by Anne Stuart
Chapter Twenty-Three
« ^ »
It was a long time before Ben stirred, moving away from Rachel to stretch out on his back, head and shoulders propped up against the bunched white pillows, and his eyes met hers for a long, pregnant moment.
She rolled onto her side, lazily, her body warm and tired and completely satisfied. She smiled up at him, a tentative, wondering smile, and a sigh seemed to leave his tense body.
"Come here," he growled, pulling her up against him, cradling her head against his strong shoulder. She settled there quite happily, reveling in the feel of his hand stroking her skin, holding her with a tenderness she wouldn't have thought him capable of.
"I'm not going to forget about Emmett," he said, his voice low and implacable above her ear.
"I know," she whispered.
"You'll hate me even more. " Why was he torturing both of them? he wondered wearily, pulling her slender, warm body closer against his. She'll know it soon enough.
A small shake of her head stirred the hair that flowed across his chest. "No, I won't. I can't hate you, Ben. No matter how hard I try." He felt her mouth move, the light feathering of her lips against his shoulder, and the raw tension that never seemed far away began to fill him again.
He had his choice: He could stay in bed and love her again, keep her there until they were both sated, if such a thing could ever happen, and then love her some more. Or he could get up, put a stop to an affair he should have had the sense to never begin. It was already too late for them—there was no need to compound the damage. He needed to remove her from him, physically and emotionally. To keep her here would only make things worse.
But first he would give in to temptation one more time. No matter that it would only make the parting more difficult, no matter that he was prolonging the agony. Molding her slender body to his, he ducked his head to catch her mouth in a slow, drugging kiss that ripped away the last of their defenses and left him totally aroused once more.
He heard her cry of protest when he pulled away, but he didn't stop, didn't turn, heading into the bathroom without a backward glance. He knew if he did, he wouldn't leave her—ever.
Rachel lay there, bereft, for a long, sorrowing moment. She would have to get used to that feeling, she told herself. No matter how much she loved Ben O'Hanlon, there was no future for them. They both had their blood ties, bound inextricably with the past, stronger even than what they shared. He couldn't sacrifice his sister for her, she couldn't sacrifice her brother for him. They were at a standstill, with nothing but pain on all sides awaiting them.
The linen suit was destroyed, probably beyond repair. She doubted she could ever bear to wear it again anyway, and scooping up the sodden pile from the floor, she dumped it in the wastebasket before padding barefoot out into the living room. She could hear the sound of the shower—Ben shutting himself off from her again. The sunlit sea beckoned, and she didn't even hesitate, walking naked out the front door and down the beach, diving into the sea, welcoming the cold, salty waves with a lover's embrace.
The buoyancy of the sea water was suddenly liberating. No longer was she afraid of jellyfish, sharks, and the myriad other denizens of the deep she had always imagined lurked beneath the blue-green surface, ready to pounce. She dove, she surfaced, she dove again, at one with the elements and the ocean, a naiad reveling in her sea world, filling her mouth and eyes and heart with the water from which all life had sprung. She swam until exhaustion weakened her, and then she struggled slowly back toward the shore.
Ben was waiting for her on the front porch, dressed in faded jeans and a denim shirt open around his hips. She emerged from the sea with unselfconscious grace, tossing her wet curtain of hair back over her shoulder as she moved toward him, no overt sexuality in her nudity, just a clean, healthy body moving freely toward him. He had never wanted her as much.
When she came even with him he smiled faintly. "There's still hot water if you want to take a shower before you go."
She handled it well, not even flinching. She knew as well as he did that she had to leave, and leave soon. She shook her head. "I want to go back to San Francisco with some of Hawaii still on my skin." She knew a moment of regret—she had washed every trace of him from her—she would have preferred to savor the lingering smell and feel of him. She had given it up to the ocean, and yet somehow it was right.
