by Anne Mather
‘Ben!’ As he lifted his head to seek the involuntarily parted softness of her lips, an awareness of her surroundings, and who she was with, swept over her. Turning her head away to obstruct his possession of her mouth, she exclaimed fiercely: ‘Ben, what on earth do you think you’re doing?’
‘Isn’t it obvious?’ he enquired huskily. ‘You’re a beautiful woman, and I wanted to kiss you.’
‘For God’s sake!’ Shelley could feel that she was trembling, but she pushed his hand away, and struggling up she added witheringly: ‘Have you taken leave of your senses? You’re not a little boy any more, Ben!’
‘Does that mean you would have forgiven me if I was?’ he countered flatly, levering himself up beside her. And then, more expressively: ‘Eight years ago I wouldn’t have dared. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t want to.’
‘You don’t know what you’re saying!’
Shelley tugged distractedly at her hair as she stared at him, twisting the braid round and round in her fingers until her scalp protested at such careless treatment. But his eyes hypnotised her, their pale beauty darkened now by the frustration he was feeling, and it was difficult to be angry with him when what she really wanted to do was comfort him.
‘Ben—I don’t believe this—’
‘Why not? Like you said, I’m not a little boy any more. I know what I want.’
Shelley bent her head. ‘I think we ought to be moving on, don’t you? I—how many calls do you have to make this afternoon?’
‘None that can’t wait,’ he responded tautly. ‘Shelley, look at me and tell me you don’t want me to touch you.’
‘I don’t.’ She lifted her head, but when she tried to meet his eyes, her nerves would not support her. ‘Oh, Ben—don’t do this.’
‘Then stop me,’ he said simply, cupping her face between his hands and lowering his mouth to hers.
She tried to resist him, pressing her lips together in a vain attempt to prevent his intimate invasion, but it was no use. The heat of his mouth and the probing moistness of his tongue overcame her inhibitions, and her lips parted helplessly beneath the searching pressure of his.
His mouth crushed hers as he bore her back against the grass, his hands shifting from her face to her neck, caressing the soft skin, bringing a trembling awareness throughout her body. The weight of his lean, muscled frame was upon her, the scent of his heated flesh was in her nostrils, and her arms moved up to his neck, and the damp silky hair that brushed her fingers.
His kisses became deeper, longer, more passionately demanding, and Shelley yielded completely to him. Her mind blocked out the reasons she was here, the trust that Marsha had in her, and the inevitable aftermath. For the first time in her life, she was responding wholly to her body’s needs, and the moral outcome of her recklessness was something she was not yet prepared to face.
His hands slid down over her breasts and she quivered as his fingers sought the buttons of her suit, unfastening it to her waist and exposing the lace-trimmed bra she wore beneath. Then, with a groan he pushed the offending scrap of silk aside and buried his face against her creamy flesh. ‘Shelley,’ he muttered, his tongue seeking the swollen peaks she made no attempt to disguise, and his suckling lips started a raw physical ache, deep between her thighs.
It was at that moment Shelley knew she had to stop him, now, while she still could. She wanted him—God! how she wanted him, but it must not happen. If she let him make love to her now, she would be creating a situation infinitely more explosive than the one she had left behind her in London, and besides, she could not permit his evidently boyish crush on her to develop into something he would later regret. He didn’t love her—heavens, he hardly knew her—he was simply working out a childish fantasy. But she was not a child; she was an adult; and she had no intention of allowing his undoubted skill at lovemaking to make her a victim of his potent sexuality.
Shutting her mind to the very real emotions he was arousing inside her, she forced herself to speak, using words she hoped might bring him to his senses. ‘Ben,’ she whispered. ‘Ben, you’re going to have to let me up. That beer you gave me—it’s created a problem, if you know what I mean.’
There was a moment when she thought he wasn’t going to pay any attention to her, when his lips left her breast to devour the bruised softness of her mouth, with an urgency bordering on anguish, and his movements made her aware of the hard muscle swelling against her stomach. And then, she was free. With a savage expletive, he dragged himself up and away from her, spreading his legs, and resting his elbows on his updrawn knees. With his head propped in his hands, his nails raking his scalp, he tore Shelley’s heart, but she could not retract when so much was at stake.
