by Anne Mather
'Do as your mother says, Tom.' Ben's quiet command silenced the boy, and Jaime knew a renewed sense of resentment at the ease with which he achieved his objectives. 'It's been a long time since we've seen one another, and I think it would be better if we had a few private words.'
Tom hesitated, but it was only a momentary resistance. 'You will say goodbye before you leave, won't you?' he requested anxiously, and then, conscious of his mother's disapproval, he dragged his feet along the hall to the kitchen.
Jaime waited until the kitchen door had closed behind her son before stepping back and opening the front door. 'I think you'd better go,' she said, hoping he was not aware that she was clinging to the handle as if it were a lifeline. 'I don't know why you came here, and I don't want to know. I just want you to get out of here!'
Ben's thin features tightened, but he made no move to obey her. 'Isn't this a little juvenile, Jaime?' he suggested, straightening his spine. 'We've known each other too long—and too well—to ignore the other's existence. All right. Maybe I shouldn't have come here tonight, but I was curious. And when Tom found out who I was—'
Jaime quivered. 'Are you going to leave, or must I call the police?'
Ben expelled his breath on a heavy sigh. 'You wouldn't do that,' he said flatly, his shoulders lifting in a dismissive gesture, and with an inward sense of desperation Jaime closed the door again.
'You have no right to come here,' she enunciated clearly. 'No right at all.' She took a steadying breath. 'Did you tell your wife where you were going?'
'Maura's dead,' he replied shortly, and now his face had taken on a distinctly grim expression. 'In any case, why should you think I don't have the right to see my own nephew?'
'He's not your nephew—' she began, but his savage words overrode her.
'Yes, I've heard that story before,' he bit out harshly. 'But if he isn't Philip's son, then who the hell is he? Because—my God!—the likeness is unmistakable! He's the image of my father as a young man!'
CHAPTER THREE
It was strange, Jaime reflected, how the anticipation of disaster was sometimes worse than the actual event. In the early years, when Tom was just a toddler, she had lived in fear of Ben coming back and seeing the boy for himself. Even though Philip was no longer a threat, and the rest of his family had always lived in London, she had still looked over her shoulder every time she left the house, still felt the familiar tension every time the telephone rang.
But time had changed that. Time, and Tom's growing maturity, had convinced her that none of the Russells was ever likely to trouble her again. Why should they? She and Philip were divorced, and, because she had allowed him to divorce her, there had been no question of alimony, even had she wanted any—which she didn't. She wanted nothing from the Russells, not from any of them. And as the years had gone by she had begun to believe she was safe.
After all, Philip's parents had never liked her. She had known they had been relieved when her marriage to Philip broke up. That the reasons for that break-up might be different from what Philip claimed was not something they were likely to contemplate. But then, they didn't know Philip as she did, she reminded herself bitterly. As far as they were concerned he was still the shy, sensitive introvert, the image he presented to the world. The man Jaime had discovered him to be was someone they wouldn't recognise.
Nevertheless, when she had first discovered she was pregnant, she had been afraid that Philip might find out, and want her back again. The divorce had not been absolute, and she'd had no way of knowing how he might react. That was why she had left Kingsmere at that time, why she had gone to live with her father's sister in the north of England until Tom was born.
It had not been easy. Without funds, she had had to rely on her parents' support, but with their help she had managed. And, although those days had been anxious, they had been oddly satisfying, too. She had worked for a time, temping jobs, mostly, saving every penny she could for the baby. She had missed her parents, but she had asked them not to visit her until the divorce was final. She wanted no word of her whereabouts to get back to the Russells. Not until Tom was born did she begin to plan their future.
