The Sister Swap

by Susan Napier

  Table of Contents

  Cover Page

  Excerpt

  SUSAN NAPIER

  Books by Susan Napier

  Title Page

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  Copyright

  “And what am I?”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Anne threatened.

  “Oh, come on. You’ve been perfectly free with your insulting opinions of me so far. Why stop now?”

  “You’re intelligent, strong, utterly independent and self-confident to the point of arrogance.” She frankly listed the personal assets she found so irritating.

  Hunter’s square mouth tilted slowly in amusement. “You forgot handsome.”

  SUSAN NAPIER was born on St. Valentine’s Day, so it’s not surprising she has developed an enduring love of romantic stories. She started her writing career as a journalist in Auckland, New Zealand, try- ing her hand at romance fiction only after she had married her handsome boss! Numerous books later she still lives with her most enduring hero, two future heroes—her sons!—two cats and a computer. When she’s not writing she likes to read and cook, often simultaneously!

  Books by Susan Napier

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  The Sister Swap

  Susan

  Napier

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE loud, driving rock music shook the rafters and vibrated through the hardwood floor, sending a delicious hum up through Anne’s bones as she danced joyously around the room in her bare feet.

  She extended her arms above her head, clicking her fingers in time to the raucous beat as she moved with the increasing frenzy of the music. The long rope of redbrown hair whipped around her hips as she took a running leap through the shaft of late afternoon summer sunshine that slanted in through the big windows at one end of the long room, landing with a dramatic thump beside the random stacks of cardboard cartons that held her belongings. Anticipating the approaching climactic crescendo, she performed two more exuberant leaping turns and had launched into a third when she was sud- denly left hanging by the abrupt cessation of her musical support.

  Anne landed awkwardly, her heartbeat accelerating as she whirled to face the man who had wrenched out the plug from the portable music-centre that sat on the high bench that separated the rest of the room from the small kitchen area.

  He was tall and bullishly big, chest and thighs bulging against the unfashionably tight, faded blue T-shirt and jeans he wore. The expression on his face was as bullish as the rest of him, black eyebrows lowered over glowering dark eyes.

  ‘What did you do that for?’ Anne panted nervously, as much from apprehension as from her wild exertions.

  The open door behind him testified to her careless stupidity. The taxi-van driver who had kindly helped carry her boxes up six flights of stairs had departed half an hour ago and she was aware that the warehouse below was empty after four-thirty. There was no one to run to her aid if she screamed.

  Suddenly all the cautionary tales she had laughingly dismissed about the big, bad city came back to haunt her. She had even forgotten the first basic rule—to lock her door!

  ‘You mean why did I shut down that shrieking racket?’ came the snarling reply. ‘I would have thought that was bloody obvious. I’ve been pounding at your door for five minutes!’

  Anne relaxed slightly. He was certainly angry but if his intentions were violent he would have welcomed the loud music and shouted lyrics as a handy cover for her screams. She took a few steps towards him and then stopped, freshly aware of the disparity in their sizes.

  At five feet four she liked to think she was of average height for a woman, but the closer she got to this colossus, the more aware she was of the slenderness of her build. She had a wiry strength concealed within her fragile-looking femininity but she was wise enough to know its limits. She would have to assert herself with her intellect rather than her physical person.

  ‘That “shrieking racket”,’ she began firmly, ‘happens to be one of the finest rock groups in the—’

  ‘I don’t care if it’s Kiri Te Kanawa and the Paris Opera.’ Her invader dropped the plug on top of the dead radio and adopted the quintessential threatening male attitude, fists on hips. ‘I don’t like having music rammed down my throat at ninety decibels—’

  ‘Your ears,’ corrected Anne absently, thinking that the man would probably be quite handsome if he didn’t scowl like that, in a way that engraved the lines of experience in the olive skin into a vivid warning sign: Here lurks bad temper!

  His eyes weren’t just dark, she discovered as he continued to glower at her, they were as black as midnight, the same colour as the thick, shaggy, collar-length hair swept back from his broad forehead. He was somewhere in his mid-thirties, she guessed, and life had delivered enough knocks to turn him into a tough customer. His chin was so square you could chisel rock with it and his rectangular mouth looked just as cutting. Anne was pleased with her mental description and she smiled, which only made him frown even more as he barked, ‘What?’

  ‘I think you mixed your metaphors. You mean rammed into your ears, not down your throat. You don’t hear with your mouth.’

  ‘Then why did your infernal racket turn my stomach?’ he growled sardonically before adding impatiently, ‘I didn’t come here for a damned language lecture—’

  ‘If you’re going to keep using offensive language, I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to leave,’ said Anne primly. She had never reacted well to being barked at, especially by big, arrogant males.

  He made a sound deep in his large chest, like the ap- proaching rumble of a freight train. ‘I have no intention of staying—’

  ‘Then why did you come?’

  ‘To tell you to shut the hell up!’

  Anne’s own impulsive temper began to build up steam. ‘Is your vocabulary so stunted you can’t express yourself without swearing?’

