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.

Snowfire
Anne Mather

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Title Page

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

Copyright

PROLOGUE

HE WAS standing in the dining-room, by the window, gazing out at the rain that had been falling solidly ever since they left the church. Olivia guessed he must be thinking it was an omen. After weeks and weeks of dry weather, it had to be the day of the funeral that it changed.

She halted in the doorway, realising he was not yet aware of her presence, and dreading the moment when she would have to say goodbye. If only she were older, she thought. If only Sally had considered before blithely making Philip her son’s guardian. But who would have expected Sally and Keith to die before either of them was thirty-five? And Philip was Sally’s brother. He was obviously the natural choice.

Even so …

Olivia caught her lower lip between her teeth as she stared at the boy’s drooping figure. Today had been more of a strain for him than for anyone, and his bent head and hunched shoulders spoke of a misery he could no longer hide. He had done well, she thought, handling himself through the tortuous rites of the burial with a dignity and self-possession enviable in a much older man. But now, believing himself unobserved, he had given way to his real feelings, and Olivia’s heart went out to him as she recognised his grief.

’Conor.’

His name was barely audible across the silent room, but he heard her. He turned then, dashing his hand over his face as he did so, struggling to resume the defensive posture that had kept his tears at bay.

’Oh—hi, Aunt ‘Livia,’ he said, forcing a smile that was determinedly bright. ‘I was just watching the rain. The garden’s waterlogged. Mum’s—–’ He broke off abruptly as the mention of his mother’s name disconcerted him, and then continued with an obvious effort, ‘Mum’s dahlias are really taking a hammering.’

’Are they?’

Olivia came to stand beside him, noticing almost inconsequentially that he had grown another couple of inches in the last twelve months. He was almost as tall as she was now, and at five feet seven inches—nine in her heels—she was considered above average height.

But now she feigned an interest in the flowers Sally had planted in the borders. The rain-soaked garden showed little of the colour it had flaunted earlier in the summer. The last time Olivia was here they had all had tea on the lawn …

She glanced at the boy beside her, more concerned about him than about his mother’s flowers. What was he really thinking? she wondered. Was he wishing he had gone with his parents on that fated day trip to Paris? He looked so pale and drawn, his sandy hair, which always seemed to need cutting, straggling over the collar of his dark suit.

If only they had made her his guardian, she thought helplessly. At fifteen, a boy needed to know who he was; he needed roots. Everything he knew and loved was here in Paget. He knew no one in the United States. He hadn’t even been to Florida for a holiday.

’Do I have to go?’

The low, impassioned words were uncannily like an echo of her own thoughts, and Olivia wondered if he could read her mind. Certainly her association with the Brennans had always been a close one, and only in the last couple of years, since she had gone to live and work in London, had their friendship suffered because of the separation.

Of course, it was his mother with whom Olivia had had the most in common, she acknowledged. She had been ten when Keith and Sally Brennan had moved into the big old house next to her grandmother’s cottage. And, from the beginning, she had been a welcome visitor there. Naturally the fact that the Brennans had also had a baby son had been a great attraction, but as Olivia grew older it was Sally who had shared all the hopes and fears of her teenage years.

Olivia had hardly known her own parents. They had been involved in a car accident when she was little more than a baby herself, and although her mother had lingered on in the hospital for several weeks after the crash there had never been any real hope of her recovering consciousness. In consequence, Olivia’s paternal grandmother had taken her to live with her and, although Mrs Holland had done her best, she had been too used to living alone to have much patience with a lively toddler.

That was why Olivia felt such an enormous sense of empathy with Conor now. She had known him since he was two years old. She had watched him grow from a mischievous schoolboy into a confident teenager. She had combed his hair and scrubbed his knees, and sometimes told him off. And lately she had teased him about his girlfriends: the procession of budding Madonnas who hung around outside his gate. He was the closest thing to a nephew she was ever likely to have, and she was going to miss him badly.

’I—think so,’ she answered now, finding it difficult to say the words with his anxious eyes upon her. She struggled to sound optimistic. ‘Look at it this way—it’ll be a fresh start. And—where your Uncle Philip lives sounds really beautiful. Imagine being able to swim all the year round!’

’I don’t want to go.’ Conor’s response was desperate. ‘I want to stay here. Why can’t I stay here? This house is mine now, isn’t it?’

’Well, yes, but—–’

’There you are, then.’

’Conor, you can’t stay here alone!’ It wasn’t as if her grandmother still lived next door. Last year Mrs Holland had had a stroke, and she had been moved into a retirement home. The cottage had been sold, and Sally had said they hardly knew the new occupants.

’Why can’t I?’ he demanded now. ‘I’ve stayed here on my own before.’

’Not for weeks you haven’t,’ replied Olivia flatly, finding it impossible to sustain his cornered gaze. ‘Conor, you’re only fifteen—–’

’Sixteen,’ he interrupted her swiftly. ‘I’ll be sixteen in three months.’

’No, Conor.’

’Then why can’t I come and live with you?’ he demanded, seizing on the idea. ‘I wouldn’t get in your way, honestly. I could get a job—–’

’Conor …’ She sighed. ‘Conor, you have to finish your education. It’s what your parents would have wanted.’

’In Florida!’ His lips twisted.

’Yes.’ Olivia knew she had to be firm.

Conor sniffed. ‘I see.’

’Oh, don’t say it like that.’ She couldn’t bear his defeated stare. ‘If there was anything I could do—–’

’—you’d do it. I know.’ But Conor sounded horribly cynical. ‘I’m sorry. I should have realised. You’re going to be a hotshot lady lawyer! The last thing you need is a raw kid hanging around your apartment, cramping your style, when you bring clients home—–’

’Conor, I don’t have an apartment, and you know it,’ she protested weakly. ‘I have a room in a house that I share with three other women. It’s just a bed-sit, really. And there’s no way you could live there.’

