Snowfire Page 9

  ’So why didn’t you go somewhere warm to recuperate?’ Conor’s eyes were intent. ‘Instead of coming here.’

  ’Oh …’ Olivia shrugged. ‘I didn’t want to go where there were lots of people. I wanted some peace and quiet. And you have to admit, Paget has that.’

  ’But without your husband,’ murmured Conor quietly, and she was glad she could blame the fire for her hot face.

  ’Stephen has a job to do,’ she replied obliquely, wondering how long it would be before he found out that her ex-husband had spent a night at the inn. ‘Um—tell me about your job at the clinic. Is it like a hospital? Are the people sick, or what?’

  ’Oh, yes. They’re sick.’ Conor let himself be diverted, and to her relief his gaze turned to the fire. ‘But it’s not really like a hospital. More like a prison, I guess.’

  ’Go on.’

  Olivia was intrigued, and Conor good-naturedly explained a little about its purpose. ‘We deal with a lot of habitual offenders. The kind you’ve probably defended in court. Addicts who, for one reason or another, can’t—or won’t—kick the habit.’

  ’Young people?’

  ’Addicts tend to be young,’ remarked Conor drily. ‘Not a lot of them make it into old age.’

  ’But—I mean—juvenile offenders.’

  ’No. Mostly they’re late teens or twenties. But I’m talking about real people here. Young men and women from all walks of life. Not just the pimps and the pushers.’

  ’And you counsel them?’

  Conor pulled a face. ‘Well, we try to. David Marshall—he’s the guy who runs the place—he’s working on the theory that people have to want to be cured before it happens.’

  ’So what causes young people to turn to drugs? Curiosity? Peer pressure?’

  ’It’s not as simple as that. The theory that kids take to drugs because their friends are doing it doesn’t really hold up. If that were true, or if it only worked that way, all young people would be potential addicts. But they’re not.’ He paused. ‘That’s not to say that most young people aren’t exposed to drugs at some time in their life. They are. The widespread use of heroin and cocaine is a very real problem. Teachers find needles behind the bike sheds these days, as they used to find condoms years ago.’ He gave a rueful grin. ‘Unfortunately, these days they find both.’

  Olivia’s lips twitched. ‘So what’s your theory?’

  ’It’s a lot of things. I think television has a lot to answer for.’

  ’The violence, you mean?’

  ’Not in this case, no.’ Conor shook his head. ‘Oh, I’m sure the amount of violence we all see on television has some bearing on the way we live our lives. There’s no doubt that it’s a powerful force for change. And kids are brainwashed to the extent that when they see real pictures of dead bodies it doesn’t mean anything. I read a report once about some teenagers being shown a video that was shot in Vietnam. The pictures were horrific, really gruesome, but they didn’t turn a hair. It was the guy teaching them who threw his guts up in the john.’

  ’What did you mean, then?’

  ’Oh—aspirations, I guess.’ Conor spoke flatly. ‘Television makes people feel inadequate. Particularly young people. They see people living in glossy houses, driving glossy cars and living glossy lives, while they can’t even get a job. What do you think that does to them?’

  ’But they’re not real people,’ exclaimed Olivia, and Conor gave her a narrow-eyed stare.

  ’But they are,’ he declared softly. ‘To some of the kids I deal with, they’re just as real as the old lady who got mugged in her armchair, or the napalm victims in Vietnam.’

  Olivia swallowed. ‘So what can we do?’

  ’Is that a rhetorical question, or do you mean what can I do?’

  Olivia looked rueful. ‘Both, I suppose.’

  ’Well …’ Conor slid the fingers of one hand through his hair until they came to rest at the back of his neck. ‘I guess I have to try and convince them that there’s more to life than what they see on television.’

  ’And do you succeed?’

  ’Who knows?’ Conor’s hand dropped to his chest, drawing her unwilling attention to the fine pale hair nestling in the opened V of his shirt. ‘We seem to. But it’s not possible to keep track of what happens to all of them after they leave the clinic.’

  Olivia nodded. ‘And what kind of treatment do they get?’

  ’After we’ve got them off the hard drugs, you mean?’ He shrugged. ‘Well, in addition to the counselling, there’s therapy; sometimes psychotherapy, although that doesn’t work for everyone.’

  ’So what do you do then?’

