An Irresistible Impulse Read online

  “Is that what you’re doing—trying to find out what each of us feels about being a juror?”

  He shook his head, his features softening again. “There’s more to it than that. I want the general feelings, yes, but also feelings about day-to-day things. For example, how did you feel when the defendant was led into the courtroom that first day?”

  Abby thought for a minute. “I think I was…intimidated. It’s a very different thing to see pictures of a man in the paper, even to see him sitting in court during the jury selection process, but to be part of the jury and see him led in by guards…and to know that I’ll be asked to judge his guilt or innocence…” She paused to catch her breath. “Yes. Intimidated.”

  “You see now,” he grinned, “that’s interesting. You’re not the only one who’s told me that. The others may not have put it quite as eloquently…”

  “Baloney!…But what about you, Ben? What were you feeling then?”

  “You really want to know?”

  “Of course.”

  He looked her straight in the eye. “I kept asking myself how a guy who should have so much going for him has managed to blow it.”

  “But…that’s implying he’s guilty!”

  “Not necessarily. I simply look at him and see a whole lot that other people can never even hope to have. It’s too bad. You know…the dreams of money and power.”

  Something caught at her throat. “Is that what you dream of, Ben?” she whispered.

  He held back a minute, knowing that to share this part of himself was to allow Abby closer than most had ever been. When he spoke, his voice was infinitely softer. “I used to. I grew up with nothing. My parents worked their tails off for every cent we had. They died before I could share my own success with them.” He shifted to stare out into the dark. “As for money, I have all I need. Power likewise. My demands aren’t great on either score.”

  “And are you happy?”

  His gaze grew more distant and again he hesitated. “…I thought I had it all once. Then it was snatched from me for no apparent reason.” He clenched and unclenched his fist as though struggling to let go of that old dream and its pain. Then he drew in a long breath. “Happiness is relative, I suppose. I’ve been lucky enough to find it in other things….” His voice trailed off and he rubbed his brow. “At any rate, I look at Bradley and can’t help wondering. He must have had every advantage in the book.”

  It took Abby a minute to catch up; she’d stalled on the mention of his wife. That had to be it, she reasoned. He’d mentioned her once before with the same sound of anguish in his voice, the same distant look in his eye. He must have loved her very, very much.

  “It’s interesting…what you’ve said,” she picked up gently. “You see Derek Bradley from the point of view of your own life’s experience. I suppose we all do it.”

  “It’s inevitable. Take our friend today in the eggplant purple shirt.”

  She grinned, as much in relief at the return of Ben’s humor as at its garish cause. “You mean George?” George of the wake-up green jacket that first night. “You take him. You’re the one writing the book.”

  The corner of his mouth twitched. “I wouldn’t take him far in that get-up. But think of what he must think of Derek Bradley, who walks into court every day looking as if he’d just come from his private tailor.”

  Abby chuckled. “I see your point. For that matter, Louise has a daughter about the age of Greta Robinson. It must be hard for her to look at the defendant and see anything but a rapist.”

  “There,” Ben declared. “You’ve made my point.”

  “Then…what about justice? How can he possibly have a chance?”

  “He’s got a high-powered legal team for starters. And you can bet he’s gathered together a slew of favorable witnesses. Then, of course, he’s got twelve people. Not one. Twelve. Each of whom has sworn to make a decision based solely on the evidence presented in court.” If she’d earlier doubted his impartiality, the chiding gleam in his eye settled the matter. He went dutifully on. “It takes a unanimous decision to find for either side. If one person sees things his own way, it’s up to the other eleven to convince him otherwise.”

  “Or vice versa.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And…if it doesn’t work either way?”

  “Then we’ve got a hung jury and the whole three weeks will have been for naught.”

  Abby felt the disappointment as if it had actually occurred. “That would be awful. For that matter, two of us will be excluded from the final deliberations. That would be awful!”

  He shrugged. “It happens. But I agree; it’d be a real letdown after having gone through the entire trial.” Yet as Abby gazed across at him, she sensed that the trial’s end would bring a letdown regardless.

  “It’s an odd thing,” she began in an attempt to express her thoughts without saying too much, “to be thrown together with perfect strangers for an experience like this. I…I assume that permanent friendships are bound to emerge.”

  “I assume.” He wasn’t making it any easier. For that matter, his expression had grown shadowed. Straightening from the sill, he thrust his hands into his pockets once more and wandered idly around the room. Abby could do nothing but sit and watch, wishing all the while that this were anything but a bedroom. Her imagination was far too active.

  He moved slowly, weighed down by a private burden. When he finally came to a standstill directly before her, his features were nearly taut as his voice had been when first he’d appeared at her door. She sensed that they’d come full circle.