It was easier than she had thought. The fact that Philip already believed there was another man in her life made Tom's arrival quite unremarkable. Everyone—even her parents' neighbours—believed Jaime had left Kingsmere to be with her lover. That was why she had stayed away until Tom was almost a year old. Her return then had been greeted with the usual words of sympathy. People thought she had been let down, and she supposed she had, in a way, she thought dispassionately. Certainly, no one suspected her real reasons for leaving. Tom's presence answered a lot of questions, and if she did become the butt of some spiteful gossip for a while it was not something she cared too strongly about. She had Tom, and her parents, and that was enough. Or so she convinced herself…
As the years went by, of course, her earlier impropriety was dismissed as a youthful indiscretion. By the time Tom was old enough to go to school, the question of who his father had been was no longer so important. She had retained her married name, and those people who didn't know her history naturally assumed that her ex-husband had been the child's father. Tom was no different from a dozen other children from one-parent families, and she had never corrected his assumption that Philip had deserted them.
Occasionally, she had worried that Philip might hear the fiction, and come back to see 'his' son, but it hadn't happened. Unlike the parents of Tom's schoolfriends, he knew that Tom wasn't his son—and besides, he had no interest in her now. The divorce had severed any remaining bonds between them, and he wasn't likely to resurrect the past.
Now, however, Jaime's carefully won anonymity was in danger of being overturned. As she had been afraid it might be, ever since she had heard that Ben Russell had bought the old Priory. But how could she have known he would come here? After fifteen years? It was obscene!
Even so, the bitterness of their last encounter could still bring a wave of goosebumps to feather her flesh. She despised herself for feeling this way, but it had been a traumatic evening, and she was vulnerable. God, was she never to be free from that one mistake?
'Shall we go into the living-room?' suggested Ben evenly, indicating the lamp-lit room behind him. 'At the risk of arousing your contempt, I am bloody cold!'
'Cold?' Jaime looked at him, becoming aware that in spite of the warm evening he was shivering. What was it Tom had said? That he was ill? 'I—all right,' she conceded tensely. And then, with a trace of malice, 'You usually get your own way, don't you?'
Ben looked as if he would have liked to argue with her, but self-preservation got the better of acrimony. Stepping aside, he indicated that she should precede him into the room. And Jaime did so, unwillingly, overwhelmingly aware of his lean body only inches from hers as she inched past.
Ben followed her into the room, and closed the door behind him. 'Shall we sit down?'
He gestured towards the sofa, but Jaime shook her head, choosing to stand by the empty fireplace instead. Her legs might be unreliable, but sitting down with this man would be an admission of defeat.
'Do you mind if I do, then?' he enquired, and at her curt shake of her head he subsided on to the cretonne-covered arm of the sofa. Remembering how many times she had chastened Tom for doing the exact same thing, Jaime was tempted to protest. But caution kept her silent. The fewer comparisons she made between her son and the Russell family the better.
Ben combed long fingers through his hair now, surreptitiously wiping his forehead as he did so. In spite of her desire to avoid any trace of intimacy, Jaime couldn't help noticing the hectic flags of colour high on his cheekbones. What was wrong with him? she wondered, angry at the surge of anxiety that swelled inside her. It crossed her mind that it could be something more serious than the simple cold she had suspected. But it was nothing to do with her, she told herself. Ben Russell's existence wasn't her concern.
'So?' He was regarding her with a
steady, inimical stare. 'Tell me about it.'
'About what?'
Ben swore. 'Don't play games, Jaime. I'm not in the mood for it. You know damn well what I mean. Now—we can do this civilly, or not. It's up to you—'
He broke off at the end of this to give a racking cough. Shaking his head in a silent apology, he pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, and muffled the sound in its folds. For an awful moment, Jaime thought he was coughing up blood. But the linen remained reassuringly unstained, though her helpless swirl of agitation demanded some release.
'What's wrong with you?'
The words were wrung from her, and as soon as they were spoken she wished she could take them back. She wasn't interested, she informed her struggling ego. The last thing she wanted was for him to think she cared.
Ben shook his head, as if as reluctant to issue any information as she was to hear it. 'It's nothing,' he said, though that patently wasn't true. He shoved his handkerchief back into his pocket. 'I picked up a bug in Mogadishu.'
'Mogadishu?' Jaime blinked. 'But isn't that in—in—?'
