sofa in front of the open fire, even perhaps making love by firelight, flashed into her mind. It brought an uneasy prickling to her skin, and she angrily thrust it away. It was because she still thought of this as Sally’s and Keith’s house, she told herself grimly. And of Conor as a boy, when he was obviously a man.

’Well?’ he prompted, and she was aware of him turning to look at her now. It made her glad she still had her coat wrapped about her. The honey-coloured cashmere hid a multitude of sins.

’Well,’ she countered, turning his way, but not quite meeting his eyes. ‘Small world, isn’t it? Who’d have thought you’d come back to Paget?’

’Why shouldn’t I?’ Conor was curt. ‘It’s my home.’

’Yes, well—I didn’t realise the house hadn’t been sold until now.’ She cast a determinedly casual look around the room. ‘It’s amazing. Everything looks the same.’

Conor’s mouth compressed. ‘Are you saying that when you came up here you didn’t know it was my house?’

His tone was vaguely accusing, and Olivia’s head swung back to him with some haste. ‘Of course,’ she exclaimed, meeting his green gaze half indignantly. She felt the warm colour surge into her throat at his cool appraisal. ‘I—I just wanted to—to look around.’

’For old times’ sake?’

’Yes.’ The colour had reached her cheeks now, but she refused to look away. ‘After all, you didn’t tell me you’d come back to England. How was I supposed to know?’

Conor put down his cup. ‘Point taken,’ he conceded, lounging back against the cushions and propping one booted ankle across one twill-covered knee. ‘I guess I didn’t think you’d be interested. You haven’t exactly kept me up to date with your affairs.’

Olivia dragged her gaze away and looked down into her cup. She was aware that her heart was beating far faster than it should have been, and, in spite of the cold day outside, she was sweating. She should have taken off her coat, she thought, though all she did was draw it more closely about her. She needed its comforting folds to disguise her trepidation.

’So,’ she said, feeling obliged to make some comment, ‘you’re a doctor now.’

’Don’t make it sound so unlikely.’ Conor inclined his head. ‘I told you what I wanted to do, when I came to see you in London. Actually, I’m still in training. I’ve decided I want to specialise in psychological disorders, so for the last six months I’ve been working at the drug rehabilitation unit in Witterthorpe.’

’I see.’ Olivia was impressed. ‘Did—er—did you do the rest of your training in England?’

’No.’ Conor reached for his coffee again and took a drink. ‘Uncle Philip had a heart condition. He died soon after I started medical school. I stayed on in the States until I’d finished at med. school, because that was what Aunt Elizabeth wanted. She’d been good to me, and I guess I owed her that much. When I came here, I began the extra training you need to get a full British qualification.’

Olivia absorbed this with a pang. So Philip Cox had died, too. Just another aspect of Conor’s life that she had known nothing about. But she could understand that Elizabeth Cox would have found comfort in her nephew. Philip had only fathered daughters, which was probably why Sally had left Conor in his care.

Her coffee was almost finished, and, surreptitiously testing her foot against the floor, Olivia decided she was strong enough to stand. But, when she replaced her cup on the tray and inched forward on the sofa, Conor’s hand closed about her sleeve.

’We’ve talked about me,’ he said, ‘but you still haven’t told me what you’re doing in Paget. You mentioned that you’re staying in the village. Would that be at Tom Drake’s place? I had a word with him this morning, but he didn’t mention he had a visitor.’

’Why would he?’ Olivia moved her arm so that he was forced to release her. ‘He doesn’t remember me. My married name means nothing to him.’

’Ah, yes. Your married name.’ Conor lowered his foot to the floor, and leant forward, his arms along his thighs. ‘You’re a married lady, aren’t you? Is your husband with you? Am I going to get to meet him?’

’No.’

Suddenly, Olivia had no desire to tell Conor about the divorce. His intimation that they might see one another again unsettled her, and, for some reason she didn’t choose to recognise, she didn’t want his sympathy. So long as he believed she was still married, he couldn’t get too close to her. Though why the idea of his getting close to her should disturb her so, she couldn’t imagine.