  “Abby,” he sighed, “what do you think is happening…between us?”

  Looking down, she studied the way her fingers lay against her denim jeans. She’d avoided the question for far too long. Perhaps Ben was her conscience. “I…I suppose that…well, what with the situation and all…it’s only natural…” Even as she hated herself for her hesitancy, she couldn’t seem to do anything about it. How did one say “You turn me on!” in a refined sort of way? More importantly, how did one say it without inviting consequences that one wasn’t sure one wanted?

  “What’s only natural?” he asked evenly.

  “That we should…that there should be this…attraction.”

  “Attraction?” He chuckled. “Isn’t that putting it a little mildly?”

  Abby shrugged. “I suppose so.”

  Cupping her chin, he urged her gaze upward. “I know so, Abby. It’s much more than a simple attraction that can be satisfied by a few stolen kisses. I need—”

  “Ben—” she tried to interrupt, but he put a finger against her lips.

  “I need you, Abby,” he growled, seeming to begrudge the fact even with its blunt acknowledgment. “It may be in part the situation…sitting so near you, sleeping, trying to sleep, so near you.” He raked a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. But I haven’t been able to think of anything except making love to you.”

  “You shouldn’t—” she began, thinking of all those reasons against but unable to voice them. For the look of tenderness that suddenly softened his features did strange things to her insides.

  “I have to. I lie in there at night,” he tossed his head toward the wall abutting his room, “and think of you.”

  “It’s pure circumstance,” she argued weakly. “Once the trial’s over and we’ve gone our separate ways—”

  “But what about now, Abby? We’ve got another two and a half weeks ahead of us. What about now?”

  Her pulse raced wildly. “What about it?” she asked, softly, unsure. Her eyes never left Ben’s as he lowered himself to sit beside her. One hand slid beneath the hair at her nape, the other tucked a loose mahogany strand behind her ear and stayed to trace its delicate curve.

  “I want you,” he rasped. “We’re both too grown up to be satisfied with anything less than fulfillment. I want to make love to you. Here. Tonight. All night.”

  Abby was stunned, in part by the suddenness of
his proposition, in part by her inability to reject it curtly. When he drew her closer and kissed her, she was equally helpless.

  If only he’d been rough in his hunger, she’d muse later. Then she might have put up a fight. But his lips were gentle in their aggression, instantly evoking memories of the afternoon’s passion. Now the flames burst back to life, blinding her to everything but their glorious heat.

  Then the phone rang.

  “I don’t believe it,” Ben snarled. “Let it ring.’ ”

  “They’ll only come for me,” she gasped. “Don’t forget, I’m not supposed to be ‘out for the evening.’ ”

  It rang a second time. Abby was singed by the heated gray of Ben’s gaze, daring to reach for the phone only when she felt the hands at her shoulders slacken their hold. Then she scrambled to the far side of the bed where the intrusive instrument rang again. Intrusive…protective…which was it?

  “Hello?” she asked, then glanced quickly over at Ben. “That’s all right…Yes, he’s here.…Downstairs?…He’s on his way.” Replacing the receiver, she exhaled a breath. “It’s for you. A call downstairs. They’ve been trying your room and took a chance….” Clearing her throat, she looked up. “It’s an Alexandra Stokes. She says it’s important.”

  It seemed an eon ago that Nicholas Abbott had delivered a similar message to Abby. Then it had been Sean parading as her fiancé. He too had said it was important. Now…a call for Ben. Was this the same person with whom he spoke each night? Somehow it really didn’t matter. Innocently or not, Alexandra Stokes had given Abby her best argument against Ben’s proposal.

  Ben apparently disagreed. Standing with an oath of frustration, he eyed her sharply. “I’ll be back.” And he turned.

  “No, Ben. It’s better this way,” she protested, but he wouldn’t listen.

  Three irate strides took him to the door. “At least she didn’t call herself my fiancé!” he barked in sarcasm, then was gone.

  Abby’s insides quaked when the door slammed. Then she stared at it as though hoping to find a solution written on its blank expanse. There was nothing.

  Turning inward, she tried to imagine what would have happened had the phone not rung at that particular moment. It didn’t take much trying. She cast a knowing eye over her shoulder at the bed, the roomy king-size bed with faint indentations in its quilt where she and Ben had sat moments before. The indentations would have certainly spread by now, had the phone not rung. But then, the quilt would have quickly been drawn back and the sheets would have borne the brunt of their passion.

  Angry at herself for the crudeness of her thoughts, she paced the room in search of distraction. One distraction. Any distraction. Even the slightest diversion would do. A newspaper…she didn’t have one. A book…she wasn’t in the mood. Her radio…not allowed. Her journal…no escape at all; she’d only write about him. Inevitably her gaze returned to the bed.

