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Katlin’s whole future, she had claimed, hinged on Anne’s taking her place at the Auckland flat, because if the recipient of the Markham Grant didn’t take up the offered residency then he or she forfeited both the income and—more importantly as far as Katlin was concerned—the associated publishing contract. To Katlin, now clinging to the conviction that Golden Bay was the mystical source of her inspiration and the only place she would be able to reproduce the powerful intensity of writing that had characterised the first three chapters of her book, Anne was the perfect solution.
To her secret chagrin, a cowardly part of Anne had actually welcomed the emotional blackmail that ensured she didn’t have to venture out into the big, wide, unknown world completely alone. Ivan was a wonderful human security blanket, comforting her with the con- stant reminder that if her dreams failed her there was always family and home.
If she told Hunter that Ivan was only her nephew he would inevitably want to know more about her sister and Anne didn’t trust herself not to get impossibly tangled up in lies. And if it became generally known that Katlin had a son…well, the foundation wasn’t aware that she’d become a solo mother in the months between her posting them the first three chapters of her book for consideration and their awarding of the prize. Perhaps it wouldn’t make any difference, but Katlin had refused to take the risk. ‘Keep your head down and your mouth shut’, had been her final anthem.
Anyway, Anne had probably been more of a mother to Ivan so far than Katlin and she even had an official maternal title, albeit only as godmother.
‘Babies don’t just happen,’ she pointed out sarcastically to the impatiently waiting man. ‘I would have thought that a man with a university education would have at least some idea of how babies are made—’
‘I was speaking geographically and you damned well know it,’ he growled.
Anne’s pleasure in thwarting his curiosity was beginning to eclipse her guilty apprehension. ‘Ivan was born near Nelson—’ she began primly.
Hunter smothered an expletive. ‘Where has he been until now?’ he cut her off rudely. ‘Who’s been looking after him for you?’
‘No one. He’s been living here with me ever since I moved in,’ she said with some relish. ‘You just never noticed him before.’
His black brows tilted sharply as he contemplated the statement, obviously rerunning all of their previous encounters through his formidable brain. ‘Because you made damned sure I didn’t,’ he realised slowly.
‘Ivan is a naturally placid baby,’ Anne replied calmly, and then flinched as Hunter suddenly reached out and pulled her left hand away from the baby’s squirming back. She wrenched it free as she realised what he was doing—checking her finger for a non-existent ring. No doubt she was now being filed in his mind as careless or sexually irresponsible.
Sighing, Anne decided that there was no point in trying to settle Ivan down with a pit bull snapping and snarling about her for information. She murmured soothingly to her whimpering nephew as she swept back out into the long room, Hunter dogging her heels.
‘You were hiding him,’ he accused. ‘Isn’t that a bit Victorian? An illegitimate baby is hardly a reason for shame these days.’
She whirled on him, making Ivan gurgle at the sudden motion. ‘I’m not ashamed of him!’
‘Then why pretend you’re living here alone?’
Before she could think of a suitably smoke-screened answer he found the logic of it himself.
‘Good God, the Markham people don’t know you have a baby, do they?’
She glared at him, feeling cornered.
‘Do they, Anne?’ he insisted.
She got the feeling that he would question her all night if she didn’t answer. ‘No,’ she said sullenly, her mouth offering the suggestion of a defiant pout, her arms in- stinctively holding Ivan tighter until he coughed, a gentlemanly hint.
‘You’re holding him too tightly.’
She bristled at his critical tone. Was he going to accuse her of child abuse now? ‘Don’t tell me how to hold my…my…’ She couldn’t quite get the word out and kissed the silky top of Ivan’s head instead, her fiercely protective love speaking the lie for her.
‘Your son,’ Hunter provided obligingly. His black eyes narrowed as he minutely inspected their faces. ‘He doesn’t look anything like you.’
Anne flushed guiltily. The family were agreed that Ivan had Katlin’s nose and square face, but he certainly didn’t have her blonde colouring or highly strung personality.
‘Does he take after his father?’
‘I…I suppose…I don’t really know,’ she floun- dered, wondering, not for the first time, whether if she had met Dmitri and explained a bit about her sister’s background things would have turned out differently for Katlin. But in her love-affair, as in most aspects of her life, Katlin had been highly secretive, only admitting it when she could no longer hide her pregnancy.
‘You don’t know what he looks like?’ He pounced on her uncertainty and naturally drew the most insulting deduction possible. ‘Do you even know who the father is?’
Anne stiffened at the slur, angered on her sister’s behalf. ‘Of course I do! He was a sailor.’
‘Was? You mean he’s dead?’
‘No. He’s just…not around any more. He…he sailed off again with his ship,’ she said vaguely. At least, she assumed that he had. Katlin had kept most of the details to herself.