‘I’m—sorry,’ she said, and quickly fastening the buttons of her suit, she sat up. Then, after making a tentative examination of her hair, she continued: ‘I suppose we’d better go.’
‘Had we?’ Ben turned his head to look at her and his lips were twisted contemptuously. ‘Don’t pretend you meant what you said. I wasn’t born yesterday.’
‘Then you should know better than to question me, shouldn’t you?’ exclaimed Shelley defensively, realising she had to compound the lie. ‘I’m sorry if you don’t believe me, but that’s the way it is.’
Ben expelled his breath scornfully. ‘How convenient!’
‘Oh, please. Don’t let’s have a scene!’
‘Why not?’ His silvery lashes veiled his eyes. ‘Won’t your nerves stand it?’
‘Ben, don’t be like this!’
‘Like what?’ He gazed at her without expression. ‘Angry? Hurt? Frustrated?’
‘I’m sorry about that—’
‘I’ll bet you are.’
‘I am. But—’ She cast about helplessly for something to say to ease the situation. ‘Ben, it wouldn’t be a good idea.’
‘You’ve made that decision, have you?’
‘Ben, it’s not like you think!’
‘You don’t know how I think.’
‘Oh, I think I do.’ Shelley caught her lower lip between her teeth. ‘You probably imagine I do this all the time. But I don’t. I don’t know what your mother’s told you about me—’
‘Not a lot!’
‘—but I don’t sleep around.’
‘I’m not asking you to.’
‘Yes, you are,’ she retorted huskily. ‘Don’t pretend you only wanted to kiss me.’
‘I don’t pretend anything.’
‘Meaning I do?’
‘Well, you were lying weren’t you? When you said it was so desperate that you should get away from me?’
Shelley was baulked. ‘I—only in a manner of speaking.’
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Oh, Ben, stop it.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I think we should go. Now. While we’re still speaking to one another.’
‘Why?’
She sighed. ‘You know why!’
He shrugged, deliberately misunderstanding her, and rested back on his hands. ‘So what’s wrong with the great outdoors?’ he taunted mockingly. ‘If you are telling the truth, there’s a clump of trees over there—’
Shelley drew a trembling breath. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?’ she accused, and his expression sobered.
‘Oh, yes. Sure,’ he conceded harshly. ‘I always make a point of throwing insults at someone I want to make love with!’
Shelley pressed her lips together. ‘Ben, I thought we were friends—’
‘So did I.’
‘And so does your mother,’ put in Shelley fiercely. ‘Can’t you see what this would do to her, if she knew?’
‘I don’t answer to my mother any more, Shelley,’ he retorted impatiently. ‘For Christ’s sake, what do you think I’m going to do? Go sit on her knee when we get back and tell her how Auntie Shelley has been teaching me how to—’
‘Don’t say any more!’ With a cry of disgust, Shelley got abruptly to her feet and walked away from him. Her heart w
as pounding, and just for a moment she hated him for what he was doing to her. She walked blindly towards the stream, not noticing the huge briar until it tore painfully along her arm, and Ben misunderstanding, sprang to his feet, too.
‘Shelley, come back!’ he commanded wearily. ‘If you really want—well, I’ll take you back to the pub at Garthwaite—’
‘No, you won’t!’ Shelley cast him a withering look, and then, without another word, she stalked past him back to the Land-Rover.
‘What have you done?’ Ben demanded, when he slid into the vehicle beside her and found her dabbing at her arm with a tissue, but Shelley was too choked up to answer him. ‘Let me see,’ he insisted, pushing her hands aside and examining the bloody scratch, and Shelley lost her temper.
‘Don’t touch me!’ she snarled, her free hand connecting with his cheek, and he gazed at her incredulously before letting her break free.
‘You are one mixed-up lady!’ he told her roughly, raking back his hair with unsteady fingers, and Shelley shuddered helplessly, in the grip of emotions she had no wish to identify.