"Get dressed and I'll make us some lunch." He didn't touch her—his hands clenched with the effort not to—and it was only from years of experience at hiding his feelings that he managed to keep his face cool and remote.
A tiny, sad smile lit her face again, recognizing his withdrawal. "All right. Maybe if I hurry we can still make the two o'clock plane."
"We'd really have to push. The three o'clock will be time enough." Or the four o'clock, he thought silently. Or maybe they could snatch one more day. Tomorrow would be soon enough, wouldn't it? Don't be a fool, O'Hanlon. Let her go.
Ben's idea of lunch wasn't much better than the dinner he had cooked the first night she arrived. Dried bread, soggy tuna fish, and damp potato chips wouldn't have enticed even a normal appetite. Ben and Rachel barely touched it.
She was perched on the counter, her long legs swinging freely. Her two dresses were ripped and filthy beyond repair from the vagaries of the last two days. That left shorts, and a loose cotton tunic. It would be freezing when she landed in California, and she couldn't care less. The remembered warmth in Ben's eyes as they lingered over her long, browned legs would dispel the chill.
"You'll tell Uncle Harris good-bye for me, won't you?" she said finally, putting her uneaten sandwich down beside her.
He nodded, his hand reaching for a cigarette. It hovered over the package, then pulled back without taking one. "I'll tell him."
"Are you going to tell him who you are?" she questioned, curious. "He doesn't have any idea, does he?"
"He thinks I'm a small-time swindler named Jake Addams, out for all the money I can get, no questions asked. And no, I'm not going to tell him who I am and what I want. He might try to stop me." His eyes dared her to avoid the flat honesty in his voice. "I'm still going to do it, Rachel." Why did he have to keep reminding her? he thought belatedly. Or was he reminding himself?
"I don't think it's going to matter," she murmured, leaning back against the wall and pulling her bare feet up under her. "Emmett's dead."
"You don't really think that."
"Yes, I do. My heart may not believe it, but my head certainly does. And I think it's time I learned not to trust my heart." Her voice was without inflection, but Ben winced anyway.
"You think he's dead because he forgot your birthday?" he scoffed.
"When you put it that way, it sounds juvenile, but yes, that's part of it. I also think that he wouldn't ignore Henry Emmett and Ariel's death, that he wouldn't just abandon me…" Her eyes met his for a long moment, and then she plunged on, "abandon me to the wolves without a backward glance. He has to know he's heir to the whole fortune—there's been massive publicity and a thousand private detectives looking for him over the past fifteen years and there's never been a trace. He vanished off the face of the earth."
"What makes you think he's heard about the whole mess? He may be living a comfortable life in Connecticut, working on Wall Street and raising two point three children."
A sad smile lit her face. "Five children. That was part of my fantasy; I want lots of nieces and nephews." She shook her head. "No, he's not doing that. He would have heard about it—the case of the missing heir even made the cover of Newsweek. He would have had to be in a monastery to miss it…" The words were barely out of her mouth when it happened. "No," she choked in a barely audible whisper.
"What is it?" She heard his voice from far away, through the sudden roaring in her ears and the blackness that threatened to engulf her. She could feel his hands catching her arms, shaking her, and she looked up dazedly. "What is it, Rachel?" he demanded again, and without thinking she blurted it o
ut.
"In a monastery…" she repeated in shock. "He's Father Frank."
"That's impossible!" Ben snapped, his eyes blazing down into hers with sudden intensity. "You've seen him any number of times in the last few days. How could you have not recognized him?"
She tried to shake off the fog that enveloped her. "I haven't seen him since I was twelve years old. That's a long time for a child. And he had hair to his waist, a full beard, and he was skinny as a rail. Father Frank is cleanshaven, fat and balding. And he's a priest, for heaven's sake. I never even thought of him as a possibility."
Ben's voice was low and deadly, but Rachel was too caught up to recognize the danger. "Rachel, are you sure?"
