Betrayed

‘No.’

‘Ah.’ The man, who was possibly in his late thirties, and evidently convinced of his own attractions, patently didn’t believe her. ‘Well, don’t worry. I cross the Atlantic at least half a dozen times every month, and landing one of these things is a piece of cake.’

‘You’re a pilot?’ enquired Olivia politely, deciding that as they were preparing to land she had nothing to lose, and the man’s pale, plump features took on a faint trace of colour.

‘I didn’t say that,’ he replied, a little tersely, and Olivia’s lips twisted as she turned to the window to watch their descent. ‘I just meant my business takes me to the States fairly frequently, and I feel quite at home in a 747.’

‘Really?’

Olivia tried to keep the impatience out of her voice, without really succeeding. But honestly, some men, seeing a woman travelling alone, couldn’t help but regard her as a challenge. She had hoped that travelling first class—Perry’s idea—would have alleviated that phenomenon, but it hadn’t worked that way. Still, she supposed it wasn’t his fault that her nerves were on edge, and that indulging in small talk only made her feel worse, not better.

‘Oh, yes,’ her companion went on now, proving that his skin was just as thick as she had anticipated. ‘I guess you could say I’m a seasoned traveller. A paid-up member of the mile-high club.’ His blue eyes narrowed assessingly. ‘Do you know what I mean?’

Olivia’s patience ran out. ‘That you like playing doctor in the lavatory?’ she suggested coolly, watching the heat surge into his cheeks, and his mouth take on an aggressive curve.

‘Clever bitch!’ he muttered, shifting irritably inside his seatbelt, and Olivia turned her attention back to the window, wishing the journey were over.

The wheels touched the runway only seconds later, and the high-powered whine of the reverse thrust briefly silenced the anxious clamour in her head. But the sudden conviction that she shouldn’t have come was borne in on her as the jet’s engines pushed her back against the cushions of her seat, and she closed her eyes.

What was she trying to prove, after all? That she hadn’t lost touch with her family? Of course she had! In spite of her many invitations, her parents had never made the trip to New York to see her. And although she had told herself it was because they were country people, and that the idea of travelling across the Atlantic was too adventurous for them, she knew in her heart of hearts that that wasn’t the real reason. The fact was, her father, at least, had never forgiven her for leaving home, and without the right to tell him the truth she had damned herself forever in his eyes.

Maybe she wanted to prove to herself that leaving Lower Mychett had been the best thing she had ever done. Surely that was true? Staying would only have made the whole situation even more painful than it already was, and Olivia knew she hadn’t had that kind of strength. Besides, her grandmother had encouraged her to make a clean break, and there hadn’t seemed any other way of doing it.

Perhaps her real reason for making this journey was to assure herself that Harriet Stoner was really dead, she considered bitterly. But even she was not that vindictive. After all, her grandmother had had her best interests at heart, even if it hadn’t seemed so at the time.

She opened her eyes, as the plane taxied towards its unloading bay, and the steward began handing out coats and jackets to the waiting passengers. And for the first time she allowed herself to wonder whether she didn’t secretly hope that she might see Matthew again. It wasn’t that the memory of what she had once felt for him was anything more than a rather foolish aberration. Given the way she felt now, she guessed she would have got over her infatuation for him in her own time, if her grandmother had not chosen to interfere. But Harriet Stoner had not been prepared to take the risk, and who could blame her? Her daughter-in-law had turned a blind eye to what was going on, but she couldn’t. She was a God-fearing woman, a stalwart of the church, and her strict moral values would not allow her to keep silent.

Olivia’s lips trembled for a moment, as she remembered how horrified she had felt then. At eighteen, everything had seemed so much more clearly defined; things were either black or white, with no room for shades of grey. Now, she knew different. Her experiences in New York had taught her that life was an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colours, and what had shocked her ten years ago would now barely warrant a lifting of her eyebrows. In New York, at least, she amended, loosening her safety-belt. No doubt in Lower Mychett the stigma would still remain.

