by Susan Napier
‘Mother—’
‘I gave up on Deborah, I’m afraid…she was far too spiritual a person to plumb the earthy side of Hunter’s nature—so serious all the time. People with no sense of humour should never get married. A little reckless irresponsibility now and then does us all good, don’t you think, Anne? Hunter especially needs the safety-valve of laughter because he has the awful combination of a passionate temperament and an over-developed sense of responsibility that insists he must always be in control—’
‘Mother! Did you come here expressly to psychoanalyse my life, or is there another reason for this surprise visit?’ he asked sardonically.
‘I’m off to Los Angeles tomorrow to oversee the setting up of my exhibition,’ his mother relented. ‘I thought you might put me up on your luxurious couch for the night. You know how I hate hotels and I need a good snooze before the flight.’ Her eyes flitted back to where Anne stood, grateful at being out of the spotlight.
Perhaps her relief was too obvious, because Louise Lewis suddenly back-tracked again. ‘Speaking of which, I don’t think we actually settled the little matter of Ivan’s paternity.’
This time Anne was better prepared for the verbal ambush. Her observations of mother and son had made it evident that tact and diplomacy were not required. ‘Hunter and I only met a few weeks ago,’ she said bluntly. ‘So you see he couldn’t possibly be the father.’
‘You mean it’s an inconceivable notion.’ Louise laughed at her pun, stroking Ivan’s silky black curls and adding with a wistful shrug, ‘Oh, well, maybe next time…’
Next time? Before Anne could make the mistake of repeating it as a query, Hunter intervened.
‘Why this sudden eagerness to thrust fatherhood on me?’ he asked. ‘You always said one child was enough for you.’
‘For me, yes. I have my art. Not for you. You’re not a naturally solitary person, Hunter, you’re a people person—that’s why your books sell so well. And you have a very enviable capacity to concentrate on a multiple of levels. You like to be in the thick of things. I think you need a woman who will drive you crazy trying to keep up with her, and lots of children to love and drive you crazy too. You’d make a wonderful father…don’t you think, Anne?’
Anne fielded her bland look warily, fascinated by these illuminating parental insights, remembering the gentle patience with which Hunter had handled Ivan, but also recognising another potential minefield. ‘Uh, well—’
‘You can stop mentally measuring her hips, Mum,’ drawled Hunter. ‘She comes from good country stock and is proven fertile. I’m sure I can breed from her at the drop of a hat.’
‘Hunter, there’s no need to be crude,’ his mother reproved while Anne spluttered furiously.
‘You should be so lucky!’ she got out eventually and Hunter had the gall to laugh.
Louise noticed her restraint. ‘If you two want to really let rip, I can look after Ivan while you go next door and do it in privacy.’
‘The walls are too thin,’ said Anne automatically. ‘I—I mean, you’d be able to hear every word we said unless we whispered,’ she stammered as Louise looked mightily amused, making it obvious that it wasn’t words she thought she might hear.
‘Is it Ivan you’re more concerned about, or me? I could wear ear-muffs, but Hunter will tell you I’m pretty much unshockable.’
‘Shocking but unshockable,’ he confirmed with a wry smile of affection. ‘And I don’t own any ear-muffs.’
‘I could turn the radio up!’ she offered mischievously. ‘But no, that would disturb Ivan, wouldn’t it…? Look, I think he wants to go to sleep. I know! Why don’t you two go out on the town while Ivan and I have an early night? Sublimate all that sizzling hostility with food. My agent told me about a fabulous new dessert restaurant on the waterfront; you could go there—chocolate is supposed to be a great sublimator. My treat, of course… And by the time you get home, well, Ivan and I’ll probably be fast asleep so you can have as much privacy as you want. Otherwise…well, I suppose we can all stay here and have a nice, cosy chat. You can tell me all about yourself, Anne, darling, where you came from and who your family is…and all about Ivan, of course…’
That clinched it. Anne practically fled back to her rooms to drag on her trusty ‘basic black’ dress, bundle up her hair and sketch in her face and trundle the cot back to Hunter’s so that Louise could put Ivan down in his familiar bedding. If he had been old enough to talk she wouldn’t have dared leave them together for she had no doubt that Louise would have wheedled the truth out of him in no time flat!
