Dangerous Passions. Lynne Graham

she had gone to bed before he got home. She might have felt more equipped to deal with this in the morning.

      But, as it happened, Tom looked more discomfited to see her than she was to see him. His attempted nonchalance faded at the sight of her taut expression, and she realised, in a flash, that he thought she was annoyed with him for being late.

      ‘I can explain!’ he exclaimed, before she could speak, and Jaime was tempted to let him go on thinking he was to blame. ‘Angie’s Dad asked me in for some supper, and—well, I couldn’t say no, could I?’

      ‘Are you sure it wasn’t Angie who invited you in?’ queried Jaime, and then, when her son began an indignant denial, she held up a calming hand. ‘All right. All right. I believe you.’ She paused, tried to compose her words, and then added, cowardly, ‘So, you don’t want a sandwich, or anything?’

      ‘Well—–’ Tom shoved his hands into his trouser pockets, and hunched his shoulders ‘—I wouldn’t say no.’ He grimaced. ‘I was offered lasagne, but I said I wasn’t hungry.’

      Jaime couldn’t prevent a smile. ‘Cheese all right?’ she asked, turning to the fridge, and Tom nodded eagerly before straddling a chair at the table.

      He looked so much like Ben, sitting there, watching her, that Jaime wondered anew how she could have fooled herself for so long. Was it simply a case of out of sight, out of mind, or had she actually deliberately blotted Ben’s image from her memory?

      ‘Did you have a nice evening?’ he asked, gaining confidence from her attitude. ‘What did you have to eat? Anything special?’

      Jaime kept her eyes riveted on the bread she was buttering. ‘Um—salmon mousse, and lamb,’ she answered, without looking up at him. ‘And—and an orange sorbet. It was delicious.’

      Tom frowned. ‘Was it?’

      ‘Yes, of course.’ Jaime did cast him a hasty look at that moment. ‘Why do you ask? You know Mrs Haines is a good cook.’

      Tom shrugged. ‘You didn’t have a row or anything?’

      Jaime swallowed. ‘Who?’

      ‘You and Mrs Haines, of course.’ Tom made a sound of impatience. ‘Who else? There was only the two of you there!’

      ‘No—ouch!’ Jaime caught her thumb with the knife she was using to slice the cheese, and winced. ‘I mean—there wasn’t just the two of us there.’ She hesitated. ‘Ben Russell was there, too. And—and a doctor friend of Maggie’s.’

      ‘Uncle Ben was there?’ Tom was staring at her now, and Jaime realised there was no going back. ‘Did you know?’

      ‘Did I know what?’ Her son’s words had diverted her, and Jaime gazed at him, confused. ‘I don’t understand.’

      ‘Did you know he was going to be there?’ exclaimed Tom irritably. ‘Was that why you were so sure he wouldn’t phone this evening?’

      ‘No.’ Jaime was getting impatient herself now. This was hard enough for her to say without Tom balking her at every turn. ‘I had no idea he would be joining us until I got there. I wouldn’t have gone if—well, I—might not have gone if—if—–’

      ‘If you’d known he was going to be there. Yes, I know.’ Tom sounded fed up now. ‘So, that’s why you’re looking so depressed.’

      ‘I am not looking depressed!’ Tom was getting the very impression she had hoped to avoid. ‘Stop second-guessing my words. I’ve neither had a row—–’ liar! ‘—nor am I depressed. All right?’

      Tom lifted his shoulders. ‘If you say so.’

      ‘I do say so.’ Jaime set the cheese sandwich in front of him with scarcely concealed frustration. ‘As a matter of fact—Ben—brought me home.’

      ‘He did?’ Tom was so surprised, the sandwich he had raised to his lips was forgotten. ‘So what did he say? Did he mention my going over there this weekend?’

      ‘No.’ Jaime turned back to the breadboard, and brushed the crumbs she had made into the sink. ‘He—well, he had some news for me, actually,’ she admitted, setting the board in its place. And then, realising she was only making what she had to say that much more significant by prevaricating, she went on, ‘He told me—Philip—is dead. Philip Russell, that is. Your—father.’

      Tom put down the sandwich, untouched. ‘He’s dead?’ he echoed, and Jaime nodded. ‘How? When?’

      ‘I—don’t know the details.’ Jaime guiltily acknowledged she should have asked. ‘But—it was some time ago, I believe. He just didn’t get around to telling us.’

      Tom frowned. ‘Dead,’ he said again. And then, looking up, ‘Were you upset?’

      ‘No.’ Jaime felt a deepening of colour in her cheeks, and wished she were not so susceptible to her emotions. ‘No, Tom. I wasn’t upset. My—relationship with Philip was not a happy one. I didn’t wish him dead, but I can’t pretend a sorrow I don’t feel.’

      Tom absorbed this in silence, and Jaime knew she had to say something more. She owed him that much. After all, Tom still believed that Philip Russell had been his father. How must he be feeling, hearing her condemn the man he believed had given him life?

      ‘There’s something else,’ she said, coming to the table, and seating herself opposite him. ‘Something I should have told you—ages ago. Only, it never seemed the right time.’

      Tom looked at her warily, his eyes mirroring the uneasiness he was feeling. He was probably wondering what other awful revelations she was about to make, Jaime thought unhappily. And goodness knew, what she had to say wasn’t going to be easy for either of them.

      ‘It’s about you,’ she said slowly, understanding at last why adoptive parents were always advised to tell their children the truth as soon as they were old enough to understand. It was much harder to tell a boy of Tom’s age that his father wasn’t who he thought he was. ‘Um—about your being born in Newcastle.’

      ‘You mean, that story about you running away with another man is true?’ exclaimed Tom gruffly, and Jaime gazed at him in disbelief.

      ‘You know?’

      ‘No.’ Tom hunched his shoulders. ‘I don’t know anything. But I know the story. It’s no secret, is it?’

      ‘Isn’t it?’ Jaime felt as if someone had just delivered her a body blow. ‘I—don’t know what to say.’

      ‘You were going to tell me about it,’ Tom prompted flatly. ‘It’s true, then. Philip Russell wasn’t my father.’

      Jaime swallowed. ‘No.’

      ‘So—Uncle Ben isn’t really my uncle?’ This was evidently harder for him to say, and Jaime’s heart went out to him.

      ‘No,’ she admitted huskily, wondering what he would say if she told him the truth. But she couldn’t risk that. The Russells had taken so much from her. She couldn’t risk losing her son to them as well, however selfish that might be.

      ‘Does he know?’

      Jaime blinked. She had been so wrapped up with her own thoughts that Tom’s question caught her off guard. ‘I beg your—–?’

      ‘Uncle—that is, Ben Russell. Does he know he’s not my real uncle?’

      ‘Oh.’ Jaime licked her dry lips. ‘I—yes. Yes, he knows—–’

      ‘He does?’

      Tom’s reaction was totally unexpected. The unhappy droop disappeared from his mouth like magic, and instead of regarding her with a mixture of hostility and accusation he looked positively delighted.

      ‘He really knows?’ he asked again, and when Jaime nodded, albeit a little less certainly