The enclosed gangway had been secured to the aircraft’s side now, and the heavy door was swung open. Her fellow passengers crowded round the crew, wanting to be the first to reach Immigration, and to her relief the man beside her left without a backward glance. Sliding her arms into the sleeves of her jacket, Olivia gathered her handbag and the Louis Vuitton travel bag Perry had bought her, and got reluctantly to her feet.

‘Are you feeling all right, Miss Stoner?’

One of the stewardesses was at her elbow, and Olivia gave her a fleeting smile. ‘Yes. I’m fine, thank you.’

‘I just thought——’ The stewardess hesitated. ‘You seemed rather reluctant to leave.’

‘Perhaps I am,’ remarked Olivia ruefully. And then, seeing the doubt in the other woman’s eyes, she shook her head. ‘No. I was just dawdling, that’s all. Thank you.’

The walk to Immigration was invigorating. At this hour of the morning the airport corridors were cool and uncrowded, and Olivia enjoyed stretching her long legs. Seven hours in a plane was too long, she acknowledged, shifting her travel bag to her other hand. But she had resisted Perry’s efforts to send her on Concorde. Perhaps even then she had been subconsciously delaying the moment when she would have to meet her family again.

By the time she had cleared Passport Control and collected her suitcase, it was nearly nine o’clock. She had sent an answering cable to her mother, saying she would be arriving today, but she didn’t expect anyone to meet her. For one thing, it was harvest time, and as both her father and her brother worked on the Rycroft estate they would have little time to spare for a trip to London, especially to meet the apparent black sheep of the family.

There were few porters about, and, loading her suitcase and travel bag on to a trolley, Olivia looped her bag over her shoulder, and set off to run the gamut of Customs. She chose the green channel. She had nothing to declare, and she emerged unscathed into the noisy Arrivals hall.

There were at least a hundred people thronged around the Arrivals gate. Some stared at her curiously, as if trying to decide if she was someone of importance, while others held up placards announcing their identity to the incoming passengers. But none of the placards held her name, and she was not surprised when she reached the end of the enclosure undeterred.

And yet, she must have thought someone might come to meet her, she reflected wryly, for she had refused to let Perry make any ongoing arrangements for the trip to Lower Mychett. She could take a taxi into London, of course, and find out the times of trains to Winchester. But the idea of facing the M4 in the rush hour—which was probably twice as bad now as it had been when she went away—was not appealing. Matthew used to meet her in London, she remembered fleetingly, and take her to his room at the college, but she thrust the thought away …

Perhaps she could hire a car, she thought determinedly. She had a driving licence, and although it had been obtained in the United States there were plenty of Americans who came to England for fly-drive holidays. Even so, she suspected they made their arrangements well in advance. Did she need an international driving licence, for example, and, if so, where could she get one? Could she get one? Probably not soon enough to get her to Lower Mychett for her grandmother’s funeral, she decided wearily. Oh, why hadn’t she let Perry arrange a hire car for her?

Because she had thought someone would meet her, she reminded herself again. After all, the letters she infrequently exchanged with her mother maintained the fiction of their relationship, so why shouldn’t she have asked her brother or her sister to meet her?

‘Olivia.’

The sound of her name scraped over nerves bared by her confusion, and Olivia swung round to face the speaker in utter disbelief. ‘M-Matthew!’

‘Hi.’ He inclined his head in a gesture of acknowledgement. ‘How are you?’

‘Um—fine. I’m fine.’ Olivia swallowed, and glanced uneasily about her. ‘Did—um——’ She frowned. ‘Did you come to meet me?’

‘Well, I’m not plane-spotting,’ responded Matthew drily, his lean, dark features a bland impassive mask. ‘Did you have a good trip?’