’Well, why can’t you get something bigger? Something we could share? I’d help with the rent—–’

’No, Conor.’ Olivia squashed that idea once and for all. ‘I’m not your guardian,’ she explained gently. ‘Your Uncle Philip is. Even … even if it were possible—which it’s not,’ she put in hurriedly, ‘he wouldn’t allow you to stay with me.’

’And aren’t you glad?’ Conor’s expression changed to one of bitterness. He swung away from her, thrusting aggressive hands into his trouser pockets, rounding his shoulders against an unforgiving fate. ‘I bet you can’t wait to get in your car and drive away from all this, can you?’ he exclaimed scornfully. ‘It’s not your problem, so why get involved? I don’t know what you came here for. You can’t help, so why didn’t you stay away?’

’Oh, Conor!’

Olivia’s composure broke at last, and, as if her grief was all that was needed to drive a wedge through his crumbling defiance, he turned back to her. For a few tense moments he just stared at her, and she saw the glitter of tears on lashes several shades darker than his hair. Then, with a muffled groan, he flung himself into her arms.

He was shaking. She could feel it. And his thin, boyish frame seemed even bonier than she remembered. One of the neighbours had told her he hadn’t eaten a thing since he had learned that the plane carrying his mother and father to Paris had exploded over the Channel. He had borne it all bravely, but inside it was eating him up.

’I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he muttered at last, dragging himself away from her. He rubbed the back of his hand across his cheek, looking at her rather shamefacedly. ‘I’ve wet the collar of your blouse.’

’It doesn’t matter.’ Olivia wished the dampness she could feel against her neck was all she had to worry about. ‘I just wish there was something I could do. Your mother was my best friend. I don’t want to let you down.’

Conor’s lashes drooped to veil eyes that were presently a watery shade of green. He had long lashes for a boy, and they did a successful job of hiding his feelings. Dear God, why had this had to happen? The Brennans had been such a close family. They had come to live in Paget when Keith, who was a physiotherapist, got an appointment at the hospital in nearby Dymchurch. Sally, meanwhile, had been content doing social work and looking after her garden, and Conor had been the centre of their universe …

’What time are you leaving?’ he enquired abruptly, and she guessed what it must have cost him to ask that question. But he knew, as well as she did, that it would take her some time to drive back to London. And now that the nights were drawing in again …

’Um—pretty soon,’ Olivia answered now, putting out her hand to brush a thread of lint from his jacket, and then withdrawing it again as he flinched away from her touch. She linked her hands together instead in an effort to control her own anguish, and glanced behind her. ‘I—you will write and let me know your address, won’t you? You know where I live, and I’m looking forward to hearing all about Port Douglas.’

Conor shrugged. ‘If you like.’

There was a flatness to his tone now, an indifference, and inwardly Olivia groaned. It was foolish, she knew, but the thought of leaving him, of not seeing him again for God knew how long, was tearing her apart, and she realised she had to get away before she gave in and said something she would regret. He couldn’t stay with her. There was no way she could support herself and a boy of his age. And it was no use toying with the idea of abandoning her legal training, getting a job down here, and offering to live with him, in this house, as a kind of guardian-cum-housekeeper. Philip Cox would never allow it. And, in any case, the house was probably going to be sold to pay for Conor’s education.

Biting her lip, she took a steadying breath. ‘So,’ she said, striving for control, ‘you’re going to be all right?’

Conor’s mouth twisted. ‘Of course.’

Olivia hesitated. ‘You do—understand?’

Conor shrugged. ‘Does it matter?’

’Of course it matters.’ Just for a moment Olivia lost her hard-won detachment, and a little of her own frustration showed in her voice. ‘I want you to be happy, Conor. And you will be. Believe me!’

CHAPTER ONE

THE small hotel, part of a row of wood-faced Tudor-type dwellings, many of which owed their origins to the days when the Cinque Ports provided ships to fight the Spanish Armada, stood at the end of the quay. Of course, the old buildings had been much renovated and repaired since Elizabethan times, but the Ship Inn’s low doorways and timbered ceilings were too attractive to tourists to be replaced, however inconvenient they might be.

Not that Paget attracted as many visitors as Romney, or Hythe, or Dymchurch. It was too small, for one thing, and, for another, the salt-marshes were not suitable for children to play on. But, as a fishing village that hadn’t altered drastically since the sixteenth century, it was one of a kind, and many visitors, Americans particularly, came to take photographs of its ancient buildings and cobbled streets.

But at this time of the year there were few tourists stalwart enough to brave the east wind that came in over the marshes. The first weeks of February had been wild and blustery, and only that morning there had been a sprinkling of snow over the fishing boats lying idle in their stocks. Storm warnings had been out all along the coast, and the few fishermen willing to venture out into the choppy waters had been driven back again by the gales.

Standing at her bedroom window, her head stooped to accommodate the low lintel, Olivia felt no sense of regret at the inclement weather. On the contrary, it suited her very well that she did not have to put on a sociable face when she went down to the tiny dining-room for breakfast. She hadn’t come to Paget for familiarity or company. She didn’t want to talk to anybody, beyond the common courtesies politeness demanded. Because he hadn’t recognised her name, the landlord had assumed she was a stranger here, and it had suited her to foster that belief. As far as Tom Drake was concerned, she was one of ‘them crazy Londoners’, she was sure. Who else would choose to come to Paget while winter still gripped it in its icy grasp? Who else would book a room for an unspecified period when it was obvious from her appearance that she would have benefited from a spell in the sun?

Of course, the fact that she looked thin and pale and tended to drag her left leg might have given the staff other ideas, Olivia acknowledged. After all, this was hardly the sort of place to come for a rest cure. Perhaps they thought she had some awful terminal illness and had come to Paget to die. It was impossible to speculate what they might think, but in the week that had elapsed since she came here they had respected her privacy and left her alone.

And Olivia was grateful. In fact, for the first time in more than a year she actually felt as if she was beginning to relax. Her leg was still painful, particularly if she walked further than the doctors had recommended. But her appetite was improving a little, and she didn’t always need barbiturates to sleep.

