by Penny Jordan
'Do you think he'll try again?' Miranda tried not to let her fear show in her voice.
'I don't think so,' Ben assured her. 'It would be too risky for him. He won't want to take the chance of people talking, pointing the finger in his direction. His sort never do.'
They had reached the front door, and as Miranda started to open it he touched her arm briefly and repeated, 'I'm sorry about... about tonight. I honestly had no intention when I came here--'
'No. I know,' Miranda interrupted him hastily, adding hesitantly, 'I think we're both mature enough to accept and understand that shock and trauma can cause all sorts of unlikely things to happen.'
She tensed as she realised that Ben was studying the book lying on the hall table. It was the book she had bought earlier in the day in Bath.
'You're interested in interpreting your dreams?' he asked her curiously. Instantly she denied it, fibbing, 'It isn't mine. It belongs to a friend. She left it here.' She was starting to gabble, desperately trying to protect herself. And yet, why? If he hadn't realised from this evening just what kind of effect he had on her, he was scarcely likely to guess that she had bought the book in order to try to find some way of banishing her far too erotic dreams about him, was he?
After he had gone, Miranda went back to the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee which she didn't drink. She then paced restlessly around the room, hugging her arms around her body as she tried to calm herself down. Tonight when she went to bed she was not going to dream about Ben. She was not going to dream about anyone or anything. She was going to sleep.
CHAPTER SEVEN
'WELL, I must say that your father and Helen have been very lucky with the weather.'
'Very lucky,' Miranda responded stiltedly to Ben's comment. Ever since she had discovered that not only had Helen invited Ben to the wedding but that she had invited him to partner her as well, she had been so racked with discomfort that it had turned the day sour for her.
The sunshine which thrilled everyone else had given her a headache. The suit she had bought with so much pleasure had become something over-attention-seeking, a foolish bid to draw Ben's attention to her, and she felt uncomfortably self-conscious in it despite all the compliments she had received. If Helen hadn't asked Ben to partner her...
She gnawed miserably on her bottom lip. She had only found out about that this morning when Ben had telephoned her to ask her what time she wanted picking up. Until then she had had no idea that he was to be anything more than another wedding guest.
She had wanted to tell him that this pairing off of the two of them had nothing to do with her, but her pride wouldn't let her do so. He had already made it clear to her that he wasn't interested in her. If she had realised what Helen was doing...
The service was over, but there was still the reception to get through. It was being held at a country house hotel a few miles outside the town and Miranda, of course, without her own transport, would be obliged to travel there with Ben.
She had been all too conscious of the speculative attention they had been receiving, and now Ben, who had been talking to one of the other guests, turned back to her, and as though he had read her mind he murmured drily,
'I see a couple of your fellow committee members are watching us with avid interest. Are they going to be very disappointed, do you think, when they realise the truth?'
'Quite frankly I neither know nor care,' Miranda lied, flushing as she saw the way his eyebrows rose.
She was behaving like a spoiled, bad-tempered child, she knew, but instead of turning his back on her and ignoring her rudeness Ben frowned and asked with some concern, 'Are you all right? I noticed in the church that you looked pale.'
Yes, she had been pale. Pale with the strain of trying not to imagine that she and Ben were the ones exchanging their vows, here in the quiet coolness of this church where her own parents had married; where she herself had been christened. She was long past the stage of trying to deceive herself any longer about her feelings for him. She couldn't deny them and she certainly couldn't destroy them. She loved him.
'I... I have a bit of a headache,' she told him, avoiding looking at him. For some reason his concern made her want to cry. It would be so much easier to hold him at a distance if he were less warmhearted, less concerned, less nice, she reflected miserably.
'Mm.' He was watching her closely. Too closely, she realised, as she looked up in an unguarded moment and met the warm concern of his eyes before her glance slid desperately away, afraid of what he might see in her eyes.
'You're not...? It isn't...?' He hesitated and then asked her quietly, 'You aren't upset about this marriage, are you?'
It took several seconds for his meaning to sink in, but once it had she responded immediately and vehemently.
'No... no, of course I'm not. I'm not a possessive child, Ben. I'm a woman.'
She knew as she'd said the word that it was a mistake, without quite knowing why. Ben was looking at her, watching her with an intensity that made her heart thud heavily.
'A woman. Yes, you certainly are that,' he agreed slowly. For some reason his words made her flush and rush into nervous speech.
'I'm glad they're getting married. I'm very happy for them, for both of them.'
'So, if it wasn't your father's marriage that was making you look so...so unhappy during the service, what was it?'
She caught her breath. She had never dreamed that Ben might have been watching her, might have been aware... She hunted wildly for something to say, but before she could speak an old acquaintance of her father's came up to her and took hold of her hand, patting it.
'This is a very happy day for your father,' he told her, 'and yet I couldn't help thinking when we were in church about your mother...'
As he left them, Ben said quickly, 'I'm sorry; I should have realised. Of course, you would have been thinking about your mother.'
