by Anne Mather
Or hadn't wanted to see, she reminded herself sharply. It was much easier to deal with strong emotions than cope with the insidious wiles of gentler ones. She didn't want to like Ben. She didn't want to see him as Maggie was seeing him, or admit that she was as interested in his work as anyone else at the table. He was Philip's brother, she told herself. He had seduced her, and betrayed her. He had left her expecting his child, and gone off to Africa with his wife. The fact that he hadn't known she was expecting his child was irrelevant. He had made it clear he had no intention of divorcing his wife for her, and Jaime had refused to use her condition to attempt to change his mind.
They had coffee in the drawing-room, by which time Jaime had convinced herself that any interest she had had in Ben's reminiscences had been spurious. She told herself it had been a combination of the food and the wine—particularly the wine—and the easy ambience of the conversation that had breached her guard and tumbled her defences. She didn't really care how Ben had spent the last fifteen years; nor did she want to think of the life he and Maura had led together. The insidious image of Ben stretched out on a bed with the other woman, making love to Maura, as he had once made love to her, could still strike a stabbing chord in her memory. She might not want to admit that this was so, but time—and bitter experience—couldn't always take away the pain.
'So—isn't this nice?'
Having served her guests with coffee, Maggie seated herself on the sofa beside Jaime. She was evidently delighted that the evening had not turned into the disaster she had half expected, and Jaime felt a twinge of sympathy for her. Now that it was almost over, she could imagine how her friend must have felt when Ben had arrived on her doorstep. Although Maggie didn't know the whole story, the fact that he was Philip's brother must have filled her with dismay. After all, she wouldn't have wanted to spend the evening with Felix's brother, particularly if her association with his family had been as acrimonious as Jaime's with Philip's.
'You must give me the recipe for that orange sorbet,' Jaime murmured now, eager to keep the conversation to impersonal matters. 'I don't think I've ever tasted anything more delicious. Where did you find it?'
'Oh—I got it out of some magazine or other,' exclaimed Maggie modestly. 'I wouldn't like to say which one. I buy so many.'
'Maggie's a magazine-addict,' put in John Fellowes drily. 'The local church does famously out of her contributions to its jumble sales.'
'Well, I have to do something,' she protested. 'I don't read—well, not books, anyway—and I don't like gardening. I'm not like Jaime. I don't—have…'
And then, shaking her head, she faltered to a stop. Her cheeks were pink with confusion, and it was obvious what she was thinking. She had realised that what she had been about to say could embarrass her guest, and rather than go on with it she got up and offered more coffee.
But it was too soon, and they all knew it, and as if to rescue the situation Ben said quietly, 'I'm sure we all have vices we're not too proud of. I know I do.' He looked at Jaime. 'Don't you agree?'
But Jamie had had just about as much as she could take for one evening. 'I think I ought to be going,' she said, instead of answering him, dragging her gaze away from his, and addressing Maggie. 'Um—Tom will be home soon, and I don't like him going into an empty house.'
'Of course.' Maggie didn't argue, probably as relieved to break up the party as Jaime was. 'I'll go and call you a cab. I wonder if it's still raining.'
'There's no need to call Jaime a cab,' Ben inserted swiftly, getting to his feet. 'I'll take her home.'
'Oh, no—really…'
Jaime's anxious gaze flashed from Maggie to Ben, and back again. If only she had insisted on bringing her own car, she thought desperately. As it was, unless Maggie could come up with some significant excuse why Ben shouldn't take her home, she had no valid reason for refusing. It wasn't as if she felt the slightest bit woozy. The tension of the last few minutes had sobered her more completely than several cups of Maggie's strong black coffee could have done.
'Do you think it's wise to risk driving across town and back again when you've been drinking, Ben?' Maggie ventured now, revealing she had interpreted Jaime's message loud and clear. 'I mean, that's why Jaime didn't bring her own car. They're very strict about these things nowadays. Not like before you went to Africa…'
'I don't think what Ben's drunk this evening would put him over the limit,' the old doctor remarked consideringly, and Jaime wished, rather unfairly, that he would keep his nose out of her affairs. 'Besides, you'll wait hours for a taxi on a night like this. You know how busy they'll be.'
