by Penny Jordan
For some reason the musing comment delivered in Ben Frobisher's very male voice made her stiffen and look defensively at him. She had the feeling that his comment had been slightly barbed... slightly derogatory.
'I've been playing ever since I left school,' she told him challengingly, adding pointedly just in case he hadn't got the message, 'long before it became fashionable.'
As they walked out to the car, Miranda tried to quell her mixed feelings of irritation and embarrassment and then reflected how very different reality was from her daydreams. In them she had perceived Ben Frobisher as a highly desirable stranger, who also desired her; in reality... In reality he quite plainly did nothing of the kind, and there was an abrasion between them, a covert hostility that was making her feel both uncomfortable and defensive.
It was all because she had made that stupid unguarded comment about the house, of course. And the only reason she had said that had been that she didn't want to admit to him that he had been right and that she had been escaping from something and someone, namely Ralph Charlesworth and his pursuit of her. Well, it was too late now to wish she had not acted so impulsively. Much too late. But how could she have guessed who he was? She had imagined that the then unknown Ben Frobisher would be a much smaller man, hunch-shouldered and probably bespectacled, as befitted someone who spent long hours staring at a computer screen working out complex programs.
This man looked as though he had spent more time outdoors than in, although she ought to have been warned by the unmistakable intelligence and shrewdness in those grey eyes.
'I thought we'd all travel together in my car,' her father suggested, and before she could argue and insist on taking her own car Miranda discovered that Ben Frobisher was politely holding open one of the rear doors of her father's BMW for her and that she had no option but to get in. When he went round the other side of the car and got in beside her, she could literally feel her muscles tensing.
Not against him, she recognised miserably, but against herself, against her own involuntary reaction to him.
Hell, she swore crossly to herself. This was the last thing she needed... an inconvenient and definitely unwanted sexual reaction to a man whom she had now made up her mind she did not like.
All right, so maybe it wasn't his fault that she had made such a fool of herself, but somehow, illogically, her emotions refused to accept this. There had been no reason for him to mention what she had said about the house in front of her father and Helen, had there? It was bad enough that he knew how tactless she had been, and as for looking at his precious plans... She tensed again as she realised belatedly that she had already accepted his offer. That would teach her to let her mind wander and not to concentrate on what was going on around her! With good reason had her teachers rebuked her for daydreaming.
Teachers? She wasn't a schoolgirl now, she was a woman... an independent career woman. An independent career woman who wilfully daydreamed about unknown men? She chewed unhappily on her bottom lip, angry with herself as well as with the man sitting silently beside her. The evening was going to be a total and utter disaster, she knew it. As her father drove them towards the golf club, she told herself that it served her right and that this was what came of allowing herself to weave idiotic daydreams around a man she didn't really know.
Had she known who he was when they met... She frowned to herself as she stared out into the darkness of the surrounding landscape. Would his physical impact on her have been lessened if she had known who he was? She wasn't a young girl any more, after all; a person's personality, their beliefs, their sense of humour, their views of life and love—it was important that all these should mesh with and complement her own. and anyone who could employ someone like Ralph Charlesworth to undertake the renovation of a graceful old house like the one Ben Frobisher had bought could not possibly have the same outlook on life as herself. Which was probably just as well. After all, he had not shown any reciprocal awareness of her interest in her—quite the reverse— so the sensible, indeed, the essential thing for her to do was to forget the disruptive physical effect that that first unexpected meeting had had on her and to concentrate instead on the reality of the man he was actually proving to be. A very sensible and mature decision to come to; so why, at the same time as she was congratulating herself on this sensible mature outlook, was she also angrily wishing that she had dressed with a little more elan, a little more sophistication; that she had perhaps made the effort to take herself off to Bath and buy herself a new dress?
A new dress for the golf club dance—and when she had promised herself that this year she intended to save up and treat herself to a holiday in Hong Kong and the Far East? What on earth was happening to her? Nothing, she told herself firmly, answering her own question; nothing whatsoever was happening to her, and nothing was going to happen to her. Even so, when the lights of the club-house came into view she found herself wishing that the evening was already over and that she was safely tucked up in her cosy cottage bedroom.
Something about Ben Frobisher made her feel acutely unsure of herself; acutely aware of him as man, and of her own reactions to that maleness. She moved uncomfortably in her seat. She didn't like this unwanted awareness of him, this sudden and totally unexpected schism in what she had believed her sexuality to be: controlled, tamed and of no real force in her life, and not what she had experienced on first seeing him.
She had gone through all the usual sexually experimental stages in her teens, but had never been promiscuous, either by inclination or peer pressure. After all, when you lived in a small town in which your father was something of a prominent figure, you felt almost honour-bound not to indulge in a variety of involvements and affairs.
In this part of the world respectability was still considered to be important and a virtue. Couples might live together, but in most cases they eventually married.
