Mills & Boon is proud to present a fabulous collection of fantastic novels by bestselling, much loved author

ANNE MATHER

Anne has a stellar record of achievement within the

publishing industry, having written over one hundred

and sixty books, with worldwide sales of more than

forty-eight MILLION copies in multiple languages.

This amazing collection of classic stories offers a chance

for readers to recapture the pleasure Anne’s powerful,

passionate writing has given.

We are sure you will love them all!

I’ve always wanted to write—which is not to say I’ve always wanted to be a professional writer. On the contrary, for years I only wrote for my own pleasure and it wasn’t until my husband suggested sending one of my stories to a publisher that we put several publishers’ names into a hat and pulled one out. The rest, as they say, is history. And now, one hundred and sixty-two books later, I’m literally—excuse the pun—staggered by what’s happened.

I had written all through my infant and junior years and on into my teens, the stories changing from children’s adventures to torrid gypsy passions. My mother used to gather these manuscripts up from time to time, when my bedroom became too untidy, and dispose of them! In those days, I used not to finish any of the stories and Caroline, my first published novel, was the first I’d ever completed. I was newly married then and my daughter was just a baby, and it was quite a job juggling my household chores and scribbling away in exercise books every chance I got. Not very professional, as you can imagine, but that’s the way it was.

These days, I have a bit more time to devote to my work, but that first love of writing has never changed. I can’t imagine not having a current book on the typewriter—yes, it’s my husband who transcribes everything on to the computer. He’s my partner in both life and work and I depend on his good sense more than I care to admit.

We have two grown-up children, a son and a daughter, and two almost grown-up grandchildren, Abi and Ben. My e-mail address is mystic-am@msn.com and I’d be happy to hear from any of my wonderful readers.

Betrayed
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

THE aircraft banked over the Thames, and the sun, which had been dazzling Olivia’s eyes moments before, swung across the cabin to blind the passengers sitting on the other side. Below her, the sprawling mass of London and its suburbs was giving way to the more sparsely populated area around the airport, and she heard the grinding rush of the undercarriage being activated as the huge jet made its final approach to Heathrow.

Her stomach flipped, but not because of the excitement of landing. At least, not with any feeling of anticipation, she acknowledged tensely. Rather, it was the awareness that in a matter of minutes she would be setting foot on British soil again, something she had believed she would never do.

Of course, when she had made that vow to herself she had been more than ten years younger, she reflected drily, remembering the devastation she had felt when she was leaving. Her whole world had been falling apart—or that was the way it had seemed then. She had been desperate to get away, desperate to put as many miles between her and Lower Mychett as was humanly possible. She doubted even her grandmother had expected quite such a violent reaction, but then, Harriet Stoner was not one to regret her words. And, to be fair, she had discovered that at least a part of what her grandmother had told her was true; time did effect change; and what had once seemed a justifiable reason for cutting herself off from the rest of her family no longer seemed so important.

Or did it?

Impatiently, Olivia ran her fingers into the crimped mass of streaked blonde hair that brushed her shoulders at the sides and dipped slightly longer in the back. Wasn’t that part of the reason why she had come back, after all? she pondered, resting her hands at the back of her neck. Oh, her grandmother’s death should be reason enough, she supposed, but it had been ten years since she had seen her, and they had never been particularly close. On the contrary, the old lady had never made any secret of the fact that she favoured Olivia’s younger brother and sister, and her eventual revelations had only confirmed the reason for her dislike.

Still, when her mother’s telegraphed message had arrived, Olivia had hardly hesitated before booking her flight to England. In spite of all that had gone before, she had decided to attend the funeral, and not even Perry’s unconcealed disapproval could sway her from her purpose. Perhaps this was what she had been waiting for, she thought consideringly. Perhaps she needed this visit—this purging of the spirit, almost—before she could truly settle down to living the rest of her life in the United States. Goodness knew, she had been vacillating over her relationship with Perry for months now, and sooner or later she was going to have to make a decision. She loved him—of course she did—but she had told herself she wasn’t entirely convinced that she wanted to give up her independence just yet. Now, however, she wondered whether she hadn’t unconsciously been waiting for something—or someone—to make up her mind for her. This trip to England, to the village of Lower Mychett in Hampshire, where she had been born, would prove to her once and for all that the past was dead. Like her grandmother, she reflected bitterly. She just wished she could feel a sense of pity.

But it was difficult to feel anything for the woman who had so dispassionately devastated her young life. At eighteen she had been on the brink of what she had believed would be a wonderful future, and to have it all taken away had been the cruellest kind of torture. It had all sounded so melodramatic, after all. One of those awful family affairs you read about in the newspapers, but never expected to experience. At first she hadn’t believed it. She knew her grandmother had always resented her, and Olivia had half convinced herself that the old lady was just making it up to hurt her. But she wasn’t. The letters had proved that. And when Olivia had realised that she and Matthew were——

She supposed she ought to have blamed her mother, not her grandmother, but she hadn’t. How could she have blamed her mother for anything? Ever since Olivia’s younger sister, Sara, was born, Felicity Stoner had suffered from a heart condition and, in consequence, she was indulged by every member of the family, including her besotted husband. The idea of Olivia accusing her mother of ruining her life didn’t bear thinking about. Besides, it would have meant telling her father, too, and her grandmother had impressed upon her the fact that Robert Stoner knew nothing.

Olivia sighed, tipping her head back against her hands and stretching the slender column of her throat. The action unknowingly caused her breasts to press against the silky fabric of her shirt, and the man sitting next to her observed the movement with undisguised approval.

‘Nervous?’ he enquired hopefully, and Olivia, who had spent the early part of the journey fending off his unwanted attentions, shook her head.

‘No.’

‘Ah.’ The man, who was possibly in his late thirties, and evidently convinced of his own attractions, patently didn’t believe her. ‘Well, don’t worry. I cross the Atlantic at least half a dozen times every month, and landing one of these things is a piece of cake.’

‘You’re a pilot?’ enquired Olivia politely, deciding that as they were preparing to land she had nothing to lose, and the man’s pale, plump features took on a faint trace of colour.

‘I didn’t say that,’ he replied, a little tersely, and Olivia’s lips twisted as she turned to the window to watch their descent. ‘I just meant my business takes me to the States fairly frequently, and I feel quite at home in a 747.’

‘Really?’

Olivia tried to keep the impatience out of her voice, without really succeeding. But honestly, some men, seeing a woman travelling alone, couldn’t help but regard her as a challenge. She had hoped that travelling first class—Perry’s idea—would have alleviated that phenomenon, but it hadn’t worked that way. Still, she supposed it wasn’t his fault that her nerves were on edge, and that indulging in small talk only made her feel worse, not better.

‘Oh, yes,’ her companion went on now, proving that his skin was just as thick as she had anticipated. ‘I guess you could say I’m a seasoned traveller. A paid-up member of the mile-high club.’ His blue eyes narrowed assessingly. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

Olivia’s patience ran out. ‘That you like playing doctor in the lavatory?’ she suggested coolly, watching the heat surge into his cheeks, and his mouth take on an aggressive curve.

‘Clever bitch!’ he muttered, shifting irritably inside his seatbelt, and Olivia turned her attention back to the window, wishing the journey were over.

The wheels touched the runway only seconds later, and the high-powered whine of the reverse thrust briefly silenced the anxious clamour in her head. But the sudden conviction that she shouldn’t have come was borne in on her as the jet’s engines pushed her back against the cushions of her seat, and she closed her eyes.

What was she trying to prove, after all? That she hadn’t lost touch with her family? Of course she had! In spite of her many invitations, her parents had never made the trip to New York to see her. And although she had told herself it was because they were country people, and that the idea of travelling across the Atlantic was too adventurous for them, she knew in her heart of hearts that that wasn’t the real reason. The fact was, her father, at least, had never forgiven her for leaving home, and without the right to tell him the truth she had damned herself forever in his eyes.

Maybe she wanted to prove to herself that leaving Lower Mychett had been the best thing she had ever done. Surely that was true? Staying would only have made the whole situation even more painful than it already was, and Olivia knew she hadn’t had that kind of strength. Besides, her grandmother had encouraged her to make a clean break, and there hadn’t seemed any other way of doing it.

Perhaps her real reason for making this journey was to assure herself that Harriet Stoner was really dead, she considered bitterly. But even she was not that vindictive. After all, her grandmother had had her best interests at heart, even if it hadn’t seemed so at the time.

