Читать книгу Dangerous Passions - Линн Грэхем, Lynne Graham - Страница 13

JAIME wondered later what might have happened if Tom hadn’t interrupted them. Although the idea of Ben taking her against the kitchen unit might sound incredible—unbelievable—in retrospect, the fact was they had both been beyond the point of caring what was proper and what was not. The fine veneer of civilisation had been swept away, and its place had been taken by raw, primitive passion.

But some sixth sense seemed to warn Ben of the moment when Tom decided to come and find out what was going on. In less charitable moments, Jaime would wonder if it weren’t a sixth sense honed by years of living on his wits, but at the time she was just grateful for his quick thinking. Without the speed of his reactions, Tom would have surprised them in what could at the very least be described as embarrassing circumstances, and the thought of having to face her son in such circumstances, after what she had said about Ben, was unthinkable.

As it was, she was still struggling to regain her composure when Tom appeared in the kitchen doorway. The fact that Ben had put the width of the room between them before her son could suspect their behaviour was really not enough. Jaime was still reeling from the effects of Ben’s lovemaking, and, although she strove to suppress it, part of her ached from the suddenness of his withdrawal. She noticed that, although Ben appeared to have regained control of his senses, he had dragged his shirt out of his trousers, and thrust his hands into his pockets. The realisation of why he had done so hit Jaime with some force, and a guilty wave of colour stained cheeks that were already burning.

‘Hey…’ Tom’s gaze flicked between them with some concern and, for a second, Jaime thought he had guessed what had occurred. But, happily, her son was still too young to jump to what Jaime believed was a fairly obvious conclusion. Because he had never been exposed to a normal family relationship, Tom still regarded sex as something his generation had discovered, and the idea that his mother might succumb to uncontrollable impulses simply didn’t occur to him. ‘Have you two been fighting over me?’

Jaime heard the breath Ben expelled, and then he straightened his spine with a definite effort. ‘We’ve been—exploring—possibilities,’ he said, and only Jaime understood the real significance of that remark. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

‘Is that right?’ Tom turned to his mother. ‘Is it?’

Jaime ran her damp palms over her cheeks. She had to get control of herself, she told herself severely. But her brain felt scrambled, and it was difficult to even formulate a coherent response.

‘I—yes,’ she got out at last. It was letting Tom off the hook, she knew, but just at present she wasn’t in a fit state to take him on.

‘You mean, you’ve sorted things out? About my going to see Uncle Ben?’ Tom could hardly believe his luck. ‘Hey, magic!’

Jaime checked the hair at her nape, and then allowed her hands to slide down the sides of her breasts. It was only when she saw Ben watching her that she realised her actions could be regarded as provocative, and as she twisted her hands together at her waist she realised her body was as shameless as his. But, unlike him, there was no way she could hide the evidence.

‘I—think what your mother’s saying is that she’s forgiven you this time,’ Ben declared, his gaze shifting abruptly to the boy. ‘That’s not to say you should do such a thing again. Not without asking her first, I mean. But I think your mother and I understand one another better now.’

Do we?

Jaime was tempted to dispute that. As her brain cleared, and sanity returned, all the old fears and resentments she had felt towards Ben were rekindled. How dared he stand there and presume to tell Tom what she was thinking? Did he see what had happened as proof of the power he still had over her? Didn’t he realise she could only despise him for taking advantage of her—again? Just because he had proved she was sexually vulnerable didn’t mean he could manipulate her at will.

‘Where’s Angie?’ she asked, deciding she couldn’t deal with that right now, and the crispness of her tone was obviously a surprise to both of them.

‘Um—she’s gone home,’ Tom murmured, the confidence he had shown a few minutes earlier withering in the coolness of her appraisal. ‘Is—er—is Uncle Ben staying for dinner?’

You wish! thought Jaime bitterly, but she managed to contain her contempt. ‘Not tonight,’ she replied smoothly, allowing Ben to take that any way he wished. ‘Perhaps you’d like to see him to the door? He was just leaving.’

Tom’s jaw clenched. ‘Does he have to?’

‘Yes, he does,’ Jaime was beginning irritably, when Ben himself came to her aid.

‘Yes, I do,’ he confirmed, tucking his shirt back into his waistband with an enviable lack of self-consciousness. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve got some people coming to supper this evening, and it wouldn’t do if the host had already eaten, would it?’