Since in the years when her peers were settling down and marrying she had had no wish to follow suit, she had chosen to remain celibate rather than indulge in a series of relationships. Rather happily celibate, if she was honest, and when she contemplated the thought of any kind of intimacy with men like Ralph Charlesworth it was revulsion that made her body shudder, not desire.
No, she had never considered herself a highly sexually motivated person, and she didn't now, which made her illogical reaction to Ben Frobisher all the more unnerving.
Had she actually, really, this afternoon, fantasised about how it would be to have him kissing her?
She did shudder now, horrified to remember just how easily and intensely she had been able to imagine what it would feel like to be taken in his arms and--'I'll drive up to the door so that you can get out, and then I'll park the car,' her father was saying, thankfully forcing her to concentrate on the present and the blessedly mundane activity of getting out of the car. The golf club and its course had been donated to the town in the twenties by a wealthy and benevolent local resident, who had hired an architect to design the club-house after the style of Sir Edwin Lutyens's designs for small country houses, so that it was vaguely Tudoresque in style. As the three of them went inside to wait for her father while he parked the car, Miranda acknowledged the greetings of several of her father's cronies, registering as she did so the speculative, curious looks she was getting from their wives. No need to ask herself why; the answer was standing right beside her, all six-feet-odd of manhood of him.
Why, she seethed inwardly, were there still in this day and age women who still believed that no member of their own sex could be complete without a man in her life? It was all nonsense, just the same as suggesting that no woman could be complete without having had a child. Her thoughts floundered to an uncomfortable halt as she recalled her own vulnerability in that particular direction. But then, it was not as though she considered herself incomplete without a child, it was just.. .just--'Aunt Helen... not long now until the wedding, is it?'
Miranda tensed as she heard the soft hesitant voice of Susan Charles
worth, and she knew even before she had heard Ben acknowledging briefly,
'Charlesworth,' that Ralph was with her. She had almost been able to feel his presence from the atavistic reaction of her body, from the way the tiny hairs on her skin had risen in physical protest at his nearness. It galled her unbearably sensing that Ralph was fully aware of her aversion to him and that for some reason this only caused him to increase his pursuit of her.
She didn't know how on earth poor Susan could tolerate him. In her shoes... but, then, thankfully she would never have allowed herself to be trapped in that kind of situation, married to a man who was flagrantly and frequently unfaithful, who treated her so contemptuously and inconsiderately, who humiliated her in public and, Miranda suspected, in private as well. She was glad that her father joined them before she could be drawn into the small flood of exchanges passing between the other three as Ralph introduced his wife to Ben, and Helen explained her relationship to Susan. Miranda excused herself on the pretext of wanting to go to the Ladies, gritting her teeth in rage and revulsion as Ralph leered at her and told her fulsomely, 'Going to check up on the old makeup, are we, then, Miranda? Shouldn't worry about too much, if I were you. A good-looking woman like you doesn't need any warpaint, although I must admit there's something about a woman's mouth when it's painted with lipstick that makes a man wonder what it would be like to kiss it off.'
As she turned her back on him, red flags of rage flying in her cheeks, Miranda heard Susan saying uncomfortably, 'Ralph! Really.'
Horrible, revolting man, Miranda seethed as she walked quickly towards the corridor and the Ladies. The language he used was almost as offensive and demeaning to her sex as the intent behind it.
As she stared at her flushed face in the mirror, she was half tempted to wipe off the discreet touch of lipstick she was wearing, but then she decided that to do so was to give in to his bullying, demeaning tactics and would allow him to see how much his words had affected her, and to a man like Ralph Charlesworth the fact that he had affected her, even if it was with revulsion, would be something he would consider to be a triumph.
No, she wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he had disgusted and offended her.
She stayed in the Ladies for as long as she could, praying that when she rejoined the others he and his wife would have left them. When she eventually walked back into the bar, she was relieved to see that her father was in discussion with the president of the club and his wife; and that there was no sign of Ralph and Susan.
As Miranda rejoined them, Helen murmured sadly to her, 'Poor Susan; I don't know how on earth she puts up with that lout Ralph. I'm sorry if he embarrassed you, Miranda.'
'It wasn't your fault,' Miranda told her, adding, 'I can't understand why Susan stays with him either, but, then, I suppose with three children...'
'Well, yes, although she claims that she does love him.' She gave a faint sigh. 'Poor girl; I have a horrid feeling that sooner or later he's going to leave her, and that it will probably be sooner.'
Throughout the meal Ben Frobisher conversed mainly with her father. He had made several attempts to draw Miranda into their conversation, but she had resolutely refused to respond with anything more than cool politeness. The man had charm, she had to give him that, she admitted reluctantly to herself, but she wasn't going to be swayed by it. Even so, she discovered that she was listening rather more intently than she would have wished when Helen questioned about his background and family.
She was surprised to discover that he was one of four children—somehow she had imagined him being an only one—and that the other three were all married with young families, something which made him the butt of a great deal of family teasing.
'You don't approve of marriage, then?' Helen hazarded, smiling at him. He laughed. He had a nice laugh, Miranda acknowledged; it was both warm and spontaneous, crinkling his eyes at the corners and doing the most peculiar things to her insides.
