Dangerous Passions. Lynne Graham

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.

      Of course, his mother and father had openly disapproved. Philip had taken her once—and only once!—to meet his parents, at their home in London. It had been a disaster. Another young woman had been present, whom Jaime was left in no doubt had been expected to become Mrs Philip Russell, and what with her—Jaime’s—nervousness, and Philip’s embarrassment, the visit had been a nightmare.

      Looking back, she realised that Heather—yes, that had been her name: Heather Sanders—had had a lucky escape. She could have had no idea of the kind of man Philip was, any more than Jaime. To all intents and purposes, he was a paragon, and that was why Jaime had considered herself so fortunate.

      Oh, the enormous diamond ring he had bought her on their engagement, and the Porsche, which he had told her would be waiting for her when they returned from their honeymoon, had helped. She wouldn’t have been human if she hadn’t been excited at the prospect of marrying such a wealthy man. All her friends thought she had been immensely lucky, and she had basked in their envy right up to the wedding.

      The knowledge that Ben Russell was Philip’s brother had been an added bonus. She hadn’t met him in the months leading up to the wedding, but she had seen him on television. At that time, Ben had been working for the BBC, and it had been something else to brag about—that her future brother-in-law was such a famous face.

      How young she had been, thought Jaime bitterly. How naïve about life, and men. She had thought she knew it all, when in fact she had known nothing. Not about life, or emotions, or, most particularly, about the man she was planning to marry.

      They had been married in the small church where Jaime had been christened, and where she had taken her first communion. In spite of the absence of most of the members of Philip’s family, it had not been a small wedding. The fact that her father was the licensee of the Raven and Glass ensured that the church was full, and it was not until they were greeting guests at the reception that Jaime realised Philip’s brother had attended. He hadn’t been best man. One of Philip’s friends from London—a man Jaime had never met before—had performed that duty, and when the tall dark man stepped in front of her she had had no premonition of the role he was to play in her life. On the contrary, her initial reaction had been one of apprehension. She had recognised him, of course. How could she not? But she had been wary of his intervention when Philip introduced them.

      She hadn’t needed to be. Ben hadn’t come to scorn or cause trouble. Looking back now, she realised it had been kind of him to come at all. He hadn’t had to. Certainly his parents had felt no such compunction. Apart from a few of Philip’s friends, the majority of the guests were from Jaime’s side of the family, but by putting in an appearance Ben had tacitly endorsed the occasion on behalf of the Russells.

      For which she had been grateful, Jaime admitted wryly, remembering how proud she had felt when he’d stood and talked to her. Ben had a way of giving someone his whole attention when they spoke, and she couldn’t deny she had been dazzled by his friendly personality.

      His wife had not been with him. At age twenty-four, Ben had already been married for three years, but the elusive Mrs Russell preferred to remain in the background. Or so Philip said, when she asked him. Of course, that was before they left on their honeymoon, before other considerations swept such paltry cares aside.

      It had taken Jaime just twenty-four hours to realise she had made a terrible mistake. Twenty-four hours, during which time she realised she did not know Philip at all. The shy, sensitive man she thought she had married didn’t exist. The man who had taken her to bed in his apartment was a monster, and she couldn’t believe the way he had treated her.

      Oh, the following morning, the morning they were due to leave for their honeymoon in Bermuda, Philip had apologised profusely. When he saw the bruises on her face and neck—bruises that were repeated on her body, but were not all, thankfully, visible—he was contrite. It was the champagne, he said. He had drunk too much; he hadn’t known what he was doing. She was so beautiful, he groaned, she had gone to his head.

      Jaime hadn’t been convinced. She was not that naïve. But she was his wife, they were married, and the idea of telling anyone else what had happened was not a viable proposition. After all, what if he was right? What if the champagne had gone to his head? How could she revoke her vows after only one night?

      Luckily, the worst of the bruises were on her neck, and a scarf, twisted into the collar of her blue silk travelling suit, did not look out of place. For the rest, a rather heavier foundation than usual proved invaluable, and when they boarded the plane and took their seats in the first-class compartment Jaime succeeded in fooling herself that it was all going to be all right.

      And Philip was his usual charming self. He spent the whole trip ensuring that she was comfortable, that she had everything she needed, and describing their destination so enthusiastically that Jaime couldn’t help feeling a sense of anticipation. He had been so successful in soothing her fears that by the time they landed on the chain of islands, which were strung together with causeways to form the delightful colony of Bermuda, Jaime had convinced herself that what had happened the night before had been just an aberration.

      They didn’t stay at a hotel. Philip’s parents owned a villa, and although they might not have approved of the marriage they had agreed to allow the young couple to use the colour-washed cottage that overlooked an unblemished stretch of coral sand.

      It should have been heaven, but for Jaime it became a living hell. No matter how considerate Philip might be to her during the day, she could only think of the nights, and the fact that her worst fears had been realised. She had sometimes wondered if Philip’s parents had known of his sexual perversions before the wedding. That would account for their apparent generosity in lending them the cottage. There was no way she and Philip could have stayed at a hotel without someone noticing Jaime’s distress. Besides, how would he have explained her swollen face, or the dark discolourations on her body?

      As it was, she had counted the days until they could go home. Home meant England, and the chance to escape from this mockery of a marriage. She didn’t care now what her friends thought, or how humiliated she would feel to have to admit what had happened. She only wanted her freedom. To never have to see Philip again.

      Strangely enough, she didn’t tell Philip how she felt. Not then, at least. Something, some subconscious knowledge, perhaps, warned her not to confront him until she was back on her own ground. She didn’t think he was mad. Most of the time he was too obscenely normal, treating her with such sickening sweetness that she wanted to vomit. But she was afraid of him, afraid of the power he had over her here, far from the protection of her family.

      Then, the night before they were due to fly back to England, Philip told her what he would do if she ever told anyone what went on between them. He had friends, he said—friends she wouldn’t like to know. He was not specific, but Jaime was left in no doubt as to what might happen if she attempted to leave him. He loved her, he said, and the ignominy of that remark was a small indication of how abnormal he was. He didn’t love her. He didn’t know the meaning of the word. But he wanted her, and he would do anything he had to do to keep her. And what she had hoped was just a term of detention became a life sentence.

      Jaime closed her eyes now, as the horror of that evening in Bermuda surged over her again. She had lost control, of course. As he had probably guessed she would. He had chosen his time deliberately, and all the pain and humiliation of the last two weeks had burst out of her in a desperate flood of recrimination. She didn’t remember what she’d said. But despair had made her reckless. This might be the last chance she had to say what she thought, and her anguish and agitation had sent her clawing for his face.