by Susan Napier
Darkness?
There were no lights on in the flat, although jazz played quietly somewhere…complex, soulful, ex- travagant. Rather like Hunter himself, thought Anne nervously.
Perhaps he had already gone to bed. But surely he couldn’t be asleep, not with her so-called typing racketing away in his ear? And she had been knocking loud enough. No, he was just ignoring her and expecting her to creep away like the moral criminal she was.
Anne fumbled along the wall for the light-switch, wincing as she knocked a frame askew in the process. The row of pendent lights flicked on along the length of the room. The antique desk under the vaulted windows was empty; an electronic typewriter with a sheet half rolled through the platen stood abandoned on the cluttered surface. Anne was drawn irresistibly towards it, holding her breath as she tiptoed closer and leant over to read the typescript.
Her eyes narrowed. It was a passage about the current state of Soviet politics, but it wasn’t in the crisp, factual style of a lecture or a text. She shifted a few of the completed pages next to the typewriter.
She almost dropped Ivan.
It was a novel. Some kind of political thriller, judging from the paragraphs she had read, and a well-written one at that, the prose taut and streamlined, yet oddly lyrical in its rhythms.
Oh, hell, he was a writer! No wonder he had asked so many questions about her book. She hunted for the title page with the author’s name.
Lewis Hunt.
She had no sense of instant recognition. Well, perhaps he wasn’t published yet, she thought hopefully. Her eyes strayed to the bookcase immediately beside the desk and her hopes sank without a trace. Lewis Hunt’s name was printed on the spines of three glossy-jacketed hardback novels, and there were several political texts by Hunter Lewis, including a history of Soviet politics. No one had told Anne he was an author, but perhaps it was such common knowledge around the university that everyone assumed she knew.
Next to his own books was a row of books on Russian history and culture—in Russian, of course. Anne’s self-confidence was dwindling by the minute!
She flipped morosely through the loose manuscript again and her eyes widened as she came across an unexpected love-scene. Her mouth formed a little O of shock as she became riveted by the graphic description of the hero’s fierce coupling with a woman he knew to be his enemy. It went on for two pages and was a highly erotic piece of writing, especially when she mentally substituted Hunter for the hero. Anne was breathing hard as she hurriedly tucked the pages back in place. Goodness, what an imagination he had, or was the description drawn from his own experiences?
The thought made her suddenly loath to enter his bedroom. What if he was furious? What if he reacted as his hero had in that scorching scene and tumbled her face-down on to the bed, binding her hands with one of his silk ties so that he could…?
Ivan disrupted her delicious speculation by blowing another bubble in her ear and starting to chew on a strand of her hair. No, she was safe with her tiny witness, Anne decided regretfully. Besides, mothers of teething babies were hardly likely to be mistaken for beautiful, blonde, karate-kicking Valkyries whose passions were as excessively developed as their pelvic muscles!
The darkened bedroom was also empty, although Anne noticed with a frisson when she turned on the light that the bed itself was the same kind of slatted wood as the one described in the manuscript, even down to the convenient posts at the head to which a man could tie a woman…if he was so inclined.
Swallowing nervously, she automatically switched off the radio on the bedside table in the interests of saving electricity, and in the instant of quiet which followed she heard a rattle at the front door and remembered that she hadn’t closed it behind her.
She shot out of the bedroom and stopped dead at the sight of the woman who was setting a soft carry-all bag beside one of the squashy apricot leather chairs.
She was tall and lithe, an ash-blonde, and as she straightened up again Anne could see that she was also beautiful in a very sophisticated, strong-featured way. A veritable Valkyrie, in fact, dressed with dramatic flamboyance in an emerald silk suit.
And not to be trusted, decided Anne arbitrarily. A pushy, expensive, hard-faced tart who was out for everything she could get. And definitely too old for Hunter. Forty at least, she estimated jealously.
‘Hello, have you come to see Hunter? I’m afraid only Ivan and I are home. Can I help?’ she said sweetly, before it suddenly occurred to her that Hunter might have gone out to fetch this hard-faced tart in his car and would soon appear himself.
Astonishment was vivid on the other woman’s face as she looked at Anne’s long wet hair and bare feet, her loose, drop-waisted white Indian cotton dress and the dark-featured baby at her hip.