Her lips curled slightly as she accorded that thread of optimism the contempt it deserved. Imagine needing drugs to enjoy a night’s rest, she thought bitterly. She was thirty-four, and she felt at least twenty years older!

But her low state of fitness was not entirely unwarranted, she defended herself. The shock of learning that Stephen had been unfaithful had barely been blunted when the accident happened, and weeks spent in a hospital bed had served to exacerbate her sense of betrayal. If she’d been able to carry on with her work, lose herself in its legal intricacies, she might have weathered the storm fairly well. It wasn’t as if her marriage to Stephen had been ideal from the outset. It hadn’t, and it had taken her only a short time to acknowledge that she had allowed her biological clock to induce her into a situation that was primarily the result of pressure. Pressure from her friends, pressure from her peers, but also pressure within herself at the knowledge that she was twenty-nine, single, and facing a lonely future. In consequence, she had allowed herself to be persuaded that any marriage was better than no marriage at all, and it wasn’t until the deed was done that she had realised how wrong she was.

She couldn’t altogether blame Stephen. Like herself, he had been approaching an early middle age without a permanent companion, and, if some of his habits had been a little annoying, and his lovemaking less than earth-moving, she had determined to make the best of it. No doubt there were things she did that annoyed him, too, and if her grandmother had taught her anything, it was that life was seldom the way one wanted it to be.

But, predictably enough, she supposed, it was Stephen who tired of the marriage first. And, equally predictably, she was the last to find out. Perhaps if her job had not been so demanding, if she had not spent so many evenings visiting clients or preparing briefs, she would have noticed sooner what was going on. But Stephen’s job in wholesaling meant that he was often away overnight, and it wasn’t until a well-meaning friend had asked if she had enjoyed her mid-week break in Bath that she had been curious enough to examine their credit-card statements more closely. What she had found was that Stephen often occupied a double room on his nights away, and that, while this was not so incriminating in itself, another receipt, showing dinner for two at a bistro in Brighton, was. Olivia knew that Stephen had purportedly gone to Brighton to attend a delegates’ conference, and the presentation dinner that followed it had supposedly been a dead bore.

When she confronted him with her suspicions, he had tried to deny it. For all the inadequacies of their marriage, he had still wanted to maintain the status quo. It had suited him to have a wife who wouldn’t divorce him hovering in the background. It gave him an excuse not to get too involved, and he’d enjoyed the thrill of forbidden fruit.

For Olivia, however, the idea of continuing such an alliance was abhorrent to her. She wanted out. She had learned her lesson, and she wanted her freedom, and Stephen’s pleas to give him another chance only filled her with disgust.

Nevertheless, although she moved out of the apartment they had shared in Kensington, Stephen had continued to hound her. Even though she employed a solicitor in another partnership to represent her, Stephen insisted he would fight the petition in court. And Olivia knew, better than anyone, how messy such divorces could be. And how ironic that she should be caught in such a situation which could only be damaging to her career.

In the years since she had become an articled solicitor she had gained a small reputation for competent representation. She still worked for the large partnership with whom she had trained, but her obvious abilities had not gone unnoticed. There was talk of a junior partnership, if she wanted it, or the possibility of branching out on her own. Neither option would benefit from adverse publicity of any kind, and Olivia knew Stephen would do anything to embarrass her. He was bitter and resentful, and, incredibly, he blamed her for their estrangement. He was not going to let her go easily, and his threats were a constant headache.

Which was probably why the accident had happened, she acknowledged now, even though she had never blamed Stephen for any of it. She had already been sleeping badly, and the extra hours at work she had been putting in, in an effort to keep other thoughts at bay, had taken their toll. She shouldn’t have been driving. She should have taken a taxi to the station, and caught a train to Basingstoke. But she hadn’t. She had driven—straight into one of the concrete pillars supporting a bridge over the M3. Or at least, that was what they had told her. She didn’t remember anything after leaving the office.

Of course, Stephen had been sorry then. He had come to see her in the hospital, when she was still strung up to so many machines that she must have looked like a marionette. She could have her divorce now, he’d said. He wouldn’t oppose it. He’d contact her solicitor straight away, and get the thing in motion. It wasn’t until later that she’d wondered at his speed.

By then, by the time she was lucid enough to understand that she was lucky to be alive, she had had other problems to contend with. Not least the news that, although her skull was evidently thicker than it had a right to be, and her wounds would heal, and her broken limbs would mend, her left leg had suffered multiple fractures, and it was unlikely she would ever run again.

She remembered she’d tried to joke about not being able to run before, but, as time went on, she realised what they had been trying to tell her. Her left leg had been crushed, badly crushed, and, although all the skills of modern surgery had been brought to bear, the tendons had been damaged quite beyond repair.

Physiotherapy had helped a lot. That and her determination to walk again. When she first left the hospital she had had to get around on crutches, and for weeks she had struggled to and from the clinic in an ambulance. But gradually she had been able to put the crutches aside and manage with a walking-stick, even taking up her job again, although that had been rather harder. Her leg ached if she had to stand for any length of time, and the stress of both the accident and the divorce had taken a toll on her defences. Eventually, she had had to accept that if she wasn’t careful she was going to have a complete nervous breakdown, and the senior partner at Hallidays had suggested she take a holiday.

Olivia knew he had had something different in mind from the east coast of southern England. The West Indies, perhaps, or South America. Somewhere where the sun was hot and life was lived at a slower pace. Somewhere she could relax, and restore the tattered remnants of her existence.

Of course, her colleagues didn’t know the whole story. They had assumed that Stephen’s defection had precipitated this crisis. But the truth was that the weeks of inactivity had given Olivia time to re-evaluate her life, and, despite a sense of frustration at her weakness, she was no longer sure of what she wanted.

For so long her career had been the yardstick by which she had measured her success. She had wanted to become a lawyer, and she had succeeded. She had wanted to be offered a partnership, and that, too, was within her grasp. So why did it all seem so empty, somehow? What had happened to the ambition that had sustained her for so long?