His attempt at humour didn’t really mollify Tom, however, and although she hadn’t thought about it earlier Jaime couldn’t help noticing that Ben was looking distinctly strained. Her mother shouldn’t have repeated the gossip about him, she fretted impatiently. Ben wouldn’t like to think people were talking about him, she was sure of that, and, for all his faults, she had never known him to show any serious concern for his health. So why should she?

Nevertheless, the curtness of her farewell was as much an acknowledgement of the unwelcome anxieties he aroused inside her as an indication of her mood. She was uncomfortably aware that she hadn’t even asked him how he was, and even if she told herself she didn’t care she knew she really did. It was a frustrating anomaly that she could hate him for the way he had treated her, and yet still worry about some probably exaggerated complaint he was supposed to be suffering.

As Tom saw him to the door, Jaime pretended to be too busy to accompany them. She didn’t need to hear the proprietorial note in Ben’s voice to know that she hadn’t seen the last of him. He would be back, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

Unwillingly, she found herself wondering who he had invited to supper at the Priory. She wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t felt some curiosity about his visitors, and she was aware that the prospect that at least half of them would be female nibbled away at her fragile composure. She didn’t care that they were women, she told herself crossly. What had happened between her and Ben this afternoon had proved to her, once and for all, that he was totally unscrupulous, totally selfish. And here she was, worrying about his health, while he did his best to ruin it.

Tom’s return thankfully curtailed thoughts of that sort, but his expression was not encouraging. He stood, leaning against the door-frame, with a definite look of resentment on his thin, good-looking face. Jaime surmised he was wondering how she was going to respond, now that he didn’t have Ben to back him up, but in this—as in so many things, she thought laconically—she was wrong.

‘What happened?’ he asked, after a few seconds, and Jaime’s brows ascended in sudden surprise.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Between you and Uncle Ben?’ said Tom offhandedly. ‘He—he didn’t—hurt you, did he?’

‘Hurt me?’

Jaime was glad she had taken the potatoes out of the cupboard in his absence, and was consequently able to concentrate on the task of scraping them instead of holding her son’s troubled gaze.

‘Yes.’ Tom pushed himself away from the door, and came further into the room. ‘The way you said he did before.’

‘I—–’ Jaime swallowed. ‘When did I say that?’

‘Well, you said he assaulted you once,’ Tom reminded her gruffly. ‘And when I came in just now it was obvious something had been happening.’

Jaime sighed, feeling a rising sense of indignation as she did so. Why couldn’t Tom have voiced these deductions while Ben was here to deal with them? she wondered exasperatedly. Why couldn’t he have put his ‘uncle’ on the spot, and not her?

‘All right,’ she said, attacking the potato in her hand with unmerited savagery, ‘we did—have words.’ Words! ‘What did you expect?’

Tom hunched his shoulders and pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘You really don’t like Uncle Ben, do you?’ he muttered. ‘I don’t know why. It wasn’t his fault that Dad walked out on us.’

‘No.’ Jaime dropped the mutilated potato into the water, and groped about for another. ‘And I’m not saying you shouldn’t see him again. Just—don’t expect me to encourage you.’

Naturally, that wasn’t the end of it. Although Tom wasn’t happy with Jaime’s attitude, he was still too young to hide his feelings. The events of the afternoon had been too exciting to ignore, and in spite of her feelings he spent a good part of the evening that followed describing what he had seen and what he had done.

Jaime told herself she wasn’t interested in the renovations Ben had made to the Priory, that Tom’s descriptions of large rooms, opening one from another, meant nothing to her. But she couldn’t close her mind to his words. The images they evoked were inescapable and, although she said little, Tom was determined to share his excitement.

Perhaps he hoped that by talking about his afternoon he could persuade his mother that Ben was not the ogre she appeared to think him. He might even have imagined that she would become intrigued, and show some curiosity about the place herself.

But, in spite of a wilful stirring of her emotions, Jaime succeeded in remaining impassive, and it wasn’t until Tom had gone to bed that the enormity of what was happening washed over her. Tom’s words, his admiration, his innocent response to his first taste of what it was like to be rich, reminded Jaime so much of herself, of the way she had behaved over fifteen years ago. Like him, she had been overwhelmed by the trappings of wealth and influence, seduced by the idea of sharing that kind of life.

She had been eighteen when she met Philip Russell. He had come into the bar one night with a group of young people who were all staying at the old Priory. The Dunstans had owned it in those days. Sir Peter Dunstan had been a retired military man whose second, and much younger wife was constantly giving house parties for her London friends.