  Conor’s lips twisted. ‘Hey, that’s enough about what I do.’ He surveyed her with wry amusement, and then lifted his hand to squeeze the back of her neck. ‘I don’t want to spend the whole evening talking about me.’

  Olivia quivered. His fingers were absurdly intimate, and although she had expected him to let go of her again he didn’t. He just sat looking at her with that disturbingly sensual green gaze, and she was helpless against the insidious emotions he aroused inside her.

  CHAPTER SIX

  ’OH—I’M not very interesting,’ she denied now, and the jerky movement she made had the neckline of the sweater sliding off one soft shoulder.

  ’I disagree.’ Conor’s eyes darkened as they fastened on that vulnerable exposure of flesh, and his hand slid from her nape to her shoulder. ‘It’s like silk,’ he said, almost to himself, his eyes dropping to follow the caressing movement of his brown fingers against her pale skin. ‘But you’re too thin. What have you been doing to yourself?’

  ’I—I thought thin was supposed to be fashionable,’ Olivia protested lightly, and, gathering her scattered senses, she got abruptly to her feet. ‘Um—what was that you said about an omelette? I’m hungry.’

  She wasn’t, of course, and she was sure Conor knew it. But he swallowed the remainder of the sherry in his glass, and obediently stood up. ‘You can choose,’ he said, matching his tone to hers. ‘I found some ribs in the freezer, as well as the pizza. Come and see.’

  She let him lead the way into the kitchen, which was at the back of the house. The dark oak units and terracotta tiles had been Sally’s pride and joy, and Olivia had lost count of the number of meals the four of them had eaten at the stripped-pine table.

  It was dark, and when Conor switched on the lights they illuminated the pile of unwashed dishes in the sink. ‘Unfortunately, Mum didn’t see any need for a dishwasher,’ he remarked, steering her away from them. ‘Just ignore the mess. I’ll clear up later.’

  ’I’ll do them,’ declared Olivia firmly, grateful to have something uncontroversial to do. ‘Shall I make the omelettes, too?’

  ’No.’ Conor gave her an aggrieved look. ‘I’m not one of those guys who can’t even boil an egg. I’ve had to look after myself for quite some time now, and, as you can see, I haven’t starved.’

  ’That’s the truth,’ murmured Olivia barely audibly, but he heard her.

  ’So?’ he challenged. ‘Is there something wrong with the way I look?’

  ’No, of course not.’ Olivia was glad she could busy herself running water into the sink. But she couldn’t help thinking that Conor would probably be shocked if he knew what she had been thinking about his lean, muscled frame. His touching her might have been quite innocent, but her thoughts at this moment were definitely not. And it disturbed her.

  ’How about if we have a pizza omelette?’ he suggested, opening the freezer door, and Olivia lifted her head to see him watching her reflection in the darkened glass of the window.

  ’A pizza omelette?’ she echoed faintly. ‘Can you have such a thing?’

  ’Hey, when I was in med. school, I ate anything going,’ he responded, grinning. ‘But OK. Maybe a pizza omelette isn’t such a good idea. How about pizza and omelette, with a little green salad to satisfy the health nuts?’

  Olivia laughed. She couldn’t help herself. And, as she
did so, she realised how long it was since she had had so much fun. Even with her hands plunged in soapy water, and a pile of dishes waiting to be dried beside her, she was enjoying herself. Being with Conor was like being young again. She had forgotten what it was like to be foolish and carefree.

  ’That sounds good,’ said Conor, suddenly behind her, his reflection looming above her in the now misty glass. His hands descended on her shoulders for a moment, before sliding down her arms and away. ‘You should laugh more often. I like it.’

  Somehow, Olivia managed to get the remainder of the dishes washed and dried, and by the time she had done so the pizza was hissing in the microwave, and the omelettes were bubbling in the pan.

  They ate, as Olivia remembered them doing so many times before, at the kitchen table. Conor had halfheartedly offered to lay the table in the dining-room, but Olivia had been adamant.

  ’It’s nicer in here,’ she said. ‘Cosier.’ And then looked away from his lazy gaze, with a feeling almost of panic. She was enjoying this too much, she thought unsteadily. Just because Sharon wasn’t here, that didn’t mean she didn’t exist.