Then she smiled brilliantly and Anne’s hard-faced tart theory gurgled down the drain.
‘Hello. It doesn’t matter; Hunter wasn’t expecting me. I just dropped in on the off-chance. You know, this door wasn’t even closed, let alone locked. Not exactly wise, even in a neighbourhood like this.’
She came closer in a graceful glide, the brilliance of her smile softening as she pulled a little face for Ivan and earned herself a chuckle.
‘You sound just like Hunter,’ said Anne involuntarily.
‘Oh, dear, how depressing!’ Brown eyes twinkled as they transferred back to Anne. ‘Is he still unbearably bossy?’
Anne’s jealousy writhed briefly again and died. ‘Well, more bearably, actually, considering how much he gruffles and growls when he doesn’t get his way.’
‘“Gruffle”—what a lovely word, and just perfect to describe Hunter when he ruffles his brow and makes those menacing grumbles in his chest. I’m glad to see you aren’t intimidated by his temper. So bad for him, I feel, to think he can use it to manipulate us. We haven’t met before, have we? My name’s Louise.’ She held out her hand, long-fingered and strong, her palm surpris- ingly rough against Anne’s.
‘I’m Anne—’
‘With an “e”, of course?’ The grin was vaguely familiar, the dark-pencilled eyebrows arching as they invited the affirmative answer.
‘How did you guess?’
‘Apart from the fact that I read all of Anne of Green Gables when I was a child?’ The teasing look suddenly changed to one of dauntingly shrewd analysis. ‘You’re more complex than first glance suggests. You have the innocent mask of youth, of course, but there’s a hint of mystery around the mouth and eyes—as if you’re constantly guarding secrets. A Mona Lisa air…serene but secretive. And all that lush hair…Hunter has always had a fetish about women’s hair. No wonder he was attracted…’
Anne was unnerved both by her perspicacity and her generosity. It made her own jealousy seem petty and mean. ‘Uh, Louise—’
‘Have you lived with him long?’
‘No—that is, we’re not—’
‘Oh, don’t worry.’ The smooth blonde hair bounced against her firm jaw as the other woman shook her head reassuringly. ‘I know you’re not married…Goodness, he wouldn’t have kept that a secret. I must admit I’m a bit miffed about this darling boy, but no doubt there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation.’ She studied the baby with evident satisfaction. ‘Ivan. I like that. May I hold him?’ She was already reaching out with obvious eagerness.
‘Uh—of course.’ Anne handed him over, still trying to make sense of Louise’s previous comments. ‘Would you like to sit down? He’s quite heavy.’
‘No, we’re fine. How old is he?’
When Anne told her she nodded. ‘Big for his age, but then so was Hunter as a baby.’ The emerald-silk arms held the baby with an easy familiarity that belied the careless sophistication.
‘Hunter?’ For a confused and dreadful moment Anne thought that this woman and Hunter had had a child together—his namesake.
‘Of course Hunter insisted on being born early,’ Louise continued without waiting for a reply to her tart remark. ‘So typical of his impatience. He wanted to get o
n with real life, not hang around wasting valuable time in the womb. No thought of the considerable inconvenience to me, insisting on being born on the Waiheke car ferry! His father was sure they were going to try and charge us for an extra ticket when we disembarked. But that was Paul all over…always busy anticipating trouble before it occurred. A marvellous organiser but a disastrous husband for someone who abhors being organised…’
Anne blanched. Louise. L.L. The signature on the paintings!
‘Are you…? But surely—you can’t be Hunter’s mother!’ she wailed, repudiating the thought of such a terrible gaffe.
‘Oh, dear,’ Louise said drolly. ‘Can’t I? Someone had better tell Hunter he’s been sending Mother’s Day cards to the wrong person all these years.’
‘But you’re far too young!’ Anne protested.
Louise laughed, revealing wrinkles where there had been none before. ‘Thank you for that delightfully sincere piece of flattery, Anne. Now you know why I only make flying visits to Hunter. He ages me dreadfully. I was practically a child bride, you see, but I’m nearly fifty-five now. And you, young man, are going to age me even further,’ she fondly scolded Ivan, who seemed as fascinated by this colourful apparition in his life as Anne was dismayed.
