Dangerous Passions

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 earlier 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.

God, he was despicable, she thought bitterly. He knew, better than anyone, what Philip’s death would mean to her, and he had continued to hold the spectre of that painful relationship over her. Were all the Russells tarred with the same brush? Did they all enjoy exacting punishment of one sort of another?

But no. She refused to believe that. After all, Tom was a Russell, and he wasn’t a monster. Until Ben had come on the scene, he had never gone against her wishes, and even now his conscience was giving him a hard time.

And Ben…

With a weary sigh, she propped her head in her hands. She didn’t really believe Ben was like Philip. Oh, she would never forgive him for keeping Philip’s death from her, but she couldn’t forget that without Ben’s help she might have suffered even more.

Looking back, she realised that Ben was the only person who could have helped. Philip’s parents—their parents—were indifferent to the kind of life Jaime was leading. They had not wanted her to marry their son, and as far as they were concerned she didn’t exist. Philip still saw his parents, but she never did. That was why she was so astonished when Ben came to the apartment.

It was Christmas Eve, and she and Philip had been married for almost six months. Because they were living in London, Jaime seldom saw her own family either. Which was just as well, in the circumstances. She knew her father could never have ignored his daughter’s misery.

She had been pathetically grateful to see Ben, she remembered. It was so long since she had seen a really friendly face. Philip was out. He had often been out, though she didn’t often go with him. Not that Jaime minded that. She was so ashamed of how she looked most of the time that going out at all had become a trial.

So, when Ben rang from the lobby downstairs and asked if he could come up, Jaime was delighted. Dismissing Philip’s dour-faced housekeeper, she had answered the door herself, and it wasn’t until she had let him in, and had seen him looking at her so strangely, that she realised she had forgotten to put on her make-up.

She almost always wore make-up these days. It was the only way she could bear to look at her face. She had become adept at hiding bruises beneath a dusky eyeshadow or a bronze blusher, and although her eyes were hollow they just gave her a haunted look. Or so she had believed.

But looking at Ben, she had seen the stunned realisation in his eyes. And even then her first reaction had been to dismiss it. She had fallen, she said, getting out of the shower. She was such a clumsy creature; Philip was losing patience with her.

It hadn’t worked, and although at the time she had been terrified of what Philip might do Ben had refused to take no for an answer. After coaxing at least part of the truth from her, he had insisted she go and pack some clothes, and before driving her to her parents’ home in Kingsmere he had taken her to see a friend of his in Harley Street. She remembered that she had still been protesting when he’d ushered her into the elegant waiting-room, though her will to resist any kind of pressure had been crucified in the months she had lived as Philip’s wife.

His friend, a woman doctor, had made her take off all her clothes, and Jaime had stood in an agony of embarrassment as every mark on her body was questioned and noted. There had been no point in lying. She had too many bruises, many of them in places where the marks of other bruises were still visible. But it was humiliating nevertheless, and she was horrified when the woman produced an instamatic camera, and told her she was going to make a permanent record of what she had seen.

‘If I don’t, and the bruises fade, what proof will you have?’ she asked practically. ‘Believe me, whether we use them or not, they are necessary.’

And, because Ben had endorsed what the doctor had said, Jaime had gone through with it. She had put all her faith in him at the time, and it had not been misplaced. She never knew what he said to Philip, or whether her ex-husband was ever shown the photographs the doctor had taken. All she knew was that the threat Philip had represented had been removed, and she was eternally grateful to Ben for his support.

In the months that followed she saw Ben several times. Oh, she had probably enjoyed those occasions more than he did, she reminded herself painfully, but then, she hadn’t been thinking too sensibly in those days. In her eyes he could do no wrong, and even her mother’s warnings—about his relationship to Philip, and the fact that he was a married man—had fallen on deaf ears.

Looking back, she had to admit that Ben’s reasons for visiting her had usually had a legitimate purpose. He had acted as Philip’s intermediary, and it was through him that she had learned that Philip had agreed to stay away from her. She wanted a divorce, but that would have to wait until the required amount of time had passed, and for the present she was content to trust in Ben’s protection.

His protection!

Jaime shivered. If only she had known then what she knew now, she thought ruefully. She had exchanged one kind of bondage for another. But that wasn’t fair. Tom had never been a burden. And although she hated Ben, he had not been entirely to blame.

She remembered it had been almost exactly a year after she and Philip had parted when her friendship with Ben had been destroyed, forever. It was odd, she thought, how Christmas had played such an unhappy role in her life. It was at Christmas that she had met Philip, and Christmas when they had parted. So it was probably only fitting that that particular time of year should have provided such a disastrous end to her association with his brother.

But, at the time, she had had no inkling of the part he was to play in determining her future. In the year since he had ‘rescued’ her from Philip she had come to know him quite well—or so she had thought—and the anxiety she had first felt, when he appeared on her doorstep, had long since given way to a happy anticipation. Although she had other friends, he was the only person with whom she could be completely herself, and because he knew everything about her relationship with Philip she didn’t have to pretend with him.

In retrospect, she supposed she had been foolish. After one devastating experience she should have been aware of the dangers she was courting. Ben was married, and although he seldom spoke of his wife he had never given any inclination that he was unhappy with his lot.

None the less, Jaime had begun to look forward to his visits with increasing excitement. He usually arrived at lunchtime, and because the pub was such a busy place he invariably took her out for a meal. It gave them an opportunity to speak privately, and if what he had to say only took up a small part of the time it never seemed to matter.