  Nevertheless, she ate the food Conor had prepared with more enthusiasm than she had felt for years. The pizza, oozing with cheese, made a remarkably delicious accompaniment to the omelettes, and the crisp salad was served with a yoghurt dressing that was tart and refreshing. There was even warm French bread and butter, had she wanted it, but although she enjoyed watching Conor munching through its golden crust she couldn’t manage anything else.

  ’Good?’ he enquired, when they were both reduced to sipping glasses of the smooth hock he had supplied with the food, and Olivia nodded.

  ’Very good,’ she agreed, stroking the film of condensation that had settled on her glass. ‘I feel pleasantly full, and—–’

  ’—mellow,’ put in Conor softly, pushing back his chair, and getting up. ‘Let’s go and finish the wine in the other room.’

  ’But what about clearing up?’ protested Olivia, looking up at him, and his lips twisted.

  ’Not right now,’ he stated, coming round the table to draw back her chair. ‘Come on. It’s happy hour.’

  Conor drew the curtains across the drawing-room windows, immediately reducing the dimensions of the room to the lamplit area by the fire. Then, after waiting until Olivia had seated herself on the sofa again, he tossed another log on the glowing coals and resumed his place beside her.

  ’OK,’ he said quietly, ‘are you going to tell me why you thought I lived with Sharon?’ He sighed. ‘And sit back, can’t you? I want to look at you, not your back!’

  Olivia could have told him that that was exactly why she was sitting perched on the edge of the cushions, but she didn’t. Easing her hips a little way further on to the seat, she gave an uncertain shrug. ‘I thought I did. Tell you why I thought you lived with Sharon, I mean.’

  ’No.’ To her alarm, Conor’s hand descended on her shoulder again, but all he did was urge her against the cushions at her back. ‘You said you’d made a mistake. I’m curious to know why.’

  ’Oh, come on.’ Thankfully, he had released her as soon as he achieved his objective, and she realised her best option was to attack his argument. ‘That morning, when I walked up here, well—you’re not going to tell me she hadn’t spent the night here—–’

  Conor arched a quizzical brow. ‘Why not?’

  ’Why not?’ Olivia hadn’t thought he would contradict her. ‘Well, because—because—–’

  ’As a matter of fact, she’d called in on her way to work,’ he essayed flatly. And then, meeting Olivia’s disbelieving gaze, he added, ‘I’m not saying she hasn’t slept here. She has. I’m not a saint, Liv. I need sexual satisfaction, just like anyone else.’ His eyes darkened. ‘As you do.’

  That was a little close to the bone, and Olivia hurriedly transferred her attention back to her wine. ‘Even so—–’

  ’Even so—what?’ Conor leaned forward so that he could look into her face. ‘Sharon was acting as if she owned me, is that what you’re trying to say?’

  Olivia stifled the gulp of panic that was rising in her throat. ‘It—it’s nothing to do with me.’

  ’Isn’t it?’ Conor’s voice was incredibly soft. ‘You’re not interested in what I do with Sharon, is that right?’

  ’Conor.’ Olivia moistened her dry lips, and somehow managed to meet his probing gaze. ‘Don’t you think this is a rather pointless conversation? You have your life to lead. And—and I have mine. Did—er—did I tell you I’d been offered a partnership with—with Hallidays?’

  ’It doesn’t surprise me.’ Conor shrugged. ‘You always were ambitious.’

  Olivia was taken aback. ‘Do you think so?’

  ’I know so.’ Conor’s voice was dry as he leant forward to put his empty glass on the coffee-table.

  ’How?’

  He lounged back beside her. ‘You don’t have any family, do you?’

  ’Children, you mean?’

  ’What else?’

  Olivia tried to gather her composure. ‘Isn’t that a rather sexist remark?’

  ’All remarks are sexist, I guess.’

  ’No, you know what I mean.’

  ’Why? Because it challenges your femininity?’

  Olivia straightened her spine. ‘How do you know I haven’t tried to have children?’

  ’Have you?’

  Olivia gasped. ‘That’s my business.’ She used the excuse of putting down her glass to evade his enquiring stare. Then, running a nervous hand over the knot at her nape, she took a surreptitious look at her watch. ‘Heavens, is that the time?’

  ’It’s only nine-thirty,’ he remarked mildly. And, before she could say anything more, his hand curled around her neck, under her hair. ‘You’re not going yet.’