She had tried to tell herself that it was the old biological thing again. That, however pointless her marriage to Stephen had become, it had still been her best chance to fulfil herself as a woman. If she had had a baby, would things have been different? They had never taken any precautions, but it had evidently been not to be. Maybe she couldn’t have children. Maybe that was why she felt so empty now. Or was it, as Conor had said once, that she had got hard in her old age? But then, he had wanted to hurt her, and undoubtedly he had succeeded.

Conor …

Leaving the window, Olivia crossed to the dressing-table and seated herself on the padded stool in front of the mirror. As she examined her pale features without pleasure, she wondered where he was, and what he was doing now. It must be—what?—nine years since she’d seen him. In fact she had only seen him that one time since he had gone to live in the United States.

She grimaced. It was not a visit she remembered with any affection. At seventeen and a half, Conor had changed totally from the sensitive boy she had known. He had been loud, and cocky, and objectionable, full of his own importance and brimming with conceit. He had been in London with a group of students from the college he attended in Port Douglas, and he had arrived at the house she still shared one night, already the worse for drink.

To Olivia, who was used to the Conor she knew from the letters he had occasionally sent her, he was almost a stranger, bragging about the life he led back in Florida, impressing her with the parties he went to, the car he drove. He was arrogant and brash, decrying the room she had furnished with such care, and disparaging her lifestyle compared to his. He had said she was a fool to spend all her time working, that he was glad he’d got out of England when he had. And when Olivia had defended herself by taking a stiff-necked stance, he had accused her of getting hard in her old age.

Oh, yes. Olivia traced the curve of one eyebrow with a rueful finger. That visit had not been repeated. Indeed, it had taken her quite some time to get over it, and when there were no more letters she wasn’t really surprised. Who’d have thought it? she mused. That two years should have made such a difference. But then, he had been young, she conceded, as she had done numerous times before. Perhaps it had been his way of dealing with the situation. There was no doubt that losing both his parents had been quite a blow.

Still, in spite of the lapse in communication, she did continue to think about him sometimes. Particularly times like this, when she was feeling rather low. Which was probably why she had chosen to come to Paget, even though, since her grandmother’s death five years ago, she had no connection with the place. She hadn’t wanted to go anywhere hot and noisy. She supposed what she’d really wanted to do was return to her roots.

A final grimace at her appearance, and she was ready to go downstairs. The trouble with very dark hair, particularly the unruly variety, was that it accentuated any trace of pallor in her face, she thought ruefully. Since the accident it had grown so long that she was obliged to confine it in a knot at her nape, and even then it contrived to escape every hairpin. She looked like a witch, she decided, all wild hair and black-ringed eyes. It was a reminder—if any reminder was needed—of why she had always kept her hair short in the past.

She left the walking-stick propped by the door. Slowly but surely, she was managing to do without it for a little longer every day. Eventually, she told herself, only the slight dragging of her foot and the ugly scars that would never completely disappear would be all that remained of her trauma. And in three weeks she’d possess her decree absolute, and Stephen would no longer play any part in her future.

Poor Stephen, she thought, with an unwarranted sense of pity. He hadn’t been able to wait to dissociate himself from any responsibility for what had happened to her. He had got quite a shock when he saw her in the hospital. He must have been afraid he was going to be tethered to an invalid for the rest of his life.

Men! She shook her head regretfully as she closed her door behind her. Her experience of the opposite sex was that a woman should not rely on them. Olivia determined that, whatever she decided to do, she would not be taken in again. She was free—or she would be in three weeks—over twenty-one, and independent. What did she need a man for?

Since she was the only guest staying at the inn right now, Mrs Drake always made a fuss of her after she’d negotiated the narrow, twisting stairs that led down to the lower floor. Seating her at the much-coveted table in the leaded window embrasure, the publican’s plump wife rattled through a series of questions about how she was, whether she’d slept well, had she everything she needed, and, finally, what did she fancy for breakfast this morning?

As she only ever had coffee and toast, that question was really academic, but, as always, Olivia answered her, adding a polite enquiry as to her and Mr Drake’s health.

’Oh, we’re in the pink, as they say, Mrs Perry,’ Mrs Drake assured her, as she usually did. ‘But it’s a raw morning, that it is. Tom thinks we’ll have more snow before nightfall.’

’Do you think so?’ Olivia glanced out at the chilly scene beyond the windows. There were few people about, and those who were had their collars up against the wind as they hurried along the flagged quayside.

’So he says,’ agreed Mrs Drake, raising her pencilled eyebrows. ‘Now, you’re sure you wouldn’t like a bit of bacon and an egg? A bit of dry toast doesn’t seem to have much sustenance in it. Not at this time of the year.’

Her speculative gaze swept critically over her guest’s slim figure, and, in spite of the bulkiness of her sweater, Olivia knew she had been assessed and found wanting. Mrs Drake wouldn’t say so, of course. Olivia’s attitude had not encouraged familiarity. Nevertheless, she was aware that they were curious about her. But for once her disability had provided a useful barrier.

’Just toast, please,’ she insisted now, accompanying her refusal with a smile. And Mrs Drake stifled her opposition, taking her dismissal with good heart.

The daily newspaper Olivia had reluctantly ordered when she checked in was lying beside her plate, and although she wasn’t much concerned with the politics that had made the headlines she felt obliged to pick it up. There was no television in her room here, even though Mr Drake had said he could arrange for one if she wanted it, and, despite the fact that she had politely declined his offer, it did seem rather childish to cut herself off completely.

She flicked idly through the inner pages, scanning the gossip columns with assumed interest. But the activities of the latest hot property in the pop world seemed aimless, and her eyes drifted back to the Drakes’ cat, washing its paws on a pile of nets across the way.

