Dangerous Interloper

She gasped out loud when he brushed her nipples with his fingers, helpless beneath the avalanche of need that rolled down over her.

She must have said something… asked something, but she had no idea what. All she heard was Ben’s thick, fierce, ‘Yes… Yes…’ and then his mouth was on her breast, making her shudder with paroxysm after paroxysm of a pleasure so intense that she didn’t think it was possible to survive it.

She heard herself call out his name, her voice raw and cracked. The answering pressure of his mouth against her breast made her shudder convulsively and swallow the sob of need that rose in her throat.

‘Ben. Ben…’ She couldn’t stop herself any longer. She had to tell him how she felt about him… how much she loved him… wanted him.

Outside the kitchen window a small creature screamed, the sound of its death-cry cutting through their passion as sharply as a razor to a knot.

She felt Ben tense, and then slowly release her. As he stepped back from her, avoiding looking at her, she heard him apologising hoarsely, ‘I’m sorry. That should never have happened. God, I thought I had more… more control.’

He sounded so conscience-stricken, so shocked, that Miranda winced, knowing that she had encouraged him, incited him… that the blame was not his alone, that she had shared his desire, even if he had not shared her love. Her love. She swallowed the sob that threatened to choke her, and said huskily, ‘It wasn’t your fault… I…’

‘It should never have happened,’ he repeated flatly. She realised as he turned towards her that he had fastened his shirt, but he had missed the top two buttons, and in the light she saw against his neck a scratch she was sure had not been there when he’d arrived.

Mortification and guilt turned her skin scarlet. She couldn’t bear to look at him and had to turn her back to him.

‘It shouldn’t have happened,’ he was repeating again. ‘I should never have come here. God, Miranda, what can I say? I can only put it down to… to the emotional upset of the break-in.’

He had said nothing about her part in what had happened, and seemed determined to shoulder all the blame himself. Out of good manners, or because he had genuinely not realised? Not realised? How could he not have realised? she taunted herself. It was far more likely that he had realised and that by taking the blame he was trying subtly to warn her that what had happened should not have done so; that it had simply been a by-product of other emotions, and had no personal meaning for him. She had simply happened to be there. It had not been desire for her that had motivated him, simply a basic male need to find a means of releasing the tension and aggression of the evening.

‘You don’t need to say anything,’ she told him shakily, still keeping her back to him. ‘I think it’s something we should both forget ever happened.’

He had gone very still, very tense almost. She could tell that without having to look round. Was this what love did to you—made you so achingly conscious of that beloved other that you could feel their changes of mood, almost as a physical reality?

Why was he so tense, though? This was what he wanted, wasn’t it… to wipe out the events of the last hour as though they had never happened?

‘I shouldn’t have come here.’ He seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her, and, in an effort to make things sound as normal as possible, Miranda said shakily, ‘Well, at least no one’s likely to have seen you, so it won’t cause any more gossip.’

‘So, you’ve heard the rumours as well, have you?’

She shrugged her shoulders.

‘This is a small town. You’re a newcomer, a single man. We were seen together at the golf club do, so people put two and two together and make twelve.’ She tried to sound casual and unconcerned. ‘They’ll soon find something else to talk about.’

‘Yes,’ Ben agreed flatly.

Miranda started to walk towards the door.

‘I’m sorry Ralph is causing you so much trouble,’ she told him as he followed her. ‘He’s a very dangerous man. He has a nasty temper.’

‘He’s also a coward,’ Ben told her grimly. ‘He sent others to do his dirty work for him.’

‘Do you think he’ll try again?’ Miranda tried not to let her fear show in her voice.

‘I don’t think so,’ Ben assured her. ‘It would be too risky for him. He won’t want to take the chance of people talking, pointing the finger in his direction. His sort never do.’

They had reached the front door, and as Miranda started to open it he touched her arm briefly and repeated, ‘I’m sorry about… about tonight. I honestly had no intention when I came here—’

‘No. I know,’ Miranda interrupted him hastily, adding hesitantly, ‘I think we’re both mature enough to accept and understand that shock and trauma can cause all sorts of unlikely things to happen.’

She tensed as she realised that Ben was studying the book on the hall table. It was the book she had bought earlier in the day in Bath.

‘You’re interested in interpreting your dreams?’ he asked her curiously.

Instantly she denied it, fibbing, ‘It isn’t mine. It belongs to a friend. She left it here.’ She was starting to gabble, desperately trying to protect herself. And yet, why? If he hadn’t realised from this evening just what kind of effect he had on her, he was scarcely likely to guess that she had bought the book in order to try to find some way of banishing her far too erotic dreams about him, was he?

