Читать книгу The Sister Swap - Susan Napier, Susan Napier - Страница 6

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.’

Anne 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 down 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.

Back at home mealtimes were always rowdy affairs, with her mother and father and her four brothers always competing to air their cheerful opinions. They were a very close-knit and gregarious family, except for Katlin, who at twenty-eight was the eldest, and had chosen to move off the small, isolated South Island family farm while still in her late teens and live in virtual seclusion in order to write. Ivan’s arrival on the scene had been a cataclysmic upheaval in her solitary life. As usual it had been her more responsible sister who had been left holding the baby…this time literally!

Anne grinned to herself as she mopped up Ivan’s efforts at feeding himself with a damp cloth. A big city and a small baby were hardly what most people would see as a peaceful combination, but for Anne it was the realisation of a dream and she intended to make the most of it. Just a simple thing like having what she wanted for dinner instead of what would sustain gargantuan farm appetites gave her a magnificent sense of independence.

She gave Ivan the bottle of milk which rounded off his meal and then sat him down on the floor to play with his plastic blocks while she dragged the lop-sided cot out of the bedroom and finished assembling it. By the time she managed to attach the wheels correctly Ivan was looking heavy-eyed, and sucking his thumb, a sure indication that he was tired. No doubt his incredibly accurate internal clock had told him it was past his bedtime but, true to type, he wasn’t complaining.

She bathed him in the kitchen sink since the tiny bathroom which opened off the kitchen—obviously for the convenience of the plumber rather than the tenant—only possessed a shower, toilet and small basin, but Ivan didn’t seem to mind. He kicked and splashed merrily, briefly regaining his liveliness, before dozing as she patted him dry and put on his thick night-nappy and stretchy sleep-suit.

He was asleep almost before his head hit the mattress, his hands clutching the fuzzy pink stuffed pig that was his prized possession. She kissed him on his button nose, a flood of tenderness warming her with contentment as she softly sang him his bedtime song and then quietly wheeled the cot through to the bedroom.

She tiptoed back out to the living-room and plumped herself down on the high, polished-cotton couch, pleased that it was long enough for her to stretch out full-length. There was also an easy-chair, a large bean-bag and four spindle-backed chairs around the oval wooden dining-table to choose from. At home it was a battle for the best sitting space in the evenings. A wooden roll-topped desk on which Anne had set her typewriter, a small coffee-table and a large bookcase were the only other furnishings in the room apart from a few scattered rugs on the bare floorboards.

The man from the foundation had been slightly apologetic that there was no television but Anne didn’t mind. She had her small music-centre and anyway she intended to be too busy to be a mere spectator of life from now on. There was no telephone either, which had given her a few qualms at first, but there was a phone box just up the street and she could appreciate that the usual grant recipients preferred to be incommunicado while they were beavering over their manuscripts.

She lay on the couch, her couch, listening to the muted sounds of the city, then she got up, dissatisfied, and dragged the heavy piece of furniture over to the arched windows. She had earlier opened the curved upper portions of the window with the long wooden window-hook and now she folded back the lower, rectangular segments. With the couch angled just right she could lie on it and look out at the last orange glow of the sun as it curtsied behind the jumble of city buildings. As the twilight turned to dusk she was able to see the lights burning at the entrance to the art school, and behind it in the multi-storeyed school of engineering. Across the road were the other main buildings, the library and theatre and administration blocks. Soon she would be a part of the stream of students that came and went each day from that campus city-within-a-city.

Fired with a fresh wave of enthusiasm, Anne made herself a cup of tea and got out the course leaflets and introductory material that the university had sent her when she had enrolled in her language courses. She had several days to familiarise herself with the city and make arrangements for Ivan’s day-care before orientation week started, but she intended to be well-prepared for her first foray into higher education. She had already purchased some of the basic required texts and she added them to the little pile and made herself comfortable on the couch.

She was reading about the gender endings of Russian nouns when the pendent lights overhead flickered once and then went out.

The dark wasn’t complete because of the street-lighting outside but it was enough to disorientate Anne as she tried to negotiate the shadowy loft, trying to remember if the man from the foundation had mentioned a fuse-box. She checked the refrigerator, just to make sure that it wasn’t just the light bulbs that had blown, but the light inside wasn’t operating either so she began opening cupboards and muttering to herself when the logical places didn’t yield anything that looked like a junctionbox.

The longer she searched, the more unpalatable became the most sensible solution to her problem. She could just go to bed and deal with it in the morning, of course, but she wouldn’t have hot water again until the following evening if the mains switch wasn’t re-set before morning. Maybe it was more than just her own problem anyway.

