by Anne Mather
Her head sank into the cushions behind her, and Conor’s fingers slid along her hot cheek, holding her a prisoner beneath his hungry mouth. And that mouth strayed from her lips to her eyes, closing her lids with feathery light kisses, so that her world was reduced to one of touching, and feeling, and shattering sensation. He kissed the curve of her cheekbones, the dark arch of her eyebrows. His tongue explored the unexpectedly sensitive cavern of her ear, and his teeth fastened on her earlobe, though the pain was not unpleasurable. On the contrary, Olivia was discovering that hitherto unknown areas of her face and neck were incredibly responsive to his touch, and each new invasion caused the tight pain of awareness to stir deep inside her.
The blood was pounding in her head, but it was thick and turgid, battling through her veins in an effort to bring oxygen to her swimming senses. She felt as if she were drowning in emotion, and, totally against her will, her hands groped for his neck. Her fingers tangled in the silky hair at his nape, and she clung to him helplessly, caught in a spell that was older than time itself.
Conor’s breathing had quickened, too, and when he sought her lips again there was urgency as well as pulsing passion in the demanding pressure of his mouth. She felt his hand invade the neckline of her sweater, smoothing the fine bones of her shoulders, before attempting to reach her throbbing breasts. But the neckline wasn’t loose enough for that, and his hand slid down to find the button-hard nipples, taut beneath the rough wool of the sweater. He rolled the sensitive little peak against his palm, and Olivia couldn’t suppress the gulp of anguish she felt at the harsh abrasion. And, as if sensing her discomfort, Conor’s hand moved down to the hem of her sweater, slipping beneath the wool to find the soft flesh beneath. His hands caressed her slim waist, one finger probing the buttoned fastening of her trousers, before moving up again to take possession of one swollen breast.
’Better?’ he breathed against her mouth, and she felt herself nodding, mindlessly. In her present state of responsiveness, he could have stripped the clothes from her and she wouldn’t have objected. She was completely caught up in the things he was doing to her body, and the fact that he was becoming as sexually aroused in the process as she was didn’t really register.
She had slipped lower on the sofa, and Conor was lying half over her now. When he moved to wedge one leg between hers, her legs splayed automatically. It made it easier to accommodate the disturbing ache she could feel between her legs, and when he rubbed his thigh against that throbbing juncture she made a convulsive little sound of pleasure, and moved against him.
’God, Liv!’ he choked, and it was the words he spoke that made her aware that he was trembling. Made her aware, too, of the thrusting pressure of his manhood, throbbing against her thigh, threatening to split the zip of his trousers. ‘Let me make love with you.’
And, although the blinding instincts of desire urged her to go on, to reach down and open his zip, and let him do what he wanted, the cool breath of reality was rearing its ugly head. What was she doing? she asked herself in dismay. How had she allowed such a situation to develop?
The awareness of her own complicity caused a wave of embarrassment to envelop her. Dear lord, she thought, it wasn’t as if she were a naïve girl, unaware of what happened when a woman allowed a man to kiss her, and caress her, and touch her naked breasts. Indeed, she doubted anyone was that naïve these days. And particularly not a woman who had been married and divorced, and whose husband had proved so susceptible to the temptations of the flesh. Dammit, there were no excuses for what she was doing, even if, for a short time, he had caused her to abandon her identity. And that had never happened before.
She shifted beneath him then, pushing his leg away from that most sensitive part of her anatomy, and struggling to ease herself up against the cushions. God, had she really let Conor do this to her? She must have drunk more wine that she’d realised. There could be no other reason for her behaviour.
’Hey—Liv!’ Conor’s reaction to her withdrawal was not unexpectedly impatient. ‘Don’t do that,’ he protested, when she put both hands against his chin and tried to push him away. ‘What are you trying to do? Break my neck?’
Olivia fought back a sob. ‘Let me up, Conor,’ she exclaimed, not answering him. ‘For God’s sake, let go of me!’
’What’s wrong?’ Resisting her efforts to force him away from her, Conor looked down at her with anxious eyes. ‘Did I hurt you or something? Talk to me, dammit. What did I do?’