'Quite the contrary,' he assured Helen, obviously not minding her questions.
'But I do believe that it's a lifetime's commitment and that as such it's something one needs to be very sure about. A marriage that is going to endure can't be based on mere sexual attraction, no matter how strong that attraction initially appears,' he said bluntly. 'That's not to say that it isn't an important part of any marriage, but it can never be the total sum of an enduring relationship. I suppose the truth is that as yet I still haven't met the woman I know I won't be able to live without.'
Helen laughed and teased him, 'I do believe you're a romantic!'
'Aren't most of us at heart?'
A computer expert who claimed to be romantic. Wasn't that a complete contradiction?
'Are you a romantic, Miranda?'
She stared at him, and felt her skin starting to flush. His question had caught her off guard. She had been listening to the conversation and yet had considered herself safely outside it. Now she wondered if he hadn't thrown the question at her because he wanted to embarrass her, rather than through any desire to know what motivated her.
'Miranda, romantic?' her father snorted, answering the question for her.
'Miranda is one of your modern breed of women who scorns such old-fashioned notions. She prides herself on being independent and self-sufficient.'
Miranda knew that her father was really only teasing her, but for some reason his words hurt her, drawing a picture of her which her emotions instantly rejected as she viewed the cold, emotionless creature his words had created. She wasn't really like that, was she?
It was true that she was independent, but that was because... because... because what? Because she had wanted to give her father his freedom...his right to have a life of his own, the kind of life he might not have felt free to have with an adult daughter still living under his roof.
Well, maybe her motivation hadn't been quite so altruistic, and certainly she enjoyed her work, but, if she was truly the woman her father seemed to think, wouldn't she have long ago left this small market town behind her and headed out into a much wider and harsher world?
'Jeffrey, honestly, that's not true,' Helen intervened. 'Don't listen to him, Ben,' she exhorted. 'Miranda might try to hide it, but in reality she's one of the most tender-hearted people you could ever wish to meet, although I know she hates admitting it. I suspect she's rather afraid of letting people see how tender-hearted she actually is in case it makes her too vulnerable.'
Miranda was horrified. Much as she had disliked her father's jocular misrepresentation of her as a hard-headed determined woman with no room in her life for time-wasting emotions, it had been preferable to Helen's far too accurate portrait of her.
She knew that Ben Frobisher was looking at her, but she could not bring herself to return his look with anything like the composure that doing so required.
'No one likes to appear too vulnerable,' she could hear him saying, but, although the words were addressed to Helen, she could sense that he was still watching her.
Her appetite had deserted her completely. She pushed the food around on her plate, longing for the evening to be over. She had been right; the only thing she had not guessed was the true intensity of the evening's awfulness. She was glad when her father started to ask Ben about his plans for relocating his business to the town, and was both surprised and rather chagrined to learn that, while he would be bringing some key people down with him from London, he was hoping to recruit the majority of his employees locally.
'It's the kind of business that requires young sharp minds,' he told them all.
'At a recent convention, the majority of those attending were under thirty, and a good percentage were under twenty. At the moment we hold a good place in the market because we've been able to specialise in a profitable area, but we can only hold on to that advantage if we remain in the forefront of new advances, and in order to do that we need keen, innovative minds.'
'What will happen to your existing employees?' Miranda asked
him.
'Most of them have already found new jobs. There's no shortage of demand for trained people in and around London, and, of course, they're all getting redundancy payments. In fact, none of them actually wanted to relocate with us. They're all under thirty, with established lifestyles in London, most of them are unmarried, and the thought of moving out to a quiet market town didn't have much appeal for them.'
'But it did for you?'
Miranda had no idea why she was questioning him... talking to him. If she had any sense she would simply sit here in silence, having as little to do with him as possible.
'I'm not under thirty. The pace of London life doesn't have much appeal for me any more. I wanted a home... not a glossy London flat that's antiseptic and arid. I've always liked this part of the world. My parents lived near Bath for a while when I was in my teens. They've moved north now. My father comes from the Borders and wanted to go back there when he retired.'
'Which reminds me,' her father interrupted. 'I've got the details of some houses for you. You did say you'd prefer something outside the town?'
'Yes, I do.'
While the two men discussed the various properties available, Helen commented to Miranda that she would be glad when all the fuss of the wedding was over.
Everyone had finished eating, coffee had been served, and the moment Miranda had been privately dreading had arrived.
The lights had been dimmed, the small band had started playing and couples were gradually filling the dance floor.
She prayed that Ben would not out of politeness ask her to dance. The very last thing she wanted was to be held in his arms. And yet, what had she to fear? She had already convinced herself that, no matter how physically attractive she had originally found him, that attraction had vanished once she knew who and what he was, and, that being the case, what had she to fear from dancing with him? Nothing; nothing at all, and anyway, why was she inviting problems that might not occur? In all probability he wasn't even going to invite her to dance with him.