Claudette replied cautiously, obviously sensing his surprise. “Do you know her?”
Ben felt a grim smile catch the corner of his mouth. Oh, yeah. He knew her. He could identify every freckle on her face, knew the exact curve of her brow, the varying shades of green that made up those wide expressive eyes of hers. He knew that purple was her favorite color, black-eyed Susans her favorite flower, and that when she was nervous or tense, she had a tendency to chew the corner of her plump bottom lip. He knew that she liked to wear her hair up, that as a teenager she had a huge crush on Rick Springfield and that she was missing a nail on her left pinkie toe. A biking accident, if memory served, and admittedly, his rarely failed where April was concerned.
In fact, he’d probably be a lot happier if it would.
Despite years of separation and countless substitutes, despite time, distance, a complicated family history—Ha! he thought darkly—and more sex than any man had a right to in a lifetime, April Wilson still remained, and he grimly suspected would always remain, the girl for him.
She’d unwittingly set the standard, and was the one woman every other he’d crossed paths with was compared to. For more than a decade he’d been trying to recreate the magic, to find the same sort of chemistry he’d had with her. The mind-numbing, soul-shattering attraction that made a man want to climb out of his own skin and into hers.
He’d never found it.
Hell, he’d never even come close to capturing that same sort of feeling, that awesome, unbelievable high. In fact, he’d all but convinced himself that it hadn’t really existed, that his teenage über-hormones had somehow magnified and distorted the memory until it couldn’t possibly be real.
But one chance meeting at the Blue Monkey Pub eighteen months ago had soon proved otherwise, and over the past year and a half, he’d made a concerted effort to be there on Friday nights just to look at her, share the same air, feel the buzz of her presence.
Pathetic, he knew, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. Though he was no longer the green, easily intimidated boy he’d been when her cruel bitch of a mother had banned him from her life, Ben had nevertheless resisted the almost overwhelming urge to seduce her. To see if she could still make the bottom drop out of his stomach with a mere smile.
He’d learned that she could, even when that smile wasn’t directed at him.
Which was why, over the past couple of weeks, he’d been wrestling with the idea of seducing her anyway. Quite frankly, the idea of thumbing his nose at her parents—both of them, but for different reasons—was intensely appealing.
Her mother had robbed him of April, deemed him unworthy of her daughter. Ben smiled bitterly. Oh, but that hadn’t been enough. She’d wanted to really wound him, to really hurt him and, as a result, she’d ultimately stolen his father, as well. Or at the very least, any respect he’d had for his dad. Until Morgana Wilson had spewed her poison, he’d enjoyed the ignorant bliss of thinking his father was perfect. The man had had problems, Ben knew. War had a way of ruining the best soldiers, and Davy Hayes had been no exception. But Ben had never doubted his father’s character…until Morgana had taken that from him.
As for April’s father…His lips twisted. Well, it was hard to pigeonhole his sins.
In the end, her parents had both directly and indirectly hurt him and, though he knew the best way to repay that sentiment would be to hurt their daughter, Ben had been unable to follow through. He wanted her more than he’d ever wanted anyone, but between the personal issues attached to her family and the taint of revenge attached to having her, he’d been unable to come to terms with the cost.
Both hers and his.
“Do you want me to send her in?” Claudette asked.
Still somewhat distracted, Ben nodded. Unfortunately, there was only one reason why April would come to see him—one he sure as hell wasn’t interested in discussing—but he could hardly turn her away. It was April, after all, and just knowing that she was in the next room made his heart kick into an irregular rhythm.
With an expression of extreme curiosity Claudette gave him an odd look, then turned on her heel and walked out. Less than thirty seconds later she returned with April in tow, ushered her into the room, then with another blatantly interested look, once again made a reluctant exit.
If he’d had any manners at all, Ben would have stood when she came in, but for some reason his legs had turned to lead. Only years of pretending to be indifferent kept his mouth from breaking into a wide grin and fortunately the careless smile he’d mastered slid easily into place. Words momentarily failed him—he had absolutely no idea what to say—but in the end, he settled for a weak, “Er…This is a surprise.”
April’s small hand tightened around her purse strap and she cast an uneasy look around his office. “I hope I’m not intruding.”
“Not at all.” He finally found his feet and gestured toward a chair. “Please. Come sit.”
Clad in a brown cable-knit sweater that ably hugged her curves and a pair of tailored cream wool slacks, April traveled the short distance to one of the walnut demi-marquise chairs that flanked his antique desk. Her mink curls were loose and tousled and the sting from the cold wind had colored her cheeks. A pair of diamond studs winked from her delicate lobes and the matching pendant lay nestled between her breasts, suspended from a fine gold chain. He caught the crisp scent of winter and the smallest whiff of jasmine as she settled into her seat.
As always, she looked chic, polished and approachable, a combination one didn’t always see among those who were accustomed to money. Now that he moved within her circle, he could appreciate the difference.
She glanced around his office, her keen gaze inspecting a few of his more accomplished frames. “Beautiful work,” she said softly. She gestured toward a sepia print behind his credenza. “Isn’t that the staircase in the old Belle Fontaine mansion?”
Ben nodded. “It is.”
In fact, it had been featured in Southern Living last month. He started to tell her, but managed to just stop himself. He didn’t have to validate his work, dammit—it spoke for itself.
Regardless, old habits died hard and while she’d never intentionally made him feel like the parasite poaching a living off her family the way her mother had, Ben nevertheless had a hard time shaking the need to showcase his own successes. Successes which had been hard-won, self-motivated and earned without so much as a favor from the Wilson family.
He’d take care of himself, by God. He’d be damned before he’d ever take a handout or become, as Morgana Wilson had so eloquently put it all those years ago, another man’s whore. To this day he couldn’t decide what was worse—learning that his father was gay, or realizing that the quiet gentle man he’d loved and respected had simply been too weak to support his family.
A prick of guilt for the uncharitable assessment surfaced, but Ben determinedly shook it off, squashed the happy memories that arose. As an adult he could appreciate another person’s sexual orientation—he wasn’t ashamed of his father for being gay. Unnerved? Yes. But not ashamed. He even understood that Vietnam had changed him—could process, sort and compartmentalize every rational argument for the reasons his father had returned to American soil a little less stable than when he’d left.
But the one thing that Ben couldn’t rationalize away, the one thing he couldn’t let go of or forgive was the second-class