She opened her eyes, as the plane taxied towards its unloading bay, and the steward began handing out coats and jackets to the waiting passengers. And for the first time she allowed herself to wonder whether she didn’t secretly hope that she might see Matthew again. It wasn’t that the memory of what she had once felt for him was anything more than a rather foolish aberration. Given the way she felt now, she guessed she would have got over her infatuation for him in her own time, if her grandmother had not chosen to interfere. But Harriet Stoner had not been prepared to take the risk, and who could blame her? Her daughter-in-law had turned a blind eye to what was going on, but she couldn’t. She was a God-fearing woman, a stalwart of the church, and her strict moral values would not allow her to keep silent.

Olivia’s lips trembled for a moment, as she remembered how horrified she had felt then. At eighteen, everything had seemed so much more clearly defined; things were either black or white, with no room for shades of grey. Now, she knew different. Her experiences in New York had taught her that life was an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colours, and what had shocked her ten years ago would now barely warrant a lifting of her eyebrows. In New York, at least, she amended, loosening her safety-belt. No doubt in Lower Mychett the stigma would still remain.

The enclosed gangway had been secured to the aircraft’s side now, and the heavy door was swung open. Her fellow passengers crowded round the crew, wanting to be the first to reach Immigration, and to her relief the man beside her left without a backward glance. Sliding her arms into the sleeves of her jacket, Olivia gathered her handbag and the Louis Vuitton travel bag Perry had bought her, and got reluctantly to her feet.

‘Are you feeling all right, Miss Stoner?’

One of the stewardesses was at her elbow, and Olivia gave her a fleeting smile. ‘Yes. I’m fine, thank you.’

‘I just thought——’ The stewardess hesitated. ‘You seemed rather reluctant to leave.’

‘Perhaps I am,’ remarked Olivia ruefully. And then, seeing the doubt in the other woman’s eyes, she shook her head. ‘No. I was just dawdling, that’s all. Thank you.’

The walk to Immigration was invigorating. At this hour of the morning the airport corridors were cool and uncrowded, and Olivia enjoyed stretching her long legs. Seven hours in a plane was too long, she acknowledged, shifting her travel bag to her other hand. But she had resisted Perry’s efforts to send her on Concorde. Perhaps even then she had been subconsciously delaying the moment when she would have to meet her family again.

By the time she had cleared Passport Control and collected her suitcase, it was nearly nine o’clock. She had sent an answering cable to her mother, saying she would be arriving today, but she didn’t expect anyone to meet her. For one thing, it was harvest time, and as both her father and her brother worked on the Rycroft estate they would have little time to spare for a trip to London, especially to meet the apparent black sheep of the family.

There were few porters about, and, loading her suitcase and travel bag on to a trolley, Olivia looped her bag over her shoulder, and set off to run the gamut of Customs. She chose the green channel. She had nothing to declare, and she emerged unscathed into the noisy Arrivals hall.

There were at least a hundred people thronged around the Arrivals gate. Some stared at her curiously, as if trying to decide if she was someone of importance, while others held up placards announcing their identity to the incoming passengers. But none of the placards held her name, and she was not surprised when she reached the end of the enclosure undeterred.

And yet, she must have thought someone might come to meet her, she reflected wryly, for she had refused to let Perry make any ongoing arrangements for the trip to Lower Mychett. She could take a taxi into London, of course, and find out the times of trains to Winchester. But the idea of facing the M4 in the rush hour—which was probably twice as bad now as it had been when she went away—was not appealing. Matthew used to meet her in London, she remembered fleetingly, and take her to his room at the college, but she thrust the thought away …

Perhaps she could hire a car, she thought determinedly. She had a driving licence, and although it had been obtained in the United States there were plenty of Americans who came to England for fly-drive holidays. Even so, she suspected they made their arrangements well in advance. Did she need an international driving licence, for example, and, if so, where could she get one? Could she get one? Probably not soon enough to get her to Lower Mychett for her grandmother’s funeral, she decided wearily. Oh, why hadn’t she let Perry arrange a hire car for her?

Because she had thought someone would meet her, she reminded herself again. After all, the letters she infrequently exchanged with her mother maintained the fiction of their relationship, so why shouldn’t she have asked her brother or her sister to meet her?

‘Olivia.’

The sound of her name scraped over nerves bared by her confusion, and Olivia swung round to face the speaker in utter disbelief. ‘M-Matthew!’

‘Hi.’ He inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgement. ‘How are you?’

‘Um—fine. I’m fine.’ Olivia swallowed, and glanced uneasily about her. ‘Did—um——’ She frowned. ‘Did you come to meet me?’

‘Well, I’m not plane-spotting,’ responded Matthew drily, his lean, dark features a bland impassive mask. ‘Did you have a good trip?’

Olivia expelled her breath in a rush. This couldn’t be happening, she decided unsteadily. Somehow she had conjured up Matthew’s image, and this conversation—this unnaturally polite conversation—was just a figment of her imagination. Dear God, when she remembered how he had reacted when she had told him of her plans to go to the United States. He had been furious—no, incensed. She had half thought he was going to hit her, and the words he had used to describe her were forever imprinted on her memory. That was why this little scenario had to be a hallucination. The Matthew she remembered would never have forgiven her. Of course, she hadn’t been able to tell him the truth either, she thought bitterly. And in the same position she guessed she would have felt the same, if Matthew had walked out on her. After all, they had been in love. In love! Oh, God …

‘Is this all your luggage?’ Matthew was asking now, and Olivia dragged her thoughts back to the present.

‘What?’ She stared at him blankly. And then, realising what he had said, she nodded jerkily. ‘Oh—yes. Yes. This is all.’

She looked about her as she spoke, half expecting to find herself the object of a dozen curious eyes, but no one was staring at her—not as if she was mad, anyway, she amended—so, if she was talking to herself, no one had noticed.

‘Are you all right?’

It was the second time someone had asked her that in the space of an hour, and Olivia forced herself to look at him again. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m very well, thank you. And you?’

‘Oh—great. Just great,’ responded Matthew flatly, taking the trolley from her unresisting fingers. ‘My car’s parked outside. It’s in a restricted zone, so do you mind if we move it?’

Olivia swallowed again, and, unable to prevent herself, she put out a nervous hand and touched his sleeve. Beneath the fine leather of his jerkin his arm felt reassuringly hard and muscular, and she felt his instinctive rejection of her touch in the same instant that she pulled her hand away.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured, making an issue of putting the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, and Matthew gave her a brief hard look.

‘Is something wrong?’ he enquired, and just for a second she heard the edge of some stronger emotion in his tone.

‘No. No, nothing,’ she answered, quickening her pace deliberately. But she wondered what he would say if she told him she had had to assure herself that he was real.

Years ago, Matthew had driven an old beaten-up Mini that he and Sam Pollack, from Pollack’s garage, had worked on together until the engine sang as sweet as a bird. It had been fast, too. Too fast, Olivia’s father had maintained, although in those days he had been more concerned that Matthew’s intentions were honourable. After all, he was Lady Lavinia Ryan’s son; and even if his father was not Sir Matthew Ryan he did own Rycroft, which in Lower Mychett was as good as owning a title.

The car that was parked outside was a far cry from that old Mini however. It wasn’t particularly clean, and it was an estate, not a sports car. But it was a Mercedes; Olivia recognised that at once. And, judging by the size of its engine, it would be able to hold its own in any contest.

Matthew swung open the passenger door, and nodded at Olivia. ‘You get in,’ he said. ‘I’ll handle the luggage.’

Olivia caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Oh—thanks,’ she said, twisting the strap of her bag round her hand, as she eased herself into the wide, comfortable seat. But, now it seemed virtually certain that this was not some strange fantasy, other thoughts were asserting themselves. Not least, what was Matthew doing here? And who had asked him to come?

The car rocked as he slammed the tail-gate and, pushing the trolley aside, he came round the car and got in beside her. Folding his long legs beneath the wheel, he reached for his seatbelt, and Olivia permitted herself a fleeting look at his unyielding profile.

He hadn’t changed much at all, she thought reluctantly, aware of his muscled thigh only inches away from her own. He had always been reasonably tall—around six feet, she guessed—which had made her five feet eight inches so much less of a problem. Until she had started going out with Matthew, she had usually been as tall as, or taller than, the boys she had dated. Matthew was a little heavier, she decided, but that was to be expected. He was older. Thirty-two now, to her twenty-eight. How well she knew that equation.