’No?’ Conor’s eyes were uncomfortably intent. ‘Why? You ashamed of me or something?’

’Don’t be silly.’ Olivia licked her dry lips. ‘He’s not here, that’s all. He—I’m just taking a short holiday. On my own.’

’Recuperating,’ suggested Conor quietly, and she hesitated only a moment before allowing a taut nod. ‘So what happened?’ he persisted. ‘D’you want to talk about it?’

’So you can psychoanalyse me?’ she taunted, needing to make light of what was threatening to become a seriously heavy development. ‘No, thanks. I crashed my car, that’s all. It’s a common enough story. Nothing exciting, I’m afraid—–’

’When?’

’When what?’

’When did you crash your car?’ Conor was unnervingly direct.

’Oh …’ Olivia shrugged. ‘A little while ago. Eight or nine months, I think.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘Look, I must be going, I’ve got some phone calls to make.’

Conor didn’t move. ‘And that was when you smashed up your leg? Eight or nine months ago?’

’Well, I didn’t do it by falling over,’ she retorted, still trying to lighten the mood. ‘Conor, it’s been lovely seeing you again, and I’m sorry if I upset your wife—–’

’My wife?’ At last something she said had distracted him. He raked back his sun-bleached hair with a restless hand. ‘Sharon’s not my wife!’

’Oh!’ Once again, Olivia could feel the heat flooding up under her skin. ‘Well, your—er—girlfriend, then,’ she muttered, getting determinedly to her feet. She swayed rather unsteadily on one leg, as she gauged the distance between the couch and the door. ‘Please explain that I don’t make a habit of this. I’d hate her to think I was spying on you!’

’Spying on us?’

Conor came to his feet with a lithe movement, successfully reminding her of his superior height and build. It hardly seemed possible that he had once cried on her shoulder, she thought. These days, he was almost a head taller than she was.

’Well, you know what I mean,’ she mumbled now, wishing she had chosen a less emotive word to describe her position. ‘I really was curious to see this house again. And the cottage, too, of course. It was just my luck that I slipped and fell at the wrong moment.’

’Or mine,’ remarked Conor softly, looking down at her, and she wondered how he could imbue those words with such a measure of intimacy.

Heavens, he was good, she thought ridiculously, unable to sustain his warm, disturbing gaze a moment longer. It probably amused him to see how he could disconcert her. A delayed payment for the way she had bossed him about in his youth.

’Look—I’ve got to go,’ she said, wishing he would get out of her way so that she had an unobstructed passage to the door. She didn’t want him to carry her again. She didn’t want him touching her.

’OK.’ As if sensing her frustration, he moved aside, and Olivia limped heavily across the room. Her leg would support her now, just, but she was conscious of his eyes upon her. He was probably gauging the possible seriousness of her injury, she thought crossly. He was a doctor, after all. He would know how restricted her movements were.

’I’ll get the car,’ he said, as she reached the doorway, and Olivia had no choice but to let him do it.

’What about your appointment?’ she protested, realising she should have asked to use the phone as soon as she got here. She could have had the coffee while she waited for a cab.

’Let me worry about that,’ he replied, brushing past her to collect his jacket from the banister in the hallway, and she clutched the door frame at her back in an unconsciously defensive gesture.

Conor’s car had been in the garage, which explained why Olivia had only seen Sharon’s Peugeot in the drive. Conor reversed his mud-smeared Audi round to the front of the house where Olivia was waiting, and she was glad she had been able to negotiate the steps without him watching her.

’I can manage,’ she insisted, when he would have got out to help her into the front of the car, and Conor sank back into his seat.

’It’s no sin to need assistance,’ he remarked drily, as she eased her leg into a more comfortable position, and she wondered why she felt so absurdly sensitive with him. If she wasn’t careful, she was going to arouse his suspicions as to why that should be so, and she couldn’t even explain it to herself.