Olivia caught her breath. ‘What didn’t you do?’ she cried, bringing a look of dawning comprehension to those sea-green eyes. ‘Conor, get off me! I want to get up.’
Conor’s long lashes veiled his eyes. He could still see her, but she didn’t find it so easy to read his expression any more. ‘Don’t you think you’re over-reacting?’ he suggested softly, but there was a thread of exasperation in his voice now, and she told herself she was glad.
’Possibly,’ she responded, wishing she had more experience in these matters. She had the feeling she was handling this badly, but she didn’t know what else to do. ‘Look,’ she added, ‘as I’m quite a lot older than you are, you’ll just have to take my word that this was a mistake. Trust me. It was.’
Conor watched her tugging her sweater down over her hips, and then said evenly, ‘Not that much older,’ and she realised it was going to be even harder than she’d thought.
’I was your mother’s friend,’ she pointed out tensely, aware that her body was not responding to the dictates of her brain. ‘How—how do you think she would feel, if she could see us now?’
Conor shrugged. Clearly that consequence didn’t bother him. ‘You’re not old enough to be my mother,’ was all he said. And then, huskily, ‘I got the distinct impression that you didn’t exactly object to what I was doing.’
’Well, you were wrong!’ Olivia swallowed on the lie, and resumed her efforts to shift him. ‘I was a fool to come here. I should have stuck to my original intention, and refused your invitation.’
Conor’s mouth thinned. ‘That was your original intention? To turn me down?’
’Yes.’ That, at least, was true.
’Why?’
’Why?’ Olivia took an uneven breath. ‘I just told you why.’
’No. You’ve just spun me a tale about your being too old for me.’ One brow arched. ‘That’s bullshit!’
’Conor, I mean it—–’
’So do I.’ And, avoiding her fluttering hands, he pushed his fingers into the coarse tangle of black curls that framed her flushed face. Then, bending his head, he brushed her quivering mouth with his, and a helpless shiver of anticipation enveloped her. ‘You have no idea how long I’ve wanted to have you like this,’ he told her roughly. ‘God, I used to fantasise about how you’d look—how you’d feel.’ His lips twisted. ‘So don’t expect me to react favourably when you tell me this is all a mistake. Don’t expect me to believe it either.’
’Even if it’s true?’
’I don’t believe you.’ Conor was infuriatingly complacent. ‘And before you hit me with the fact that you’re married, and that I shouldn’t be lusting after a married woman, I want to say I don’t think much of a man who abandons his responsibilities so readily, who lets his wife spend weeks alone on a remote part of the east coast, without even taking the trouble to come and see if she’s all right.’
Olivia stiffened. ‘How do you know he hasn’t?’
’Because Tom Drake told me you hadn’t had any visitors since you got here,’ he retorted flatly. ‘Believe it or not, but last night he said he was glad I was showing you some attention. He and Eva had been feeling sorry for you—–’
Any weakening Olivia might have been feeling towards him vanished. ‘How dare you?’ she demanded, somehow finding the strength to propel him away from her, and lurching to her feet. ‘How dare you?’ she said again, clutching back her hair with one hand, and fumbling for the pins that had got caught in her sweater with the other. ‘Did you honestly thi
nk that telling me you’d been gossiping about me with the landlord would make me feel better? My God! What do you think I am? Are you saying that because I’m disabled you feel some misguided sort of responsibility for me?’
’No!’ Conor scowled. ‘Hell, Liv …’ He got up now, and against her will she noticed that his shirt was half open down his chest. Had she done that? she wondered, half disgustedly, even while her eyes fed greedily on the muscled flesh it exposed. ‘I have not been gossiping about you with anyone. What Tom Drake said, he said with the best of intentions. God, if you ask me, the Drakes care more about what happens to you than your husband does.’
’But I didn’t ask you, did I? And I see now what all this is about,’ she added painfully. ‘You felt sorry for me, too. Tell me something, does Sharon know you’ve been spending this evening consoling this poor abandoned female?’