She cheered up at the thought that Hunter Lewis’s electricity might have gone off as well. A trouble shared was a trouble halved, and he wouldn’t be able to blame her if the whole floor was out.

She crept into the bedroom to listen to Ivan’s steady little snore, and frowned as she heard the tap-tap and the music still filtering through the wall.

Oh, well, at least she knew he was at home and still awake!

But in no better a mood, she realised five minutes later when he flung open his door and glared at her.

No wonder his door was so battered; he must be hell on joinery! she thought to herself as she smiled hopefully at him in the dimly lit passageway.

‘I wonder if you could help me—?’

‘No.’

‘My electricity has gone off and I don’t know where the fuse-box is located,’ she continued calmly as if he hadn’t spoken.

‘God defend me from helpless women!’ he said through his teeth.

‘Why, are you too feeble to defend yourself?’

‘Very funny!

‘Then why aren’t you smiling?’ She threw up a hand. ‘No, don’t tell me, let me guess. You smiled once and the sky fell on you. Well, Chicken Little, you can stop panicking now. All I want is a light and the fuse-box.’

‘And fuse-wire, and a screwdriver, and—’

‘Are you naturally this obnoxious, or is it something you’ve specially trained for?’

‘Look, lady, I didn’t ask you to come thumping on my door—’

‘I didn’t ask you to come thumping at mine either, Mr Lewis, but you did. So we’re even. Now, are you capable of answering one simple question without turning it into a tiresome lecture? Do you know where the fuse-box for my apartment is located?’

For an answer he shut the door in her face and she was just about to scream it down when he reopened it carrying a small toolkit. He looked down at her furiously flushed face, small clenched fists and bare toes curled with rage and, wonder of wonders, produced a slight smile that bracketed the rectangular mouth with deep lines.

‘Temper, temper!’

‘You can talk!’ she said tartly, fascinated in spite of herself. He didn’t look all that much different when he smiled, she realised in amusement. He still looked broodingly dangerous, his black eyes smouldering with hostility and suspicion, their hooded lids giving them a predatory quality.

He didn’t answer, turning his back and walking towards the stairs. Anne got the impression that he did that a lot—turned his back on people.

At the head of the main flight of wooden stairs a sensor turned on a light on the first landing down, revealing a small cupboard in the wall which proved to contain odds and ends of tools and cleaning equipment—and fuse-boxes numbered for both apartments.

‘Thank you.’ Anne waited for him to get out of the way. ‘Excuse me.’ She tapped him on the shoulder as he pulled out the rectangular fuses, checking them. Her finger practically bounced off the armoured muscle. Anne’s four brothers were well-built—even Mike who was still only fourteen was much bigger than she was—so she wasn’t usually impressed by male bulk, but this one was built like a tank.

‘Hold this.’

She ignored the screwdriver.

‘Look, Mr Lewis, I do know how to change a fuse—’

‘Hold this.’

‘No.’

He turned his head. In profile his nose looked every bit as arrogantly prominent as the rest of him. ‘Haven’t you ever been told not to look a gift-horse in the mouth?’

Her eyes shifted to his wide, straight mouth and for no particular reason she felt herself flushing.

‘I’ve also been warned about Greeks bearing gifts,’ she said hurriedly.

‘I’m not Greek,’ he commented, tucking the screwdriver between his teeth and turning back to his task.

‘You’re not a horse either.’ Except maybe the rear end of one! she added silently. ‘If you’ll just step aside I’ll handle my own problems.’

‘And risk you botching it up so you have to come simpering back to my door again? No, thanks.’

‘I’ve never simpered in my life!’ she fumed, eyeing the stiched denim pockets below the black leather belt. One good, hard kick to that tightly packed rear and she would feel a whole lot better.

‘Don’t even think about it, country girl. I’m not only bigger than you, I’m faster.’

He hadn’t even looked around and she was furious at him for guessing what she was thinking, as well as for that mocking dig about her origins. What chance had she to hide anything if he had such acutely perceptive instincts?

‘Yes—at jumping to conclusions. Tell me, what brought on this powerful paranoia you have regarding women? I can’t figure out why you think you’re such an irresistible dish that you have to warn off total strangers. As a “country girl” I’ve seen plenty of beef on the hoof and, believe me, you’re over-pricing yourself.’

He snapped the repaired fuse back into place and depressed the trip-switch before he backed out of the cupboard, forcing her to retreat. ‘That smart mouth of yours is going to get you into trouble one day.’

They were back to mouths again. Now he had turned and was looking at hers and she tightened it deliberately, knowing that her full lower lip tended to give a false impression of sultriness.

‘Is that a threat?’ She bristled under the insolent black stare.

