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She’d never be able to pick up her perfume without being reminded of his words—words that had filled her with a savage exhilaration: he was hurting as much as she was. There was another, less palatable and unflattering explanation—he might just be recycling old and well-tried lines. He’d had so many women it wasn’t reasonable to expect originality.
All the same he’d have to be a very good actor to fake that raw need in his voice. The downy hair over her body stood on end as she relived those breathless few seconds.
‘Sorry if that hurts,’ she said a few moments later as she applied pressure to the dressing to stem the flow of blood.
‘It takes my mind off the other pain.’
‘Which…?’ She raised her eyes to his face and immediately wished she hadn’t.
‘I think you know what pain I’m talking about.’
She did now: his eyes were very eloquent. ‘I won’t offer you the use of my cold shower; I’m sure you’ve got a perfectly good one at home.’
‘You’d consign me to seventies retro? Black tiles and mirrors on the ceiling? Cruel, cruel woman.’
‘If you don’t like it…’ she began curiously.
‘When asked my opinion I made the major error of admitting I didn’t give a damn.’
‘Why would you do anything so stupid?’ She finished securing the light dressing with tape and stood back to observe her handiwork.
‘Because I didn’t care.’
‘What a peculiar attitude.’
‘You’ve done this before,’ he said, turning over his bandaged hand.
‘You’ve met Charlie—are you surprised? Though she’s never gone in for fighting before.’ A worried frown creased her wide, smooth brow.
‘I’d listen to her story before you tell her off,’ he observed casually.
The unspoken overtones almost jumped out and bit her on the nose. ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked suspiciously. ‘Has she said something to you?’ The idea of Charlie confiding in someone who was almost a total stranger— Heavens, I’m jealous! she realised. When did I get so sour and disgustingly twisted?
‘Sometimes it’s easier to talk to someone who’s not part of the…’
She could almost see him mentally back-pedalling.
‘Part of the problem?’ she finished grimly.
‘She’s very protective of you.’
‘You’ve got to tell me now, Ben.’
Benedict sighed, looked into her lovely face. which was flushed with emotion and tight with tension, and nodded. ‘Granted. It seems they had this lesson at school where everyone gave a potted biography of their father. When it was Charlie’s turn, she told everyone her father came from a sperm bank.’
‘She what?’
‘I take it this information didn’t come from the horse’s mouth?’
‘What do you think I am?’ she gasped.
‘It’s what Charlie thinks that’s the problem.’
‘And you know what she thinks?’ She didn’t even bother to hide her antagonism to the idea.
‘Don’t kill the messenger, Rachel. Shall I make the tea?’ he offered, after looking at her pale, drawn features.
‘Why not?’ She was redundant in every other way—why shouldn’t he take over the domestic tasks too? She knew she was being ungrateful and petulant but for the life of her she couldn’t stop it.
‘This particular boy started making some nasty insinuations about your…er…sexual preferences and, as I said, Charlie’s very protective.’
Rachel closed her eyes and groaned; it got worse. ‘She’s never asked about her father.’ If she had what would I have told her? she thought. How would I have explained about Raoul?
‘Didn’t he want to be involved…?’
‘He’s dead,’ she said in a flat, emotionless tone.
‘I see.’
Rachel lifted her elbows from the counter and straightened up, glancing at Benedict as she did so. What did he see? A tragedy that had separated young lovers? Whatever he thought it couldn’t come close to the truth.
Had she let that youthful disillusionment sour her attitude to men? Where she’d imagined she was cautious had she actually been distrustful? Had she encumbered her daughter with her own prejudices and insecurities? Had she taken self-reliance too far? The disquieting questions refused to stop.
‘My confidence in my parenting skills has just taken a nosedive.’
‘Don’t knock what you’ve done, Rachel. Charlie’s an exceptional kid. It must have been hard alone…’
‘I wasn’t alone,’ she put in impatiently. ‘The money I inherited from my aunt Janet meant I can live here in relative luxury—not up to your standards possibly, but most people wouldn’t complain. When Charlie was small Aunt Janet was always there for us. It was she who made me continue with my education; I had it easy compared to a lot of single mums. I had a safety net…’