’God!’ Conor swore now. ‘Haven’t you listened to a word I’ve said? I’ve told you how I feel about you being here, and Sharon doesn’t come into it.’ He reached for her arm. ‘Goddammit, you know it! This is just you and me!’
’And—Stephen,’ put in Olivia recklessly, evading his outstretched hand. She held up her head. ‘I forgot to tell you. He arrived this afternoon. He’s waiting for me back at the inn.’
Conor’s expression ran the whole gamut of emotion from raw frustration to disbelief. ‘You’re lying.’
’Why would I lie?’ she retorted, though there was a tremor in her voice all the same. ‘That’s why I didn’t want you to come into the pub. If you don’t believe me, ring Tom Drake. I’m sure he’d be only too pleased to confirm it.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
TO OLIVIA’S relief, she didn’t see Stephen again until breakfast.
Conor had let her phone for a taxi to bring her back to the hotel, and she had managed to hurry upstairs to her room without anyone noticing her. And she had made sure her light was out before Stephen came up to bed. She was half convinced he had stopped outside her door, but, to her relief, he hadn’t attempted to disturb her.
Not that she’d have opened the door anyway, she assured herself tautly. The evening had been quite disastrous enough, without her ex-husband adding his contribution to it. Indeed, she couldn’t even remember feeling as shattered as she had done when she arrived back at the inn. And, although she had crawled straight into bed, it was hours before she had got to sleep.
The trouble was that, as soon as she closed her eyes, the events of the evening had replayed themselves endlessly behind her lids, and, no matter how she tried, she couldn’t displace the image of Conor’s face as she had last seen him.
God, would she ever forget how he had looked when she told him Stephen was waiting for her at the inn? He had tried to deny it, of course, but the fact was she wouldn’t have said it, if it couldn’t be proved, and he knew it. The bleakness that had descended on his features when he realised she wasn’t lying had been positively frightening. And, watching him, what she had desperately wanted to do was retract her words and comfort him. Only the knowledge that it was probably the kindest way to let him down had kept her silent. After all, when she left Paget, she would never see him again. Aside from the fact that she would probably be a cripple for the rest of her life, she was too old for him. He needed someone young, and vital. Like Sharon, she admitted, somewhat ruefully. Someone who could take what he had to give, without expecting anything in return. And something told her—in that regard—she had more to lose than he had …
In consequence, although she would have liked to ask if she could have breakfast in her room, she squared her shoulders and went down to the dining-room. If she wanted to convince the Drakes—and indirectly Conor—that she and Stephen were still on good terms, she had to behave as normally as possible. But that didn’t stop her wondering whether she wouldn’t be wiser to leave right away. Stephen knew where she was now, she reminded herself defensively, and, although she didn’t think she was ready to go back to town yet, an alternative base might be a good idea. She had the uneasy feeling it would take her a little time to reconcile herself to the feelings Conor had so effortlessly aroused.
Stephen was already sitting at the window table—reading her newspaper, she saw indignantly—when she went downstairs, and it was not without some misgivings that she made her way towards him. Unwillingly, her mind was already making comparisons between his puffy eyes and balding head and Conor’s masculine beauty, and she acknowledged it was probably rough justice, when he remarked, scathingly, ‘God, what did you do with yourself last night? You look grim!’
’Thanks.’ Snatching her newspaper out of his hand, she seated herself opposite, and buried her face in its pages. She refused to give in to the childish desire to tell him she had been thinking the same—about him—and it was left to Stephen to try and make amends.
’Well, you do look pale,’ he muttered. ‘You don’t look as if you’ve been to bed at all. Is that leg still giving you problems?’
’No.’
Olivia resented having to tell him anything, and, as if losing patience, Stephen reached across the table and squashed the paper down until he could see her face. ‘So, where did you go last night?’ he demanded. ‘I waited over an hour for you to show up, and by the time I got my supper it was cold! I suppose you thought it was funny, making a fool of me like that in front of the Drakes!’
Olivia extracted the newspaper from his grasp and meticulously straightened the pages. ‘I didn’t give it a lot of thought,’ she admitted honestly. ‘And I don’t think I have to give you a résumé of my movements, Stephen. I went out. Where I went is my affair.’
