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