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  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 tea
rs 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.