'Yes, a little,' Miranda agreed, trying not to feel uncomfortable. It was true she had thought of her mother, but only with the knowledge of how pleased she would have been to know that they were happy; but if she told Ben the truth he might keep on pressing her, wanting to know why she had been upset, and she could hardly tell him the real reason, could she? She could hardly blurt out that her misery had been caused by the admission of her love for him and its hopelessness.
The ceremony, the wedding breakfast, the speeches—all of them had gone off very well, everyone agreed as they gathered together outside the hotel to wave the bridal couple off. Miranda's head was still aching, but for Helen and her father's sake she tried not to let it show.
As she went forward to kiss her new stepmother and hug her father, Jeffrey Shepherd said quickly, 'Good heavens, I nearly forgot! Ben was asking me if I could find out anything about a house he's seen and fancied. It's empty at the moment—owner died a while back. I've managed to track down the solicitors dealing with it, the estate wants to sell, and a covering letter plus the keys will be coming through the post in a few days' time, once they've got everything sorted out. Be a good girl, will you, Miranda, and make sure Ben gets the keys as soon as they arrive? He's pretty anxious to have a look at this place.'
Before he could say any more they were being overwhelmed by well-wishers and hurried into the waiting car, while Miranda controlled her exasperation and her curiosity.
Once the bridal couple had gone, everyone else started to leave. Miranda—who had promised Helen she would collect her bouquet and take it home with her, along with the suitcases containing their wedding finery—suggested to Ben that he might prefer her to get a taxi back rather than keep him waiting.
'Not at all,' he told her promptly. 'I'm not doing anything else this evening. In fact--'
He broke off as the vicar's wife came up to them and started chatting to him. Leaving him to it, Miranda hurried back into the hotel to collect everything. As she crossed the lobby and headed for the stairs, she saw Ralph Charlesworth coming down them towards her. It was too late for he
r to take evasive action and so she stayed where she was.
Ralph was swaying slightly as he walked, and as he drew level with her Miranda could smell the spirit on his breath.
'Looking for me, darling?' he leered, making a grab for her but luckily missing.
'No, I'm not,' Miranda told him shortly.
'No, you wouldn't be, would you?' he agreed sourly. 'Got other fish to fry now, haven't you? Well, if you think I'm still going to want you once he's kicked you out of his bed--'
'Everything all right, darling?'
Miranda froze as she heard Ben's voice. As she turned her head, he came up behind her, resting his arm protectively against her back as he confronted Ralph.
To Miranda's relief, Ralph said nothing, but as he walked past them, either by accident or deliberately he pushed into Ben, virtually trying to elbow him out of the way.
'Appalling manners that man has,' another guest commented disapprovingly as Ralph walked away.
'He's obviously had far too much to drink,' his female companion added.
'You OK?' Ben asked her quietly.
She nodded her head. 'Fine. I'll just go upstairs and check that the cases are ready to come down and then we can go.'
'Want me to come with you?'
His thoughtfulness made her throat ache. She had never known before that a man could be both so strong and so tender.
'No. I'll be all right.'
Half an hour later when they were eventually ready to leave, Miranda frowned as she saw Ralph's new Jaguar careering far too fast down the hotel drive.
'Ralph isn't driving is he?' she commented to Ben.
'I'm afraid so. When I went to get the car, he and his wife were in the car park having a row about it. The man's a fool. If he gets stopped by the police... not to mention the danger he is to other road-users. Perhaps I should have intervened, but somehow I didn't think any comment from me would be well received.'
'If I were Susan, I'd have refused to go with him,' Miranda said roundly. As Ben set his own car in motion, she smothered a yawn, her lack of sleep caused either by the hours she spent lying awake thinking about Ben, and worrying about what she suspected was fast becoming a helpless addiction to him, or by the powerfully erotic dreams she had when she did sleep. He was a good driver, making it easy for her to relax in the car. A tape played soothingly as she eased herself back in her seat, closing her eyes. She wasn't going to sleep, of course. Just resting her eyes for a few minutes...
'Miranda.'
The warm male voice whispering her name penetrated her sleep. She had heard it whisper her name so often before in her dreams that her response to it was immediate and effortless.
As she started to wake up, she turned towards it, her mouth curving into a soft smile, her body stretching voluptuously.
'Ben.'
She said his name softly, with the drowsy certainty of the pleasure it gave her to say it, in the same way she had already tasted his skin. Her eyes opened and focused languorously on his face. He was too far away from her. They should have been lying so closely together that when he breathed she could feel the movement of his chest, the exhalation of his breath. She started to frown, ready to chide him for being so distant, and then abruptly her brain realised the truth.
This was no dream: this was reality. Another second and she would have betrayed herself completely, reaching for Ben, telling him... begging him... She shuddered involuntarily.
They were, she realised now, parked outside her house. She had obviously drifted off to sleep and slept for longer and far more deeply than she had realised, hence that disturbing confusion when she had woken up between what was real, and what was merely a product of her over-active dreaming subconscious.
'I'm sorry if I startled you,' she heard Ben saying.
'I'm sorry I fell asleep,' she countered.
'I had intended to suggest that perhaps we might have dinner together, but in the circumstances..
Dinner with Ben? Would her self-control hold up under a strain of that magnitude?