A man strode past the window, hands thrust into the pockets of a leather jacket, his collar tipped against the weather. He was a fairly tall man, solidly, though not stockily built, with fairish hair and skin that was browner that it should have been in this chilly part of the world.

The landlord emerged from the inn as he was walking past, and the two exchanged the time of day. It was a brief encounter, not least because Tom Drake was in his shirt-sleeves, and Olivia guessed the state of the weather had been mentioned. But, as the man lifted a hand to rake back his sandy hair before continuing on his way, she was struck by his resemblance to Conor Brennan. It was a fleeting glimpse, of course, and she guessed there must be dozens of men around who might be said to resemble the youth she remembered. Even so, it was an amazing coincidence, coming as it had on the heels of the thoughts she had had earlier.

Which was probably why she had imagined the resemblance, she conceded to herself now, as Mrs Drake returned with her toast and coffee. She was tempted to ask the woman who Mr Drake had been speaking to, but to do that would invite exactly the kind of questions she was hoping to avoid. It would mean admitting some connection with the village, for why else would she be interested in one of its inhabitants unless there was some reason why she might know him?

In any case, she didn’t know the man. It had just been a momentary aberration. If Conor had come back to this country for any reason, surely he would at least have tried to get in touch with her? He might not have her address, but he still knew where she worked.

Her appetite had been negligible since the accident, and this morning was no exception. But the pot of coffee was very welcome, and she managed to swallow half a slice of toast. Then, leaving the warm fire that was burning in the dining-room, she went back up to her room. She had decided to go for a walk. So long as she wrapped up warmly, she would enjoy the exercise.

But today she didn’t walk around the harbour and out on to the breakwater as she usually did. Nor did she venture across the salt marshes, which, even in winter, provided a veritable haven for birds. Instead, she decided to test her leg by walking inland, up Paget’s cobbled streets to where houses clustered on the hillside. It was further than she had ventured before, but it was time she took a look at her grandmother’s old cottage, she told herself. She refused to admit what her real intentions were. But anyway, what was wrong with being curious about who was living in the Brennans’ house these days? she argued. It was years since it had been sold to pay for Conor’s education.

Her thigh was aching by the time she reached Gull Rise. And the irregular row of Victorian dwellings looked much the same as she remembered them. They were mostly cottages—some terraced, like her grandmother’s, and others independently spaced. The house the Brennans used to occupy was bigger than the rest, but Olivia remembered Sally saying they had got it fairly cheaply, because it had needed so much doing to it. The young couple had spent their first few years at Gull Rise renovating the place, and by the time Conor was in his teens it was a home to be proud of.

It still was, Olivia saw poignantly, her eyes flickering over her old home and settling on the house next door. She felt an unfamiliar ache in her throat. Someone had cared enough about it to keep the exterior bright and shining, she noticed. The woodwork was newly painted, and the drive was clear of weeds.

She halted a few yards from the house, on the opposite side of the road. With the collar of her cashmere coat pulled high about her ears, and her gloved hand shielding her face, she didn’t think anyone would recognise her. Besides, most of her grandmother’s old neighbours had either died or moved away, and the gauntness of her own features would deceive any but her closest friends.

There was a car parked in the drive, she saw—a small Peugeot, with current licence plates. And, even as she watched, a young woman came out of the house and unlocked the car, before pausing, as if someone had attracted her attention. Her blonde head tipped expectantly towards the door of the house, which she had left ajar, and, leaving her keys in the car, she sauntered back.

Her actions spurred Olivia to life. For heaven’s sake, she chivvied herself irritably, was she reduced to spying on other people for entertainment? The house was lived in, and evidently by someone who cared. She had satisfied her curiosity, and that was all she needed to know.

But, as she turned away, a man appeared in the doorway across the street. A tall man, with light hair, wearing a black leather jacket. Seen face on, his resemblance to Conor was even more striking, and with a sense of alarm she realised it was him.

But, it couldn’t be, her brain insisted, refusing to accept the evidence of her eyes. Conor didn’t live in England, he lived in America. There was no way he could have bought this house and settled down here. It was too much of a coincidence. Too incredible to be true.

And yet she lingered, aware that her injured leg was cramping beneath her. Dear God, how was she going to find the strength to walk back to the harbour? she fretted. If she didn’t move soon, she was going to collapse on the spot.

But the truth was that the sense of panic she was feeling was as much psychological as physical. Whoever the man was—and the young woman was kissing him now, running a possessive hand down his cheek, and saying something that brought a grin to his lean face—he wouldn’t appreciate the thought that she had been prying into his affairs. If it was Conor, he evidently had no need of her assistance.

But it hurt that he should come back to England without even letting her know. She had been his surrogate aunt, for heaven’s sake. His parents had been her close friends. And she had known Conor since he was two years old! That should have meant something to the boy he had been.

Of course, he wasn’t a boy any more, she acknowledged ruefully. He was a man, and an extremely attractive one at that. Even from a distance, she could see he looked bigger and stronger than his father had ever been. And the young woman, with her silky blonde hair and long, unscarred legs, evidently thought so, too.

Olivia’s lips tightened. Who was she? Who were they? If it was Conor, was this his wife? And why should it mean so much to her? He obviously didn’t desire her approval.

Sucking in her breath as a sharp, stabbing pain shot up her thigh, she made a determined effort to extinguish her curiosity. It was nothing to do with her, she told herself grimly, endeavouring to put one foot in front of the other. She could look in the phone book when she got back to the inn. In fact, she wished she had just done that in the first place. Then she could have made up her mind to ring, or not to ring, without any knowledge of his status.

Tears sprang to her eyes as the wind swept a sudden gust of sleet into her face. Oh, great, she thought bitterly, as the frozen flakes stung her cheeks. This was all she needed: soaking to the skin!

Afterwards, she was never sure how it happened—whether her leg had simply given out on her, or her foot had slipped on a thread of ice. But, whatever the cause, she found herself falling, hitting the pavement heavily, and scraping her gloved palms.

