Читать книгу Snowfire - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 8

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 from her own pale features?

Whatever the reason, she wasn’t here to compete with Conor’s girlfriend, she thought crossly. Her only desire was that he shouldn’t be ashamed of her. And if that meant wearing a dress instead of trousers, and trying to tame her curly hair into a more sophisticated style, so be it. She owed it to herself to do the best she could.

The folds of the satin wrap she had put on after her bath parted as she leant towards the mirror. The cleavage it exposed was not as generous as it had once been, and she had never been over-endowed in that department. Now, the lacy bra she was wearing was hardly necessary. She had only put it on to satisfy a need.

Clutching the lapels together again, Olivia viewed her appearance without encouragement. There wasn’t much she could do with dark eyes that seemed to fill her face, or improve about bone structure that was definitely angular. She supposed she could disguise the hollows in her cheeks with a cream foundation, and use a cherry lipstick to give colour to her mouth. Thank God her lashes were long and thick and didn’t need mascara. She had never been particularly expert when it came to using cosmetics.

With the make-up applied, and her black hair coiled into a rather precarious knot on top of her head, she pronounced herself satisfied. Well, she would have to be, wouldn’t she? she thought grimly, pulling the only dress she had brought with her out of the wardrobe. She looked older than she was, but what of it? At least she wasn’t afraid of her maturity. People would probably think she was Conor’s mother. Dear God, why had she let herself in for this?

The dress was a warm Laura Ashley print, in shades of russet, green and brown. Its main attraction to Olivia was that it had a high neck and long sleeves, and the hem was only a few inches off her ankles. With opaque black tights to complete her cover, Olivia was reasonably satisfied with the result. Low-heeled shoes were not unattractive on someone of her height and slenderness, and she was glad that the days of precarious heels were a thing of the past.

It was a few minutes to seven when she looked at her watch, and she wondered what she ought to do. She supposed she should go downstairs and wait for him, but ought she to take her coat with her? She had spent a good half-hour that morning brushing the dried mud stains off it. But if she took it with her, would Conor see that as an indication that she expected him to take her out?

It was a problem. The last thing she wanted was for him to feel obliged to take her to some expensive restaurant. The food at the Ship was good and wholesome, if a little lacking in imagination, but it suited her. Yet if she appeared without her coat and she needed it it would mean another trip upstairs to collect it. Something she would much rather not have to do at present.

She was still prevaricating when the phone rang. It startled her, as much because she guessed who it would be as from any shock at the sound. But the thought that it might be Conor ringing to say he couldn’t make it made her move quickly to answer it. Perhaps he’d had an emergency. Doctors were notoriously unreliable.

Picking up the receiver, she put it to her ear. ‘Hello?’

’Liv?’ Conor’s voice was unmistakable. ‘You ready?’

As I’ll ever be, thought Olivia drily, but she answered in the affirmative.

’Good. D’you want me to come up and fetch you, or will you come down? I thought we might have a drink in the bar before we go.’

Before we go! Olivia grimaced. So, they were dining somewhere else, after all. ‘I’ll come down,’ she said crisply, not wanting another exhibition of his highhandedness. He had insisted on seeing her up to her room the day before, and embarrassed her horribly. Only her frozen expression had deterred Mrs Drake from making some comment when she served her supper that evening, and the idea of having a drink with him now, in the bar, was not appealing. Perhaps she could persuade him that they’d be better off drinking somewhere else. If she could forestall him, before he ordered himself a drink …

’OK.’

Conor accepted her decision without argument, and Olivia hurriedly collected her coat and handbag. The sooner she got downstairs, the better, she thought. If she knew Tom Drake, Conor was unlikely to be left on his own for long.

Thankfully her leg was much better this evening. She hadn’t ventured out of the inn since the previous morning, and the prolonged rest had done it good. Happily, the weather had remained cold and windy, with snow flurries, so she had not had to explain her reasons for missing her usual walk.

The low-ceilinged stairway came down into the narrow reception hall of the inn. There was a small kiosk, which opened off the Drakes’ living quarters, where guests went to check-in, or collect their mail. There were doors to the tiny dining-room, and to the smoke-room and bar, the latter commandeered by locals at this time of the year. And as Olivia couldn’t see Conor hanging about the hallway, she guessed he had joined them. After all, he was a local, she reflected, her spirits sinking at the thought.

Deciding that if she put her coat on she would at least look as if she was waiting to leave, Olivia slid her arms into the sleeves. Then, as there was no one about, she checked her wavy image in the smoked glass of a lantern. Oh, well, she thought wearily, she might as well get it over with.