She always felt a certain sense of trepidation when she got into a car these days. It wasn’t that she hadn’t driven since the accident. On the contrary, she had insisted on replacing the car she had wrecked with a new one almost immediately. An automatic, of course, which for some time lay idle in the garage. But lately she had gained in confidence, and only the fear of the car breaking down had deterred her from attempting the drive to Paget.

Conor drove well: fairly fast, but not uncomfortably so, and any lingering fears left her. He traversed the narrow streets and intersections with an ease that spoke of long familiarity, and she guessed he knew the place better than she did these days. And obviously, he was used to driving in this country. She realised she had been in danger of thinking him a stranger to Paget.

They arrived at the Ship Inn, in what seemed an inordinately short space of time, and Olivia’s fingers tightened round her handbag. ‘Well—thank you,’ she murmured politely, glancing up at the wooded façade of the building. ‘I appreci—–’

’When can I see you again?’

Conor’s husky enquiry cut into her careful words of gratitude, and when she turned her head she found he had turned at right angles to the wheel, his arm along the back of the seat behind her.

Olivia gave a nervous laugh. ‘Oh, I don’t think—–’

’Why not?’ His expression flattened. ‘As we haven’t seen one another for God knows how many years, don’t you think we ought to at least share a meal, for old times’ sake?’

Olivia swallowed. ‘You don’t want to have a meal with me!’ she protested.

’Why not?’ he repeated.

’Well … I was—your mother’s friend, not yours. You don’t have to feel any obligation towards me.’

Conor slumped lower in his seat. ‘Who said anything about an obligation?’

’Even so—–’

’Even so nothing. OK. You were like my aunt, right? If it pleases you to remember the relationship like that, then no problem. How about me taking my favourite “aunt” to dinner? Like tonight, maybe. If you’ve not got anything else on.’

’I can’t tonight.’

The words just sprang from her tongue, the refusal as necessary to her as her independence had been earlier. But there was no way she was going to put herself through any more torment today—physical or otherwise.

’Tomorrow, then,’ he said, without hesitation, and, to her dismay, his fingers began plucking at the scarf she wore about her shoulders. He had nice hands, she noticed unwillingly, long-fingered and capable, and brown, like the rest of him. Or the part of him she could see, she amended shortly, uncomfortably aware of where her thoughts were taking her. God! She shivered. What was the matter with her?

’I—don’t know,’ she muttered, wishing she had the strength to be more decisive. But the truth was that, in spite of everything, she wasn’t totally convinced she didn’t want to see him again. After all, she defended herself, he was Sally’s son. Surely, it was what she would have wanted—for them to be friends. But it was the ambivalence of her feelings that troubled her. That, and the sure knowledge that nothing was as simple as it seemed.

Conor toyed with the patterned scarf between his fingers. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said, the warmth of his breath moistening her ear. ‘I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock. What do you say?’

’I …’ Olivia opened her mouth to make some further protest, and then closed it again. His face was much nearer now, and although his eyes were averted she had an unhindered view of his long lashes. They were sun-bleached these days, she noticed, like his hair, but just as vulnerable as she remembered them. ‘Oh—all right,’ she gave in weakly, knowing herself for a fool, and when he lifted his head she was sure of it. There was nothing vulnerable in his gaze at all. His face was quite expressionless. Whatever she thought she had seen in his expression was just wishful thinking.

But then he smiled. ‘Great,’ he said, withdrawing his arm from the back of the seat, and thrusting open his door. Then, before she had a chance to forestall him, he had circled the car and opened her door, offering her his hand to help her out.

’I can manage,’ she exclaimed, frustration giving way to irritation, as annoyance at her weakness overwhelmed her. She shouldn’t have allowed any of this to happen, she thought angrily, aware that the frown that drew her dark brows together did nothing for her appearance. But she had had a chance to end this association here and now, and she had blown it. Now she was committed to a whole evening in the company of a man she hardly knew.

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