It was so humiliating. She had never considered herself a particularly graceful creature, but she had never been as clumsy as she was now. Landing on her bottom, she felt a jarring sensation all up her spine, but she knew she should be grateful she hadn’t fallen on her leg.

Blinking back the hot tears that never seemed far away these days, she was making an ungainly effort to get to her feet when strong hands gripped her arms. ‘Steady,’ said a husky male voice, holding her where she was without much effort. ‘Take it easy, ma’am. You’ve had quite a shock.’

CHAPTER TWO

HE WAS beside her, not yet able to see her face, and Olivia wished the ground would just open up and swallow her. If she had had any doubts about his identity before, the soft southern drawl had dispelled them. There couldn’t be another man who looked like Conor in Paget, not with the same transatlantic accent.

’I’m—fine,’ she muttered shortly, shaking off his hands, and keeping her face averted. She was aware that the other woman had come to join them. She had heard the hurried tap of her heels, with the impatient, ‘Is she all right?’ enquiry, which put Olivia squarely into the category of being a nuisance.

’She says she is,’ replied Conor, ignoring the young woman’s tone and squatting down on his heels. Even though she couldn’t see them, Olivia was aware of his eyes appraising her bent head. ‘Are you?’

Olivia sighed. And, with a sense of resignation, she accepted there was no way she was going to be able to avoid the inevitable. Much against her better judgement, she lifted her head, and Conor sucked in his breath with an audible gulp.

’Aunt ‘Livia!’ he exclaimed, and Olivia thought how typical it was that he should make her feel even older than she did already.

’Hello, Conor,’ she responded, taking advantage of his stunned expression to clamber stiffly to her feet. Using the fence of a nearby garden for support, she endeavoured to hide the throbbing pain in her femur, and was inordinately glad she was wearing trousers to hide her leg’s wasted appearance. ‘I didn’t know you were back in England.’

’No.’

Conor seemed to be having some difficulty in adjusting to her appearance, and Olivia lifted a nervous hand to her hair, wondering if she looked as distraught as she felt. It had obviously been a shock for him, seeing her like this, and she guessed he was dismayed at how she’d aged.

’Conor …’ The young woman touched his arm as he got dazedly to his feet, and he looked at her almost without recognition. ‘Conor,’ she said again, ‘I didn’t know you had relatives in England. Is this your mother’s sister or something?’

’No!’ The denial he made was vehement, and she widened her big blue eyes in faint alarm.

’But you called—–’

’—her Aunt ‘Livia. I know,’ agreed Conor shortly. He looked at Olivia as if he still couldn’t believe his eyes, and then added, half impatiently, ‘It was a token form of address, that’s all.’

’Then, who is—–?’

’I lived next door to Conor and his parents, many years ago,’ said Olivia stiffly, glancing down at her coat, and noticing that it had suffered somewhat from the impact. Much like herself, she thought frustratedly. She tested her weight on her injured leg and drew back instantly. Oh, God, it wasn’t going to stand her walking on it.

’Oh, I see.’ The girl was evidently losing interest in the affair. She jogged Conor’s arm, and gestured back across the street. ‘Con, I’ve really got to be going. I told Marie I’d be in at eleven.’

Conor dragged his thoughts back to the present with obvious difficulty. ‘Then go,’ he said, the indifference in his voice audible to anyone’s ears. The relief Olivia had felt when he had been obliged to look away from her was tempered by his evident irritation, and the younger woman’s lips tightened with resentment.

’Well, aren’t you coming?’ she exclaimed. ‘I thought you had an appointment at the clinic.’

’I do.’ Conor’s expression hardened, and for a moment Olivia was reminded of the boy he had once been. But then her brain made the connection between the girl’s words and his response, and she wondered with sudden concern why he should be attending a clinic.

The young woman looked at Olivia without liking. ‘Aren’t you going to introduce us first?’ she protested, and Olivia knew that wasn’t what she wanted at all. It was just another attempt to extricate Conor from the situation, without leaving him alone with her. Though why she should feel the need to do so, Olivia couldn’t imagine.

If only she could leave, she thought. If only she could make some casual excuse for being there, and saunter off along Gull Rise. But every minute she delayed accentuated her growing weakness. She was going to have to get a taxi. Even if it meant knocking on a stranger’s door.

’Sharon Holmes; Olivia—Perry,’ Conor said now, after a moment’s hesitation, and it took a second for Olivia to register that he had used her married name. But before she could wonder how he had found out that she had been married, he had bent, and was running exploring hands over her injured leg.

’Don’t do that!’ Olivia’s horrified objection almost drowned out Sharon’s angry, ‘Con!’ Both women reacted unfavourably to his outrageous interference, and Olivia shuddered visibly when his hands massaged her calf.

Conor straightened without haste. ‘You were standing there like a stork,’ he said, his eyes going directly to Olivia’s wavering gaze. ‘I thought you must have hurt your leg when you fell, but it’s more than that, isn’t it? I guess you’d better come inside while I make a proper examination.’

Olivia gasped. ‘I beg your pardon?’

’I said—–’

’I heard what you said,’ she retorted, wrapping the folds of the mud-stained cashmere coat closer about her slim figure. ‘But I don’t want you to give me an examination. You—can call me a taxi, if you like. I admit I don’t think I’m up to walking back to my hotel. But that’s all, thank you. Just a cab.’

Conor glanced at Sharon, who was staring at him with undisguised irritation, but he chose not to obey the warning in her gaze. ‘I’ll give you a lift back to where you’re staying after you’ve told me what happened,’ he retorted briefly. ‘Now, can you walk across to the house or shall I carry you?’

Olivia wished she could tell him what to do with his assistance, but she couldn’t. The truth was that she felt as if she were rooted to the spot. The very idea of putting any weight at all on her injured leg was anathema to her. If only she had brought her walking-stick, instead of pretending she didn’t need it.

’Like that, is it?’