He told her about his work, and the people he worked with, and Jaime confided her own hopes and aspirations in the secretarial course she was taking. But Ben had always had a gift for narration, and Jaime always sat, entranced, while he described the places he had visited, and the events he had reported upon.

She never thought their relationship was moving beyond that of casual acquaintances. It didn’t occur to her how strange it was that she and Ben should find such pleasure in each other’s company. That the pretexts he used to promote each meeting were becoming ever more flimsy simply didn’t register. Nor did the increasing frequency of those visits arouse any fears.

Then, just a few days before Christmas, Ben arrived in the afternoon. He said he had no especial reason for visiting her—except that he had brought her a small present—but he had been in the neighbourhood, and he wondered if she would join him for dinner.

Innocent enough, Jaime thought now, remembering her feelings then. She must have been crazy, she mused. It had never even occurred to her to refuse.

Of course, her parents hadn’t been keen. Even though Ben had proved himself such a good friend over the past year, they were still suspicious of anyone called Russell. But Jaime refused to listen to their advice. Ben had asked her out to dinner, and all she could think of was what she was going to wear.

She supposed she must have been half in love with Ben even then. There seemed no other explanation for the way she had behaved. Or perhaps she had just been desperate for affection, she reflected bitterly. Certainly she had made it easy for him.

She didn’t think of it before Ben came to collect her, but when he told her he was staying at the Crown Hotel she realised that, for once, he wasn’t driving home after visiting her. She remembered wondering if his wife knew where he was this evening, and then dismissing the thought as being unworthy of consideration. In all honesty, she hadn’t cared what his wife thought, which probably made what happened after a fitting punishment. But, at the time, she had been blind to anything but the delight of being with Ben.

Because it was Christmas week everywhere was busy, and after a noisy meal in town Ben suggested they go back to his hotel for a nightcap. In her more charitable moments, Jaime had to admit that the idea of having it in his suite had been as much her idea as his. But the bar at the Crown had been hectic, and the knowledge that Ben had a perfectly good sitting-room upstairs seemed too attractive to ignore.

Jaime had never been upstairs in the Crown before, and she was impressed with Ben’s suite, which had a sitting-room, dressing-room, bedroom, and bathroom. While they waited for a waiter to bring their drinks, she asked if she could use the bathroom, and Ben gave her a teasing grin before saying, ‘Be my guest.’

When she came out again, she could hear Ben talking to the waiter in the sitting-room, and, on impulse, she went through the doorway that led into his bedroom. She told herself she was curious to see how the room was decorated, but it wasn’t really that. It was the first time she had been in a man’s bedroom since her break-up with Philip, and she was anxious to know how she would react to it. The fact that it was also the room where Ben was going to sleep tonight intrigued her, and when she saw a maroon silk dressing-gown lying on the end of the huge four-poster bed she couldn’t resist running her fingers over the fine fabric.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’

Ben’s voice from behind her brought her round with a start. She hadn’t heard the waiter leave, but evidently he had, because Ben was now standing in the bedroom doorway.

Jaime’s face suffused with colour. ‘I—yes,’ she said, her nail catching on the cloth as she withdrew her hand. ‘Um—I’m sorry. I was just—looking around.’

‘That’s all right.’

Ben propped his shoulder against the door-frame. He was looking at her with his intense green eyes, and Jaime felt a frisson of fear slide along her spine. She should never have looked in here, she thought, never stepped inside. Now Ben was between her and freedom, and it wasn’t easy not to panic.

Her palms were damp, and she tried to dry them out on the seat of the slim velvet trousers she was wearing. She had thought the soft trousers, worn with a full-sleeved satin blouse, both in a subtle shade of violet, were an attractive combination. But now she felt as exposed as if they’d suddenly become transparent.

‘Do you realise this is the first time we’ve been alone together?’ Ben remarked, when she said nothing, and she wondered how he could be unaware of her feelings. ‘Apart from the car, of course,’ he went on. ‘But that’s not quite the same.’

Jaime swallowed. ‘So?’

The word came out high, and squeaky, and Ben’s eyes darkened. ‘So—nothing,’ he said flatly. ‘What’s wrong?’

Jaime shook her head. ‘What could be wrong?’ she parried. ‘Did—er—did the waiter bring our drinks?’

Ben stared at her. ‘Yes. He brought them,’ he answered. And then, roughly, ‘For God’s sake! Why are you looking at me like that? What do you think I’m planning to do? Rape you?’

Jaime held up her head. ‘It has been done,’ she got out unsteadily, and Ben uttered an angry oath.

‘Not by me!’ he exclaimed, and then, just when she thought he was going to leave her in disgust, he pushed himself away from the door and came towards her. ‘I’m not Philip,’ he said harshly, halting right in front of her. He cupped her quivering chin with one hand, and turned her face up to his. ‘I’d never hurt you, Jaime. Surely you know that. For God’s sake, I care about you too much for that.’

‘Oh, Ben…’

Jaime could hardly bear to look at him. She felt sick and ashamed for doubting him. He wasn’t Philip. He was nothing like Philip. And, although she had no real proof, she instinctively knew she could trust him.

Acting purely on impulse, she turned her head, and pressed her lips against his palm. His skin tasted warm, and salty, and essentially male, and, although she tried to prevent it, an errant tear trembled on her lashes.

‘Hey…’ Ben’s voice was a little uneven now, and although he drew his hand away his thumb brushed abrasively across her lips. ‘Don’t cry!’ he protested. ‘Do you want people to think I’m a louse?’