‘Then—then you’d better not get mixed up with me, had you?’ she responded tersely. And with the devil driving her, she added: ‘What’s the matter? Did Jennifer turn you down last night?’
A dull flush of colour invaded Ben’s cheeks at her words, and she knew a hopeless sense of remorse. She didn’t want to hurt him like this. Dear God, she knew what she wanted to do with him, and it had nothing to do with the ugly, painful words she was uttering.
‘Oh, Ben,’ she began, almost on the brink of begging his forgiveness, when he interrupted her.
His voice cool and clinically detached, he asked bleakly: ‘Would it make any difference if she had?’
‘I—I—’ Shelley was at a loss for words, but it didn’t matter, for he answered himself.
‘As a matter of interest, I turned her down,’ he remarked flatly, reaching for the ignition. ‘I haven’t been able to touch her since that morning I came to breakfast at Craygill.’
CHAPTER FIVE
MARSHA came into the sitting room yawning and wiping her hands on a paint-smeared rag. ‘I’m exhausted!’ she announced, flinging herself into the armchair opposite Shelley. ‘I really think I’ve worked myself out. I’m going to take the evening off, and to hell with it!’
Shelley smiled sympathetically, putting the magazine she had been reading aside and uncurling her legs from beneath her. ‘Do you want some tea?’ she asked, indicating the tray on the table beside her. ‘Sarah only brought it a little while ago. It should still be hot.’
Marsha shook her head. ‘She brought me some, too,’ she averred gratefully. ‘No. What I need is a hot bath and a nice relaxing evening. Do you know what’s on the menu? When I’m working I lose track of everything.’
Shelley hesitated. ‘You do know I’m going out this evening, don’t you?’ she murmured doubtfully. ‘The operatic society, remember?’
Marsha grimaced. ‘Well, I had forgotten, as a matter of fact, but that doesn’t matter. I’m delighted you and Charles are getting together at last. You’ve been here two weeks already, and I was beginning to think you didn’t like him.’
‘Oh, Marsha.’ Shelley crossed one jean-clad leg over the other. ‘I didn’t come here to accept invitations from men, no matter how attractive they might be.’
‘But darling, you must admit, Charles is keen. He asked you to dinner last week, and then there was that weekend invitation to the pigeon shoot at Chilborough Hall—’
‘Both of which I refused.’
‘—and now, tickets for the Low Burton Operatic Society’s production of Camelot!’
Shelley sighed. ‘Just don’t read anything into it, Marsha,’ she begged urgently. ‘I only agreed to go because I couldn’t think of a reasonable excuse not to.’
‘But why?’ Marsha’s face mirrored her frustration. ‘You said yourself—he’s an attractive man. And eligible. When his mother died, I believe he came into quite a lot of money. And that’s apart from his salary as a G.P. He could afford to make your life very comfortable.’
‘But I don’t want to get married, Marsha,’ exclaimed Shelley fiercely, getting up from her chair and walking tensely over to the window. Outside, a steady drizzle was falling and had been for the past couple of days. The weather had broken the day after Ben had taken her out with him, and since then there had been showers and blustery winds. That was really why she had finally accepted Charles’ invitation; because it had offered a diversion. She had reached a point where she knew she had to do something before her feelings got the better of her, and going out with Charles had seemed the perfect solution. Until now!
‘I’m not suggesting you should think of marrying him on the basis of your present relationship,’ retorted Marsha now, watching her friend with some misgivings. ‘Darling, all I’m saying is, you could do worse than consider Charles as a possible candidate. I should have thought, after your experiences with Mike, you’d be looking for a different type of man.’
‘What type?’ Shelley took a deep breath and turned to prop her hips against the windowsill.
‘Oh—you know what I mean. Mike Berlitz was too—selfish; too conceited; too full of his own importance! Not to mention being married when you met him. It doesn’t do to become attracted to men who are already attached.’
Shelley controlled her expression with difficulty. ‘No?’