  She’d never expected him to restrain her; not like that: so proprietorially, so possessively. As if he thought he had the right to keep her there against her will, she thought unsteadily. His hard fingers moved sinuously against her flesh, and her heart palpitated wildly. Dear God, what was he doing? And why was she letting him do it?

  ’Conor!’ Her protest was strangled, but then, putting on her coolest, most authoritative voice, she added, ‘Don’t do that!’

  ’Don’t do what?’ he asked softly, moving closer, and if she had had any doubts that she was over-reacting they were quickly dispelled. His warm, wine-scented breath caressed her cheek. ‘Oh, Liv,’ he breathed, ‘you have no idea what I want to do.’

  Common sense wasn’t working. ‘Conor,’ she exclaimed again, and this time she tried to lighten her tone. ‘Conor, I think you’re teasing me. Now, come on. Let me go.’

  But that didn’t work either. Instead, she felt the pins that held her hair in place being deliberately withdrawn, and, although she put up her hands to stop him, presently the unruly cloud of dark hair tumbled about her shoulders.

  ’Mmm. That’s better,’ he said, ignoring her astounded expression, and, taking a handful of hair, he threaded it through his fingers. ‘I’ve been wanting to do this ever since you got here.’

  ’And now you have,’ said Olivia tautly, letting him see how angry he had made her. ‘Conor, I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but I think this has gone far enough. Now, I suggest you call me a cab—–’

  ’It hasn’t,’ he cut in huskily, still smoothing her hair between his fingers, and her dark brows drew together.

  ’What are you talking—–?’

  ’Gone far enough,’ he appended huskily, drawing the neckline of her sweater aside, and touching her shoulder with his tongue. ‘I haven’t gone nearly far enough.’

  Olivia jerked her shoulder away from his mouth. ‘Conor, what on earth do you think I am?’

  His eyes lifted to hers. ‘I think you’re a beautiful woman,’ he replied simply, and she gasped.

  ’I think you’ve taken leave of your senses,’ she retorted, grimly hanging on to her sanity. ‘Conor, you’re not a boy any mo
re!’

  ’Would you let me do this if I were?’

  ’No!’ Olivia felt as if she was getting into deeper and deeper water. ‘Conor, I’m married!’ she declared, using her erstwhile status as a final attempt to deter him, and then shrank back in alarm when his hand came to cup her face.

  ’D’you think I don’t know that?’ he demanded, his thumb and forefinger digging into her cheeks. His eyes moved almost hungrily over her shocked features for a moment, and then softened.

  ’Anyway, what’s wrong with me wanting to kiss you? You never used to object before.’

  Olivia’s senses felt scrambled. ‘You—you know what’s wrong,’ she got out jerkily. ‘As—as I said, you’re not a boy now. And—and I don’t appreciate being put in this position.’

  ’What position?’ His thumb brushed her mouth, and, almost against her will, her lips parted against that sensuous abrasion. The pad of his thumb probed inside her mouth, scraping the tender flesh inside her lower lip, and smearing its wetness against her chin. ‘How many positions do you know?’

  Olivia caught her breath. ‘Conor …’ she began again, but, before she could voice her faltering indignation, his lips took the place of his thumb.

  Pure, unadulterated panic gripped her now. As his warm mouth brushed lightly over hers, and the hand that had been holding her face in place slid caressingly to her throat, the recklessness of what she was doing swept over her. But she wasn’t afraid of Conor. It wasn’t fear of him that was turning her limbs to water. It was the clear and certain knowledge that she wanted him to kiss her just as much as he wanted to do it.

  ’Sweet,’ he muttered roughly, his mouth settling more firmly over hers, and the hot invasion of his tongue was like a shaft of electricity jolting through her. It plunged deeply into her mouth, filling her with the feel and the taste of him, seductive, and velvety, and achingly real.

  Olivia moaned in protest, but it was a puny thing at best, and the hands that had balled against his flat midriff opened like the petals of a flower against his chest. But they didn’t keep him away from her. On the contrary; when she felt the thudding beat of his heart beneath her hands, she shuddered uncontrollably, and she clutched handfuls of his shirt with fingers that were damp and greedy. God, she trembled, with her last coherent thought, what was he doing to her?