Читать книгу Dangerous Passions - Линн Грэхем, Lynne Graham - Страница 9

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!’

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 hardwon 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.

‘He is, isn’t he?’ Ben said again, harshly, accusingly. ‘My God! Why didn’t you tell me?’

It was difficult to think, let alone answer him. Jaime felt as if she had been standing on the edge of a cliff and someone had just pushed her over. She had the same feeling of precipitation, of being out of control, of having nothing to hold on to. Dear God, this couldn’t be happening, she told herself. But it was.

‘Mum? Mum? Are you all right?’

The tentative tapping at the door, and Tom’s anxious enquiry brought her to her senses. Even if Ben’s hands hadn’t immediately dropped from her shoulders, Jaime knew she would have found the strength then to escape him somehow. Like a tigress protecting its young, she wrenched open the door, and much to Tom’s surprise—and embarrassment—she pulled him into her arms.

‘Of course I am, sweetheart!’ she exclaimed, only allowing him to release himself with reluctance. But she kept a possessive arm about his shoulders, as she added with unnatural brightness, ‘Your—your uncle was just leaving.’

Her eyes challenged Ben’s to deny that, to repeat the accusation he had just made to her, and run the risk of alienating Tom’s loyalties once and for all. But, of course, he didn’t. As she had hoped—no, known—he wouldn’t. Whatever he thought of her, Tom was the innocent party here, and Ben was far too shrewd to try to expose her to her son without proof.

‘Oh, were you, Uncle Ben?’ Tom asked now, shaking off his mother’s arm, and giving the man a rueful look. ‘Couldn’t you stay and have some supper? I’ve made some sandwiches.’

There was a moment’s silence, which for Jaime seemed to stretch into eternity, and then Ben made his excuses. ‘I’m afraid not, Tom,’ he declined, and although Jaime had been avoiding looking at him she couldn’t prevent an automatic glance at his dark features.

But Ben’s face was unreadable, the green eyes opaque between their thick veil of lashes. Perhaps he looked a little paler than he had done earlier, but she refused to believe that that was anything more than the vagaries of his fever. For he was running a temperature; she was unwillingly aware of that. Though her desire to ensure that he was looking after himself had suffered a distinct relapse in the circumstances.

‘But we will be seeing you again, won’t we?’ Tom persisted, as his mother backed into the hall, and Ben came towards them. ‘I mean, now that you live in Kingsmere—–’

‘Oh, yes.’ Ben’s confirmation was like the death-knell to all Jaime’s hopes. ‘You’ll be seeing me again, Tom.’ He smiled, but only Jaime noticed that it didn’t reach his eyes. ‘You can depend on it.’ He paused, and then added, deliberately, ‘After all, we are family.’

‘Family!’ Tom echoed the word with obvious satisfaction. He grinned. ‘Yes, we are, aren’t we? How about that, Mum? Even if Dad doesn’t want to have anything to do with us, Uncle Ben does.’

Jaime felt physically sick, but she had to say something for her son’s sake. ‘I—I’m sure—Uncle Ben is just being polite, Tom,’ she murmured, making a final bid to appeal to Ben’s humanity. But it was wasted.

‘On the contrary,’ he said, ‘I’m looking forward to showing Tom where I’m going to live. As you probably know, I’ve bought the old Priory, and I’m hoping to move in within the next few days. I’ve had quite a few alterations made, and I’m sure Tom would like to take a look at the gym and the pool-house.’

‘An indoor pool!’ echoed Tom disbelievingly. ‘And a gym!’ He gave his mother a bemused look. ‘Holy shit!’

‘Tom!’

Jaime was glad she could focus her anguish on something other than the man, who was so effortlessly baiting her, but her son was too excited to pay any attention to the reproof.

‘I’ll be in touch with you next week,’ Ben promised, ignoring Jaime, as he passed her on his way to the front door. ‘And apologise to your girlfriend for me, won’t you? Tell her I’m sorry if I spoiled her plans for the evening.’

‘Hey, no sweat,’ declared Tom carelessly, as Jaime exclaimed,

‘He doesn’t have a girlfriend!’ But no one was listening to her.

‘It’s been good to meet you, Tom,’ Ben said instead, pausing at the door. ‘You remind me a lot of myself, when I was young.’ He offered the boy a grin which only Jaime knew was malevolent. ‘See you—both!’

Jaime slept badly, when she slept at all, and she was up at six, making herself a strong cup of tea. Thank heavens it’s Sunday, she thought, as she seated herself at the kitchen table, and wrapped her hands around the cup. She would have hated to have to go into work this morning and face Felix’s inquisitive gaze.

Not that he was likely to know anything about Ben’s visit. Not yet, anyway. But he would want to hear her opinion of the party, and it was going to be incredibly difficult to disassociate one from the other. The whole evening had assumed the trappings of a nightmare, with her own repulsive reaction to Ben’s touch as the final humiliation. She should never have gone to the Haines’s. She should have suspected there was more to it than a simple desire on Lacey’s part to exchange confidences. But was that why Ben had chosen that particular evening to investigate her circumstances? Because he had known she wouldn’t be there to obstruct him?

She shivered in spite of herself. Surely it hadn’t been a concerted effort on all their parts to enable him to talk to Tom alone? she thought wildly. But no. She shook her head. She was getting paranoid. Ben hadn’t even known her son was a Russell until he saw him.

But he had seen him now, she reminded herself tensely. He now knew what she had spent the last fifteen years trying to forget. That Tom was his son, not Philip’s. That, far from being the child of some mythical ‘other’ man, Tom was his own flesh and blood.

