Snowfire. Anne Mather
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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