“And you know you’ll love Bud, and he you, despite other…men?”
“But it’s not that way…. I mean, what you saw yesterday was…harmless….” Suddenly uncomfortable, Patsy moved from the bed again. “And there’s something else,” she began more softly, “I think that we’re all given tests now and then. For Bud and me, these three weeks are a kind of test of our love.” She faced Abby abruptly. “Maybe so for you and Ben.”
“It’s different for us, Patsy. We’ve just met. And we’re not in love!”
But Patsy wasn’t about to accept defeat. “The buds are there,” she teased. “I can see them in your eyes whenever mention of the man is made.” She cocked her head and frowned pensively. “You know, there’s always the chance that, even in spite of the wall he’s built, Ben could change…particularly if you work on him from the inside. Break a few of your own rules here and there. Give in. Accept what he offers and get under his skin. Who knows,” she added on a tempting note, “the prize may well be worth it!”
More than Abby might have expected, Patsy’s words stayed with her during the next few days. There had been a thread of hope in them, and it was to this that she clung quite against her better judgment. If there was no love involved, the thoughts should have been irrelevant, she reasoned. Yet they remained.
She didn’t see Ben again until dinnertime Sunday night, and then he was pleasant, albeit detached. He wore a calm, studied expression, betraying none of the nervous flutterings his presence caused her. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn he’d spent the day fortifying that psychological barrier he’d built; he seemed utterly immune to her.
He politely inquired about her day, then patiently gave a general sketch of his own. Both had been quiet—reading, writing, trying to relax. A small group of jurors had gone to a private movie showing; both Abby and Ben had opted out. Sean had called again, as had Alexandra. Nothing had changed.
Abby’s dilemma weighed heavily on her mind. She seemed to vacillate: I love him, I love him not. On the one hand was good sense telling her she couldn’t possibly be falling in love. On the other was her heart’s gentle palpitation at the very thought of Ben.
She began to regard Monday morning’s resumption of the trial as a welcome rescue from this personal quagmire. When the judges had been seated and the prosecutor stepped forward, however, she had second thoughts.
For Greta Robinson took the stand, commencing an emotionally draining three days of testimony—the young woman’s own account of what had taken place.
Guided slowly, one question at a time, she systematically related the circumstances of her introduction to Derek Bradley three years before, the building of their relationship, their eventual decision to live together. She obediently described her own background, then the lifestyle they’d shared during the year they were together.
Her composure began to slip when she told of having thought she’d been in love but of having been increasingly disillusioned by a host of unkept promises, not the least of which was that of marriage. Recalling the escalation of tension between them, she was clearly shaken. Occasionally sipping from a cup of water, she described the disagreements and arguments that had led to her eventual decision to leave him. That had been three weeks before the alleged abduction.
Nor had those three weeks themselves been quiet ones. The witness testified that the defendant had called her regularly, badgering her, demanding that she return to him. But, having been hurt, she’d been vehement, refusing even to see him.
Very carefully in light of her obvious stress, the prosecutor led her through the course of that day when she’d been forced into Derek Bradley’s car on her way home from work and taken to the cabin in the woods.
It was here that the worst of the ordeal began for Abby as well. Hands clenched tightly in her lap, she listened to what had to be a painful story for any woman to tell, much less have experienced. There were endless days of being bound to a bed while her captor stalked about before her, of being fed bare rations while he ate in style. There were times when she was alone, when he’d disappeared for a full day, leaving her tied and locked in, helpless, terrified. There were threats and there were beatings; she’d finally come to fear for her life.
And what had Derek Bradley wanted? He’d wanted her complete submission to his every wish.
Abby was totally engrossed throughout the testimony, so much so that at one point on Tuesday, when Ben reached out to put a warm hand over her own cold one, she jumped.
“Take it easy,” he whispered soothingly, then shot a glance toward the lawyers momentarily gathered at the sidebar. “Just concentrate on the facts. Remember…the prosecution is counting on your emotional reaction.”
“But Ben, that poor woman is absolutely distraught! How can you not believe her?”
“I’m not saying I don’t. But there’s always the possibility that she’s worked herself up for our benefit.”
“That’s a terribly cynical view.”
“It’s a realistic one. Think about it.”
Hurt by his seeming lack of feeling, Abby looked away. But she did think about what he’d said, and she had to admit, albeit begrudgingly, that he was right. In fact, the more she thought of it, the more she was appalled at herself. Of course each side would try to convince the jury of its own case! And what better way than through an intense emotional portrayal?
It was late Wednesday when Greta Robinson finally left the witness stand. Even the facts alone seemed to have won her the support of the jury, whose drawn looks and very obvious disturbance expressed what words could not.