After he had gone, Miranda went back to the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee which she didn’t drink. She then paced restlessly around the room, hugging her arms around her body as she tried to calm herself down. Tonight when she went to bed she was not going to dream about Ben. She was not going to dream about anyone or anything. She was going to sleep.

CHAPTER SEVEN

‘WELL, I must say that your father and Helen have been very lucky with the weather.’

‘Very lucky,’ Miranda responded stiltedly to Ben’s comment. Ever since she had discovered that not only had Helen invited Ben to the wedding but that she had invited him to partner her as well, she had been so racked with discomfort that it had turned the day sour for her.

The sunshine which thrilled everyone else had given her a headache. The suit she had bought with so much pleasure had become something over-attention-seeking, a foolish bid to draw Ben’s attention to her, and she felt uncomfortably self-conscious in it despite all the compliments she had received. If Helen hadn’t asked Ben to partner her…

She gnawed miserably on her bottom lip. She had only found out about that this morning when Ben had telephoned her to ask her what time she wanted picking up. Until then she had had no idea that he was to be anything more than another wedding guest.

She had wanted to tell him that this pairing off of the two of them had nothing to do with her, but her pride wouldn’t let her do so. He had already made it clear to her that he wasn’t interested in her. If she had realised what Helen was doing…

The service was over, but there was still the reception to get through. It was being held at a country house hotel a few miles outside the town and Miranda, of course, without her own transport, would be obliged to travel there with Ben.

She had been all too conscious of the speculative attention they had been receiving, and now Ben, who had been talking to one of the other guests, turned back to her, and as though he had read her mind he murmured drily, ‘I see a couple of your fellow committee members are watching us with avid interest. Are they going to be very disappointed, do you think, when they realise the truth?’

‘Quite frankly I neither know nor care,’ Miranda lied, flushing as she saw the way his eyebrows rose.

She was behaving like a spoiled, bad-tempered child, she knew, but instead of turning his back on her and ignoring her rudeness Ben frowned and asked with some concern, ‘Are you all right? I noticed in the church that you looked pale.’

Yes, she had been pale. Pale with the strain of trying not to imagine that she and B

en were the ones exchanging their vows, here in the quiet coolness of this church where her own parents had married; where she herself had been christened. She was long past the stage of trying to deceive herself any longer about her feelings for him. She couldn’t deny them and she certainly couldn’t destroy them. She loved him.

‘I… I have a bit of a headache,’ she told him, avoiding looking at him. For some reason his concern made her want to cry. It would be so much easier to hold him at a distance if he were less warmhearted, less concerned, less nice, she reflected miserably.

‘Mm.’ He was watching her closely. Too closely, she realised, as she looked up in an unguarded moment and met the warm concern of his eyes before her glance slid desperately away, afraid of what he might see in her eyes.

‘You’re not…? It isn’t…?’ He hesitated and then asked her quietly, ‘You aren’t upset about this marriage, are you?’

It took several seconds for his meaning to sink in, but once it had she responded immediately and vehemently.

‘No… no, of course I’m not. I’m not a possessive child, Ben. I’m a woman.’

She knew as she’d said the word that it was a mistake, without quite knowing why. Ben was looking at her, watching her with an intensity that made her heart thud heavily.

‘A woman. Yes, you certainly are that,’ he agreed slowly.

For some reason his words made her flush and rush into nervous speech. ‘I’m glad they’re getting married. I’m very happy for them, for both of them.’

‘So, if it wasn’t your father’s marriage that was making you look so… so unhappy during the service, what was it?’

She caught her breath. She had never dreamed that Ben might have been watching her, might have been aware… She hunted wildly for something to say, but before she could speak an old acquaintance of her father’s came up to her and took hold of her hand, patting it.

‘This is a very happy day for your father,’ he told her, ‘and yet I couldn’t help thinking when we were in church about your mother…’

As he left them, Ben said quickly, ‘I’m sorry; I should have realised. Of course, you would have been thinking about your mother.’

‘Yes, a little,’ Miranda agreed, trying not to feel uncomfortable. It was true she had thought of her mother, but only with the knowledge of how pleased she would have been to know that they were happy; but if she told Ben the truth he might keep on pressing her, wanting to know why she had been upset, and she could hardly tell him the real reason, could she? She could hardly blurt out that her misery had been caused by the admission of her love for him and its hopelessness.

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