‘You know, you look just as Hunter did at your age, except that Hunter was a brooding baby. He hardly ever cried,’ she added to Anne with a warmly reminiscent smile, ‘but he had this glare that practically shrieked. Of course, the lack of smiles made each one that much more precious. People used to run themselves ragged trying to coax a smile from him, so he never ran short of entertainment. So you see, your daddy was manipulating people with his temperament even then…’ Louise sat down and bounced Ivan gently from side to side on her knee as she teased him.
‘Oh, no—you don’t understand!’ Anne was horrified by the realisation that Louise thought that Ivan was her grandson! ‘Hunter and I aren’t really living together. I live in the flat next door—’
Louise cut her off happily. ‘An excellent arrangement… I know just how you feel—I need lots of personal space too. Unfortunately Hunter’s father couldn’t give it to me in the context of our relationship. He was such a conventional man. Thank goodness Hunter seems to be more flexible—’
‘No, really—Mrs Lewis—Louise.’ Anne’s voice rose frantically as she cut to the crux of the misunderstanding. ‘Hunter is not Ivan’s father.’
Louise seemed amused by her vehemence. ‘Are you sure? There’s a fairly unmistakable likeness.’
Her hopeful expression made Anne almost feel guilty for disappointing her. ‘It’s just coincidence.’ And as Louise opened her mouth again Anne said flatly, ‘Hunter and I have never even slept together.’
‘Not even once?’ his mother asked wistfully. ‘You didn’t both get a bit carried away one day and go further than you meant to…?’ She paused as Anne went tellingly pink and vocally applauded with glee. ‘Oh, you did! I’m so glad! So maybe there is a tiny element of doubt…’
Before Anne could firmly quash any such suggestion a dangerous drawl came from the door. ‘A tiny element of doubt about what, Mother?’
Hunter was home, and he was not in a good mood.
CHAPTER SIX
‘I REALLY am awfully sorry,’ said Anne earnestly, over the top of a large, artfully designed menu.
‘So you said.’ Hunter’s neutral calm seemed to project a high degree of scepticism as he studied the dessert restaurant’s printed offerings.
‘No, really, I am. I had no idea she was your mother.’ Traces of her earlier surprise still lingered in her voice.
‘Oh? So who did you think she was when you drifted out of my bedroom in your see-through nightie and boldly flaunted our love-child in her face?’
‘It wasn’t a nightie, it was a sundress, and I never said that Ivan was yours,’ Anne denied hotly. ‘Your mother jumped to that conclusion with no help from me.’
His black eyes suddenly lifted to capture hers. ‘I notice you don’t dispute the see-through bit,’ he said.
Remembering the way his gaze had crawled over the thin white Indian cotton dress, Anne took a hurried sip from the glass of iced water in front of her and tried to appear insouciant. ‘Just be thankful I was wearing underwear!’
It was difficult to maintain the brazen front when he murmured unexpectedly, ‘“Thankful” isn’t the word that instantly springs to mind.’
‘Anyway, when your mother appeared I thought…’ Anne hesitated. ‘Well, she’s very attractive, isn’t she? And she doesn’t look like you—I mean, she’s blonde for a start…’ She could hear herself floundering, and so could Hunter.
He slowly put his menu down, a strange light dawning in his dark eyes. ‘She’s been dyeing her hair for as long as I can remember—blonde is simply her current colour. And yes, she is an attractive woman.’ He studied Anne’s uncomfortable expression for a few seconds longer. ‘Did you think my mother was my lover, Anne?’ he purred.
She flushed guiltily. ‘I told you, I didn’t know who she was…’
‘But you decided to make trouble for me anyway,’ he said silkily.
Anne lifted her chin. ‘All I said was that you weren’t home.’
‘Thereby subtly establishing your role as female-in-residence. No wonder my mother started piling on the conclusions—she knows I prefer living alone.’ A slow smile widened his square mouth. ‘I wish I could have seen your face when you realised the audience you were playing to. Mum has always been the type to prefer audience participation to passive observation.’
‘So I discovered,’ said Anne ruefully. ‘I truly tried to straighten her out when I realised, Hunter, but she just seemed to take over the conversation…’
‘Another one of her great talents. Witness our being here.’ He looked around the small, elegant waterfront restaurant which specialised solely in extravagant desserts.