His face had aged more than his body, she noticed. There were lines beside his nose and mouth, and his grey eyes were set more deeply. But his hair was just as dark, and as usual needed cutting, catching his collar at the back, and tempting her to put it straight.

But it was then, as she dipped her head to avoid his cool appraisal, that she noticed the ring on his left hand. Her stomach hollowed at the realisation that it was a wedding-ring, and, although she knew she had no right to feel the way she did at that moment, a feeling of absolute nausea swept over her.

She thought she was going to be sick. For one awful moment, she really thought she might throw up, there, in Matthew’s car, the feeling was so intense. But, somehow, she fought it back, though her forehead beaded with perspiration in the process. Dear God, she thought, surreptitiously wiping the back of her hand across her temples, it shouldn’t matter to her what Matthew had done in the years since their separation. It was perfectly reasonable that he should have found someone else, that he should get married, and probably start a family. That was what most men did, after all, and a man as attractive to the opposite sex as Matthew had always been was unlikely to have stayed single for too long.

Nevertheless, as the feeling of sickness subsided, Olivia knew that she was still not entirely objective where Matthew was concerned. Briefly, she had known again all the pain of that earlier betrayal, and, while it was easy to dismiss their relationship from a distance, a one-to-one confrontation was something else entirely.

In spite of her efforts to avoid his attention, the unevenness of her breathing could not be disguised, and Matthew had always been fairly perceptive where she was concerned.

‘Are you ill?’ he demanded, his attention torn between concern—and curiosity—about her welfare, and the heavy pressure of traffic around the airport. ‘For God’s sake, why didn’t you tell me you weren’t feeling well before you got into the car?’

‘I—just felt—sick, for a moment,’ Olivia protested, wondering what he would say if she told him the truth. But then, he would probably enjoy the vindication of believing she had regretted severing their relationship. Whatever, the truth was not hers to tell, and that was all there was to it.

‘Hmm.’ Matthew sounded impatient, and she wondered if he believed her. Still, he opened the electrically controlled windows, and the cool draught of air was marvellously refreshing. ‘We’ll find a service area, and pull off and have some coffee,’ he said, giving her another glancing look. ‘Didn’t you have breakfast on the plane?’

‘I wasn’t hungry,’ admitted Olivia, smoothing her damp palms over her knees. ‘Airline food is so tasteless.’ She licked her dry lips. ‘Don’t you think?’

‘I probably haven’t travelled as much as you,’ responded Matthew, keeping his eyes on the road. Then, braking to avoid a reckless queue-jumping motorcyclist, he added flatly, ‘You don’t look as though you eat enough these days.’

‘Oh, thanks.’ Olivia’s response was tight and defensive. ‘I really appreciate hearing that you think I look under-nourished!’

‘I didn’t say that.

Matthew’s response was clipped, but Olivia was in no mood to consider the incongruity of this conversation. ‘Didn’t you?’ she retorted. ‘Well, it may interest you to know that where I come from you can’t be too thin!’

‘Or too rich, so I hear,’ responded Matthew caustically. ‘I suppose you can’t have one without the other, can you?’

Olivia took a deep breath. ‘Is that supposed to mean something?’

Matthew shrugged. Then, ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, as if thinking better of arguing with her. ‘I was just making polite conversation, that’s all.’ He deftly moved the Mercedes into the lane that would take them on to the M3 motorway, and merged with the traffic coming from the east. ‘There’s—er—there’s a service area around here somewhere. Yes, there’s the sign. It’s just a couple of miles further on.’

‘You don’t have to stop for me,’ said Olivia shortly, aware of a feeling of tension out of all proportion to what he had been saying, but Matthew just gave her a speaking look.

‘We’re stopping,’ he said, putting his words into action as the slip-road for the service area came in sight. ‘I could do with some coffee myself. It was barely half-past-six when I left home this morning.’

Olivia’s lips tightened. ‘Why did you come, anyway?’ she asked ungraciously. ‘I could have managed.’

‘Could you?’ Matthew swung the big car into a parking bay, and switched off the engine. ‘Well, your mother asked me if I would, and how could I refuse? She and your father, and the rest of the family, are pretty cut up about the old lady’s death, you know. It’s been fairly rough for them, ever since she had that first stroke, just before Christmas.’

Olivia stared at him. ‘She had a stroke before Christmas?’ she exclaimed. She shook her head. ‘I didn’t know.’

‘No. Well, I guess they didn’t think you’d be interested,’ said Matthew evenly, thrusting open the door. He paused. ‘Are you coming? Or are you determined to make this even more difficult than it already is?’

Olivia caught her breath, as she scrambled out. ‘More difficult?’ she echoed, aware that he could misinterpret the indignation in her tone. But it wasn’t fair that he should make judgements about her. She hadn’t known about her grandmother’s illness, and he had no idea how painful this all was.

‘Yes, more difficult,’ Matthew said now, slamming the car door and locking it. ‘Don’t remind me what a selfish little bitch you are!’

Olivia stared at him through tear-glazed eyes. ‘I didn’t ask you to come,’ she exclaimed, taking refuge in the childish retort, and Matthew sighed.

‘No,’ he conceded, after a moment. ‘You didn’t ask me to come. And you’re making it bloody plain you wish I hadn’t.’ He glanced round, as if assuring himself that their conversation was not being overheard, and then added wearily, ‘But, please—don’t make a scene here! For your grandmother’s sake, I’m prepared to forget the past, and so should you. Ten years is too long for me to bear a grudge—or for you to feel a sense of guilt!’

CHAPTER TWO

THE sun came out as they sat at a table by the window, in the self-service restaurant. It streamed through the faintly dusty panes, bathing Olivia in its light, and soothing her raw emotions. She had made no response to Matthew’s final accusation in the car park, and now she sat staring at the coffee in her cup, wondering again why she had been so foolish as to respond to her mother’s telegram. After all, no one had asked her to come and, whatever Matthew said, ten years was not long enough to heal some wounds.

Not that he seemed to be suffering too badly, she thought uncharitably, her eyes straying to the brown, long-fingered hands gripping the knife and fork across the table from her. Matthew was tucking into bacon, eggs and fried tomatoes with apparent relish, and Olivia envied him his ability to ignore her evidently unwelcome presence.

He had nice hands, she reflected unwillingly, a tremor of awareness causing an unwanted shiver to slide down her spine. Once, those hands had been as familiar to her as her own, and when they were together they had seldom been far from hers. If they weren’t holding hands, he had had his arm about her shoulders, and she had revelled in the possessive pressure he had displayed. She had wanted him to touch her; she had wanted to touch him just as urgently, and when they were alone——

She caught herself up short, swallowing a hasty mouthful of her coffee and almost scalding her mouth in the process. But allowing her thoughts to drift in that direction was not only wrong, but futile, and she made a determined effort to rekindle the sense of resentment his cool, disparaging comments had aroused in her. Only so long as she could maintain some feeling of anger towards him could she hope to sustain her detachment. She had not realised how fatally easy it would be to delude herself about their relationship, or that, even knowing who he was, she might still want him. Time had changed a lot of things, it was true, and the idealistic young girl she had been when she’d boarded the plane for the United States was gone forever. But because she was older, and more experienced in the ways of the world, she was also more tolerant of human frailty. Not least her own. She was realising that those years had also blunted the edge of her conviction.

Dangerously so, she acknowledged now, giving Matthew another covert glance. She would never have believed she could still be attracted to him. But he had been her first love, after all, and didn’t they say that you never forgot your first love?

He lifted his eyes from his plate then, and caught her looking at him. And she had to steel herself to meet the cool challenge in his gaze. She wondered if he suspected what she was thinking. Once, he had been able to interpret her every expression, but that was before she had learned the art of dissimulation. Nevertheless, his gaze was disturbingly intent, and it took all her powers of resistance to withstand the desire to look away.

‘Don’t,’ he said after a moment, putting down his knife and fork and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. Then, picking up the cup beside his plate, he emptied its contents and set it down. ‘Drink your coffee, Olivia. It’s time to go.’

‘Is it?’ Perversely, Olivia was disposed to linger. It was crazy, she knew, but there was one sure way of retaining the animosity between them, and that was by provoking his anger, too. ‘I was just thinking I might have some breakfast, after all.’ She gave the buffet shelves a provocative appraisal. ‘A hot Danish, perhaps. That’s what I usually have at home.’

Matthew’s mouth tightened. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll wait for you in the car. Don’t hurry. I’ll buy a paper, and catch up on the morning news.’

