Lynne Graham - Dangerous Passions

‘Where’s Angie?’ she asked, deciding she couldn’t deal with that right now, and the crispness of her tone was obviously a surprise to both of them.

‘Um—she’s gone home,’ Tom murmured, the confidence he had shown a few minutes earlier withering in the coolness of her appraisal. ‘Is—er—is Uncle Ben staying for dinner?’

You wish! thought Jaime bitterly, but she managed to contain her contempt. ‘Not tonight,’ she replied smoothly, allowing Ben to take that any way he wished. ‘Perhaps you’d like to see him to the door? He was just leaving.’

Tom’s jaw clenched. ‘Does he have to?’

‘Yes, he does,’ Jaime was beginning irritably, when Ben himself came to her aid.

‘Yes, I do,’ he confirmed, tucking his shirt back into his waistband with an enviable lack of self-consciousness. ‘As a matter of fact, I’ve got some people coming to supper this evening, and it wouldn’t do if the host had already eaten, would it?’

His attempt at humour didn’t really mollify Tom, however, and although she hadn’t thought about it earlier Jaime couldn’t help noticing that Ben was looking distinctly strained. Her mother shouldn’t have repeated the gossip about him, she fretted impatiently. Ben wouldn’t like to think people were talking about him, she was sure of that, and, for all his faults, she had never known him to show any serious concern for his health. So why should she?

Nevertheless, the curtness of her farewell was as much an acknowledgement of the unwelcome anxieties he aroused inside her as an indication of her mood. She was uncomfortably aware that she hadn’t even asked him how he was, and even if she told herself she didn’t care she knew she really did. It was a frustrating anomaly that she could hate him for the way he had treated her, and yet still worry about some probably exaggerated complaint he was supposed to be suffering.

As Tom saw him to the door, Jaime pretended to be too busy to accompany them. She didn’t need to hear the proprietorial note in Ben’s voice to know that she hadn’t seen the last of him. He would be back, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

Unwillingly, she found herself wondering who he had invited to supper at the Priory. She wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t felt some curiosity about his visitors, and she was aware that the prospect that at least half of them would be female nibbled away at her fragile composure. She didn’t care that they were women , she told herself crossly. What had happened between her and Ben this afternoon had proved to her, once and for all, that he was totally unscrupulous, totally selfish. And here she was, worrying about his health, while he did his best to ruin it.

Tom’s return thankfully curtailed thoughts of that sort, but his expression was not encouraging. He stood, leaning against the door-frame, with a definite look of resentment on his thin, good-looking face. Jaime surmised he was wondering how she was going to respond, now that he didn’t have Ben to back him up, but in this—as in so many things, she thought laconically—she was wrong.

‘What happened?’ he asked, after a few seconds, and Jaime’s brows ascended in sudden surprise.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Between you and Uncle Ben?’ said Tom offhandedly. ‘He—he didn’t—hurt you, did he?’

‘Hurt me?’

Jaime was glad she had taken the potatoes out of the cupboard in his absence, and was consequently able to concentrate on the task of scraping them instead of holding her son’s troubled gaze.

‘Yes.’ Tom pushed himself away from the door, and came further into the room. ‘The way you said he did before.’

‘I—–’ Jaime swallowed. ‘When did I say that?’

‘Well, you said he assaulted you once,’ Tom reminded her gruffly. ‘And when I came in just now it was obvious something had been happening.’

Jaime sighed, feeling a rising sense of indignation as she did so. Why couldn’t Tom have voiced these deductions while Ben was here to deal with them? she wondered exasperatedly. Why couldn’t he have put his ‘uncle’ on the spot, and not her?

‘All right,’ she said, attacking the potato in her hand with unmerited savagery, ‘we did—have words.’ Words! ‘What did you expect?’

Tom hunched his shoulders and pushed his hands into his pockets. ‘You really don’t like Uncle Ben, do you?’ he muttered. ‘I don’t know why. It wasn’t his fault that Dad walked out on us.’

‘No.’ Jaime dropped the mutilated potato into the water, and groped about for another. ‘And I’m not saying you shouldn’t see him again. Just—don’t expect me to encourage you.’

Naturally, that wasn’t the end of it. Although Tom wasn’t happy with Jaime’s attitude, he was still too young to hide his feelings. The events of the afternoon had been too exciting to ignore, and in spite of her feelings he spent a good part of the evening that followed describing what he had seen and what he had done.

Jaime told herself she wasn’t interested in the renovations Ben had made to the Priory, that Tom’s descriptions of large rooms, opening one from another, meant nothing to her. But she couldn’t close her mind to his words. The images they evoked were inescapable and, although she said little, Tom was determined to share his excitement.

Perhaps he hoped that by talking about his afternoon he could persuade his mother that Ben was not the ogre she appeared to think him. He might even have imagined that she would become intrigued, and show some curiosity about the place herself.

But, in spite of a wilful stirring of her emotions, Jaime succeeded in remaining impassive, and it wasn’t until Tom had gone to bed that the enormity of what was happening washed over her. Tom’s words, his admiration, his innocent response to his first taste of what it was like to be rich, reminded Jaime so much of herself, of the way she had behaved over fifteen years ago. Like him, she had been overwhelmed by the trappings of wealth and influence, seduced by the idea of sharing that kind of life.

She had been eighteen when she met Philip Russell. He had come into the bar one night with a group of young people who were all staying at the old Priory. The Dunstans had owned it in those days. Sir Peter Dunstan had been a retired military man whose second, and much younger wife was constantly giving house parties for her London friends.

It had been Christmas Eve, Jaime remembered, and she had been home after completing her first term at university. She had intended to take a law degree, but of course that had all gone by the board when Philip came on the scene. She had liked him at first sight, and she had been absurdly flattered when he’d shown the feeling was mutual.

Her feelings had been understandable, she thought now, despite the shiver of revulsion that slid down her spine. He had been a good-looking man, with none of the loud-mouthed brashness of the other members of the group. He had seemed shy, retiring, with them, and yet not quite one of them. Jaime had actually sympathised with him, and Philip had responded to her encouragement.

And, during the months of their courtship, Jaime had had no reason to doubt her first impressions. On the contrary, he had always treated her with consideration and respect, and, unlike the boys she was used to going out with, Philip had never attempted to get her into bed.

Naturally, Jaime had appreciated the advantages his independent means had provided. As the elder son of an undoubtedly wealthy family, Philip had only played at working. He sat on various boards, and attended occasional meetings, but most of his time was spent in frivolous pursuits. He enjoyed skiing, and sailing, and shooting in the season. He enjoyed driving, and had several expensive cars garaged below his penthouse apartment in Belgravia. He was a typical gentleman— or what Jaime presumed a gentleman should be—and, if her mother and father hadn’t exactly approved of the relationship, they, too, had profited from the association.