Her hands trembled, and she put the cup down with a clatter. He didn’t actually know it, she told herself fiercely. He suspected it. And she hadn’t denied it—yet. But he had no proof. Nor would he have, if she had anything to do with it. But what was the alternative? That he should tell Philip that he had a son? God, no! She couldn’t let him do that. She wouldn’t give Philip that kind of rod to beat her with.

Unable to sit still, when every nerve in her body was screaming for action, Jaime got up from the table and moved to the window. Beyond the narrow panes, the walled garden spilled its fecund beauty, and she tried to calm her clamouring senses in its familiar surroundings. The previous year she had saved enough money to have the central area dug out and block-tiled, and now an upper level of trees and flowering shrubs tumbled over the retaining wall. There was a stone bird-bath in the centre, and a wrought-iron table and chairs, where she and Tom sometimes ate their lunch on summer weekends. It was small, but attractive, and her father had said it was the nicest-looking garden he had ever seen. But then, he hadn’t seen the gardens of the Priory, she reflected bitterly. He was used to beer gardens, and pub yards, and the idea of sowing seeds or cultivating plants came very low on his list of priorities.

Jaime pressed her lips together. It all came down to what you could afford, she thought savagely. Until now, she had thought she had done fairly well by her son. He had been adequately fed and clothed, and given a comfortable roof over his head. And there had never been any shortage of love in his life. On the contrary, she had lavished all the love she had once felt for Tom’s father on his son, making him her reason for living. She hadn’t considered she was depriving him of anything. She hadn’t even thought of the kind of life he might have had as a member of his father’s family. The reasons for doing what she had done had seemed totally justifiable to her. But would they seem so justifiable to her son?

The unexpected sound of Tom’s footsteps on the stairs threw her into a momentary state of panic. She couldn’t talk to him now, she thought, looking desperately around the kitchen—but there was nowhere to hide. In any case, she had to face him sooner or later, and this was no time to be having an attack of nerves.

All the same, she couldn’t help remembering Tom’s ambivalence of the night before. It had been obvious that he couldn’t understand why she should have such a dramatic aversion to his uncle’s visit, and his own excitement at the prospect of pursuing the connection had vied with his usual loyalty towards his mother. The fact that she had refused to indulge his curiosity after Ben had gone had probably only fuelled his interest. She couldn’t remember him getting up this early on a Sunday morning before, and feeling resentful because Tom wanted to see his uncle again was only playing into Ben’s hands.

By the time Tom appeared in the kitchen doorway, Jaime had resumed her seat at the table. It seemed a more natural position to be in, and she assumed what she hoped was a casual expression of surprise as he came into the room. In his striped towelling bathrobe, with his hair rumpled, and the faintest trace of a soft stubble darkening his jawline, he suddenly looked exactly like Ben, and she wondered how she could have fooled herself all these years. Colouring wasn’t everything, she acknowledged ruefully. Tom’s resemblance to his father was more than physical.

But now was not the time to be having thoughts like these, she reminded herself grimly. If she wanted to keep her son’s affection, she had to stop acting as if she had something to hide. She had to learn to play the game Ben’s way—and that did not mean allowing someone who was a virtual stranger to come between them.

‘Couldn’t you sleep?’ she enquired now, but her friendly smile was not reciprocated. For once, Tom didn’t respond to her teasing, and her heart hammered nervously as he flung himself into the chair opposite.

‘Couldn’t you?’ he countered, his blue eyes dark and accusing. ‘You’re not usually up this early either.’

‘Oh—–’ Jaime lifted her shoulders in a dismissive gesture ‘—I was thirsty, that’s all.’ She indicated the teapot. ‘Do you want some tea?’

Tom looked as if he might refuse, but common sense won out. ‘Why not?’ he said, and for all her anxiety Jaime recognised he was not as confident as he appeared. She must stop investing Tom with adult sensibilities, she thought impatiently. He wasn’t Ben. He didn’t have Ben’s access to history. He was just a troubled child who needed reassurance.

Getting up from her chair, she took another cup and saucer from the cupboard, and poured his tea. Then, pushing it across the table towards him, she asked, ‘What’s the matter? Did I do something wrong?’

It was a calculated risk, asking him outright, but she was glad she had taken it when he said, sulkily, ‘I don’t know, do I? I don’t know anything.’

Jaime sighed, resuming her seat. ‘I suppose this has to do with what happened last night, hmm? You want to know why I—why I don’t like Ben Russell.’

Tom looked at her over the rim of his cup. ‘Yes, but you don’t want to talk about it, do you?’

‘I didn’t. Last night,’ conceded Jaime carefully. ‘But I suppose I do owe you some explanation.’

Tom slurped his tea. ‘It’s up to you,’ he muttered, and Jaime pulled a wry face.

‘Well, either you do want to know or you don’t,’ she declared, her own confidence returning. ‘And please stop trying to annoy me. You’re not too old to be grounded, you know.’

Tom grimaced. ‘I am nearly fifteen, Mum!’

‘So?’

‘Oh—–’ it was obvious Tom was losing his enthusiasm for the fight ‘—all right. So you can make me stay in. But that won’t change anything, will it? I’ll still want to see Uncle Ben again.’

Jaime’s lips tightened, but she pressed them together so that Tom wouldn’t notice. ‘Well,’ she said slowly, choosing her words with care, ‘I won’t stop you. But—I think you should know that when—when I was married to—to your father, Ben Russell—assaulted me.’