She looked up then. "Sure? Of course I am. Why do you suppose he never let you and Uncle Harris see him? I may have been too young to remember him, but he couldn't trust you two to be as obtuse." Her voice was filled with bitter recriminations. "Damn him. Oh, damn him to hell."
"When does his plane leave?"
Ben's stillness finally penetrated, and Rachel suddenly was calm. "I won't tell you."
He said nothing for a moment. "You don't need to. It was the two o'clock flight, wasn't it? I still have time to catch it."
She beat him to the car, snatching the keys from the ignition and clutching them tightly in her fist. "No, Ben," she begged. "I can't let you do it. Let him go, please."
"Give me the keys." His voice was cold and implacable, terrifying to a much braver person, but Rachel shook her head.
"No, Ben."
"I don't want to hurt you, Rachel. But I will." He was moving closer, slowly, menacingly. "Give me the keys."
She shook her head again, trying to back away, when one long arm shot out and caught her wrist. He did it quickly, efficiently, grinding her bones together until she cried with pain, dropping the keys into the sand.
There was no regret on his face, no anger, no sorrow. Just a blank, implacable determination. Turning from her, he climbed into the Land Rover and turned the engine on swiftly.
She was beside him in the passenger seat by the time he started moving, clinging for dear life to the frayed and tattered seat. He didn't say a word, didn't look at her, keeping his attention on the twisting highway as he raced down the road.
"You don't really want to do this, Ben, you know you don't," she said calmly, reasonably. "You don't want to hurt me, and you don't even want to hurt Emmett. He's spent the last fifteen years helping people, serving people. Don't you think that atones for whatever sins he may have committed? Krissy's death was an accident, a tragic accident. Emmett didn't set out to hurt her, you know that as well as I do."
The wind was whipping her hair about, the wet strands stinging her face, but she pushed onward, determined to drive some sense into him. "She wouldn't have wanted you to hurt him, you know. She was in love with him. If you hurt him, you'll be betraying her trust, her love for you…"
"Shut up, Rachel," his voice came suddenly, low and feral. "If you don't, I'll push you out of this car."
An answering flare of anger wiped out the last trace of her fear. "You will not. Don't you bully me, Ben O'Hanlon. You may be perfectly willing to destroy my brother, but you aren't going to hurt me if you can help it."
"I'm about to hurt you," he grated, pressing down further on the gas pedal. She hadn't realized the old Land Rover could travel so fast. "I'm about to hurt you quite badly, and I could stop if I wanted to. I don't." His voice was bitter.
And suddenly she knew he would do it. He would destroy both their lives with that one act of vengeance, destroy hers and his own. Father Frank wouldn't survive the circus of publicity, even if the charges were dropped. And the repercussions from the church would be awesome—entering the priesthood under a false name was a definite sin. If he even really was a priest.
"Don't worry, Rachel," Ben drawled viciously. "The Chandler millions will probably be able to buy his way out of any kind of sentence. He'll be free to spend all that money and provide you with your nieces and nephews."
"Then why bother turning him in?" she cried.
"Because there's a chance in a million that he won't get away with it. I have the power of the press behind me; I'll crucify him on every editorial page I can get to. Maybe for once money won't triumph." He cast a sideways glance at her as he slammed into the airport parking lot. "And then you can hate me to your heart's content for what I did to your poor innocent brother."
"Do you think that's why I'm trying to stop you?" she cried. "I don't give a damn about Emmett—or not much of one, at least. He lied to me, he abandoned me—like all the others, like you're about to do. For God's sake, I've only seen him three times in the past fifteen years. I didn't even recognize him when I saw him."
He had paused, halfway in, halfway out of the Land Rover at the beginning of her impassioned speech. "Then why are you going to so much trouble to stop me?" he snapped.
"Because of what this will do to you. To me. To us. It's you that I care about. I don't want you to turn Emmett in because it will destroy us both. Ben, I love you." There were tears of entreaty in her eyes, and he looked down into them for a long, tense moment, disbelief and something else in his hazel depths.