Counsel for the defense hadn’t spared a thing in its cross-examination, posing one leading question after the next designed to paint the witness as a woman with a history of love affairs gone awry. In Abby’s mind the tactic backfired, possibly because of the lack of conclusive evidence to suggest that the victim had either been consistently troublesome or unnecessarily provocative, more probably because of the way Greta Robinson maintained a humble dignity beneath the defender’s relentless onslaught.
Even Ben seemed deeply affected by the time her testimony finally drew to a close. But much as Abby ached to talk with him, she didn’t dare. For one thing, it was against the judge’s decree. For another, she simply didn’t have the courage to approach him. Shyness…uncertainty…fear…kept her at a safe and objective distance. The resultant sadness was her own very private burden.
Thursday saw a steady stream of witnesses being sworn in, offering testimony, being dismissed. There was a doctor describing Greta Robinson’s physical state when she’d been brought in by police; there was a psychiatrist describing her mental state, as well as the continuing therapy she’d been forced to undergo. Then testimony turned to the tracking down of the defendant, starting with the Boston security guard who’d spotted Derek Bradley entering a downtown hotel, moving on to the police from Vermont who’d taken charge of extradition proceedings. Then began the flow of witnesses testifying against the defendant, citing instances of arrogance, insensitivity, even cruelty.
Fortunately for the defense, court recessed for the day in the middle of this damaging procession. Fortunately for the jurors, the sheriff’s department had arranged for another movie showing that night. This time, fourteen people jumped at the opportunity for diversion.
Unfortunately for Abby, the movie was a love story of the four-tissue type—just what she didn’t need. But it had been this…or brood alone. She’d really had no choice.
She’d taken a seat toward the rear of the small theater; most of the others had scattered nearer the front. It seemed a pattern, she mused in the several moments before the movie began. Deprived of the ability to discuss the case with each other, the jurors often withdrew into themselves. It was a pattern she’d come to understand and accept, even to share. There was only one person with whom she wanted to talk when the weight of the trial bore down on her…and that she couldn’t do for more reasons than one.
He sat several rows behind, slouched in his seat, deep in thought with his hands fisted against his chin. Abby wondered about his feelings but could read nothing in his masked expression.
Patsy, on the other hand, was an open book, more resilient than the others and in this instance more enthusiastic. She’d accompanied Abby into the theater but had settled in a seat near the aisle, in apparent deference to her friend’s pensiveness, when Abby had chosen to move further along.
The lights dimmed and the movie began. Abby found herself easily swept up in the story, a tale of love and betrayal, danger and tragedy in war-torn London. The first of her tears fell for the hero and heroine when they were torn from each other after falling passionately in love. She drew the second tissue from her purse when the horror of war, felt through the personal losses of these two characters, set in. Then, when happiness seemed finally within the grasp of the lovers, only to be cruelly wrenched from them once more, she pressed the third tissue to her lips in grief. At that moment Abby detected movement beside her. Within instants, a comforting arm circled her shoulders.
She recoiled on reflex, but Ben held her firmly, tucking her head back against his shoulder, smoothing tears from her cheeks.
“I’m so embarrassed,” she whispered unevenly.
“Don’t be,” he returned softly but said nothing more.
Nor did she. For whatever reasons he’d chosen to come forward, she selfishly accepted his attention. No promise of fictitious happiness on the silver screen could rival the peace she felt just now.
His strong arm about her was protective; his warmth seeped slowly through her. Little by little it grew harder to concentrate on the movie. Closing her eyes, Abby savored Ben’s nearness. It was as if the dark of the theater allowed for such lapses; she felt no guilt at all.
When Ben’s cheek moved against the crown of her head and his lips brushed her forehead, she opened her eyes to the inevitable fire. It was there; she didn’t need light to see it. It was in the strength of the arm around her, in the ardor of the fingers that spanned the line of her jaw to turn her face upward.
“Abby…” he whispered, then kissed her with every bit of the desire she felt inside herself.
She met him halfway across the buffer zone they’d found. Here, in the darkness, there was thought neither of love nor promise, reason nor impulse. There were only the two of them, incredibly attracted to one another, grasping whatever they could before they’d be wrenched apart again.
“If only we could stay this way,” Ben breathed against her ear.
Unable to answer him, Abby settled for pressing soft kisses to the chiseled line of his jaw. Then, skimming inward along the firm plane of his cheek, she met his mouth for another duel of desire that left them both breathless.
“Oh…babe….” His fingers surged through the thickness of her hair and straddled her ear to hold her still. His lips explored every gentle curve of her face. When his work brought a smile of delight to her mouth, he traced its gaiety with his tongue before plunging into warmer, darker recesses. Then, chest laboring beneath the splay of her fingers, he reluctantly drew back.
“We’d better watch,” he whispered, still holding her but now turning to face forward. Following his lead, Abby focused on the large screen. It held her attention for all of a minute before she grew distracted by the hand that gently caressed her shoulder. Reaching up, she drew it to her mouth and kissed its long, lean fingers one by one. When she released them, they fell against the firm swell of her breast.