As if he had signalled, the waiter appeared at his side and took their orders, Anne waiting impatiently for him to depart before she replied aggressively, ‘You didn’t have to agree to come.’
‘Neither did you,’ he pointed out mildly. ‘We could have both stayed home and continued the conversation with Mother.’
Anne shuddered and Hunter gave her a small, ironic smile. He knew as well as she did that she had been so desperate to extricate them from the awkward situation in the flat that she had literally dumped Ivan and run when Louise had gaily suggested that she act as baby- sitter so that the two of them could go out for the rest of the evening.
All Anne had seen was a chance to get Hunter away from his mother so that she could explain the embar- rassing misunderstanding. Not that Hunter had seemed embarrassed. After his initial, brief burst of restrained fury when he had realised that Louise had discovered Anne in his flat, he had blatantly enjoyed his revenge, an infuriatingly silent witness to Anne’s harassed efforts to persuade Louise that she had the wrong end of the stick about Ivan.
‘Darling, you never told me about Ivan!’ Louise had chided him when he had sauntered menacingly into the room. She had been cheerfully undaunted by the furious black eyes that had sliced between the two women and made Anne quiver.
‘Element of doubt about what?’ he repeated tautly, bending over the baby in her arms to kiss his mother’s proffered cheek.
‘I was just telling Lou—your mother—that we don’t have that kind of relationship,’ Anne interjected hastily.
‘What kind of relationship?’ asked Hunter, straightening, the grimness in his eyes altering slightly as he took in her flushed agitation and his mother’s wickedly angelic expression.
‘You know,’ mumbled Anne evasively, not wanting to put it into words.
‘I don’t think I do,’ he said uncooperatively, his eyes narrowing as he took in her floating hair and dress. It covered her to mid-calf but somehow, with Hunter looking at her like that, she felt naked.
‘I was just remarking on how alike you and this little sweetheart are.’ His mother
interrupted the long, smouldering stare.
‘And I was just telling her it was pure coincidence—’ Anne began repressively.
‘Hardly pure, Anne,’ Hunter commented, destroying her frail attempt at regaining some of her normal composure.
‘Will you shut up?’ she snapped and then bit her lip. ‘I’m sorry; as I said to your mother, you and I hardly know each other…’
‘She’s afraid I’ll be shocked and disapproving just because she let slip that you both got carried away by your passions one day,’ added Louise helpfully. ‘You’ll have to convince her, Hunter, that I’m not some sort of maternal ogre. Really, Anne, I do admire people who refuse to be slaves to convention…’
‘Is that what you told her, Anne, that we lost our heads and were careless?’ he murmured with a sulphurous smile.
‘Of course not!’ she denied urgently, and Louise came unexpectedly to her defence.
‘She merely blushed in the right places, Hunter, and I drew my own conclusions.’
‘And here was I thinking you were an utterly brazen, unblushing hussy,’ said Hunter softly, not taking his eyes off Anne, and his mother gave a little crow of laughter which was echoed by Ivan.
‘You know, I’d like to paint this little man some time,’ she said, her thoughts darting down another byway. ‘With you too, Anne. I’ve never done a Madonna—maybe I could try it with a modern twist…’ she mused.
Anne hated to think what that modern twist might be and evidently Hunter’s thoughts were running along similar lines because he took another oblique jab at her composure.
‘A nude Madonna, Mama? What a good idea,’ he purred. ‘Anne is a very modern, free-thinking woman and she certainly has the body for it.’
Mother and son looked at Anne for a long, silent moment and she ached to turn the tables. ‘Have you ever done a nude of Hunter, Louise?’ she asked recklessly. ‘He has superb muscle-tone for a man of his age.’
While Hunter’s eyes snapped, his mother’s twinkled. ‘Only ink sketches of him as a baby. He had a lot more dimples than muscles then, of course! I shall show them to you some time, Anne, and we can compare notes. I haven’t seen Hunter nude since he was about thirteen…have I, darling? That’s when he got his first attack of adolescent modesty and he never quite seemed to shake it off. I hope he’s not still repressed on that score, but of course if you’ve been admiring his body, Anne, I suppose he must have loosened up considerably…’