Olivia stared at him. ‘You’d do that, wouldn’t you?’ she exclaimed indignantly. ‘After I’ve sat and watched you wolf down the most revolting mess of fried food I’ve ever seen!’

Matthew’s lips twitched. ‘You’re talking about the great British breakfast,’ he told her sardonically. ‘We’re not all health freaks.’

Olivia wanted to tell him that the amount of cholesterol he had swallowed that morning would go a fair way to clogging his arteries, but she refused to let him gain the upper hand. And besides, it had to be said, he didn’t look as if he suffered any ill effects. On the contrary, he looked disgustingly healthy, and observing his tanned skin she wondered exactly what kind of occupation he had chosen.

‘Well, anyway,’ she said, back-tracking, ‘we’re not in any great hurry, are we?’

‘You may not be,’ remarked Matthew, but he remained in his seat, and Olivia moistened her dry lips.

‘Does that mean you are?’

‘I do have responsibilities,’ conceded Matthew evenly. ‘Oh, go on. Get yourself a Danish, if that’s what you want. I must admit, if you were feeling sick earlier, food is probably what you need.’

Olivia looked across at him. ‘Will you get it for me? I—er—I don’t have any change.’

Matthew gave her an old-fashioned look, but he got to his feet and walked back to the buffet, flexing his shoulders as he did so. He was wearing jeans with his jerkin, and a pair of worn leather boots, like the ones he used to wear when they were together. She watched him as he exchanged a smiling comment with the girl on the pay-till, and she felt a stabbing sense of envy. He should be smiling at her, not at some stranger, she thought painfully. He had such a nice smile, and when he was relaxed the years just fell away.

‘There you are,’ he said, setting the plate containing the apricot Danish pastry down in front of her. ‘Hot, as you ordered, but probably nowhere near as delicious as you’re used to.’

Olivia looked up at him, as he made no move to drop into the seat opposite. ‘Don’t be like that,’ she said, unconsciously using all her charm to persuade him to stay. ‘You’re not really going, are you?’

Matthew’s eyes darkened perceptibly. ‘Liv——’

‘That’s the first time you’ve called me that!’ she exclaimed, digging her fork into the Danish, and lifting a sugary morsel to her lips. Her tongue came out to accept the delicate mouthful, and in Matthew’s eyes she saw a reflection of the torment she was feeling.

‘I’m married, Olivia,’ he said in a strangled voice, and although the news was no real surprise to her it still had the power to constrict her throat.

‘So—what?’ she managed, swallowing the fragment of pastry with a valiant effort. ‘I only want to talk to you.’

Matthew hesitated, but after a moment he subsided into his seat again, and only the heaviness with which he did so revealed his reluctance to accede to her request. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Talk. I’m listening.’

Olivia dragged her eyes away from his, and made an issue of detaching a slice of apricot from its sticky base. ‘It’s not that easy,’ she said, knowing she should have let him go. Playing games with Matthew Ryan was quite simply playing with fire. She knew the dangers. She knew the risks. And yet, she couldn’t seem to help herself.

‘I guess—I guess I just want us to be friends,’ she said, at last, lifting her eyes from her plate. ‘As you said, ten years is an awfully long time.’

‘No way!’ Matthew lay back in his chair, and regarded her with barely disguised hostility. ‘I said I was prepared to forget the past, and I am. But that doesn’t mean I want us to be friends.’

‘But isn’t that a contradiction in terms?’ Olivia sighed. ‘How can you say you’re prepared to forget something, and then use that something as a reason for rejecting any contact between us?’

‘I’m not interested in discussing it.’ Matthew ran an impatient hand through his hair. ‘Now, do you mind getting on with that, if you really want it?’

‘But—we’re different people,’ protested Olivia, putting down her fork and unconsciously leaning towards him. ‘You’re—married, as you say. And I’m—involved—with somebody. We don’t know anything about one another really. And—and I’d like to know about you. I would. Purely objectively, of course. Wouldn’t that be more—civilised?’

‘Civilised!’ Matthew almost choked on the word, and a wave of colour invaded his face. ‘What was ever civilised about our relationship? You don’t know the meaning of the word. You used me, Olivia. You let me think you cared about me as much as I cared about you. But you didn’t. It was all a game to you. You just wanted the experience of knowing how crazy I was about you! Well, not any more. I learned my lesson well. You won’t ever make a fool of me again.’

Olivia gasped. ‘I didn’t make a fool of you——’

‘Didn’t you?’ Matthew’s expression was bitter, and he came forward in his chair, so that he could thrust his face close to hers. ‘And I suppose having the girl you had told everyone you were going to marry clear off to the States with a guitar player wasn’t a humiliating experience?’

‘It wasn’t like that.’ Olivia shook her head. ‘You know I went as the Kramers’ nanny. Stephen Kramer wasn’t interested in me. He was far too much in love with Denise.’

‘All I know is, one minute we were talking about setting up house together, and the next you’re jumping on a plane to New York. It was pretty mortifying, I can tell you. Not to mention emotionally shattering. My God, you seduced me, Olivia! And you sit there and talk about civility!’

Olivia swallowed. ‘I—seduced you!’ She caught her breath. ‘Have you forgotten, I hadn’t even been to bed with a man, until you—until you made love to me?’

‘I didn’t make love to you, I made love with you,’ Matthew corrected her, in a low impassioned tone. ‘Oh, what’s the use? Love’s another word that doesn’t figure very highly in your vocabulary, isn’t it? Come on. Let’s go. I don’t propose to discuss this any longer.’

Pressing his palms down on the table, he got to his feet, and towered over her. ‘Are you coming?’ he demanded grimly, and Olivia bent her head. She didn’t have a lot of choice, and he knew it.

But, as she followed his stalking path to the door, resentment flared anew. Some of what he had said she could not dispute. But she refused to accept that she had been wholly responsible for the development of their relationship. Dear God, she had been a total innocent when she’d first gone to his rooms at the university. He couldn’t blame her for seducing him. Not when he had taught her all she knew about …

Her anger was instinctive, and uncontrollable. For a few brief moments indignation blinded her, and as they walked through the swing glass doors she caught his arm.

‘I don’t care what you say—you wanted me!’ she declared huskily, gazing up into his narrowed eyes, and with a muffled oath Matthew put out his hand and grasped her nape with strong, unyielding fingers.

‘I know that, dammit,’ he swore, the pressure of his fingers increasing. And then, before she truly realised what he intended to do, he bent his head and brought her lips to his.

Olivia’s senses swam. She couldn’t help it. It had happened so quickly, so unexpectedly, and the sudden heat of his mouth against her parted lips made her dizzy. In consequence, instead of pushing him away, she clutched the front of his shirt, and a button parted to allow her fingers to brush the hair-roughened skin beneath.

‘Christ!’

The revulsion of Matthew’s withdrawal was like a slap in the face, and Olivia opened her eyes to find him striding away in obvious agitation. But it was nothing compared to the agitation she was feeling, and the horror that enveloped her at the thought that, whatever she had expected, nothing had changed. Matthew was still the only man who could turn her bones to water, and that realisation was enough to make her wish she had never left New York.

A man, who looked as if he might be a sales representative, emerged from the building behind her, and paused to give her a concerned look. ‘You feeling OK?’ he asked, his eyes moving approvingly over her slim, attractive figure, and Olivia summoned up the energy to give him a tight smile.

‘Um—yes, thank you,’ she replied, after a moment. ‘Just—taking a breather, that’s all.’

‘Ah.’ The man nodded, and then, glancing over his shoulder, he added, ‘Looks as if he’s getting impatient, hmm?’

‘Who—oh!’ Olivia gasped in dismay, as she saw the Mercedes heading towards the exit. It was moving slowly, but there was no mistaking its intention, and, gesturing helplessly at the man beside her, she started after it.

A few yards from the restaurant, she broke into a run, catching up with estate car fairly easily, but not without soaking herself in perspiration. ‘You—you bastard!’ she exclaimed, jerking open the door and scrambling inside, and Matthew gave her a dark, hooded, look.

‘I can’t help it if you choose to make eyes at every man you see,’ he retorted coldly, accelerating into the filter lane, and Olivia caught her breath at the cutting accusation.

‘I was not making eyes at anyone,’ she exclaimed, struggling to fasten her seatbelt, and Matthew’s mouth twisted.

‘He didn’t get past you, though, did he?’ he taunted. ‘What did you say to him? Did you tell him I was mistreating you?’