'Somalia, yes.' Ben seemed reluctant to expound upon this statement, but Jaime's expression must have persuaded him that something more was required. 'I've been working with the relief agencies there for the past two years. I guess I must have picked it up in one of the camps. Now, can we—?'
'I thought you were living in South Africa I'
Jaime couldn't prevent the automatic rejoinder, and with a weary sigh Ben inclined his head.
'I was. But after Maura died…' he shrugged '… I needed something to do.'
'You had your writing.'
'Political thrillers?' Ben's expression was self-derisive. 'Hardly a reason for living, wouldn't you say?' His lips twisted. 'But we're digressing. And if you're hoping that by talking about my condition you're going to avoid talking about Tom, think again.'
'I wasn't. I—' Jaime felt a renewed sense of indignation '—I was curious, that's all.'
'Curious, hmm?' Ben's observation was dry. 'That figures.'
Jaime looked down at her hands. 'Why have you come here, Ben? My—my life is nothing to do with you.'
'Isn't it?' Ben regarded her through narrowed eyes. 'I might have believed that before tonight. But Tom shot that theory out of the window. God—and I was concerned about the raw deal you'd had at the hands of my family! No wonder you looked so sick to see me.'
Jaime tried to control her breathing. 'How—how did you know where to find me?'
'It wasn't difficult. Your number's in the phone book. You still call yourself Mrs Russell. I never realised how relevant that was.'
Jaime swallowed. 'It's not your concern.'
'Dammit, Jaime, don't say that! For God's sake, why didn't you tell anyone? It can't have been easy supporting yourself, and the boy! Why didn't you let us help you?'
'Us?' Jaime was sardonic now, but Ben didn't respond to her bitter exclamation.
'Philip should have been told,' he said, through clenched teeth. 'God knows, I had no idea he was still seeing you. The last I heard was that you had taken off with some guy you'd known before you and Phil got married. That was why he cut you off without a penny.'
'Oh, no!' Jaime couldn't let him get away with that. 'Philip didn't cut me off without a penny! I did that. I wanted nothing from him! From any of you! I still don't!'
Ben expelled a tired breath. 'All right. All right. Have it your way. You didn't want any help from Philip. But, for God's sake, the kid's his son!'
Jaime's shoulders sagged. What could she say? If she let Ben go on thinking that Philip was Tom's father, would he tell his brother? Would she be expected to allow Philip back into their lives, however casually? She groaned inwardly. How could she let her son associate with a man who…?
'And if I still deny that Tom has any connection with the Russells?' she asked.
'I wouldn't believe you.'
Ben's response was so vehement that she wanted to weep. 'You must know that Philip divorced me,' she began, but Ben wasn't having that.
'He hasn't seen him, has he?' he countered. 'I have. For God's sake, Jaime, why did you do it?'
Jaime turned her back on him. She had to think, she fretted. Never, at any time, had she expected to have to face a situation like this, and she simply wasn't prepared for it. Though she should have been, she argued. It was months since Felix had told her that Ben was coming to live in Kingsmere. But, even so…
'It wasn't because of us, was it?'
She hadn't been aware of him getting up from the sofa, but now the warm draught of his breath against the back of her neck warned her that he had come to stand behind her. Which was disturbing enough, without the shocking reality of what he was saying.
'I—' Her tongue felt riveted to the roof of her mouth, and blind panic flooded her being. Answer him, you fool! she told herself agitatedly, but it wasn't that easy. 'Us?' she got out at last, with just the right measure of scorn in her voice. Moving stiffly, she put some space between them before turning to confront him. 'I don't think even you can believe that!'
She had the satisfaction of seeing the faint contortion of his features at the contempt in her words, but if she thought she could dismiss his question without an answer she was mistaken.
'I think it's what you believe that matters,' Ben declared doggedly, pushing his hands into the pockets of his jeans. The action parted the sides of his jacket, exposing the open-necked shirt beneath, and the low belt riding on his hips.
