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.
But it was then, as she dipped her head to avoid his cool appraisal, that she noticed the ring on his left hand. Her stomach hollowed at the realisation that it was a wedding-ring, and, although she knew she had no right to feel the way she did at that moment, a feeling of absolute nausea