  Was it crude? When Ben had kissed her, there’d been nothing crude about it. When he’d held her and touched her this afternoon, she’d sensed something wild and beautiful. Was it crudeness that made her insides ache, that made her breasts throb now in testimony to his gentleness then?

  Was it crude…this image of the two of them lying in one another’s arms? Or was it beautiful? Everything in her cried out for that beauty…everything but the quiet voice of reason that pointed to the different lives to which they’d return at the trial’s end.

  “Abby!” The sound was accompanied by the sharp rapping of his knuckles. Then she heard the doorknob turn…and turn again in vain. “Abby! Open up!”

  Lest he alert the entire inn to his intent, she ran to the door. “Enough, Ben,” she pleaded, both hands flat against the sturdy wood. “Let it be.”

  “We have a decision to make.”

  “It’s already made.”

  “Then you can tell me to my face.”

  He must have known how the very sight of him affected her. “No. Please. I’m…tired. I’m going to bed.”

  His voice came through more softly as he leaned closer to the edge of the door. “That was what I had in mind.” Pure seduction.

  “Good night, Ben.”

  “Abby?”

  She sighed and leaned closer herself. “What?” she murmured.

  “Let’s talk.” He paused. “Just talk.”

  “Just talk? Where have I heard that line before? It’s second only to ‘let me show you my etchings.’ ”

  “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.”

  “Coward,” he taunted her.

  “That’s right.” She admitted it readily.

  For a minute neither spoke. Abby sensed that Ben hadn’t given up but was simply rethinking his game plan. She could argue as long as he wanted, she told herself. But she wasn’t going to open the door.

  “Abby?”

  “Yes, Ben?”

  “I’ll make a scene.”

  Her eyes widened. “What do you mean…a scene?”

  “I could really bang on the door. That would cause a stir.”

  “You wouldn’t….” She’d tried hard to get off on the right foot with her fellow jurors, and she’d succeeded. She couldn’t believe that Ben would go out of his way to embarrass her—and himself—in front of them. The episode in the canoe was suspicious enough, she reflected with dismay. A…lover’s spat…would be downright condemning in the eyes of her more conservative peers. Did she really want to call his bluff?

  “I’ll do it,” he answered her silent query in a tone of such confidence that she had to believe him.

  “That’s blackmail.”

  “I prefer to call it…friendly persuasion.”

  “You’re being difficult, Ben.”

  “I want to talk with you. And when I want something badly enough, I’m willing to go to extremes.”

  “I’ve never seen you ‘go to extremes,’ ” she chided, then caught herself short when she realized she’d only known the man for four days. Nothing in what she’d seen had suggested a violent streak. As for stubbornness…

  “Shall I give you a sample?” he drawled softly.

  She reached for the knob and slowly opened the door. Ben had one arm indolently slung against the doorjamb on a level with his chin. “You can wipe that smug grin right off your face, Ben Wyeth. Don’t forget, I can make a scene, too. And so help me, if you do anything other than talk, I will. How would you feel if it came out that the dignified professor attacked one of his fellow jurors?”

  If she’d expected to sober him, she failed miserably. His grin was as broad as before. “Spunky lady, aren’t you,” he quipped as he strode back into the room. It was when he turned to face her that the grin vanished. “Close the door, Abby. I’d rather not make a public announcement.”

  Fearful of exactly what such a ‘public announcement’ might contain, she closed the door. “All right, Ben. Talk.”

  When she leaned back against the wood, he returned to stand before her. “Well…will you?” he probed.

  “Will I what?”

  “Will you let me stay?”

  “Just like that?” she cried in disbelief.

  “Just like this—” He reached to touch her but when she held up both hands to ward him off, he paused. Then he sighed in resignation. “Okay. We do it your way.” Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, he paced toward the bed, then turned. Abby had expected that he’d launch a rehash of their earlier discussion. She wasn’t prepared for the curve he threw.

  “What do you want, Abby? Honestly. I know you feel something, that you respond to me. But what is it you want?”

  What was it she wanted? It was no easy question to answer. One part of her wanted to kiss the prince and have him turn into a frog; that would certainly solve her problem. The other part…honestly…it was hard to say.

  “I want…I need…more time.”

  “Time?” Ben burst out. “We haven’t got time.”

  “We’ve got three weeks.”

  “Less than t
wo and a half now. Abby, you don’t know what you’re saying. If you feel something now, to wait for tomorrow can be tragic. Things happen that are often beyond our control.”

  There had been just a hint of pain this time, but she’d seen enough to understand his rush. It was the past…his wife’s death…his feeling that their happiness had been arbitrarily snatched from them. But those circumstances were different. That had been his wife. Abby was…nothing.