Louise, with her mile-wide unconventional streak, would probably find the story vastly amusing, but her son…just the thought of his reaction made Anne’s heart thump violently in her chest. She absently adjusted the little sleeveless red silk jacket that cleverly dressed up the plain, strapless black sheath, unconsciously reassuring herself that her nervous reaction wasn’t visible.
‘Are you all right?’
She almost jumped. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Are you feeling uncomfortable? Do you have to feed Ivan again soon?’
She grinned reminiscently. ‘Oh, no, he gorged himself to bursting-point at dinner. I couldn’t stop the little devil. I have the feeling he’s heading for a life-long fixation.’ She was remembering his delighted discovery of a novel new taste: baked beans—painstakingly inspected one by one and blissfully consumed in the same way.
‘I don’t blame him. I’m a breast man myself.’
Anne’s mouth dropped open at his forthright reply and she went pink as she recalled what Ivan’s chief source of sustenance was supposed to be and realised what Hunter had meant by his polite query, and the interpretation he must have put on her reply. She became aware of her hands fiddling with the edges of her jacket and snatched them away, which had the unfortunate effect of thrusting her breasts into stark prominence. Hunter’s hooded gaze took advantage of the exposure to study the generous, curving slopes revealed by the straight-cut bodice.
‘My mother’s right, you do blush in all the right places,’ he murmured mockingly, and she knew without looking down that her chest was as rosy as her face. She hunched her shoulders, which merely had the effect of deepening the interesting cleavage.
‘And you’re looking for a punch on the nose!’
‘If you’re going to wear dresses cut to your navel you have to take the consequences.’
‘Don’t exaggerate. I’ve had this dress for years and no one has ever called it low-cut before.’ She wished she could accuse him of dressing to accentuate his sexuality too, except that there was nothing overtly sexy about the conservative dark jacket, white shirt and tie. It was simply the man beneath the clothes.
‘There’s your explanation. Doubtless it wasn’t designed for feeding mothers. You look as if you’re going to pop out of it at any moment.’
So maybe she had put on a pound or two since she had bought the dress. She didn’t have the money to go around splurging on new clothes each season.
‘I never have yet,’ she muttered.
‘There’s always a first time,’ he said virtuously. ‘All it would need would be a little accidental tug and the waiter would have no need to ask if we wanted whipped cream with our chocolate.’
‘Accidental tug’? The glitter in his eye was anything but virtuous and for a fleeting moment she was strongly reminded of his mischievous parent.
‘Don’t you dare! And I am not a cow!’ she gritted.
‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ he murmured gently. ‘I was referring to the creamy colour and texture of your skin. It really is incredibly pale for a country girl. I thought you were all supposed to be nut-brown country maids.’
‘Well, you were wrong on both counts, then, weren’t you?’ she said tartly, disconcerted by his teasing admiration. ‘Haven’t you ever heard of the hole in the ozone layer? Nut-brown country maids are likely to get skin cancer these days. Besides, I spent most of my time inside…’
> ‘Ah, yes, with your writing…’
Anne mentally rolled her eyes. Out of the frying-pan into the fire. A teasing, sexy Hunter was difficult enough to handle; a serious, interested professional was even worse!
‘I suppose that’s why you don’t have much of a tan, either,’ she attacked. ‘Writing those riveting thrillers of yours must absorb all your spare time.’
He leaned back in his chair to allow the waiter to set their desserts on the table. Hers was huge, a compendium of chocolate delights. His was modest in comparison—freshly diced fruit to be dipped in a dish of chocolate fondue. He watched her plunge in with sensuous abandon before picking up his fork.
‘Do I detect a hint of sour grapes there? You’ve never mentioned my novels before. Usually budding authors are all over me with eager questions.’