But, when she entered the bar, she couldn’t immediately see Conor. It was already fairly busy, probably due to the fact that most people were coming out early to avoid the icy roads later. But, although there were several people standing at the bar, he wasn’t one of them, and it wasn’t until he spoke her name that she turned her head and saw them.

Yes, them, she saw incredulously, as her eyes took in the fact that Conor was not alone. But it wasn’t Tom Drake, who was sipping a glass of white wine, and shifting his weight from one foot to the other, beside Conor. It was Sharon Holmes, wide-eyed and sultry-lipped, wearing a short-jacketed scarlet suit that exposed most of her shapely legs.

Olivia could not have been more taken aback. In spite of what she had seen the day before, and their obvious familiarity with one another, she had never considered that Conor might bring his girlfriend tonight. It had been foolish, she saw with hindsight, to imagine his invitation had meant anything more than a token homage to duty. She had been his mother’s friend, she had been around for most of his early life, and he felt sorry for her. She had embarrassed all of them by appearing out of the blue like that, so he had offered her dinner as a means of absolving his responsibility. He didn’t really want to spend the evening in her company. In fact, he was just as reluctant as she was. How could she have thought otherwise?

Now he left his companion to come and greet her, but although she attempted to proffer a nervous hand he ignored it, and brushed his lips against her cheek. The odour of the shaving foam he had used invaded her nostrils, along with the distinctly masculine scent of his body, and she caught her breath. But she bore the salutation valiantly, and even managed a smile when he drew back.

’How’s the leg this evening?’ he asked softly, his words for her ears only, and she said, ‘Better, thank you,’ in a stiff tone that couldn’t help but reveal her feelings. But what else could he expect? she thought tensely. She was still recovering from shock.

He looked even more attractive this evening, though his clothes were not as formal as she had expected. Probably because she was too accustomed to dining with older men, she reflected ruefully. After all, even Stephen had been almost ten years older than she was. None the less, Conor’s button-down collar—worn without a tie, she noticed—and black corded trousers were decidedly casual. The fine wool jacket he was wearing with them was a sort of dusty green, and matched neither his shirt nor his trousers. Yet, for all that, the clothes suited him, accentuating still more the differences between them.

Now, as if afraid she was missing something, Sharon joined them, and Olivia felt as dowdy as a sparrow with two gorgeous birds of paradise. No, not a sparrow, a starling, she corrected drily. Sparrows were small and compact, not long-legged and ungainly.

’Hello, Mrs Perry,’ she said, once again relegating Olivia to an older generation. ‘Isn’t it cold? I bet you wish you’d chosen the Caribbean for your holiday.’

Olivia’s smile felt glued to her mouth. ‘Oh—yes,’ she murmured, wondering exactly what Conor had told Sharon about her. He had evidently mentioned that she was married. She just hoped he hadn’t said too much about the crash.

’Let me get you a drink,’ suggested Conor swiftly. ‘You two can find somewhere to sit down.’

’I’m quite capable of standing,’ said Olivia, well aware that they hadn’t been occupying one of the wooden tables when she came in. She gave Conor a resentful look, and then looked away again. ‘I’ll have a gin and tonic, thank you. No ice.’

Conor inclined his head, and although he didn’t say anything she sensed his indignation. Well, she thought defensively, she wasn’t an old lady. Not as old as he was implying, anyway. He might mean well, but she didn’t like it. Not when she already felt like the ripest gooseberry in the basket.

’Shall we sit down?’ asked Sharon, after Conor had departed to get her drink, and Olivia sighed. Oh, what the hell? she thought; perhaps she was being foolish in refusing the opportunity to take her weight off her leg. She’d already had one experience of what could happen when she acted recklessly. Her present predicament was a direct result.

So, ‘If you like,’ she agreed offhandedly, and followed the girl to a table in the corner.

Sharon set her drink on the table in front of her, and then looked thoughtfully at her companion. ‘Conor says you’re a lawyer,’ she remarked. ‘That’s not how you got to know Mrs Brennan, is it?’

Mrs Brennan! For a moment, Olivia didn’t understand who she was talking about. Her thoughts had been so wrapped up with Conor and this awful situation that it took several seconds for comprehension to dawn.

’Oh—you mean Sally,’ she said hurriedly, and Sharon gave a nod. ‘No—I—as I believe I told you, my grandmother used to live next door. At number seventeen Gull Rise, I mean. I lived with her after my own parents died. That’s how I met—all the Brennans.’