'Thank you, John.'
Maggie's sarcasm was lost on him, however, and although she accompanied her words with a killing look it was too late. The damage was done. Jaime had to choose between letting Ben take her home—which surely couldn't be as harrowing as she was anticipating—and staying here, at the mercy of his edged comments, for a possibly indefinable period.
'Well,' she said, clearing her throat, and the admission almost choked her, 'if—if Ben—doesn't mind…'
'My pleasure,' said Ben smoothly, sliding his hand into his jacket pocket, and pulling out his car keys. 'It's been a very pleasant evening, Maggie. I hope you'll forgive me if I curtail it a little.'
'Of course.' Maggie looked unhappily at Jaime. 'If—er—if it weren't for Tom, you could have stayed the night.'
'But there is Tom, isn't there?' Ben put in, before Jaime could say anything. 'And Jaime takes her maternal duties very seriously, don't you?' His eyes challenged her to deny it. 'So—shall we go?'
CHAPTER NINE
Ben's car was the Ford Sierra, and he insisted on fetching it to the door so that Jaime could just run down the steps and get inside. It was still raining, and drops of moisture sparkled on Ben's hair as he leaned across the passenger seat to open the door for her.
'I'll ring you next week,' Maggie called, as Jaime got into the car, and she stood at the door, waving, as Ben swung the vehicle round in a half-circle and down the waterlogged drive.
It really was a filthy night. The rain was coming down in sheets, and the wipers had to work overtime to keep the windscreen clean. But it also narrowed Jaime's world to the heated confines of the car, and she couldn't help but be aware of Ben's lean frame only inches from her own.
Not that Ben was showing any interest in her. His attention was focused on the road ahead, and she was annoyed with herself for allowing his presence to disconcert her in any way. He was giving her a lift home, that was all. And judging by the slickness of the road she ought to be grateful she was not having to put her safety in the hands of some untried driver.
Nevertheless, she was aware of him. Her eyes were drawn to the hands handling the wheel so expertly, and the narrow wrists that emerged from the sleeves of his jacket. Was his skin warm? she wondered, her tongue lingering at the corner of her mouth. How was he adapting to this much cooler temperature, after so many years spent in a tropical climate? That was one thing he hadn't spoken about; that, and his wife.
She tore her eyes away, and tried to concentrate on the night outside. They were crossing the town now, and, as Dr Fellowes had said, there were plenty of people waiting for taxis. It probably would have been next to impossible to get one of them to come out to Maggie's house during the next hour or so, and her reluctance to accept this ride seemed extremely churlish in retrospect.
'I—didn't know you knew Dr Fellowes,' she murmured, feeling obliged to make some recompense, but loath to thank him outright, and Ben shrugged.
'You don't know much about me at all,' he responded, and his tone was as cool as hers now. 'Is it important?'
Jaime sighed. 'Not—not intrinsically, no.' She paused, and the disturbing memory of what her mother—and Tom—had said reared its ugly head again. 'Are—are you a patient of his?'
Ben slowed at a junction, and scanned the road ahead. 'I think that comes under the heading of a personal question,' he replied shortly. 'Are you?'
'Am I what?'
'A patient of Fellowes'.'
Jaime was confused. 'What has that got to do with anything?'
'Exactly.' Ben accelerated along Gloucester Road. 'Whether or not I'm a patient of John Fellowes has nothing to do with you.'
Jaime held up her head. 'I—I—was—'
'Curious?'
'No.' Jaime was indignant. 'I was—concerned.'
'Oh, come on.' Ben cast her a sardonic sideways glance. 'I think I've got the picture of what you think of me, and "concerned" doesn't come into it.'
'That's not true.' Jaime spoke rashly, and then struggled to justify her words. 'I mean—naturally, I'm concerned if—if you're ill—'
'Because you have Tom to consider, right?' Ben sounded bitter. 'You don't want him associating with me if I'm incubating some awful unsociable disease—'
'I never thought of that!' Jaime gazed at him defensively. 'I—I wouldn't dream of stopping him associating with you, because I might think you—you—'
'Had Aids?' he supplied grimly, and Jaime felt as if someone had sucked all the air from her body.
