Snowfire Page 17

  But at last she was standing at the foot of the steps that led up into the house. The last hurdle, she thought, regarding the door at the top of the steps with some uncertainty. It was such a heavy door. What if it was locked?

  At first when she turned the handle, she thought it was. It didn’t open at the first attempt, and her heart sank. But, as anxiety gave way to frustration, her frenzied tugging bore fruit. It was just stiff through lack of use, and with a concerted effort she brought it swinging back against her. It nearly flattened her against the wall, but she managed to save herself, inching her way around the door and into the hall of the house.

  So far so good. Closing the door behind her, Olivia rubbed her slightly grubby palms down the seams of her jeans. Now all she had to do was find Conor. If he was here …

  The air felt musty, as if it was too long since anyone had opened a window. And there was a curious smell, too. She couldn’t immediately identify it, but it was sweet and cloying. She frowned. Dear God, what had been going on here?

  The kitchen and dining-room were as deserted as the drawing-room. There weren’t even any dirty dishes in the sink, she noticed. Only a cup on the drainer, bearing dregs of what appeared to be coffee. So, Conor had to be upstairs. In bed? Remembering the closed bedroom curtains, she knew a moment’s hesitation. What made her think he would be any more pleased to see her than Sharon? Particularly as she had virtually broken in. What price her legal training now?

  But she had to see him. She had to know if his feelings for her had changed. If they had, then she would have to live with it. But she had to hear it from his lips. And if, by some miracle, they hadn’t …

  She went no further. Instead, she started up the stairs, aware that she had no real idea what she would find. It occurred to her that what she had smelt could be cocaine. She had only ever smelled marijuana before, but it had a sweet smell, too.

  A board creaked as she stepped on to the landing, but, although she froze for a second, it aroused no reaction. The landing was as silent as the rooms downstairs had been, and she felt her nails digging into her palms as she made her way to Conor’s bedroom door. It wasn’t completely closed, just pushed to, and with her tongue trapped between her teeth she widened it until her head could fit into the opening.

  And then she sucked in a gulp of air. Conor was there, sure enough, stretched out flat on the bed, with only a sheet to cover his nakedness. But the relief she felt at finding him was instantly forgotten when she saw the capsules scattered over the top of the bedside unit. Some had even spilled on to the carpet, along with the now empty glass of water he must have used to swallow them.

  Oh, lord!

  The air left her lungs in a panic-stricken rush, and, abandoning any doubts about how she came to be here, she hurried to the bed. ‘Conor,’ she cried, grasping his shoulder and shaking him urgently. ‘Conor, wake up!’

  His skin felt cold to the touch, and for one awful moment she thought she was too late. Was that sweet smell, which was so much stronger here, the smell of death? The taste of the peanut butter sandwiches she had eaten before leaving home rose sickeningly into her throat. But she couldn’t afford to be ill now, she chided, as, to her relief, his flesh warmed beneath her hand. If Conor was unconscious, he must have taken an overdose. No one knew the strength of the drugs he was using better than he did. It couldn’t have been a mistake.

  Then, just as the realisation that she should get him off the bed and on to his feet and call an ambulance brought a frantic return of sanity, she saw the blood on the sheet. How she could have missed it earlier, she didn’t know. There was enough of it, for God’s sake! But her whole attention had been focused on the drugs. Now, the staining that skirted his waist brought a wave of dizziness sweeping over her, and this time she couldn’t hold back. She had identified the smell and it terrified her. With a muffled cry, she ran for the bathroom, reaching the toilet basin just in time.

  She was still kneeling there, trying to find the strength to get to her feet again, when a hand descended on her shoulder. ‘Liv?’ Conor’s voice said disbelievingly. ‘God, Liv, what are you doing here?’

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  OLIVIA scrambled to her feet, unable for a moment to say anything. The shock of seeing him awake, and on his feet, was too much for her, and she could only cling to the toilet cistern, praying it wasn’t just a dream.

  Conor appeared real enough, though much paler than she remembered, his untidy hair and unshaven chin adding to his air of debilitation. But he had dragged a navy silk dressing-gown over his nakedness, and, had she not seen the blood on the sheet, she might have been persuaded that there was nothing wrong with him that a shower and a decent night’s sleep wouldn’t cure.