‘No!’ Olivia glared at him. ‘As a matter of fact, he spoke to me! He asked if I was all right, that’s all.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes, really.’ Olivia found her own anger was dissipating in the face of Matthew’s obvious resentment. ‘What’s the matter?’ she demanded recklessly. ‘Are you jealous?’

He didn’t answer her. But then, she hadn’t really expected him to. So much for her hopes that she and Matthew might be able to salvage something from the wreck of their relationship, she thought wearily. All they seemed capable of doing was hurting one another. Well, he could hurt her, she appended. More than he knew, or would ever know.

Expelling a breath of air in an upward draught over her hot face, she unbuttoned the neck of her shirt. It seemed unseasonably hot for England, but then, she had just sprinted a hundred yards. It was lucky she was wearing low-heeled shoes. In high heels she’d never have made it.

Or would she? Would Matthew really have driven away and left her? Somehow, she doubted it. But perhaps she was being unduly optimistic. It was obvious he despised her—and what her incautious accusation had made him do.

Realising there was still at least another hour to go to their destination, Olivia decided to try again. After all, they could hardly arrive at her parents’ house not speaking to one another. Surely there was some way she could appeal to his common sense.

Moistening her lips, she said softly, ‘So—tell me about your wife. How long have you been married?’ And, the hardest question of all, ‘Do you have any children?’

She thought he wasn’t going to answer her. The silence between them stretched oppressively, and the heat of Olivia’s body wouldn’t subside. She told herself it was because the sun was shining, and the car was getting warm, but that wasn’t the reason. The truth was, her high temperature was self-induced, brought on by her awareness of the man behind the wheel.

And then, as she was casting about in her mind for something else to say, he said abruptly, ‘You were right, of course. I was jealous.’

It was the last thing she had expected him to say, and Olivia found it difficult to get her breath. ‘Matt——’

‘Oh, don’t worry,’ he interrupted her swiftly, his tone self-denigrating. ‘I don’t intend to do anything about it. It’s just an aberration, and I’ll get over it. I did it before, and I can do it again. I just have to keep reminding myself what a little tramp you are.’

Olivia swallowed the instinctive desire to defend herself. It was probably safer to let Matthew believe what he liked about her. Being friendly with him wasn’t going to work. Not for him; not for her; probably not for anybody.

Pressing her trembling lips together, she held up her head. ‘So,’ she said, adopting a deliberately mild tone, ‘why don’t you tell me about your wife? Who is she? Do I know her?’

Matthew gave her a contemptuous look. ‘Why should I talk to you about my wife?’ he demanded. ‘You don’t have to humour me, Olivia. I won’t embarrass you in front of your parents, if that’s what you’re afraid of.’

Olivia sighed. ‘I’m not afraid of anything,’ she retorted heavily. ‘For heaven’s sake, Matt, I’m just trying to find some common ground between us. Something we can talk about, without ending up at one another’s throats——’

‘And do you imagine talking about my marriage will accomplish that?’ Matthew demanded scathingly. ‘I hardly think so. Still, Helen is nothing like you, I can tell you that.’

‘Helen?’ Olivia frowned. ‘Not—Helen Berrenger?’

‘No. Helen Ryan,’ said Matthew succinctly. ‘We’ve been married nearly ten years.’

‘You mean …’

But Olivia found she couldn’t go on. It was too painful. To think that he must have married Helen only months after they split up! It hurt. Helen Berrenger, she thought disbelievingly. Helen, who had always been more interested in horses than anything else. But eminently suitable, she couldn’t deny that. Her lineage went back almost as far as Matthew’s, and her father, Conrad Berrenger, owned a string of racehorses, as well as a generous portion of the county.

Her silence was noticeable, and eventually Matthew cast a glance in her direction. ‘Well?’ he demanded harshly. ‘What did you expect? An undying commitment?’

‘No!’ Olivia was defensive. ‘Of course not. But—Helen Berrenger!’

‘Why not?’ Matthew’s dark brows ascended. ‘I wasn’t about to make another mistake.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, Helen would never have done what you did,’ he retorted coldly. ‘She understands about things like—honour—and integrity.’

‘And I don’t, is that it?’ Olivia flared, using some of the hurt she was feeling to fuel her defence. ‘Oh, don’t tell me—it’s the old class system, isn’t it? My father is only one of your father’s tenants, so naturally I don’t have the right pedigree——’

‘Don’t you dare say that,’ Matthew overrode her angrily. ‘And don’t think you can assuage your own guilt by turning it on me. You know damn well there was never any question of your not being good enough for my family. Both my parents liked you, you know that. You were always made to feel at home at Rycroft. Hell, they were as shocked as I was when you walked out!’

‘Even so——’

‘Even so nothing. Any contempt they feel for you now is entirely justified. My God, my father actually wanted me to go after you. He offered to pay my fare, so I could try and persuade you to come back.’

Olivia swallowed. ‘But you didn’t.’

‘No, I didn’t.’ Matthew’s lips twisted. ‘I still had some pride. And besides, your grandmother told me your leaving wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment thing. Apparently, you’d been planning it for some time.’

‘That’s not—oh!’

Olivia pressed a hand to her mouth to prevent herself from voicing the instinctive denial. What good would it do now to try and explain herself? How could she explain herself, without betraying the very people she had gone away to protect? It was ironic, really, that Matthew’s father should have wanted him to go after her. But then, he was as ignorant of his responsibilities as Matthew himself.

‘That’s not what?’ Matthew asked now, as the traffic thinned, and he was able to give her more of his attention. ‘The way it was? Well? How was it? You tell me. Tell me how you came to get that job with the Kramers, if you didn’t answer an advertisement?’ He grimaced. ‘An advertisement I knew nothing about.’

Olivia sighed. What was the point? she thought tiredly. She could have explained that her brother, Andrew, had met Stephen Kramer, when they were at school, and that, although Stephen was older, when his family had moved away to London the two of them had kept in touch, but she didn’t. It was probably better if Matthew continued to believe what her grandmother had told him. Although she might feel better if he stopped hating her, what would that really achieve?

‘All right,’ she said, twisting to stare out of the window. ‘I behaved badly. I admit it. But——’ her skin prickled ‘—as you and Helen got together so—quickly, I probably did you a favour.’ She turned her head. ‘Didn’t I?’

A pulse in Matthew’s jaw was beating rapidly, but he didn’t say anything. He just gave her a contemptuous look, and Olivia had to be content with knowing she had averted any chance of a reconciliation.

They left the M3 at Winchester, and after circling the old Roman town took the road to Abbot’s Norton. They didn’t stop again, even though Olivia would have welcomed another drink, and by half-past eleven they were cresting the hill that ran down into Lower Mychett.

It was all achingly familiar now, and Olivia had to press the palms of her hands together to prevent herself from revealing how nervous she was. She had to force herself to sit still, too. The need to pluck the legs of her trousers away from her damp body was almost overwhelming.

Lower Mychett lay in some of the most beautiful countryside in England, and as Matthew drove down the winding road to the village Olivia had plenty of time to absorb the view. The grey spire of the church was still the most obvious landmark, with the River Mychett embracing the churchyard, before flowing under Fox Bridge. The river divided Lower Mychett from its neighbour, Upper Mychett, and the Rycroft estate owned most of both.

Fortunately, as it was almost lunchtime, there were not a lot of people about, although there were children playing outside the post office cum general stores, and several old people were seated on the bench beside the green. Of course, they all recognised Matthew’s car, thought Olivia bitterly, as he raised his hand again, in acknowledgement of someone’s greeting. Everyone knew and respected the Ryans. And not just because they controlled the village’s livelihood.

‘Isn’t that Jenny Mason?’ exclaimed Olivia, suddenly, stung out of her reticence by the sight of a girl she had once gone to school with, wheeling a twin pushchair containing two toddlers across the street. A third child, of perhaps four or five, trailed along behind, and Olivia stared at her disbelievingly, hardly recognising her friend.

‘That’s right,’ said Matthew flatly, apparently realising that they were nearing their destination, and that he would have to appear to be sociable for her parents’ sake. ‘Except that she’s Jenny Innes now. She married your brother’s friend, Tony.’

Olivia shook her head. ‘Jenny married Tony Innes,’ she echoed blankly. ‘But she was the cleverest girl in the class. I thought she was going to university. She always wanted to be a teacher.’

‘Well, we don’t always get what we want, do we?’ observed Matthew, his hands flexing on the steering-wheel. ‘She obviously thought more about Innes than getting a degree.’ He shrugged. ‘Some people do the craziest things when they’re in love.’