'If—if that's what's wrong with you,' she got out unsteadily, 'I—I know you wouldn't do anything to harm your own son.'
Ben's lips twitched. 'Isn't it rich!' he grated savagely. 'I have to threaten to be dying before you'll admit that Tom's my son!'
Jaime's throat constricted. 'You're—you're not dying,' she protested, realising how devastated she would feel if he were. 'There—there are experiments going on, treatments you can have…'
'If I had Aids,' agreed Ben flatly, bringing the Sierra to a halt, and Jaime saw with some astonishment that they had stopped outside her house. She hadn't been aware of anything for the last few minutes.
'If you had Aids?' she ventured blankly, and Ben gazed at her with a scornful expression.
'Yes,' he said evenly. 'I'm sorry to disappoint you, but I managed to avoid contracting any real life-threatening infections while I was in Africa. You'll have to save your dubious sympathies for some other poor sod, hmm?'
'You—pig!'
All the pent-up emotions of the evening exploded in a sudden surge of violence, and Jaime's hand connected heavily with his cheek. She knew it must have hurt him. Her own fingers stung quite painfully, and she was half prepared to admit she hadn't intended to hit him quite so hard. But, before she had a chance to make any kind of apology, Ben's hand circled the back of her neck, and he yanked her towards him.
'If that's the way you want to play it,' he muttered, before his mouth met hers, and although she tried to resist him he was much, much stronger than she was.
Besides, the line between anger and desire was a fine one. Anger was passion, and the whole evening had been one of suppressed emotion, of one sort or another. When Ben took hold of her, when his hard fingers dug into her nape, and his angry mouth found hers, instinct took over. She wanted to sustain her feelings, she wanted to despise him for allowing her to even think he might be dying; but those same emotions got in the way.
His mouth on hers was so insistent, savage at first, and then achingly persuasive. His tongue against her lips was hot and wet and persistent, and, although she held out for a few moments, he eventually coaxed her lips to part.
'We—we can't,' she gasped, when his tongue plunged into her mouth and she felt his hand gripping her thigh below the short skirt of her suit. 'Ben, someone might see us!'
His lips dragged across her cheek. 'You mean Tom, don't you?' he exclaimed harshly against her ear. His teeth dug painfully into her earlobe. 'Why don't you admit it?'
'I—all right,' she stammered, covering the hand that was sliding insistently along her thigh with both of hers. 'I mean Tom. I—won't do this to him.'
'Do what?' Ben lifted his head to look down at her, and in the muted light from the streetlamps his expression was vaguely menacing. 'Tell him the truth for once?' he taunted scathingly. 'Admit that you were once human enough to need a normal sexual relationship with a man?'
'With a married man,' Jaime reminded him tensely, and Ben made a sound of impatience.
'A man who cared about you just as much as you cared about him,' he retorted roughly. He looked down at her paltry attempt to stay his hand, and deliberately proved how useless that was. 'Don't try to stop me, Jaime,' he muttered, moving his hand beneath the hem of her skirt. 'You wouldn't succeed, and we both know why.'
'No.' Jaime twisted her head from side to side. 'Ben—please!'
'I will,' he promised unsteadily, and any further protest she might have uttered was stifled by the hungry pressure of his mouth.
Jaime's head swam. She tried to tell herself it was the celibate life she had been leading that was making her so vulnerable to his demands, but it wasn't that simple. The truth was, Ben was the only man who had ever made her feel this way, and when he cupped her face between his hands, and pressed her back into the seat, she clutched his neck with trembling fingers.
Ben's kiss lengthened and deepened. His tongue possessed her, filling her mouth with its hot, wet invasion. She felt weak, and breathless, dizzy with the need to keep some hold over a situation that was rapidly moving out of control. His jacket was open, and the warm male smell of his body filled her senses. His heart was hammering, matching hers for speed, and when her arms slid round his neck, and her breasts pushed against his chest, he uttered an anguished groan.