Conor had evidently read her uncertainty correctly, and, without giving her the opportunity to voice any further protest, he bent and plucked her off the pavement. Then, with the girl, Sharon, fluttering ineffectually at his side, he strode purposefully across the road.

Argument was useless, Olivia decided helplessly, as the welcome relief of being off her feet entirely brought more tears to her eyes. Even the hard strength of his arm beneath her knee was preferable to the agony of continually supporting herself on one leg. He must be strong, she thought, to carry her so effortlessly. He had picked her up as if she were a doll, and he wasn’t even breaking sweat.

’Con, what are you going to do?’

Sharon overtook him as he started up the drive, taking little backward running steps in an effort to attract his attention. Olivia, obliged to rest her arm around Conor’s neck for support, felt embarrassed at being the cause of her frustration. But what could she do, except promise herself to keep out of their way in future?

’I’m going to give Liv a drink, and then I’m going to take her back to her hotel,’ he replied shortly, waiting for her to step aside so that he could mount the steps to the door. ‘I thought you were going to work,’ he added, as she followed them into the house. ‘A few moments ago you were desperate to be gone.’

A few minutes ago she hadn’t expected her husband to bring a strange woman into the house, reflected Olivia drily, knowing exactly how Sharon was feeling. But for her to try and excuse herself would bestow the situation with an intimacy it didn’t deserve. Besides, Conor had called her Aunt ‘Livia when he first saw her. Surely Sharon could see she had no competition here?

’Well, are you going to the clinic?’

Sharon’s voice had taken on a resentful note now, and this time Olivia felt she had to say something.

’The clinic?’ she echoed, as Conor lowered her onto a sofa in the comfortable drawing-room. ‘Um—if you have an appointment, oughtn’t you to keep it? I mean, if you need treatment—–’

’He doesn’t need treatment. He’s a doctor,’ declared Sharon scathingly, drawing another impatient look from her husband. ‘Con, I’m only trying to find out what’s going on. D’you want to phone David?’

’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.

CHAPTER THREE

THE next day and a half dragged.

It wasn’t, Olivia assured herself, that she was looking forward to the evening ahead with pleasure. On the contrary, every time she thought about it she was struck anew with how unnecessary it seemed. It wasn’t as if they had anything in common these days, she thought frustratedly. The Conor of today bore no resemblance to the helpless youth he’d been.

No, what she really wanted to do was get it over with. They would have dinner—possibly here at the inn—and share a stilted exchange of news. She would tell him some of the more amusing cases she had dealt with—carefully omitting any reference to her marriage—and he would talk about his job at the rehabilitation unit, and perhaps explain the differences between treatment here and in the United States.

All incredibly polite—and incredibly boring, she thought fretfully, particularly for someone whose taste in women obviously ran to the more glamorous specimens of her species. Like Sharon Holmes, for example, she acknowledged, irritated that she could remember the girl’s name so clearly.

And when, the following evening, she seated herself in front of her dressing-table mirror to apply her make-up, it was Sharon’s face that persisted in filling her mind. Why was it that blondes always seemed to hog the limelight? she wondered. Was it that blonde hair usually went with a peaches-and-cream complexion, so different from her own pale features?

Whatever the reason, she wasn’t here to compete with Conor’s girlfriend, she thought crossly. Her only desire was that he shouldn’t be ashamed of her. And if that meant wearing a dress instead of trousers, and trying to tame her curly hair into a more sophisticated style, so be it. She owed it to herself to do the best she could.

The folds of the satin wrap she had put on after her bath parted as she leant towards the mirror. The cleavage it exposed was not as generous as it had once been, and she had never been over-endowed in that department. Now, the lacy bra she was wearing was hardly necessary. She had only put it on to satisfy a need.

Clutching the lapels together again, Olivia viewed her appearance without encouragement. There wasn’t much she could do with dark eyes that seemed to fill her face, or improve about bone structure that was definitely angular. She supposed she could disguise the hollows in her cheeks with a cream foundation, and use a cherry lipstick to give colour to her mouth. Thank God her lashes were long and thick and didn’t need mascara. She had never been particularly expert when it came to using cosmetics.

With the make-up applied, and her black hair coiled into a rather precarious knot on top of her head, she pronounced herself satisfied. Well, she would have to be, wouldn’t she? she thought grimly, pulling the only dress she had brought with her out of the wardrobe. She looked older than she was, but what of it? At least she wasn’t afraid of her maturity. People would probably think she was Conor’s mother. Dear God, why had she let herself in for this?

The dress was a warm Laura Ashley print, in shades of russet, green and brown. Its main attraction to Olivia was that it had a high neck and long sleeves, and the hem was only a few inches off her ankles. With opaque black tights to complete her cover, Olivia was reasonably satisfied with the result. Low-heeled shoes were not unattractive on someone of her height and slenderness, and she was glad that the days of precarious heels were a thing of the past.

It was a few minutes to seven when she looked at her watch, and she wondered what she ought to do. She supposed she should go downstairs and wait for him, but ought she to take her coat with her? She had spent a good half-hour that morning brushing the dried mud stains off it. But if she took it with her, would Conor see that as an indication that she expected him to take her out?

It was a problem. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel obliged to take her to some expensive restaurant. The food at the Ship was good and wholesome, if a little lacking in imagination, but it suited her. Yet if she appeared without her coat and she needed it it would mean another trip upstairs to collect it. Something she would much rather not have to do at present.

She was still prevaricating when the phone rang. It startled her, as much because she guessed who it would be as from any shock at the sound. But the thought that it might be Conor ringing to say he couldn’t make it made her move quickly to answer it. Perhaps he’d had an emergency. Doctors were notoriously unreliable.

Picking up the receiver, she put it to her ear. ‘Hello?’

’Liv?’ Conor’s voice was unmistakable. ‘You ready?’

As I’ll ever be, thought Olivia drily, but she answered in the affirmative.

’Good. D’you want me to come up and fetch you, or will you come down? I thought we might have a drink in the bar before we go.’