Olivia expelled her breath in a rush. This couldn’t be happening, she decided unsteadily. Somehow she had conjured up Matthew’s image, and this conversation—this unnaturally polite conversation—was just a figment of her imagination. Dear God, when she remembered how he had reacted when she had told him of her plans to go to the United States. He had been furious—no, incensed. She had half thought he was going to hit her, and the words he had used to describe her were forever imprinted on her memory. That was why this little scenario had to be a hallucination. The Matthew she remembered would never have forgiven her. Of course, she hadn’t been able to tell him the truth either, she thought bitterly. And in the same position she guessed she would have felt the same, if Matthew had walked out on her. After all, they had been in love. In love! Oh, God …

‘Is this all your luggage?’ Matthew was asking now, and Olivia dragged her thoughts back to the present.

‘What?’ She stared at him blankly. And then, realising what he had said, she nodded jerkily. ‘Oh—yes. Yes. This is all.’

She looked about her as she spoke, half expecting to find herself the object of a dozen curious eyes, but no one was staring at her—not as if she was mad, anyway, she amended—so, if she was talking to herself, no one had noticed.

‘Are you all right?’

It was the second time someone had asked her that in the space of an hour, and Olivia forced herself to look at him again. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I’m very well, thank you. And you?’

‘Oh—great. Just great,’ responded Matthew flatly, taking the trolley from her unresisting fingers. ‘My car’s parked outside. It’s in a restricted zone, so do you mind if we move it?’

Olivia swallowed again, and, unable to prevent herself, she put out a nervous hand and touched his sleeve. Beneath the fine leather of his jerkin his arm felt reassuringly hard and muscular, and she felt his instinctive rejection of her touch in the same instant that she pulled her hand away.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured, making an issue of putting the strap of her handbag over her shoulder, and Matthew gave her a brief hard look.

‘Is something wrong?’ he enquired, and just for a second she heard the edge of some stronger emotion in his tone.

‘No. No, nothing,’ she answered, quickening her pace deliberately. But she wondered what he would say if she told him she had had to assure herself that he was real.

Years ago, Matthew had driven an old beaten-up Mini that he and Sam Pollack, from Pollack’s garage, had worked on together until the engine sang as sweet as a bird. It had been fast, too. Too fast, Olivia’s father had maintained, although in those days he had been more concerned that Matthew’s intentions were honourable. After all, he was Lady Lavinia Ryan’s son; and even if his father was not Sir Matthew Ryan he did own Rycroft, which in Lower Mychett was as good as owning a title.

The car that was parked outside was a far cry from that old Mini however. It wasn’t particularly clean, and it was an estate, not a sports car. But it was a Mercedes; Olivia recognised that at once. And, judging by the size of its engine, it would be able to hold its own in any contest.

Matthew swung open the passenger door, and nodded at Olivia. ‘You get in,’ he said. ‘I’ll handle the luggage.’

Olivia caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘Oh—thanks,’ she said, twisting the strap of her bag round her hand, as she eased herself into the wide, comfortable seat. But, now it seemed virtually certain that this was not some strange fantasy, other thoughts were asserting themselves. Not least, what was Matthew doing here? And who had asked him to come?

The car rocked as he slammed the tail-gate and, pushing the trolley aside, he came round the car and got in beside her. Folding his long legs beneath the wheel, he reached for his seatbelt, and Olivia permitted herself a fleeting look at his unyielding profile.

He hadn’t changed much at all, she thought reluctantly, aware of his muscled thigh only inches away from her own. He had always been reasonably tall—around six feet, she guessed—which had made her five feet eight inches so much less of a problem. Until she had started going out with Matthew, she had usually been as tall as, or taller than, the boys she had dated. Matthew was a little heavier, she decided, but that was to be expected. He was older. Thirty-two now, to her twenty-eight. How well she knew that equation.

His face had aged more than his body, she noticed. There were lines beside his nose and mouth, and his grey eyes were set more deeply. But his hair was just as dark, and as usual needed cutting, catching his collar at the back, and tempting her to put it straight.