Olivia sighed. ‘Nevertheless,’ she said patiently, ‘you know what Tony Innes was like. And, looking at Jenny, it doesn’t appear that he’s changed.’

‘So what?’ Matthew’s mouth compressed. ‘Why should it matter to you?’

‘Because Jenny was my friend,’ retorted Olivia shortly. And now she looks tired, and disillusioned, she added silently, watching the way the other woman turned and, catching the hand of the little boy, who was walking behind her, yanked him up to the pushchair. Jenny looked worn, and tight-lipped, and if she hadn’t known better Olivia would have taken her for a woman of nearly forty.

‘You didn’t keep in touch with her while you’ve been away, I gather,’ Matthew commented drily, and Olivia hunched her shoulders.

‘No.’

‘Not such a good friend, then,’ he remarked, as she turned to look back over her shoulder. ‘I doubt if Jenny wants your sympathy. She’s probably forgotten you ever existed.’

Olivia pressed her lips together for a moment. Then, ‘That’s a rotten thing to say,’ she said at last, as Matthew turned on to the road that led to the Stoners’ farm. ‘We weren’t that close. Not really. I mean, by the time I was seventeen——’

She broke off then, realising what she had been about to say, but Matthew chose to finish the sentence for her.

‘By the time you were seventeen, we didn’t have time for anyone else,’ he said grimly. ‘Did we? I came home every weekend, so that we could be together.’

‘I know.’

Olivia’s response was barely audible, and Matthew uttered a harsh expletive. ‘I could have killed you, you know,’ he muttered, in a bitter voice. ‘I wanted to. I think that’s why I didn’t go after you. I didn’t trust myself. And your family had suffered enough.’

Olivia shivered, but then, seeing the look in his eyes, she frowned. ‘My family?’

‘Well—your mother,’ he said, obviously expecting her to understand. ‘It wouldn’t have been fair to cause her any more——’

‘My mother?’ broke in Olivia blankly. ‘What are you talking about? Why should you single out my mother? Oh—you mean because of her angina——’

‘No. Not her angina,’ said Matthew shortly. He glanced her way, and then gave her a more studied look. ‘But—you must know.’

Olivia was getting anxious. ‘Must know what?’

‘That—that your mother had a heart attack, the day after you left home? Do you mean to say you don’t know she’s been confined to a wheelchair ever since?’

CHAPTER THREE

OLIVIA couldn’t sleep. For over an hour she tossed and turned in the unfamiliar bed, and then, unable to stand the torment of her thoughts any longer, she threw back the sheet.

The silk wrap, which matched the oyster satin nightgown she was wearing, was lying at the foot of the bed, and she put it on. Perhaps if she went downstairs and made herself a warm drink it would help her to relax, she thought. Whatever, she had to escape from the bedroom, and the steady sound of Sara snoring in the other bed.

Evidently her sister harboured no uneasy memories, Olivia reflected wryly, as moonlight illuminated Sara’s sleeping form. But then, her sister was heavily pregnant with her first child, and probably needed her sleep more than most. Like Olivia, she had arrived today, but only from Portsmouth. Married to a naval rating, Sara lived in married quarters there, and she had come home for her grandmother’s funeral.

Opening the door as quietly as she could, Olivia slipped out on to the landing of the old farmhouse. Although the landing was carpeted, the boards squeaked beneath her feet, and she stifled a sigh. She had never been able to sneak downstairs without announcing her coming. It had been quite a feat, when she and Sara were younger, to raid the larder without their parents knowing. But it was years since she had trod these stairs, and she had forgotten which of them to avoid.

Still, she made it to the kitchen without any apparent disturbance and, switching on the light, she went to fill the kettle. An old cat, which might or might not have been the tabby they had had when she went away, miaowed appealingly as she took the milk from the fridge, and, although she was sure it must have had its ration for the day, she filled its dish with some of the creamy liquid. She had forgotten what real milk tasted like, she reflected, licking a drop from her finger. She had become so used to the skimmed variety.

She was pouring a mug of tea when the kitchen door opened, and her hand shook a little as her father came into the room. In his dressing-gown and slippers, he seemed slightly less remote than he had appeared earlier in the day, though his features were unforgiving as they viewed his older daughter.

‘I hope you don’t mind.’ Olivia stumbled into words, feeling distinctly like an interloper. ‘I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d make myself a drink. Would—would you like some?’

‘Not for me.’ Robert Stoner approached the table, and she thought how much older he looked now than when she had left. His hair was almost completely grey, and his lean frame was prematurely stooped. ‘Your mother heard you come downstairs,’ he added, looking down at the teapot with unseeing eyes. ‘She sent me to investigate.’

‘Oh, I see.’ Olivia moistened her lips with her tongue. ‘Um—well, do you think she would like——?’

‘Your mother doesn’t drink tea at night,’ declared her father heavily. ‘It makes her restless.’

‘Oh.’ Olivia bit down on the inside of her lower lip. ‘I’m sorry—sorry if I disturbed you, that is. I—I never thought.’

‘No.’

There was a wealth of meaning in that one word, and Olivia sank down on to one of the wooden kitchen chairs. So much for hoping her father might have forgiven her, she thought wearily. If she had known yesterday what she knew now, would she still have made the trip from New York?

‘I’ll leave you to drink your tea, then.’

Robert Stoner moved back towards the door, and, risking another rebuff, Olivia got to her feet. ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Won’t you at least stay while I drink my tea? We—we haven’t exchanged more than a dozen words since I got here. Don’t you think we could try to make amends? For—for Mum’s sake, at least.’

Her father turned. ‘For your mother’s sake!’ he exclaimed angrily. ‘Since when have you ever cared about your mother?’

‘I’ve always cared about my mother—and you,’ replied Olivia huskily. ‘For heaven’s sake, Dad, what did I do that was so terrible? Nothing more than what thousands of other girls do every day!’

‘You can stand there and say that, when you know what it did to your mother?’ said her father harshly, and Olivia sighed.

‘I didn’t know what—what happened to Mum,’ she protested.

‘But you never bothered to come home to find out, did you?’

‘Oh, Dad, I wanted you to come to New York. When—when you didn’t——’

‘You forgot about us, right?’

‘Wrong.’ Olivia pushed back the weight of her hair with a trembling hand. ‘I thought—oh, I don’t know what I thought. That you hadn’t forgiven me, I suppose.’ She looked at him helplessly. ‘And you haven’t.’

‘What did you expect?’ Robert Stoner’s face was bitter. ‘It hasn’t been easy for us, Livvy. We could have done with another pair of hands around the house, particularly since your grandmother was taken ill. But you didn’t care, did you? You were too busy making a lot of money; getting yourself involved with God knows how many other men! Shaming your mother and me by pretending young Matt wasn’t good enough for you.’

Olivia’s cheeks flamed with colour. ‘It wasn’t like that——’

‘Wasn’t it?’ Her father came back to rest his hands on the table. ‘Let me tell you, that’s exactly what it was like. Do you have any idea what could have happened to us when you turned Matt down?’

Olivia swallowed. ‘What do you mean?’

‘I mean, we’re tenants here, Livvy. This house, the land it stands on, the land that gives us our livelihood, is Ryan property. How would it have been if old Matthew Ryan had decided to throw us out——’

‘He wouldn’t!’

‘He could have.’ Her father’s knuckles were white against the weathered skin of his hands. ‘He had that right, Livvy. And when you threw young Matt over, there was some in the village who thought it was nought but what we deserved.’

Olivia shook her head. ‘He wouldn’t have done it,’ she said again, but there was less conviction in her voice now. What had Matthew said? That he had wanted to kill her? If his father had felt even half the anger his son had felt at what she had done revenge might have sounded very sweet.

‘Anyway, he didn’t,’ she tendered, in a small voice, and her father’s lips curled.

‘No. Because your mother was rushed to hospital, the day after you went away, and the Ryans had compassion for our situation. Young Matt even came and helped Andy, while I spent time at the hospital. My God, I hope you found what you were looking for, because I doubt you’ll ever meet a finer man than Matt Ryan!’

‘Bob! Your voice carries all over the house!’

The door behind him had opened, and now Felicity Stoner wheeled herself into the room. Since her mother’s heart attack, one of the downstairs rooms had been converted into the bedroom, which her parents occupied. Now, Mrs Stoner looked questioningly from her husband to her daughter and back again, and then shook her head reprovingly as she comprehended what was going on.

‘Cissie, what are you doing out of bed?’