‘No.’ Marsha leant forward to help herself to a slice of Mrs Carr’s fruit cake from the tray. ‘Which reminds me, talking of attached men, we haven’t seen Dickon for over a week.’
Shelley bent her head. ‘He’s ‘phoned you, hasn’t he?’
‘Well, yes. But that’s not the same as coming out to visit. I’m surprised he isn’t haunting the place while you’re here. He’s very fond of you, Shelley. We used to talk about you a lot.’
‘Did you?’ Shelley didn’t want to have this conversation, but it was difficult to avoid it. She forced a smile. ‘I see you changed your mind about the refreshments.’
‘Oh—’ Marsha gave a rueful grimace. ‘This is why I put on weight. I can’t resist Mrs Carr’s cooking. Even looking at her fruit pies puts inches on me!’ She shook her head. ‘I used to be like Dickon, you know,’ she continued, turning back to her favourite topic. ‘There wasn’t an ounce of fat on me until I began to rusticate. I look at him now and I think, I used to be like that. It isn’t fair!’
Shelley turned back to the window. ‘What do you think I should wear tonight?’ she asked, trying to reverse the trend once again, but Marsha was not to be diverted.
‘Oh, you know you look good in anything,’ she exclaimed carelessly. And then: ‘You know, you may see Dickon at the theatre. I know he and Jennifer had tickets, but I can’t remember which night they were for.’
Shelley’s throat dried. Marsha was determined to talk about Ben, and she could no longer avoid the fact that sooner or later she was bound to see him again. She knew why he was staying away from Craygill, of course, but if she intended to stay on here, she would eventually have to convince him he was wasting his time as far as she was concerned. That interlude by the stream had been a mistake, a situation induced by the drowsy aftermath of her nap and the alcohol they had both consumed. Ben had lost his head, that was all. He had been bemused by his physical arousal into doing things he would otherwise not have dared. And she had encouraged him—at least, initially—allowing him to touch her in a way which in retrospect seemed totally repugnant.
Even so, she knew she would never forget the journey back to Craygill afterwards. It had been the most uncomfortable journey Shelley had ever experienced, and she hardly remembered their arrival here, or her subsequent plea of a headache. She didn’t know how long he had stayed, or what he had said to his mother over the afternoon tea Marsha had insisted on him sharing. All she knew was that Marsha had been very sympathetic to her after his departure, and there had been no hint that Ben had said anything to incriminat
e her.
‘Are you all right?’
Shelley’s prolonged silence had been noticed, and with a determined effort, she came back to the sofa where she had been sitting. ‘I’m fine,’ she asserted, regarding her friend with affection. ‘Just tell me, why aren’t you coming with us to the performance tonight? I’m sure Charles could have got another ticket, if you had asked him.’
‘What? And spoil his evening!’ Marsha chuckled. ‘My dear, like I said, I shall enjoy an evening in front of the telly. It’s ages since I watched a good play, and I’m sure I’ll find something to capture my interest.’
* * *
The foyer of the small Druid’s Theatre in Low Burton was crowded with people when Shelley and Charles arrived. ‘It’s quite the thing to be seen to be supporting the local arts group,’ remarked Charles drily, as they edged their way towards the entrance to the stalls. ‘Yes, good evening, Mrs Laurence! No, I haven’t seen Dorothy, I’m afraid.’
Shelley had to smile. ‘You’re quite well-known, aren’t you?’ she murmured. ‘Do you know everybody here?’
‘I could say I recognise bodies not faces, but I won’t,’ said Charles humorously. ‘And yes, I suppose I do know most people. I don’t have many competitors in a community as small as this.’
‘But you have some?’ suggested Shelley, trying not to search the crowd too obviously for Ben’s dark blond head.
‘One or two,’ conceded Charles, nodding and smiling at a group of younger women, who were eyeing his companion with undisguised interest. ‘The local young wives club from St Catherine’s,’ he informed her, in an undertone. ‘They’re probably wondering who you are.’
Shelley grimaced. ‘I hoped no one would notice me. I don’t like feeling an oddity.’