Anne let a spoonful of chocolate mousse dissolve in her mouth before she allowed herself to respond. ‘How tiresome for you. No wonder you were annoyed when a literary neophyte moved in next door. I’m glad I politely restrained myself from fawning at your famous feet.’
His mouth kicked briefly upwards at her acidic allit-eration. ‘I doubt you would ever fawn—or that self-restraint came into it. You’ve only just made the connection between Hunter Lewis and Lewis Hunt, haven’t you?’
‘Since I’ve never read any Lewis Hunts there was no connection to make,’ she said crushingly.
‘I must lend you one to read,’ he said mildly. ‘So how did you find out…?’ He trailed off, his eyes narrowing as Anne hurriedly buried her intrusive nose in a chocolate cup.
‘I noticed the books in your bookcase…and saw the manuscript on your desk,’ she added in a low mumble.
‘You mean after you broke in you did some snooping,’ he translated crisply.
‘I didn’t break in—I used a key!’ she pointed out. ‘And it wasn’t to snoop. I thought you were still home and just refusing to answer the door. I’d heard your typewriter, you see—’
‘Over the deafening sound of yours? I am surprised,’ he said drily. ‘That’s why I went out. I found I couldn’t concentrate under the sudden deluge of your creative juices so I went up to the roof to think out some problems in peace.’
So that was where he had been!
‘Old machines are noisy,’ she countered hurriedly. ‘Anyway, I was wondering whether to wait until you came back—’
‘In my bedroom?’ he asked smoothly. ‘Isn’t that where Mum found you?’
‘I thought you were in there,’ she said weakly.
‘Really?’ His eyebrow shot up and his mouth curved tauntingly. ‘I’m flattered.’
‘You know what I mean!’
‘Again, no, I don’t. You have the distinction of being the most incomprehensible female I’ve ever met. I just think I have you pinned down and you spring another surprise on me.’
‘What a relief,’ she said, not altogether jokingly. ‘At least I’m not boring. Look, if I were out to seduce you I wouldn’t try to do it with a babe in arms, would I?’
‘A lot of men find motherhood erotic.’
‘Do you?’ she couldn’t resist asking.
He tilted his head, studying her silently, his reluctance evident. Suddenly she had her answer and it was a deeply intriguing one. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, intrigued by the notion. ‘You do, don’t you?’
‘In the abstract, I suppose it’s an instinctive male response to the concept of feminine ripeness—’
He had adopted a detached, lecturing tone and she wasn’t going to let him get away with it. ‘We’re not talking abstracts.’
‘Aren’t we?’ He concentrated on swirling a speared piece of kiwi fruit with thick chocolate sauce.
‘No,’ she dared. ‘We’re talking about me.’
Chocolate sauce dripped on to his hand and he licked it off, lifting his lashes again just in time to catch her mid-shiver.
His discomfort melted visibly away. He leaned across the table, offering her the chocolate-covered fruit on the end of his fork. ‘By all means let’s talk about you,’ he agreed with a velvety smoothness that was so unnerving that she opened her mouth and let him tease the sweet morsel inside. ‘What is it you really want from me, Anne? Why did you come over tonight?’
She chewed with unknowing sensuality as she struggled to cope with the hidden invitation in his eyes. ‘I wanted to explain about Jerry—and the others…’
She sensed his immediate withdrawal even before his face visibly chilled. ‘How you live your life is your own business.’
‘Yes, that’s sort of what it is,’ she grasped eagerly at the opening. ‘A business.’
‘Another “experience” you need for your writing?’ His voice was icy with distaste.
‘No, it’s because I know I can’t rely on the grant money to see me all the way through university,’ she admitted frankly, ‘so—’
‘So you’re willing to prostitute yourself for your education? Oh, I’m sorry, you’re called “sex workers” these days, I believe,’ he apologised with thinly veiled contempt.
Anne gaped at him. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You and your Johns. Or do you call them all Jerry?’
The penny dropped. He didn’t think her merely promiscuous, but mercenary as well! If she hadn’t been so outraged she would have laughed. ‘I wasn’t selling them sex, you moron, I was giving them massages!’
