Snowfire. Anne Mather

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