Stephen scowled. ‘I suppose you were with that doctor and his girlfriend again, weren’t you?’ he asked, startling her. ‘Oh, yes,’ he added, with a mocking smile, ‘I’ve heard all about Dr Brennan. The Drakes didn’t know how you knew him, of course. I think they thought you’d met him in London, but I put them straight on that account.’ He sneered. ‘They were so surprised to hear that you used to live here.’
Olivia was coldly furious. ‘You told them I used to live in Paget?’
’Yeah.’ Stephen lounged back in his chair, enjoying his triumph. ‘Why not? It’s not a secret, is it?’
’You had no right …’ began Olivia hotly, and then, realising she was just playing into his hands, she bit off her words.
But Stephen was not prepared to leave it there. ‘Oh, yes,’ he reminisced, ‘they were very interested to hear that you were old Mrs Holland’s granddaughter. Impressed, too, when I told them you were a lady lawyer. I’d say you were quite a rarity around here. I doubt if Paget’s produced too many lady lawyers.’
Olivia’s teeth ground together, and she dug her nails into her palms to prevent herself from wrapping them around Stephen’s smug neck. In the space of an evening, he had destroyed all her hard-won anonymity. And as for Conor …
’Yes.’ Stephen wouldn’t leave it alone. ‘You have to admit I’ve got a good memory. I mean, when the Drakes started talking about Dr Brennan, I didn’t immediately catch on. But then, I remembered you telling me—soon after we were married, I think it was—about this family who used to live next door to your grandmother. I remembered their name was Brennan, and how the parents were killed, and the son went to live in the United States.’ He shrugged modestly. ‘Well, as soon as Mrs Drake mentioned that the good doctor had lived in the States before coming back to Paget, I soon put two and two together. Clever, hmm?’
’Masterly,’ conceded Olivia contemptuously. ‘And while you were telling the Drakes all about my affairs, did you happen to add that you’re the low-down ratfink who’s been jerking off his boss’s wife?’
Stephen’s expression was almost comical. He lurched forward in his chair, casting a ludicrously apprehensive look over his shoulder, before snarling angrily, ‘Watch your mouth, can’t you? For Pete’s sake, Harry may have sent someone down here to spy on me, for all I know. It’s not as if it was difficult to find out where you were st
aying. All I did was bribe the caretaker of your apartment building to give me the address you’d left in case of emergencies. Hell, this was an emergency. And Harry could do the same.’
Olivia shook her head. ‘So?’ she countered, annoyed that Mr Parkinson should have taken Stephen’s money. ‘Why should I care what happens to you? Maybe Harry would do us both a favour if he shut your mouth for good!’
Stephen blanched. ‘You don’t mean that, Ollie.’
’Don’t I?’ Right then, Olivia wasn’t too sure. She regarded him without sympathy for a moment, and then added curiously, ‘You don’t honestly think he would—well, do something criminal, do you?’
’Who knows?’ Stephen expelled an unsteady breath. ‘If he was mad enough.’ He shook his head. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Maybe he wouldn’t go as far as—wiping me out, or anything dramatic like that. But he would make me pay, one way or another.’
’Oh, Stephen—–’
’Well, it’s true, Ollie. And you know what a low pain threshold I have. I can’t bear being hurt; physically hurt, that is. Hell, I faint at the sight of blood! After I’d visited you in hospital that time, when you were all strung up to those IVs and things, I went out and threw up. Literally threw up, and if Darcy’s minders get hold of me—–’
’Oh, shut up!’
Olivia didn’t want to listen to any more. She didn’t want to feel responsible. But, much as she despised him, she couldn’t stand by and see him beaten up by hooligans. Not that she really believed it would come to that. But, just in case …
Mrs Drake’s appearance, to take their orders for breakfast, was as timely as the day before. ‘So there you are, Mrs Perry,’ she exclaimed. She smiled at Stephen. ‘Your husband was quite worried about you last night. Disappearing like that without telling us,’ she chided. ‘And me making one of my special chicken casseroles for you both.’