Robert Stoner’s voice altered amazingly when he spoke to his wife, but for once she did not respond to its warm solicitude. ‘Never mind what I’m doing, what are you doing?’ she exclaimed impatiently. ‘For heaven’s sake, Bob, the girl’s barely been in the house five minutes, and already you’re encouraging her to leave again.’

‘I am not!’

Her husband was indignant, but Olivia’s mother was equally adamant. ‘Yes, you are,’ she said. ‘I heard at least a part of what you were saying, and I want you to know I don’t agree with you. What was the point of Olivia’s marrying Matt if she wasn’t in love with him? Would you have had them live a miserable life together, just because you were afraid of offending the Ryans?’

It was fair, and it was reasonable, and Olivia just wished she had thought of that explanation. But then, she hadn’t left because she wasn’t in love with Matt; rather because she was.

But, not for the first time, she looked at her mother with wondering eyes. Felicity Stoner seemed so frail and defenceless, and yet, at times, she could assert a remarkable strength of purpose. For instance, never once, in any of the letters she had exchanged with her daughter, had she so much as hinted at the deterioration of her condition. And here she was now, finding a perfectly reasonable explanation for Olivia’s leaving home.

But Olivia didn’t think it was pride, or a misplaced sense of compassion, that caused her mother to defend her. Even though she had never mentioned it to her daughter, she must have known why Olivia had chosen to leave. In spite of her grandmother’s admonition to Olivia to keep what she had learned to herself, there had always been one other person who knew the truth. And that was her mother. Olivia wondered how far she would have let her relationship with Matthew go, before she had had to tell her daughter the truth.

Now, however, it was her father who was forced to defend himself. ‘Things had to be said,’ he muttered, giving his thinning hair a smoothing touch. ‘Livvy can’t come back here and think we’re going to treat her like the prodigal daughter——’

‘I don’t think she expects that,’ said Mrs Stoner drily. She gave her daughter a thoughtful look, and then her pale face broke into a smile. ‘But I am glad to see her, whatever you say. And I’m hoping she won’t run away again, as soon as your mother’s funeral’s over.’

Olivia’s throat was suddenly tight with emotion, and, leaving the table, she approached her mother’s chair. Kneeling down beside her, she felt the years just slip away, and when Felicity put a hand to her cheek she covered it with her own.

‘I’d—I’d like to stay—for a little while,’ she said, as her mother’s thumb wiped an errant tear from her chin. Perry wasn’t going to be too pleased, but Agnes could manage without her. ‘I’m sorry about—about Grandmother, but I’m glad it gave me a reason to come.’

‘You didn’t need one,’ declared her father roughly, but she saw his face had lost much of its cold severity. ‘Now, I suggest we all try and get some sleep. The cows won’t thank me if I’m late for early morning milking.’

The sun was streaming through the kitchen windows when Olivia came downstairs next morning. She had overslept—it was already after ten o’clock—but she felt so much more optimistic today.

The previous day now seemed like a bad dream. Her encounter with Matthew, her tense arrival at the house, and her subsequent confrontation with her father, had all combined to make her wish she hadn’t come. But her mother had changed all that. With a few words she had cleared the air between them, and, although Olivia didn’t delude herself that Robert Stoner was completely won over, at least they might be civil with one another.

The day before, the house had been full of friends and neighbours, all of whom had come to offer their condolences. In one way, it had made it easier for Olivia; she had felt like just another visitor, and certainly her father had made her feel like an outsider. But in another it had made it harder; she had known that sooner or later she would be called to account, and even her sister, Sara, had treated her like a stranger.

Well, she supposed, they were strangers, after all. Sara had only been fourteen when Olivia went away. Now, she was twenty-four, a young married woman, on the verge of having her own family to care for. What did they know about one another really? Only what their mother had conveyed to them, through the medium of her letters.

However, it was her brother, Andrew, who was sitting at the kitchen table, sharing a pot of coffee with Enid Davis, the daily woman, when Olivia entered the room. Apparently Mrs Davis had been employed on a temporary basis, just after her grandmother had been taken ill. But, when it had become apparent that Harriet Stoner was not going to be able to do very much for herself, she had stayed on. Olivia had been introduced to her the day before, and although Mrs Davis was no one’s idea of a rosy-cheeked retainer, she seemed competent enough.

Now, both she and Andrew rose as Olivia came into the room, and she shook her head disarmingly, urging them to stay where they were. ‘Do carry on,’ she said, conscious that her cream silk trousers and matching vest-top were coming under close scrutiny. ‘I’ll join you, if I may. It smells delicious.’

Her brother hesitated for a moment, and then subsided back into his seat, but Mrs Davis moved away from the table. ‘I’ve finished,’ she said, ‘and I’ve got the bedrooms to see to. Oh,’ she paused, ‘unless you’d like me to get you some breakfast, Miss Stoner. We’ve home-cured bacon, and our own eggs, if you’d like some.’

Olivia shook her head, aware that if she had chosen to take the woman up on her offer it wouldn’t have been welcomed. Tall and angular, Enid Davis had assumed an air of possessive authority, and even the way she said ‘Miss Stoner’ seemed to underline her opinion that Olivia was an outsider.

‘I’ll get myself some toast later, if I want it,’ Olivia said now, collecting a cup from the pinewood dresser, and seating herself beside her brother. After all, she thought defensively, this was still her home. But she managed a tight smile anyway. ‘Thank you.’

‘If you say so, Miss Stoner.’ Mrs Davis was evidently not prepared to make any concessions, and Olivia pulled a face as she marched out of the room.

‘You really shouldn’t make fun of Enid,’ Andrew declared, as soon as the woman was out of earshot, and Olivia mentally drew a breath. ‘She’s been good to us, you know, and we all rely on her.’

‘I wasn’t making fun of her,’ Olivia protested quietly. ‘But—well, I do know where our bacon and eggs come from. And all this—Miss Stoner! Doesn’t she know I used to live here?’

Andrew shrugged, and Olivia thought how much more like their father he had become. When she’d gone away, Andrew had been seventeen; still a boy really, and lots of fun to be with. After all, if it hadn’t been for him, she might never have had the opportunity to go to the States. It was when he’d told her that the Kramers were thinking of getting a nanny, to look after their little girl while they were on tour, that the idea of applying for the job had occurred to her. And it had been due to Andrew’s influence that she had got it. She had had little experience, when all was said and done, and none of it professional. But when she got to know him better Stephen had confessed that he had been dreading having to employ some snooty graduate from a nursing academy, and right from the beginning Olivia and Denise Kramer had really got along.

But now, Andrew was much more serious. He was married, too. She had met his wife the day before. But Laura, as she was called, had seemed shy and self-effacing, happiest with their two children, leaving Andrew to make the decisions.

‘I expect she feels a bit uncomfortable with you,’ Andrew volunteered now, and Olivia had to make an effort to remember what they had been talking about.

‘Oh—Mrs Davis,’ she said, pouring herself a cup of black coffee, and inhaling the aroma. ‘I don’t think it’s that at all.’ She smiled ruefully. ‘Perhaps she’s afraid her position is being threatened. The prodigal’s return, and all that jazz.’

Andrew snorted. ‘Don’t be silly,’ he said, pushing his own cup aside. ‘Why should Enid feel threatened by you? You’re hardly likely to want to get your hands dirty, are you? I mean——’ he gave her a scathing appraisal ‘—that’s hardly the outfit for swilling out the barn.’

‘And is that what Mrs Davis does?’ enquired Olivia coolly, realising Andrew was only reflecting his father’s attitude, and her brother coloured.

‘No——’

‘So why should I be expected to do it?’ Olivia regarded him steadily. ‘I’m sorry if you don’t like what I’m wearing, but it’s cool and comfortable, and washes very easily.’

Andrew’s jaw hardened. ‘I didn’t mean that, and you know it.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes.’ He blustered. ‘I mean, this is just a duty visit for you. You’ll go to Gran’s funeral tomorrow, pay your last respects, and then you’ll be off again. Back to New York, with your swish friends, and your swish flat——’

Olivia gasped. ‘How do you know I live in a swish flat, as you call it? You’ve never even seen it.’

‘No. But I’ve heard plenty about it,’ he retorted. ‘Mum reads us all your letters, you know. About what you’ve been doing, and where you’ve been——’

‘Then you must also know that for the first five years I was in New York I lived in a one-bedroom walk-up in Queens,’ declared Olivia hotly. ‘Believe me, there’s nothing swish about Queens. But I worked hard—and I saved—and eventually, eventually, I managed to buy the lease of a small apartment on the lower east side.’