It had been Christmas Eve, Jaime remembered, and she had been home after completing her first term at university. She had intended to take a law degree, but of course that had all gone by the board when Philip came on the scene. She had liked him at first sight, and she had been absurdly flattered when he’d shown the feeling was mutual.

Her feelings had been understandable, she thought now, despite the shiver of revulsion that slid down her spine. He had been a good-looking man, with none of the loud-mouthed brashness of the other members of the group. He had seemed shy, retiring, with them, and yet not quite one of them. Jaime had actually sympathised with him, and Philip had responded to her encouragement.

And, during the months of their courtship, Jaime had had no reason to doubt her first impressions. On the contrary, he had always treated her with consideration and respect, and, unlike the boys she was used to going out with, Philip had never attempted to get her into bed.

Naturally, Jaime had appreciated the advantages his independent means had provided. As the elder son of an undoubtedly wealthy family, Philip had only played at working. He sat on various boards, and attended occasional meetings, but most of his time was spent in frivolous pursuits. He enjoyed skiing, and sailing, and shooting in the season. He enjoyed driving, and had several expensive cars garaged below his penthouse apartment in Belgravia. He was a typical gentleman— or what Jaime presumed a gentleman should be—and, if her mother and father hadn’t exactly approved of the relationship, they, too, had profited from the association.

Of course, his mother and father had openly disapproved. Philip had taken her once—and only once!—to meet his parents, at their home in London. It had been a disaster. Another young woman had been present, whom Jaime was left in no doubt had been expected to become Mrs Philip Russell, and what with her—Jaime’s—nervousness, and Philip’s embarrassment, the visit had been a nightmare.

Looking back, she realised that Heather—yes, that had been her name: Heather Sanders—had had a lucky escape. She could have had no idea of the kind of man Philip was, any more than Jaime. To all intents and purposes, he was a paragon, and that was why Jaime had considered herself so fortunate.

Oh, the enormous diamond ring he had bought her on their engagement, and the Porsche, which he had told her would be waiting for her when they returned from their honeymoon, had helped. She wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t been excited at the prospect of marrying such a wealthy man. All her friends thought she had been immensely lucky, and she had basked in their envy right up to the wedding.

The knowledge that Ben Russell was Philip’s brother had been an added bonus. She hadn’t met him in the months leading up to the wedding, but she had seen him on television. At that time, Ben had been working for the BBC, and it had been something else to brag about—that her future brother-in-law was such a famous face.

How young she had been, thought Jaime bitterly. How naïve about life, and men. She had thought she knew it all, when in fact she had known nothing. Not about life, or emotions, or, most particularly, about the man she was planning to marry.

They had been married in the small church where Jaime had been christened, and where she had taken her first communion. In spite of the absence of most of the members of Philip’s family, it had not been a small wedding. The fact that her father was the licensee of the Raven and Glass ensured that the church was full, and it was not until they were greeting guests at the reception that Jaime realised Philip’s brother had attended. He hadn’t been best man. One of Philip’s friends from London—a man Jaime had never met before—had performed that duty, and when the tall dark man stepped in front of her she had had no premonition of the role he was to play in her life. On the contrary, her initial reaction had been one of apprehension. She had recognised him, of course. How could she not? But she had been wary of his intervention when Philip introduced them.

She hadn’t needed to be. Ben hadn’t come to scorn or cause trouble. Looking back now, she realised it had been kind of him to come at all. He hadn’t had to. Certainly his parents had felt no such compunction. Apart from a few of Philip’s friends, the majority of the guests were from Jaime’s side of the family, but by putting in an appearance Ben had tacitly endorsed the occasion on behalf of the Russells.

For which she had been grateful, Jaime admitted wryly, remembering how proud she had felt when he’d stood and talked to her. Ben had a way of giving someone his whole attention when they spoke, and she couldn’t deny she had been dazzled by his friendly personality.

His wife had not been with him. At age twenty-four, Ben had already been married for three years, but the elusive Mrs Russell preferred to remain in the background. Or so Philip said, when she asked him. Of course, that was before they left on their honeymoon, before other considerations swept such paltry cares aside.

It had taken Jaime just twenty-four hours to realise she had made a terrible mistake. Twenty-four hours, during which time she realised she did not know Philip at all. The shy, sensitive man she thought she had married didn’t exist. The man who had taken her to bed in his apartment was a monster, and she couldn’t believe the way he had treated her.