And then he was gone, turning and running into the terminal without even a backward glance. Failure and despair washed over her for a long, numbing moment. And then she was after him, chasing barefoot down the tile-floored corridor, weaving through the chattering crowds of tourists.
She saw the broad back, the familiar, black-garbed figure of the priest at the same time he did. She wanted to scream, "No, Ben," but something kept her silent, doubling her speed. She could feel a sick panic rise in her stomach, anguish ready to burst her heart. She caught up with them just as Ben reached the priest, grabbing his arm and whirling him around to face them.
The strange, bespectacled face stared at them in complete bewilderment. "May I help you?"
Ben dropped his arm. "You're not Emmett Chandler!" He cast an accusing glare at Rachel's pale face.
"No, I'm not. I'm Father Gruning. I'm afraid I don't know Mr. Chandler—I'm new here to the islands. I was just seeing my predecessor off. Is there any way I can help you?" The man was obviously flustered by his sudden encounter, but he managed an affable smile.
"Father Frank has left already?" Rachel demanded.
"Just a few moments ago. I'm sorry, had you planned to see him off?"
Ben's face was grim. "We had hoped to. We had an important message for him."
A relieved smile lit Father Gruning's swarthy face. "Oh, well, that's no problem. He'll be staying over in Los Angeles for a night. We can get in touch with airport security and they'll pass the message along."
Rachel's heart screamed no, but her mouth was silent. She stood there, unmoving, brown eyes huge in her pale, haunted face, and waited for the words to come that would end everything.
Ben stood very still. He could feel the tension and panic radiate from the slender figure beside him, feel her love and despair washing over him in waves. Drowning him, washing him clean of the bitter twist of pain and rage that had eaten away at him for fifteen years. Emmett Chandler had destroyed many lives that day so long ago through his thoughtless idealism. How could he think he was any better when he was about to destroy just as completely and far more ruthlessly?
Krissy was long gone, a gentle, worshipful child who had lived far too short a time. Would she worship him any longer if she knew his unceasing quest for revenge, which he'd self-righteously labeled justice? He doubted it. And somehow, as he tried to conjure up the reproachful figure of his innocent younger sister, all he could see was Rachel, her huge eyes watching him, waiting for him to destroy their lives. And he couldn't do it. Krissy was dead, and it was past time for him to let her go. Rachel was alive, beside him, and the choice was clear.
There was a long, torturous pause. Rachel looked up to see Ben's eyes on her, distant and unreadable. And then his mouth twisted in a wry, self-mocking smile.
"I guess that won't be necessary," he said, taking Rachel's limp hand in his icy one. "I imagine he'll be in touch this time next year."
Father Gruning didn't pretend to understand, just nodded cheerfully. "I'm sure he'll be sorry he missed you."
"I'm not so sure of that," Ben drawled, his grip tightening on Rachel's hand.
"That reminds me… You wouldn't by any chance be Rachel Chandler?" the priest inquired.
"Yes." The word came out strangled and rusty.
Father Gruning beamed. "Well, this is convenient. Father Frank left a package for you. He said to tell you he meant to give it to you yesterday, but he forgot. I have it someplace…" He was rummaging through his pockets, finally coming up with a small, gaily wrapped package no bigger than a pack of cigarettes. "Here it is. Well, that saves me a trip. Though I wouldn't have minded—anything for Frank. We were in seminary together, fourteen years ago, and a kinder, more decent guy I have yet to meet. I'll miss him," the priest sighed, pushing his glasses further up on his nose.
"Did he pay you to say that?" Ben drawled.
Father Gruning looked startled, almost dropping the package before placing it in Ben's large, outstretched hand. "I beg your pardon?"
Ben's smile was faint. "Just kidding, Father. Good luck in your new parish." He turned and moved away, still holding Rachel's numb hand tightly in his.