And, although Jaime wanted to look anywhere but at him, she was forced to acknowledge his unconscious sexuality. He might be thinner than she remembered, and he might look haggard, but his physical appeal was unimpaired. 'Why don't you tell me the truth, for a change?' he persisted.
Jaime's breath caught in her throat. 'And you think—the truth, as you put it, involves you?'
'Oh, stop acting as if you didn't once care what I thought,' retorted Ben harshly. 'All right, it's been fifteen years. I don't need you to tell me that. I've lived every one of them too, you know, and, whatever you think, it hasn't been a picnic!'
'Oh—shame!' Jaime was openly sarcastic now, but Ben didn't even falter.
'You knew how it was,' he persisted grimly. 'You knew I'd never leave Maura. I told you. But that doesn't mean I didn't care about you, about what happened to you. God, you know I did!'
'Oh, stop it!' Jaime's hands clenched. She knew she was handling this badly, but she couldn't let him go on. 'I don't think there's any point in rehashing something that was—that was never anything more than a—a mild aberration, on both our parts,' she declared, hoping she sounded more convincing than she felt. 'I—was going through a bad time, and you were there. I was—grateful. But that's all there was to it.'
'Crap!' Ben's reaction was violent, and before she had a chance to take any evading action he had crossed the space between them, and clamped his hands to her shoulders. 'Don't bait me, Jaime,' he added, his hard fingers biting through the fine material of her dress. 'You might have been able to fool that crazy brother of mine, but I know you. Better than he ever did, I'd say.'
Jaime knew she must keep control here. Events were moving too fast, and the desire to escape those cruel, yet unbearably familiar hands was rampant. She knew she mustn't allow his anger to force her into any unguarded admission. It would be too easy to say something she would later regret. But with the heat of his body only inches from hers, and the raw male scent of his skin invading her nostrils, she was in danger of succumbing to any means to get away.
'Will you let go of me?' she demanded, resisting the almost overwhelming impulse to fight free of him. 'You can't browbeat me into agreeing with you. I'm not Maura!'
It was unforgivable, and she knew it. Throwing his dead wife's name at him like that was indefensible, and she was quite prepared for him to deliver an equally ugly response.
But, to her shame, Ben didn't say anything. He just looked at her, his green eyes searching her defensive
features with stark deliberation. And, as he looked at her, his expression changed, the jade eyes narrowing and darkening in their intensity.
Jaime's resistance wavered. She told herself it was because she felt guilty about what she had said, but deep inside her she knew it was more than that. It might be more than fifteen years since Ben had held her and looked at her in quite this way, but in an instant her awareness of him was threatening to destroy all her hard-won independence.
And, as if sensing victory, Ben's eyes dropped to her mouth, to the vulnerable curve of her lower lip, and the pink tip of her tongue that appeared, and then darted nervously out of sight. His own mouth flattened, and the remembrance of how his lips had felt, moving possessively on hers, was suddenly an almost tangible memory. She remembered the first time he had kissed her as if it were yesterday. She remembered its urgency, and its sweetness; and the foolish belief she had had that he loved her. She had felt so protected in his arms—so safe. Had she ever been either?
But his reaction towards her was changing. She could see it. She could feel it. His hands were no longer bruising her shoulders. Their grip had become gentler, sinuously abrading the cloth, so that the silk jersey rubbed sensuously against her skin. It made her want to tear the garment from her flesh and let his seductive fingers do their worst, and when he looked down at the shadowy hollow, visible between the wrap-over folds of her dress, the blood started hammering in her ears. He was going to touch her; she knew it. Not as he was touching her now, but sexually, intimately, and there was not a thing she could do to stop him…
'He's mine, isn't he?'
The incredulous exclamation was like being doused in cold water. Jaime swayed, momentarily in fear of losing consciousness. Had he really said what she thought he had said, or was it simply a continuation of the crazy fantasy she had been indulging? She blinked, gazing at him through shocked eyes, and his hands, which only moments before had been caressing her shoulders, applied a bruising pressure.