  ’Liv,’ he repeated now, his confusion giving way to guarded weariness. ‘How the hell did you get in?’

  Olivia shook her head, and then wished she hadn’t when the room revolved around her. She waited a moment for the giddiness to pass, and then moved determinedly towards the sink. ‘Can—can I just rinse my face and hands?’ she asked, hoping he wouldn’t try to deter her. It was bad enough that he had caught her throwing up in his bathroom. She didn’t think she could cope with an argument just yet.

  However, Conor obediently stepped aside, and, turning her back on him, she hurriedly sluiced her face and hands, and cleaned her teeth with her finger. Then, feeling much better, she straightened and reached for a towel.

  ’Did—did I—that is, were you asleep?’ she ventured nervously, slipping the towel back on to the rail, suddenly aware of how presumptuous she had been.

  Conor’s eyes were narrowed and unreadable. ‘Obviously,’ he said at last, stepping back so that she could precede him out of the room. ‘Now, how much longer are we going to continue this, before you tell me what in hell is going on?’

  Olivia drew a steadying breath, and paused on the landing, not sure which direction to take. The obvious choice was to go back into Conor’s bedroom, but she no longer had the temerity to believe that she would be welcome there. So instead she turned towards the stairs.

  He followed her down, and, remembering the blood she had seen on the sheet, Olivia found herself biting her lower lip. She wanted to ask what it was, what had happened, but she didn’t have the nerve. She was already having to face the fact that Conor didn’t want her here, any more than he had wanted anyone else. Was he going to escort her off the premises, without even giving her a chance to tell him why she’d come?

  But, when they reached the lower floor, he said, ‘The kitchen,’ and, breathing a little more easily, Olivia walked along the hall. But she was aware of him behind her, watching her every move.

  It was getting dark, she noticed, a fact that was endorsed when Conor switched on the track of spotlights. They immediately darkened the windows, and cast shadows on to his hollow cheeks, accentuating his pallor and the unforgiving twist of his lips.

  ’Sit down,’ he said, but she preferred to stand, and with a careless shrug he hooked out a chair and dropped into it. A stab of pain crossed his face as he did so, betraying that unseen injury, but his expression warned against her offering sympathy. ‘Well?’ he prompted, as she pushed her anxious hands into her pockets, and leaned against one of the dark oak units. ‘Go on. I’m listening.’

  Olivia drew a breath. ‘I did ring the bell,’ she began, rather lamely. ‘And—and knocked. But I couldn’t make you hear.’

  ’How do you know?’

  His question confused her, and she gazed at him uncertainly. ‘How do you know what?’

  ’How do you know I didn’t hear you?’

  ’Oh.’ Encountering his cool, enigmatic gaze, Olivia was half prepared to accept that he had heard her after all. But she couldn’t let that deter her. ‘Well, I can’t be sure, of course—–’

  ’No, you can’t.’

  ’—but you were—asleep—when I came into the bedroom.’

  ’Was I?’

  ’Oh, Conor!’ Her helpless cry seemed
to affect him. His cheeks drew in, and a muscle jerked with spasmodic insistence. But he obviously had no intention of making this easy for her, and she was forced to continue. ‘Anyway,’ she went on, ‘I was—worried about you.’ And, responding to his scornful expression, ‘I was! After—after what …’ She bit back Mrs Drake’s name, and proceeded awkwardly, ‘I—wanted to see you.’

  ’Why?’

  ’Why?’ She lifted her shoulders as a convincing answer escaped her. ‘Why do you think?’

  Conor lay back in his chair, and, although she was sure he would have preferred her not to see it, he couldn’t disguise the wince of pain that brought a sudden starkness to his pale features. Almost involuntarily, his hand moved to protect his midriff, and her mouth dried at the thought that he might have more than one injury. But his cold face forbade any mention of the fact, and she was forced to watch his efforts to cover his reaction in silence.