Tempted beyond endurance, Ben gave up all pretense of concentration. He faced her again and kissed her quietly, deeply, drawing her as close as the theater seats would allow. Turning her in to him, he stroked the delicate line of her neck, then let his hand inch lower until it found her breast.
It was Abby’s turn to moan then, for his fingers slid over her fullness, teasing her nipple until passion’s current sizzled from that taut peak down through her body to her loins. But satisfaction was impossible. In a moment of frustration, she clamped her hand over his to still the torture.
“You’re right,” she whispered raggedly. “Maybe we’d better watch the movie.” Her body throbbed in testimony to the crisis.
Ben was in a similar state. Straightening with an unsteady sigh, he left an arm as her headrest and took her hand to his lap. “What’s happening?”
“Shhhhhh….”
A new face crossed the screen. “Who was that?”
“I don’t know. I missed just as much as you did!” And she could still barely concentrate because her thoughts were centered on the sinewed length of his thigh beneath her hand. Her fingers shifted slowly, in subtle exploration.
“What are you doing?” he growled by her ear.
“Shhhhhh!” Fortunately they were a distance from all of the jurors but Patsy, and she certainly wouldn’t object to what was happening.
“Abby, I’m only made of flesh and blood…” Ben warned in an urgent whisper.
Flesh and blood…and seemingly miles of muscle. “I know.”
“Not stone, Abby!”
“Shhhhhh!” Her fingers moved toward the inside of his thigh, sheathed in denim and noticeably strained. But at that point he clamped his own hand down to put a halt to her play.
No word was said. Drawing his arm from behind her, he took her hand and held it firmly on the upholstered arm between them. There were no more kisses, no more caresses. Neither did Abby hear a word of the movie’s end.
Rather she thought of how good it had felt to be held again, even now how comforting that he held her hand. She thought of how much she had enjoyed teasing him…though she’d never played that particular game before. But she took pride in the knowledge that she could arouse Ben as much as he did her, that her touch could elicit the fiery response in his body that she very much wanted to elicit.
But where did they go from here? Awareness of the reality of the situation gradually returned, draining the pleasure from her bit by bit. In the background was a musical crescendo leading toward the movie’s triumphant finale; by contrast, Abby floundered. By the time the credits had faded from the screen and the house lights had come up, Ben had released her hand and withdrawn. They’d emerged from the buffer zone.
Cowering from a coolness she didn’t want to see, she averted her eyes from him. In so doing, her gaze fell on Patsy…Patsy and…and…an usher? An usher? They’d been seated beside one another, whispering. A distinct aura of intimacy surrounded them, and both seemed as oblivious to the end of the movie as Abby had been. Now, with the theater suddenly lit, the uniformed man leaned toward Patsy for a final moment before sliding from his seat and disappearing into the lobby. Patsy stared after him.
What was she doing? Abby asked herself in alarm. An employee of the hunting lodge…now an usher at the movie theater? Was it as innocent as Patsy made it out to be…as harmless? Or did the young woman have a definite problem?
Abby, however, had problems of her own. Determined not to look at Ben, she moved over toward Patsy’s side. It was only when she reached the aisle that she realized Ben had gone in the opposite direction…and had vanished, even managing to return to the inn in a different van. He too must have wanted to end the moment there and then, she mused sadly. Or had he?
During that short ride back to the inn, she recalled his words. “If only we could stay this way,” he’d whispered. At the time she’d been too wrapped up in his nearness to pay heed to his thoughts. Now, though, her mind was cool and clear.
“If only we could stay this way.” There had been a sadness in his voice, and it went beyond a physical need. She was sure of that. He was torn! He was no longer able simply to erect a wall and hide behind it. Perhaps that had worked for him in the past. But now…now…he’d gone ahead and scaled that wall for the sole purpose of offering her comfort. He had to have known that he would find no physical satisfaction in a movie theater…regardless of how close they’d come. He’d wanted to be with her. It was as simple as tha
t….
As simple, as gratifying, as…unsettling. For what of her own feelings? It was one thing to second guess Ben’s, quite another to analyze her own. Was she in love with him?
“You’re very quiet,” Patsy half-whispered as the van approached the inn. “Are you…angry with me?”
“With you?” It took a minute for Patsy’s meaning to reach her. “Oh, that? No, no. It’s not my place to be angry. I’m not sure I agree with you…exactly.”
“I saw that Ben came to sit with you.”
Side by side, they walked up the front steps. “Now when did you get a chance to see that?”
Patsy ignored the good-natured barb. “I saw. He’s fighting it, Abby. You know that, don’t you?”
“I think so. I just wish he’d…talk to me about it.” That was one of the things that hurt the most.
An Irresistible Impulse Page 13