  ‘That’s rich, coming from you!’ he shot back. ‘That rock singer you’re so impressed with was shrieking out far worse at the top of his lungs.’

  Anne had the grace to blush. ‘Well—er—the music puts it in a different context,’ she said weakly.

  ‘Oh, I see. You don’t mind being cursed at, as long as it’s to music.’

  She was beginning to get the uncomfortable feeling that this hulking man might be able to run intellectual as well as physical rings around her. She was nervous enough about her move from a tiny rural town to the huge, sprawling city of Auckland and the new life she was embarking on, especially fraught as it was with guilty secrets. She didn’t need any additional undermining of her confidence. Katlin had been bad enough. Her elder sister had deeply impressed on Anne the dire conse- quences of being found out in their deception, at the same time hastily assuring her that the chances of dis- covery were infinitesimal…as long as Anne kept a cool head. Easier said than done.

  ‘Look, would you mind stating your business—?’

  ‘I thought I had.’

  Ann
e frowned, her fly-away brows losing their faintly surprised natural arch. ‘You mean about the noise?’ Suddenly the light dawned. ‘Oh, are you from downstairs?’ That would explain the bulging muscles. The men she had seen in the docking bay of the warehouse when she had arrived had been heaving about enormous crates as if they were made of marshmallow. ‘I thought everyone in the warehouse knocked off at four, and anyway, I can’t believe that sound from here would travel—’

  ‘Not the warehouse. I live in the apartment next door,’ he snapped, jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the open door. ‘And, believe me, the sound travels between the two all too well.’

  Anne’s mouth dropped open. ‘Next door? But you can’t be.’ Her voice rose accusingly. ‘Nobody said any- thing about there being anyone else living here!’

  Quite the reverse, in fact. She had been shown around the sparsely furnished loft atop the warehouse building by a representative from the foundation which had awarded the year-long grant. The man had given Anne the distinct impression that she would be totally alone and undisturbed in her cosy eyrie close to the sprawling city campus of Auckland University. He certainly hadn’t mentioned any surly, beetle-browed neighbour. The fact that she would have no interfering fellow-residents poking their curious noses into her life and work had been the deciding factor in her agreeing to fulfil the conditions of the grant. Now this, when it was too late to back out!

  Thank God she had put her foot down over the money that went along with the grant—at least her conscience was clear on that score. Katlin had wanted to give her the majority of the modest monthly pension, but Anne had adamantly refused to accept anything more than direct expenses, of which she kept a very strict account, just in case there were any official questions later. For herself, Anne was using the precious savings that she had accrued over the years from selling eggs, honey and vegetables at the family farm gate.

  ‘Perhaps they assumed we wouldn’t notice each other,’ he said sarcastically. ‘Fat chance if you intend to run a one-woman disco at all hours of the day and night…’

  Anne’s mouth snapped shut to stop herself saying something equally rude. Live and let live was her motto. If they were neighbours then she’d just have to try and make the best of it.

  ‘Hardly at all hours, since I’ve only just moved in. I was just celebrating, that’s all,’ she said in her normal, soft, conciliatory tones.

  The reply she received was bluntly non-conciliatory. ‘Well, celebrate quietly in future. The walls here are paper-thin. And cut out the acrobatics. These floorboards run almost the length of the whole upper floor. Vibrations travel as effectively as noise.’

  Anne’s hazel eyes narrowed. ‘Then you’d better get shock-absorbers as well as ear-muffs because I dance to keep fit.’

  That led the fierce black gaze to wander down over her huge, baggy, less-than-pure-white T-shirt and calflength purple cotton leggings with the little darned patch on her knee.

  ‘Fit for what?’ The rag-bag, was the suggestion in his dismissive gaze.

  ‘To stand up to bullies like you,’ she snapped. ‘Now you’ve performed your neighbourly act of welcome, would you mind shutting the door behind you? And next time don’t come in until you’re invited!’

  ‘There won’t be a next time. As far as you’re concerned no one else does live in this building, understand?’

  Anne blinked. She understood all right. He was insinuating that she might pester him with unwanted attentions …after he had come thrusting his way into her attention! ‘I won’t bother you as long as you don’t bother me!’ she told him. ‘For your information, Mr—Mr whoever-you-are—’

  ‘Lewis. Hunter Lewis, Miss Tremaine.’ He glared at her as if he expected to be challenged over his name, and she was momentarily side-tracked from her righteous indignation.

  ‘How do you know who I am?’

  ‘You’re the Markham Grant.’

  That took the wind out of her sails. The private grant scheme was very low-key and had received no publicity beyond a brief announcement in a literary magazine, the aim being to create a totally unpressured environment in which a writer could work. Was it coincidence that he knew of it, or was he in some way connected with the foundation? Her heart sank at the thought.

  ‘Oh. Are you here on a grant too?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ he snapped, as if she had insulted him. ‘And I’m surprised they’re handing them out like lollies to children these days.’ He gave her brightly mismatched outfit another contemptuous study.