  ’I—think—someone—contacted you,’ he said at last, and, aware of what it had cost him to speak normally, Olivia wondered how she had ever found the courage to leave him. She wanted to put her arms around him so badly that it was a physical effort not to do so, but she was so afraid that he would reject her. ‘Who was it?’ he went on. ‘Sharon? Aunt Elizabeth?’ He frowned, resting his elbow on the edge of the table, and dropping his head against his hand. ‘There is no one else.’

  Olivia hesitated. And then, realising they couldn’t go on unless they were completely honest with one another, she said, ‘It was Mrs Drake, actually,’ and he groaned.

  ’I knew it,’ he muttered. ‘I knew you wouldn’t have come here of your own free will!’

  ’That’s not true!’ Olivia was defensive.

  ’No?’ Conor sounded weary now. ‘Don’t tell me—you were packing your bag to come down here when you got the message.’

  ’No. I was at Stephen’s funeral, actually,’ replied Olivia quietly, and this time she was sure she had his full attention.

  ’Say what?’

  ’I said—–’

  ’Dammit, I heard what you said,’ he exclaimed, lifting his head. He ran a hand that shook slightly through the unruly tangle of his hair. ‘But—how? Did he have an accident?’

  Olivia shrugged. ‘It was a heart attack,’ she said simply. ‘According to his doctor, there was a weakness. It could have happened any time.’

  ’Shit!’ Conor closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them again his face was paler than before. ‘And I guess I contributed to the attack, didn’t I? He must have guessed there was something going on between us.’

  ’No!’ Olivia’s renunciation was vehement. ‘He’d been warned not to overdo things, but Stephen never would listen to anyone’s advice.’

  Conor blinked. ‘Isn’t that pretty callous? Even for you?’

  Olivia noticed the qualification, but now was not the time to take him up on it. How callous she had been in leaving him only time would tell, but for now she had to concentrate on other matters.

  ’You don’t understand,’ she began, pushing herself away from the unit, but Conor wouldn’t let her finish.

  ’Your husband’s just died, for God’s sake!’ he muttered savagely. ‘For pity’s sake, Liv, you’ve just buried him today!’

  Olivia expelled the air in her lungs in a long sigh. ‘He wasn’t my husband,’ she said, linking her fingers together. ‘Our divorce became final just after I got back to London.’

  Conor came up out of his chair with a baleful oath. ‘What?’

  ’It’s true.’ Olivia was nervous of the look on his face, but she had to go on. ‘I—I asked Stephen for a divorce before I had the accident,’ she blurted. ‘He—he had been seeing other women, and when I found out …’ She licked her lips. ‘He didn’t agree at first. But … when I was in the hospital, he—changed his mind.’

  Conor was supporting himself against the edge of the table. ‘But—he came here,’ he said harshly. ‘He spent the night at the inn. Mrs Drake told me.’

  ’I know.’ Olivia gazed at him despairingly. ‘But she could have also told you that we had separate rooms. You see, Stephen was in some trouble over—over his boss’s wife, and he needed an alibi.’

  A pulse was beating in Conor’s temple. She could see it, hammering away under the skin. It was the only evidence she had that his reaction to what she was saying was not all negative. Surely that erratic little vibration wasn’t wholly motivated by anger? Why should he react so violently if it meant nothing to him?

  ’So, you were lying,’ he said now, and her heart sank at his words. ‘God, Liv, was it so hard to tell me you didn’t want to get involved?’

  ’It wasn’t like that!’ Olivia took a couple of steps towards him, and then halted uncertainly. ‘Conor, you know my—marriage—wasn’t a problem with us.’

  ’Wasn’t it?’ There was accusation in his eyes, and she gave an inward groan at the seeming impossibility of her task.

  ’No,’ she insisted now. Then, unable to sustain the implacability of his gaze, she bent her head. ‘Don’t pretend you believed everything I said.’

  Conor swore. ‘I don’t know what I believe any more,’ he stated unevenly. ‘Are you telling me you’ve changed your mind?’

  Olivia swallowed and lifted her head. ‘And if I am?’