Oh, the following morning, the morning they were due to leave for their honeymoon in Bermuda, Philip had apologised profusely. When he saw the bruises on her face and neck—bruises that were repeated on her body, but were not all, thankfully, visible—he was contrite. It was the champagne, he said. He had drunk too much; he hadn’t known what he was doing. She was so beautiful, he groaned, she had gone to his head.

Jaime hadn’t been convinced. She was not that naïve. But she was his wife, they were married, and the idea of telling anyone else what had happened was not a viable proposition. After all, what if he was right? What if the champagne had gone to his head? How could she revoke her vows after only one night?

Luckily, the worst of the bruises were on her neck, and a scarf, twisted into the collar of her blue silk travelling suit, did not look out of place. For the rest, a rather heavier foundation than usual proved invaluable, and when they boarded the plane and took their seats in the first-class compartment Jaime succeeded in fooling herself that it was all going to be all right.

And Philip was his usual charming self. He spent the whole trip ensuring that she was comfortable, that she had everything she needed, and describing their destination so enthusiastically that Jaime couldn’t help feeling a sense of anticipation. He had been so successful in soothing her fears that by the time they landed on the chain of islands, which were strung together with causeways to form the delightful colony of Bermuda, Jaime had convinced herself that what had happened the night before had been just an aberration.

They didn’t stay at a hotel. Philip’s parents owned a villa, and although they might not have approved of the marriage they had agreed to allow the young couple to use the colour-washed cottage that overlooked an unblemished stretch of coral sand.

It should have been heaven, but for Jaime it became a living hell. No matter how considerate Philip might be to her during the day, she could only think of the nights, and the fact that her worst fears had been realised. She had sometimes wondered if Philip’s parents had known of his sexual perversions before the wedding. That would account for their apparent generosity in lending them the cottage. There was no way she and Philip could have stayed at a hotel without someone noticing Jaime’s distress. Besides, how would he have explained her swollen face, or the dark discolourations on her body?

As it was, she had counted the days until they could go home. Home meant England, and the chance to escape from this mockery of a marriage. She didn’t care now what her friends thought, or how humiliated she would feel to have to admit what had happened. She only wanted her freedom. To never have to see Philip again.

Strangely enough, she didn’t tell Philip how she felt. Not then, at least. Something, some subconscious knowledge, perhaps, warned her not to confront him until she was back on her own ground. She didn’t think he was mad. Most of the time he was too obscenely normal, treating her with such sickening sweetness that she wanted to vomit. But she was afraid of him, afraid of the power he had over her here, far from the protection of her family.

Then, the night before they were due to fly back to England, Philip told her what he would do if she ever told anyone what went on between them. He had friends, he said—friends she wouldn’t like to know. He was not specific, but Jaime was left in no doubt as to what might happen if she attempted to leave him. He loved her, he said, and the ignominy of that remark was a small indication of how abnormal he was. He didn’t love her. He didn’t know the meaning of the word. But he wanted her, and he would do anything he had to do to keep her. And what she had hoped was just a term of detention became a life sentence.

Jaime closed her eyes now, as the horror of that evening in Bermuda surged over her again. She had lost control, of course. As he had probably guessed she would. He had chosen his time deliberately, and all the pain and humiliation of the last two weeks had burst out of her in a desperate flood of recrimination. She didn’t remember what she’d said. But despair had made her reckless. This might be the last chance she had to say what she thought, and her anguish and agitation had sent her clawing for his face.

It wasn’t until she saw the glittering sensuality in his eyes that she realised he was actually enjoying her assault. He was a big man—almost as tall as Ben, and more heavily built. He had fended her attack quite easily, and there had never been any danger of her doing him any permanent damage. On the contrary, she had seen, to her dismay, that he was quite violently aroused, and when he ripped her clothes from her, and flung her on the bed, he climaxed almost as soon as he thrust himself inside her.

Jaime didn’t see her parents for two weeks after their return from that parody of a honeymoon. Philip made sure her face revealed no betraying bruises when he drove her down to Kingsmere for a visit. To all intents and purposes, they were an ideal couple. Both young, and tanned, and happy—as one would expect after spending two weeks in the sun.

If Jaime’s eyes were a little hollow, and her clothes seemed a little loose on her tall frame, it was assumed that she and Philip had been burning the candle at both ends. Certainly, she did her best to ensure that her mother and father had no reason to suspect otherwise. She didn’t trust Philip not to involve them should she become a problem, and she had come to the painful realisation that she had to live with her mistakes.