  ‘Whatever happened to the concept of struggle and suffering for the sake of one’s art? If every new writer got provided with a cushy number in his or her creative infanthood we’d have a generation of writers producing work with as much emotional depth as the telephone directory!’

  The door had swung shut behind him before Anne could recover from her shock at the scathing attack. Belatedly she rushed over and flung it open again, just in time to see him duck through a door under the short flight of stairs at the end of the corridor which led to a small, flat section of the roof. She had noticed the door previously but had assumed from its battered appearance and narrow dimensions that it was some kind of caretaker’s store-room.

  ‘Well!’ she exclaimed disgustedly, annoyed that she hadn’t been quick enough to come up with some pithy little comment that would have hurried him on his way. Not that he’d needed any hurrying. He evidently couldn’t get away from her fast enough.

  She turned back to survey her new home and was jolted out of her preoccupation by the sound of slow applause.

  ‘Oh, my gosh!’ She rushed over to the boxes, pushing them apart until she discovered her concealed audience. The applause was slow because every second clap failed to connect, the owner of the hands not quite having the co-ordination to match his enthusiasm.

  ‘Oh, Ivan, I forgot all about you!’ She snatched up the chubby baby, horrified by her lapse in attention. ‘What did you crawl in there for? Did that nasty man frighten you?’

  Ivan’s face crunched up and for one horrifying moment his rumpled, downy black eyebrows and narrowed dark eyes actually resembled those of the obnoxious Hunter Lewis. Ivan even had the same midnightblack hair…

  But no—Anne brought her panicked speculations to a screeching halt. He thought Anne was Katlin Tremaine, so he had never met her striking sister. Besides, Katlin said Ivan’s father was Russian. Hunter Lewis might have the temperament of a marauding Cossack but his accents were definitely Kiwi!

  The strangely disturbing thought of that hulking brute as the father of her innocent little godson made Anne hug him tightly and he let out a squawk of protest.

  ‘Sorry. We won’t talk about that bad man. We won’t even think about him, will we? Now, what are we going to unpack next, Ivan? You show me. Point to a box…’

  The active assistance of a seven-month-old wasn’t conducive to efficiency and it took a long time for Anne to organise her rather meagre possessions. Since the loft was furnished, albeit rather sparsely, she hadn’t needed to bring much, but she couldn’t have left her books at home and then there was all the considerable paraphernalia required to keep Ivan the Terrible happy, healthy and occupied.

  Most of that she took into the small bedroom at the windowless end of the main room and while she was there, assembling, with her usual lack of mechanical genius, the portable baby Easi-cot—’Easy, my foot!’ she grumbled to Ivan as he busily babbled incoherent advice as to how to connect point D with section 2—she was distracted from her task by a sound on the other side of the wall. Music.

  She scrambled up over the narrow bed and pressed her ear against the painted surface. Jazz.

  ‘Well, of all the cheek!’ She was almost tempted to go out and turn her own tape back on, even louder than before, but she had to concede that he didn’t appear to have the volume very high. Then she heard another sound, a very familiar electronic tap-tapping.

  ‘He’s got a typewriter.’ She looked dow
n at Ivan in consternation. He grinned back, showing all six teeth. ‘Oh, no! Ivan, what if he’s a writer too?’ Overwhelmed with dismay, she slumped beside him on the floor. Ivan began to laugh his piping little shrill and she leapt up again, conscious of those listening walls. ‘No, no, darling—shush!’

  Anne tucked Ivan under her arm and scurried back out to the big room, her heart beating like a drum. ‘We mustn’t let the bad man hear you,’ she admonished him, one finger held in front of her lips as she placed him in his high chair in the kitchenette and began to forage in the refrigerator. ‘If there’s one thing crabby old hermits hate more than loud rock music it’s crying babies. So you will be good while we’re here, won’t you, darling?’

  Ivan issued a scornful babble at her words, as well he might. The Terrible was Anne’s purely ironic nickname. Ivan was the most friendly, good-natured and wellbehaved baby in the world. In fact, he was enough to make a capable adult feel inferior. Sometimes Anne felt as if he was not really a baby at all, but a computer-generated ideal. He didn’t dribble, he never threw up his food or cried for no apparent reason; he even messed his nappies in the tidiest possible fashion. You could set the clock by his naps and he had slept through the night since he was four weeks old. If it weren’t for the fact that he couldn’t walk or talk for himself Anne would almost feel superfluous to his well-ordered existence!

  While Ivan amused himself by painting on a Charlie Chaplin moustache with a disintegrating rusk smothered with his favourite Vegemite spread, Anne whipped them both up an omelette for dinner, adding extra cheese to her own and herbs from the garden pots that her father had carefully packed in a wooden crate with plenty of damp newspaper for the flight north.

  She sat on a stool at the breakfast-bar to eat hers, revelling in the peace as she popped the occasional spoonful from Ivan’s bunny-plate into his mouth while he diligently helped out with his fists, chuckling as the mixture squelched out from the bottom of his chubby fist on to his cotton bib.