Before we go! Olivia grimaced. So, they were dining somewhere else, after all. ‘I’ll come down,’ she said crisply, not wanting another exhibition of his highhandedness. He had insisted on seeing her up to her room the day before, and embarrassed her horribly. Only her frozen expression had deterred Mrs Drake from making some comment when she served her supper that evening, and the idea of having a drink with him now, in the bar, was not appealing. Perhaps she could persuade him that they’d be better off drinking somewhere else. If she could forestall him, before he ordered himself a drink …

’OK.’

Conor accepted her decision without argument, and Olivia hurriedly collected her coat and handbag. The sooner she got downstairs, the better, she thought. If she knew Tom Drake, Conor was unlikely to be left on his own for long.

Thankfully her leg was much better this evening. She hadn’t ventured out of the inn since the previous morning, and the prolonged rest had done it good. Happily, the weather had remained cold and windy, with snow flurries, so she had not had to explain her reasons for missing her usual walk.

The low-ceilinged stairway came down into the narrow reception hall of the inn. There was a small kiosk, which opened off the Drakes’ living quarters, where guests went to check-in, or collect their mail. There were doors to the tiny dining-room, and to the smoke-room and bar, the latter commandeered by locals at this time of the year. And as Olivia couldn’t see Conor hanging about the hallway, she guessed he had joined them. After all, he was a local, she reflected, her spirits sinking at the thought.

Deciding that if she put her coat on she would at least look as if she was waiting to leave, Olivia slid her arms into the sleeves. Then, as there was no one about, she checked her wavy image in the smoked glass of a lantern. Oh, well, she thought wearily, she might as well get it over with.

But, when she entered the bar, she couldn’t immediately see Conor. It was already fairly busy, probably due to the fact that most people were coming out early to avoid the icy roads later. But, although there were several people standing at the bar, he wasn’t one of them, and it wasn’t until he spoke her name that she turned her head and saw them.

Yes, them, she saw incredulously, as her eyes took in the fact that Conor was not alone. But it wasn’t Tom Drake, who was sipping a glass of white wine, and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, beside Conor. It was Sharon Holmes, wide-eyed and sultry-lipped, wearing a short-jacketed scarlet suit that exposed most of her shapely legs.

Olivia could not have been more taken aback. In spite of what she had seen the day before, and their obvious familiarity with one another, she had never considered that Conor might bring his girlfriend tonight. It had been foolish, she saw with hindsight, to imagine his invitation had meant anything more than a token homage to duty. She had been his mother’s friend, she had been around for most of his early life, and he felt sorry for her. She had embarrassed all of them by appearing out of the blue like that, so he had offered her dinner as a means of absolving his responsibility. He didn’t really want to spend the evening in her company. In fact, he was just as reluctant as she was. How could she have thought otherwise?

Now he left his companion to come and greet her, but although she attempted to proffer a nervous hand he ignored it, and brushed his lips against her cheek. The odour of the shaving foam he had used invaded her nostrils, along with the distinctly masculine scent of his body, and she caught her breath. But she bore the salutation valiantly, and even managed a smile when he drew back.

’How’s the leg this evening?’ he asked softly, his words for her ears only, and she said, ‘Better, thank you,’ in a stiff tone that couldn’t help but reveal her feelings. But what else could he expect? she thought tensely. She was still recovering from shock.

He looked even more attractive this evening, though his clothes were not as formal as she had expected. Probably because she was too accustomed to dining with older men, she reflected ruefully. After all, even Stephen had been almost ten years older than she was. None the less, Conor’s button-down collar—worn without a tie, she noticed—and black corded trousers were decidedly casual. The fine wool jacket he was wearing with them was a sort of dusty green, and matched neither his shirt nor his trousers. Yet, for all that, the clothes suited him, accentuating still more the differences between them.

Now, as if afraid she was missing something, Sharon joined them, and Olivia felt as dowdy as a sparrow with two gorgeous birds of paradise. No, not a sparrow, a starling, she corrected drily. Sparrows were small and compact, not long-legged and ungainly.

’Hello, Mrs Perry,’ she said, once again relegating Olivia to an older generation. ‘Isn’t it cold? I bet you wish you’d chosen the Caribbean for your holiday.’

Olivia’s smile felt glued to her mouth. ‘Oh—yes,’ she murmured, wondering exactly what Conor had told Sharon about her. He had evidently mentioned that she was married. She just hoped he hadn’t said too much about the crash.

’Let me get you a drink,’ suggested Conor swiftly. ‘You two can find somewhere to sit down.’

’I’m quite capable of standing,’ said Olivia, well aware that they hadn’t been occupying one of the wooden tables when she came in. She gave Conor a resentful look, and then looked away again. ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, thank you. No ice.’

Conor inclined his head, and although he didn’t say anything she sensed his indignation. Well, she thought defensively, she wasn’t an old lady. Not as old as he was implying, anyway. He might mean well, but she didn’t like it. Not when she already felt like the ripest gooseberry in the basket.

’Shall we sit down?’ asked Sharon, after Conor had departed to get her drink, and Olivia sighed. Oh, what the hell? she thought; perhaps she was being foolish in refusing the opportunity to take her weight off her leg. She’d already had one experience of what could happen when she acted recklessly. Her present predicament was a direct result.

So, ‘If you like,’ she agreed offhandedly, and followed the girl to a table in the corner.

Sharon set her drink on the table in front of her, and then looked thoughtfully at her companion. ‘Conor says you’re a lawyer,’ she remarked. ‘That’s not how you got to know Mrs Brennan, is it?’

Mrs Brennan! For a moment, Olivia didn’t understand who she was talking about. Her thoughts had been so wrapped up with Conor and this awful situation that it took several seconds for comprehension to dawn.

’Oh—you mean Sally,’ she said hurriedly, and Sharon gave a nod. ‘No—I—as I believe I told you, my grandmother used to live next door. At number seventeen Gull Rise, I mean. I lived with her after my own parents died. That’s how I met—all the Brennans.’

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