  Conor stared at her for a long, disbelieving minute, and then he swung away, making for the window, gripping the sink below it with white-knuckled hands. He looked out of the window for so long that what little confidence Olivia had had evaporated, and by the time he turned his head to look at her again she was visibly shaking.

  ’Why did you come here, Liv?’ he asked, and, of all the things she had thought he might say, this was the least expected.

  ’I—I’ve told you,’ she said, wishing she had something to hold on to. ‘I wanted to see you.’

  Conor’s lips twisted. ‘Yes. But would you have come if some do-gooding individual hadn’t chosen to tell you I was a mess?’

  ’Yes—–’

  ’Yes?’ He didn’t sound convinced. ‘Liv, that little scene upstairs said more about you than you know. God knows what tale Mrs Drake had spun you, but when you came into the bedroom you thought I was unconscious!’

  Olivia hesitated. ‘Maybe.’

  ’There’s no “maybe” about it,’ he exclaimed, angrily. ‘Because you couldn’t get a reply, you thought I’d taken an overdose, didn’t you? And that really scared you. So much so that you were puking up your guts when I walked into the bathroom.’

  ’All right.’ Olivia saw no point in denying it. ‘I did get a shock when I saw you. There were capsules all over the bedside cabinet, and blood on the sheet—–’

  ’Dried blood,’ he cut in sharply.

  ’—and I—I panicked.’

  Conor turned to face her. ‘There was no need. I dropped the bottle as I was taking a couple of painkillers, that’s all. If I’d known I was expecting a visitor, I’d have picked them up.’

  Olivia took a breath. ‘What about the blood?’

  ’I cut myself,’ he replied dismissively.

  ’And the accident?’

  ’What accident?’

  ’The accident at the clinic,’ she persisted. ‘Mrs Drake said—–’

  ’Mrs Drake should learn to mind her own business,’ he retorted. ‘I had a—a run-in with an irate visitor, that was all. It was something and nothing. Certainly not serious enough to bring you haring down from London.’

  ’That wasn’t why …’ began Olivia swiftly, and then made an impatient gesture. What was the point? He wasn’t going to believe her, whatever she said.

  Conor left the sink and came back to rest his palms on the table. She suspected it was because, whatever he said, he needed some support. But his next words sent all other thoughts out of her head.

  ’Tell me,’ he said, dispassionately, ‘what would you have done if I had been unconscious? I’d like to know.’

  ’What would I …?’ Olivia gasped. ‘I’
d have called an ambulance, of course.’

  ’Would you?’ He looked at her through the veil of his lashes. ‘Even though it would have meant getting involved?’

  Olivia caught her breath. ‘What do you mean?’

  ’Well …’ Conor straightened with an evident effort. ‘You have left me before. And you didn’t care then whether I lived or died.’

  ’My God!’ Olivia was horrified. ‘Of course I cared. I’ve always …’ She bit back the shaming admission, but the look in his eyes forced her to go on. ‘Do you hate me that much?’

  ’I don’t hate you at all,’ he told her succinctly, his voice breaking on the words. ‘And believe me, I’ve tried!’

  ’Oh, Conor!’

  Unable to hold back any longer, Olivia gave in to the sexual tension that had been building inside her. She couldn’t wait to hear if he was going to reject her. If he did, then so be it, but for this moment in time she had to feel his arms about her. Moving too quickly for him to evade her, she circled the table until there was barely a hand’s-breadth between them. Then, reaching up, she cupped his face in her hands, and brought his unwary mouth to hers.

  He sucked in his breath as she pressed herself against him, but when she would have drawn back again his hands went swiftly to her waist, and held her where she was. ‘Not now,’ he breathed, against her lips, and when his tongue slid into her mouth her legs felt too weak to disobey him.

  She clung to him desperately, to the solid warmth of bone and muscle she had dreamed for so long of holding. His heart was thudding against his ribs, his skin smooth and male beneath her hands. He was impatient and ungentle, but so familiar, and she felt her senses swimming beneath his urgent assault.

  He kissed her many times—hard, angry kisses at first, which gradually gave way to the sensuality of passion. He wanted to hurt her, as she had hurt him, but he seemed to realise as his kisses gentled that he was only hurting himself.