'Oh, God!'
The shuddering breath Ben gave, as he hauled himself back from her, was an indication of the effort it had taken. Slumping in his seat, he raked back his hair with hands that were shaking rather badly, pulling at his collar that suddenly seemed too tight.
Jaime's reactions were slower. Ben's withdrawal had been so sudden that she half expected to find Tom peering at them through the misted windows. But they were still alone. The rain had kept most people indoors, and the condensation on the car windows still gave them a flimsy kind of privacy. Which meant it had been his decision to put an end to the embrace, and humiliation washed over her, hot and shameful.
As she struggled up in her seat, Ben's sardonic, 'I rest my case,' was the final straw. But, when she would have thrust open her door and scrambled out, his hand caught her wrist. 'I'm sorry,' he muttered, and, although it would have been easier to tell him to go to hell, Jaime was tired of running away from her problems.
'Just—stay away from me in future,' she said, gritting her teeth. 'Don't imagine—this—gives you any leverage where I'm concerned. All right. Tom's your son. I've admitted it. But that affair was over long ago. And it's not just the drink-driving laws that have changed since you went away. Women have changed; I've changed. We're not ashamed of our sexuality any more. We can meet men on equal terms. And just because I might fancy going to bed with you doesn't mean I feel some—some lifelong commitment!'
'That's what you think, is it?'
In the streetlights, Ben's face was hard, and she felt a quiver of apprehension. As she had spoken, the weary lines of remorse he had shown earner had given way to a harsh cynicism, and she was uncomfortably aware of the weakness of her argument.
But she had to be resolute. 'Yes. It's what I think,' she lied bravely, wincing as his thumbnail scored her wrist. 'I—I won't stop Tom from seeing you, but leave me out of it.'
'And—Phil?'
'Phil?' Jaime swallowed. 'What about Philip?'
'Indeed.' Ben's lips twisted. 'What about Philip?'
Jaime's lips compressed for a moment. 'You're threatening to tell him, is that it?' she demanded, feeling the hot tears of desperation behind her lids. Was he to leave her no measure of self-respect at all? 'Well—I can't stop you, can I?' She dashed her hand across her eyes. 'If that's what turns you on, I suppose—'
'Phil's dead!' Ben's bitter announcement cut into her words, and with a gesture of contempt he thrust her wrist back into her lap. 'That's what I came to tell you, that night you were out and Tom let me in.' He made a sound of derision. 'You might say—subsequent events—
got in the way.'
Jaime didn't remember getting out of the car and walking into the house. She did remember hearing the sound of the Sierra's engine as it roared away into the night, but that was after she had closed the door and was leaning numbly against it.
Philip was dead! she told herself weakly. The man who had had such a destructive influence on her life was gone! He couldn't hurt her any more.
Pushing herself away from the door, she walked rather shakily along the hall and into the kitchen. She needed a drink, she thought, putting her bag down on the table and riffling through the cupboards for the bottle of brandy she usually only used at Christmas. She needed something to fill the empty space inside her, and a strong glass of cognac seemed the appropriate choice.
But even after she had swallowed a mouthful of the fiery liquid, she still felt hollow, and, sitting down at the kitchen table, she tried to remember exactly what Ben had said. The trouble was, it had been pitiably little, and only now did she realise that she hadn't even asked for any of the details. She didn't know how he had died, or when. She didn't even know where he had been living. But Ben knew. Ben had known all along. And he had chosen to keep that information from her.
She gulped another mouthful of the brandy, coughing as it burned her throat. So far the spirit had had no beneficial effects on her whatsoever, and she wondered why people spoke so highly of its remedial qualities. All it was doing for her was making her feel sick.
But not sick enough to ignore the fact that Ben had deliberately kept the news of Philip's death from her. More than that, he had used her acknowledged fear of his brother for his own ends. He had known she would do anything to keep Tom's identity a secret, and because of that he had been able to insinuate himself into their lives.