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
