‘Don’t be mad, Mum,’ he said, giving Ben an appealing look. ‘Why don’t we all go into the living-room and talk? It— well, it’s not very nice out here, and Uncle Ben’s been ill—–’
‘Do as your mother says, Tom.’ Ben’s quiet command silenced the boy, and Jaime knew a renewed sense of resentment at the ease with which he achieved his objectives. ‘It’s been a long time since we’ve seen one another, and I think it would be better if we had a few private words.’
Tom hesitated, but it was only a momentary resistance. ‘You will say goodbye before you leave, won’t you?’ he requested anxiously, and then, conscious of his mother’s disapproval, he dragged his feet along the hall to the kitchen.
Jaime waited until the kitchen door had closed behind her son before stepping back and opening the front door. ‘I think you’d better go,’ she said, hoping he was not aware that she was clinging to the handle as if it were a lifeline. ‘I don’t know why you came here, and I don’t want to know. I just want you to get out of here!’
Ben’s thin features tightened, but he made no move to obey her. ‘Isn’t this a little juvenile, Jaime?’ he suggested, straightening his spine. ‘We’ve known each other too long—and too well—to ignore the other’s existence. All right. Maybe I shouldn’t have come here tonight, but I was curious. And when Tom found out who I was—–’
Jaime quivered. ‘Are you going to leave, or must I call the police?’
Ben expelled his breath on a heavy sigh. ‘You wouldn’t do that,’ he said flatly, his shoulders lifting in a dismissive gesture, and with an inward sense of desperation Jaime closed the door again.
‘You have no right to come here,’ she enunciated clearly. ‘No right at all.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘Did you tell your wife where you were going?’
‘Maura’s dead,’ he replied shortly, and now his face had taken on a distinctly grim expression. ‘In any case, why should you think I don’t have the right to see my own nephew?’
‘He’s not your nephew—–’ she began, but his savage words overrode her.
‘Yes, I’ve heard that story before,’ he bit out harshly. ‘But if he isn’t Philip’s son, then who the hell is he? Because—my God!—the likeness is unmistakable! He’s the image of my father as a young man!’
IT WAS strange, Jaime reflected, how the anticipation of disaster was sometimes worse than the actual event. In the early years, when Tom was just a toddler, she had lived in fear of Ben coming back and seeing the boy for himself. Even though Philip was no longer a threat, and the rest of his family had always lived in London, she had still looked over her shoulder every time she left the house, still felt the familiar tension every time the telephone rang.
But time had changed that. Time, and Tom’s growing maturity, had convinced her that none of the Russells was ever likely to trouble her again. Why should they? She and Philip were divorced, and, because she had allowed him to divorce her, there had been no question of alimony, even had she wanted any—which she didn’t. She wanted nothing from the Russells, not from any of them. And as the years had gone by she had begun to believe she was safe.
After all, Philip’s parents had never liked her. She had known they had been relieved when her marriage to Philip broke up. That the reasons for that break-up might be different from what Philip claimed was not something they were likely to contemplate. But then, they didn’t know Philip as she did, she reminded herself bitterly. As far as they were concerned he was still the shy, sensitive introvert, the image he presented to the world. The man Jaime had discovered him to be was someone they wouldn’t recognise.
Nevertheless, when she had first discovered she was pregnant, she had been afraid that Philip might find out, and want her back again. The divorce had not been absolute, and she’d had no way of knowing how he might react. That was why she had left Kingsmere at that time, why she had gone to live with her father’s sister in the north of England until Tom was born.
It had not been easy. Without funds, she had had to rely on her parents’ support, but with their help she had managed. And, although those days had been anxious, they had been oddly satisfying, too. She had worked for a time, temping jobs, mostly, saving every penny she could for the baby. She had missed her parents, but she had asked them not to visit her until the divorce was final. She wanted no word of her whereabouts to get back to the Russells. Not until Tom was born did she begin to plan their future.
It was easier than she had thought. The fact that Philip already believed there was another man in her life made Tom’s arrival quite unremarkable. Everyone—even her parents’ neighbours—believed Jaime had left Kingsmere to be with her lover. That was why she had stayed away until Tom was almost a year old. Her return then had been greeted with the usual words of sympathy. People thought she had been let down, and she supposed she had, in a way, she thought dispassionately. Certainly, no one suspected her real reasons for leaving. Tom’s presence answered a lot of questions, and if she did become the butt of some spiteful gossip for a while it was not something she cared too strongly about. She had Tom, and her parents, and that was enough.
Or so she convinced herself…
As the years went by, of course, her earlier impropriety was dismissed as a youthful indiscretion. By the time Tom was old enough to go to school, the question of who his father had been was no longer so important. She had retained her married name, and those people who didn’t know her history naturally assumed that her ex-husband had been the child’s father. Tom was no different from a dozen other children from one-parent families, and she had never corrected his assumption that Philip had deserted them.
Occasionally, she had worried that Philip might hear the fiction, and come back to see ‘his’ son, but it hadn’t happened. Unlike the parents of Tom’s schoolfriends, he knew that Tom wasn’t his son—and besides, he had no interest in her now. The divorce had severed any remaining bonds between them, and he wasn’t likely to resurrect the past.
Now, however, Jaime’s carefully won anonymity was in danger of being overturned. As she had been afraid it might be, ever since she had heard that Ben Russell had bought the old Priory. But how could she have known he would come here? After fifteen years? It was obscene!
Even so, the bitterness of their last encounter could still bring a wave of goosebumps to feather her flesh. She despised herself for feeling this way, but it had been a traumatic evening, and she was vulnerable. God, was she never to be free from that one mistake?
‘Shall we go into the living-room?’ suggested Ben evenly, indicating the lamp-lit room behind him. ‘At the risk of arousing your contempt, I am bloody cold!’
‘Cold?’ Jaime looked at him, becoming aware that in spite of the warm evening he was shivering. What was it Tom had said? That he was ill? ‘I—all right,’ she conceded tensely. And then, with a trace of malice, ‘You usually get your own way, don’t you?’
Ben looked as if he would have liked to argue with her, but self-preservation got the better of acrimony. Stepping aside, he indicated that she should precede him into the room. And Jaime did so, unwillingly, overwhelmingly aware of his lean body only inches from hers as she inched past.
Ben followed her into the room, and closed the door behind him. ‘Shall we sit down?’
He gestured towards the sofa, but Jaime shook her head, choosing to stand by the empty fireplace instead. Her legs might be unreliable, but sitting down with this man would be an admission of defeat.
‘Do you mind if I do, then?’ he enquired, and at her curt shake of her head he subsided on to the cretonne-covered arm of the sofa. Remembering how many times she had chastened Tom for doing the exact same thing, Jaime was tempted to protest. But caution kept her silent. The fewer comparisons she made between