The middle-aged man at the next table turned his head in sharp interest and Anne ducked her head and hurriedly lowered her voice.
‘A physiotherapist at the hospital where Mum had her operations taught me therapeutic massage so she wouldn’t have to resort to pain-killers as much!’ she told Hunter fiercely. ‘Jerry and the others are athletes, for goodness’ sake, and if you say, Yes, sexual athletes, in that supercilious tone of yours I’ll empty this bowl of chocolate soup over your head.’
‘You would too, wouldn’t you?’ he murmured, eyeing her fists clenched on the sides of the small dish. He spread his hands, palms uppermost, with a rueful shrug. ‘Mea culpa What was I supposed to think?’
He believed her. Just like that! Perversely, Anne was annoyed by his belated trust. ‘You were supposed to give me the benefit of the doubt.’
‘As you did me and my incestuous mother?’ he turned the tables neatly to enquire.
Anne blushed. ‘That was different.’
‘Yes. There’s only one Louise. You, on the other hand, had a whole string of virile young men panting to your door. And what about that tubby, ageing bikie who was pounding on your door on Monday night? You can’t tell me he’s a sportsman.’
‘He’s a friend of my eldest brother. Don seems to have lined up some of his Auckland mates to check up on me every now and then. I’m sorry if he disturbed you.’ Her level stare made it clear that she thought he had deserved it.
‘They all disturbed me,’ he obliged her by admitting. ‘You didn’t have your music turned up quite loud enough to cover the grunts and yelps and groans. It sounded as if your strapping young men were in the throes of delirious ecstasy.’
Anne laughed. ‘More like agony. It’s amazing how wimpy the average macho male is about minor aches and pains. If we were making so much noise I wonder you didn’t yell at us to pipe down. You never hesitated to do it before.’
‘I didn’t want to put you off your stroke,’ he said, reddening very faintly.
‘Why, Hunter,’ she teased, ‘did you have your ear pressed to the wall?’
The colour on his face deepened and to her delight she realised that the sophisticated Hunter Lewis had indeed acted like a curious adolescent.
‘You must have wondered why I was always so quiet,’ she pursued him unmercifully, and couldn’t resist the dig, ‘Did you wonder whether I let them tie me up and gag me?’
‘Are you going to eat that or play with it?’ he said gruffly, referring to the wafer-thin slices of white chocolate she was breaking up with her spoon.
She
picked up a thin sliver in her fingers and brushed it back and forth across her moist lower lip. Hunter followed the movement with dark-eyed envy, mixed with a wariness that she found emboldening. ‘Do you want to share?’ she asked huskily, unable to believe her own foolishness. But flirting with Hunter, Anne was discovering, was quite as addictive as eating chocolate. One taste simply wasn’t enough.
‘It’s unhygienic,’ he murmured distractedly.
‘Not if you shower first.’
He blinked. ‘Anne…’
There was a trace of helplessness in his protest that was irresistibly alluring. She touched his hand where it lay on the table, running her fingers over the pad of his thumb to curl into his palm and stroke back and forth.
‘Would you like to exchange private fantasies with me, Hunter? You never know, we might find that we share the same one…’
So lost was she in a fantasy of her own—that she had him so off balance she could tease him with impunity—that she was stunned when Hunter’s strong fingers suddenly wrapped around hers.
‘What a good idea, Anne. Why don’t we do just that? After all, my mother has given us carte blanche for the entire night; we can spend it on a fascinating voyage of mutual discovery…’
CHAPTER SEVEN
THE theory of sublimation was just so much hot air, Anne thought raggedly as she sipped her liqueur coffee and nibbled desperately on a chocolate-covered mint wafer. She had eaten everything in sight, including dipping into Hunter’s left-over fondue, and she was still sizzlingly aware of the man across the table.
And he wasn’t doing anything to help. All the while they were talking of other things—innocent, innocuous, everyday things—he kept letting those hot, dark eyes wander all over her upper body, staking a claim, making her feel thoroughly self-conscious and flagrantly female.