She gave another tiny shiver.
'You're cold. I'd better get these cases inside for you and leave you in peace.'
In peace? Miranda doubted that she would ever know that state of mind again.
'If you give me your keys, I'll go and unlock the door first.'
She wanted to protest that there was no need, that she was not some fragile feminine Victorian maiden in need of cherishing and protecting; but instead she found she was reaching automatically for her handbag and removing the keys.
As she handed them to him, he bent towards her, his fingers brushing hers. She went completely still, her mouth dry, her heart beating frantically and shallowly.
If just such a brief non-sexual touch could affect her so intensely, what would it be like if...?
Betrayingly her glance focused on his mouth, and even more betrayingly stayed there, her own lips parting.
Now he too had gone very still.
'Miranda.'
Something in his voice compelled her to shift her concentration from his mouth to his eyes. They had gone very dark, very intense. The way he was looking at her made her catch her breath and openly give way to the tiny shiver of sensation that gripped her body. There was nothing remotely non-sexual about the way he was looking at her now. In fact... His fingers tightened over hers, hot colour suddenly washing over her skin. He bent his head towards her. She couldn't drag her glance away from his, from the openly sexual message she could read in it.
Her heart started to race, adrenalin flooding her nervous system as her senses responded to the silent messages of his.
When his hand slid into her hair and cupped the back of her head, angling it so that he could kiss her, she didn't try to resist.
When his lips touched hers, she trembled, only just suppressing the desire to curl her fingers into his jacket and hold on to him.
He kissed her gently, as though savouring the texture of her lips, their softness, their warmth; their responsiveness to him.
It was a slow, unhurried exploration, and yet for all that she felt an almost violent urge to press herself close against him, to open her mouth beneath his and invite the deep penetrating invasion of his tongue, to wind her arms around him and...
A frantic sob of terror built up inside her chest as she realised what was happening to her. She drew back from him as though his touch were corrosive, causing the tenderness in his eyes to give way to cool withdrawal.
'I'm sorry,' he apologised. 'I thought--'
'It was my fault,' Miranda interrupted him, her face flaming. She could well imagine what he had thought. After all, hadn't she by her own action virtually invited ... incited... encouraged him to respond to her own desire for him? 'I must go in. I've delayed you long enough.' She was starting to gabble frantically, guilt and embarrassment sharpened by the pangs of longing and love tearing her apart inside.
She didn't look at him as he carried the cases inside for her, nor did she suggest that he might like to stay for a cup of coffee.
When he had finally driven off, she told herself that she was glad he hadn't repeated his invitation to have dinner with him, but long after he had gone, when she really ought to have been doing half a dozen far more practical and essential things, she found that she was standing motionless in her kitchen, remembering how it had felt to have his mouth tenderly caressing her own, and how the sensation that that gentle touch had evoked had made her quiver inside with longing and need. She was even doing it now, the ache in her body intensifying and spreading to such an extent that she almost groaned out aloud. Her fingers touched her mouth and she closed her eyes, torn between helpless despair and frustrated self-anger.
What was she doing to herself, torturing herself like this?
The fact that her father was away and that in his absence she was so very busy should have made it not just easy, but also very necessary for Miranda to shut Ben and her love for him out of her mind completely, but unfortun
ately this did not prove to be the case.
Three days after the wedding, exhausted by repeated dreams about him—in which her treacherous imagination allowed him access to the kind of intimate fantasies which were doing absolutely nothing to reinforce her need to face reality and to accept that, while just like any other man, though he might respond sexually to the wanton provocation of her own desire, he did not and never would share the love she had for him—she finally gave in. After returning from the office, instead of concentrating on the work she had brought home for herself, she picked up the book she had bought on the interpretation of dreams, and started to study it.
What she read in its pages didn't tell her anything she had not already known, although it did have some helpful tips on how to redirect the course of nightmares or unpleasant dreams so that they became non-threatening. Maybe that would work for her: if she mentally tried to substitute another man for Ben, or found some way to redirect their dream encounters so that they became harmless and non-sexual.
It was worth a try at least. She certainly could not go on like this, afraid to go to sleep in case she dreamed about him, growing more and more tired, and with less and less resistance to her dreams when she could no longer force herself to stay awake.
She hadn't seen or heard anything of Ben, and she told herself that she was glad, and yet, when she arrived at work four days after the wedding to discover that the keys had arrived for the property Ben wanted to view, her immediate feeling was one of joy that she now had a legitimate reason to get in touch with him.
However, when several telephone calls and a hesitant lunchtime visit to the house on the High Street had not brought her in contact with him, she confided to Liz that she suspected he must be in London.
As she nibbled tentatively on her bottom lip, she told her, 'The problem is that Dad was most insistent that Ben—Mr Frobisher wanted the keys as soon as they arrived.'
'Well, you could always drive over there and post them through his letter-box if he isn't in,' Liz commented reasonably.
'Mm.' That solution had occurred to Miranda as well, and yet, for all her yearning need to see him, perhaps in fact because of it, she was reluctant to do so. In case he wasn't there, or in case he was?
