Lynne Graham - Dangerous Passions

‘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.