‘More in the nature of kindly advice.’

‘Kindly!’ she snorted. ‘You?’

‘Don’t try and provoke me more than you already have, Miss Tremaine,’ he drawled in that aggravatingly warm voice that was so at odds with his manner. ‘I suppose I’d better check that everything is working…’

Before she realised what he had meant he was up the stairs and heading towards her half-open door. His boast about moving fast hadn’t been idle. Frantically trying to remember whether she had tidied everything away after putting Ivan to bed, Anne flew up after him, and nipped in front just in time to bar his entry with one slender arm across the doorway.

‘The lights are on so obviously everything’s OK,’ she said breathlessly, trying to act casually as his mo- mentum brought his chest up against her restraining arm. He froze and she smiled brilliantly at him. ‘Thank you ever so much for your help,’ she gushed. ‘I don’t know what I would have done without you.’

He was looking at her oddly, through thoughtfully narrowed eyes, and she instantly realised that she was overdoing the gratitude. After the scathing comments she had just flung at him he was bound to be suspicious of such a sudden volte face. ‘You can go back to—er—whatever you were doing now,’ she urged more calmly. ‘I don’t want to put you to any more trouble…’

To her dismay he shrugged. ‘No trouble.’ He leaned forward as he spoke and she felt the straining pressure of that deep chest against her upper arm.

‘No, really, there’s no need!’ she squeaked desperately as he lifted a big hand and effortlessly brushed her re- straining limb aside.

Three steps into the room he stopped, crossing his hands over his chest as he slowly surveyed the territory. Coming up beside him, Anne was relieved to see that there was nothing untoward in the scene. Relief brought back her courage. ‘Satisfied?’ she demanded defiantly.

‘At the very least, from your state of guilty panic, I expected to find an orgy going on in here,’ he mur- mured, confirming her opinion of his acumen. Worse than a nosy neighbour was a suspicious one who could read your mind like a book!

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’

‘Oh, you haven’t disappointed me, Miss Tremaine. My expectations of you aren’t high enough for that to be possible. I expect the worst, and if you don’t oblige then I can only be pleasantly surprised.’

‘What a ghastly philosophy of life!’ Anne stared at him disapprovingly. ‘No wonder you’re so bad-tempered. So would I be if I went around in a constant state of gloomy pessimism.’

‘Yes, I can see that you’re one of life’s noisy optimists,’ he said drily. ‘Relentlessly determined to enjoy yourself at all costs.’

‘Only a pessimist could make optimism sound depressing,’ was Anne’s tart reply. ‘And one person’s noise is music to another person’s ears.’

‘I’m a realist, not a pessimist, but we won’t get into an argument about it.’

‘Why not? Afraid you’d lose?’

‘I have better things to do with my time than argue semantics with starry-eyed Lolitas—’

‘Lolita! I’ll have you know I’m twenty—’ She stopped herself just in time and added haughtily, ‘I’m older than I look and I was never starry-eyed. Now that you’ve assured yourself you’re not missing out on an orgy, perhaps you’ll finally go back to where you belong.’

He gave her a small, ironic inclination of his head. ‘Ah, would that I knew where that was…’

She almost softened, intrigued by that weary, cryptic murmur, except that she saw the deep, hooded gleam in his eyes and suddenly knew that he was playing on her compassion deliberately, slyly proving his point about her unsophisticated gullibility.

‘Try hell,’ she said sweetly. ‘I’m sure people often direct you that way.’

A startled stillness gripped his expression, then he threw back his head and laughed, the warm sound rising richly to the high, sloping rafters. His eyes slitted and all the brooding lines of his face seemed to lift with the upward curve of his mouth. She had certainly been right about his handsomeness when he wasn’t scowling. Suddenly his cynical suspicion of a strange woman invading his personal space didn’t seem quite so untenable.

‘I don’t know what you’re laughing at—it wasn’t a compliment,’ she pointed out. ‘You know, for someone so inordinately keen to be left alone you’re singularly difficult to get rid of!’

His laughter ended as abruptly as it had begun and he gave her a slow, measuring look as he began to saunter towards the door in his own sweet time. ‘Such big, pompous words for such a little country girl.’

‘Size and geographical origin has nothing whatever to do with intelligence,’ she said icily. ‘And I’m a woman, not a girl.’

‘That remains to be seen.’

‘But not by you!’

This time she got to shut the door smartly in his face, although her satisfaction was somewhat dimmed by the memory of that last, grimly taunting smile.

It seemed to say that Hunter Lewis would see whatever he wanted to see, whenever he damned well wanted to see it.

She would just have to keep well out of his way and make sure he never got the opportunity.