Andrew’s mouth curled. ‘You saved!’

‘Yes, I saved.’

‘And what about Perry Randall? I suppose he didn’t make a contribution.’

Olivia sighed. ‘Perry helped me, yes. But it was my idea to start an agency for British nannies in New York, and it was because of its success that I was able to afford something better. Heavens, Stephen helped me as much as anyone; surely you know that? Perry just thought I was a good investment, that’s all. It—it wasn’t until later that—that——’

‘That you became his mistress,’ finished Andrew disparagingly, and Olivia had to steel herself not to slap his smug face.

‘It wasn’t easy, living alone,’ she said instead. ‘You’ve always had a family to support you. I haven’t.’

‘And whose fault is that?’ demanded Andrew harshly. ‘I was a fool. I should never have let you persuade me to ask Stephen to take you with him. I suppose I never thought you’d really go. And then, when Mum had her heart attack, Dad blamed me.’

‘Did he?’ Olivia expelled her breath unsteadily. That explained a lot. She should have realised their father would need to find a scapegoat. Much as she loved him, she was not blind to his failings.

‘Anyway, it’s nothing to do with me what you do with your life,’ Andrew declared now. ‘If you ask me, Matt was well rid of you. I never thought a sister of mine would get a reputation for sleeping around——’

‘I do not sleep around,’ protested Olivia. ‘And if you’re talking about Perry again, I should tell you that he has asked me to marry him.’

Andrew looked sulky. ‘Are you going to?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know?’

‘No.’ Olivia shook her head. ‘Look, Andy, just because you still imagine that marriage is the be all and end all of everything don’t expect everyone to feel the same. I’m an independent woman; I have my own business. How I choose to spend the rest of my life, and with whom, is no one’s concern but mine.’

Her brother scowled, and got up from the table. ‘If you’d married Matt, and had a couple of kids, you wouldn’t be talking that way. It’s—it’s ungodly!’

‘Oh, really!’ Olivia found it difficult to contain her anger. So far as Andrew, and her father, were concerned, a woman only had one role in life. And if she deviated from that role, she was both selfish and wicked.

‘Anyway, I’ve got to be getting on,’ said Andrew, placing his chair squarely against the table. ‘Some of us have work to do.’

Olivia rode the jab. ‘All right,’ she said, cradling her cup in her hands, and looking up at him over its rim. ‘I may come and join you later. Where is everyone, by the way? Sara’s bed was empty when I woke up. I thought she’d be down here.’

‘I dare say she’s about somewhere,’ replied Andrew reluctantly. ‘I heard Mum say she was going to gather some vegetables, and I think Sara went with her. Why don’t you go and join them? They probably need your help more than I do.’

‘Oh, Andy!’ His almost childish desire to get his own back broke through Olivia’s reserve. Unable to sustain her anger against him, she got up from the table, and ignoring his instinctive withdrawal, she gave him a swift hug. ‘We’ve got to forget the past,’ she told him gently, looking into hazel eyes that were several shades darker than her own. ‘I have missed you—all of you—terribly. But—well, there were reasons why I couldn’t come back before now. Please—believe me.’

Andrew’s sun-browned features were wary. ‘Don’t think you can get round me, the way you got round Dad,’ he exclaimed, but she could sense he was weakening. ‘Oh—all right,’ he muttered. ‘I missed you, too. But that doesn’t mean I forgive you for staying away so long.’

He left, after bestowing a rather awkward kiss on her cheek, and Olivia gave a wistful smile as she seated herself at the table again. Slowly but surely, she told herself firmly. Eventually they would all come round. They were her family, weren’t they? And in spite of everything, they loved her. She had to believe that.

Which was more than could be said about her grandmother, she thought ruefully. It was obvious where Harriet Stoner’s loyalties had lain, and they had not been with Olivia. She had been a potent reason to stay away from Lower Mychett. So long as Harriet Stoner was alive, Olivia would always have felt the outsider, the cuckoo in the nest.

Not that she could totally blame her grandmother for that, Olivia admitted. And, in all fairness, she had not been the only reason Olivia had stayed away. Her dread of seeing Matthew again, of rekindling all the pain and anguish she had felt at leaving, had provided a far more powerful deterrent. And she had been right to take those precautions, she conceded uneasily. Even now, the chemistry was still active, and avoidance seemed the only cure.

CHAPTER FOUR

A SHADOW darkened the open doorway, and Olivia, who had been lost in thought, looked up almost guiltily. She was so used to being active. The agency she had founded, and which she now ran with the help of an American woman, Agnes Reina, demanded a lot of her energy, and it was rare that she found time to simply sit and meditate. Consequently, there was a look almost of culpability in her eyes when she turned her head, and the man in the doorway raised his eyebrows enquiringly.

‘All alone?’ he asked, propping his shoulder against the jamb, and surveying her intently. ‘What’s the matter? Has someone been upsetting you?’

Olivia’s nerves jangled. In tight jeans and a cotton shirt, that was open part-way down his chest, Matthew looked even more attractive today than he had done yesterday. His dark hair was ruffled, as if he had used his fingers instead of a comb, and his cool grey eyes were narrowed and disturbing.

‘No more than usual,’ Olivia answered at last, having taken a few moments to get her reactions to him under control. It wouldn’t do to let him see how he unsettled her. And she was realising, belatedly, that by agreeing to stay on after her grandmother’s funeral she was committing herself to more than just a family reconciliation.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked now, pushing himself away from the door, and stepping into the room. ‘What have they been saying? Talk to me. I want to know.’

Olivia looked away from his demanding gaze. ‘Why should you care?’ she countered, picking up her coffee-cup again, only to find it was empty. Damn, she thought impatiently, pushing the cup aside. She would have welcomed having something to do with her hands. But she wasn’t going to attempt to refill it. Not with Matthew watching her, and her nerves governing her movements.

‘I don’t know—but I do,’ Matthew responded evenly, swinging out a chair from the table, straddling it, and folding his arms along the back. ‘That’s why I came over, actually. I thought I’d better come and see if you needed any support.’

‘No. No support needed,’ said Olivia jerkily, and, unable to sit still under his calm appraisal, she got to her feet. Then, picking up the pot of coffee, she carried it busily to the sink, taking off the lid and pouring its contents down the drain.

She did it carelessly, recklessly, and the hot coffee splashed up over her hands, causing her to catch her breath. ‘Damn,’ she said audibly this time, and Matthew swung himself off the chair, and came to see what she had done.

‘It’s nothing,’ she said, flustered by his nearness, and by the way her skin prickled every time she looked at him. She thrust her hands behind her back. ‘Go and sit down. I’ll make some more coffee. I’m sure that’s what my mother would expect me to do.’

‘There was nothing wrong with that coffee,’ commented Matthew drily, putting his hand behind her, and drawing her resisting fingers towards him. ‘Here,’ he said, his lips compressing when he saw the red marks that marred her pale skin. Turning on the cold tap, he forced her hand under its cooling spray and she immediately felt its relief. ‘Now, do you want to tell me what’s going on?’

‘Nothing’s going on,’ protested Olivia, the pressure of his hard fingers on her wrist causing a burning sensation to run up her arm. ‘Honestly, everyone’s been very—nice.’

‘Nice?’

Matthew looked down at her with darkening eyes, and Olivia’s breathing got shallower and shallower. ‘Yes—nice,’ she repeated, dragging her eyes away, and concentrating on the stream of water spilling over her hand. ‘I’m not saying we haven’t had our moments——’

‘I’ll bet.’ Matthew pulled her hand towards him, and after discovering that the marks were much less angry he turned off the tap. But he didn’t release her, and Olivia prayed no one would come in and find them like this. ‘I know what your old man can be like,’ he continued, tearing off a sheet of kitchen towel and dabbing her hand dry. ‘Remember how he used to chivvy me about driving too fast when you were in the car?’

‘Mmm.’

Olivia forced a polite smile, and finally succeeded in pulling her hand away. But when she moved across the room, on the pretext of collecting the dirty cups from the table, Matthew came after her.

‘Do you mind?’ she said, when she turned with the cups in her hands, and found him right behind her. ‘I want to wash these up.’

Matthew hesitated, and for one awful moment she thought he was going to touch her again. And she didn’t know how she would react if he did. Drop the cups probably, she thought unsteadily, and that would be the least of her worries.

But the problem didn’t arise. Matthew’s hesitation was only momentary. Then, he inclined his head and stepped aside, saying, as he did so, ‘What are you going to do today?’

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