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‘Why? He’s happy where he is.’
He was. He lay cradled in Hunter’s big arms as if he belonged there, staring up, wide-eyed, at the dark, jutting profile. One plump fist was stuffed in his mouth and he was sucking noisily, providing Anne with the perfect excuse.
‘He’s hungry. It’s time for his feed.’
‘What does he eat?’ He swept a comprehensive look across at her empty kitchen. She suddenly remembered she had told him she had her dinner on.
Later, Anne attributed her stupidity to pure panic. She was afraid that Hunter was going to insist on staying until she had answered all his questions. She just wanted to get rid of him—fast.
‘He mostly still drinks. Milk. I…I’m feeding him myself.’
She was horrified as soon as the words popped out of her mouth. She stared at him, aghast, and could feel herself going beetroot-red as he stared back. A faint answering colour bloomed beneath his olive complexion as his eyes were drawn inexorably back down to her chest.
‘I see,’ he murmured, and she was too shattered to ask him just what it was that he saw. ‘Isn’t he a bit old for that?’
‘He’s only seven months. A lot of women breast-feed their babies until they’re a year or more,’ she said, numbly trotting out the knowledge she had acquired from her much thumbed child-care book and trying desperately to ignore the focus of that speculative male curiosity.
He frowned. ‘But he already has teeth. He could hurt you.’
Oh, God, he actually looked worried at the prospect. He would be demanding an inspection next! ‘Babies don’t bite, they suck,’ she choked. ‘It’s an instinctive survival mechanism. Now, why don’t you—?’
‘He bit my finger quite hard,’ he pointed out with an infuriating single-mindedness.
‘Yes, well, a finger poking around in his mouth is obviously quite different from—from…’ She floundered to a halt, overwhelmed by the indelicacy of the conversation. She took a deep breath to try and calm herself. ‘Look, if you find the subject so fascinating I suggest you get a book out of the library. I have better things to do than stand here and try to explain it all to you.’
‘So you do.’ He blinked slowly, and thankfully his attention shifted. He smiled ruefully down at his chubby burden. ‘Well, since I can’t offer to be of any assistance…’
Anne thought that if she got any hotter she was going to explode. She had a devastating vision of those big, dark hands peeling back her clothes and guiding a baby’s head to her naked breast. Their baby. ‘Certainly not!’
Her gasping protest jerked his head up and his smile widened mockingly at the sight of her brilliantly shocked eyes. ‘Pity.’
He held Ivan expectantly out towards her and she couldn’t refuse to take him without looking foolishly skittish. Her instinctive wariness proved justified, however, as Hunter’s hands brushed her breasts, lingering deliberately this time, she was sure.
She was even more certain when he said, with patent insincerity, ‘Sorry.’
She would have liked to smack his mocking face, except that that would have been the action of an out- raged virgin rather than a sultry vamp.
‘Don’t let me keep you,’ she said sweetly, adding with a touch of malice, ‘I do hope your dinner isn’t burnt to a crisp by now.’
‘It won’t be. I flicked the elements off before I left,’ he said, revealing an aggravating forethought. ‘I might have to cook another batch of fettucine, though. How long does it take you to feed Ivan?’
Was this a test? Anne had no idea. She had skipped that section of the book since it was irrelevant. She wondered whether the natural method was any swifter than the artificial and then decided it didn’t matter. Hunter wouldn’t know the difference either.
‘About twenty minutes, depending on whether he’s fussing or not…’
To her relief he left without further discussion and she was able to give Ivan his bottle and some mashed banana and warm custard while telling him how impossibly interfering and bossy their neighbour was. She could tell that Ivan agreed by the way his mouth gaped at the catalogue of Hunter’s faults.
She was kneeling on the floor, drying him off after his bath, when she heard a staccato rap on the door.
She sat back on her heels, pulling a face at Ivan who lay kicking joyfully on the towel. ‘Now, who do you suppose that could be?’ she sighed. ‘I thought he went off rather too meekly. He’s probably brought the spotlight and thumbscrews this time.’
She had underestimated him. He had brought something far more prosaic…and persuasive. Dinner.
He didn’t even wait for her to open the door. Before Anne had risen to her feet he had strolled in, bearing a large covered chafing dish and an already opened bottle of red wine tucked under his arm.
‘You should lock your door,’ he said with irritating complacency as he set his burdens down on the table.
‘You were the last one out of it,’ she said sourly. ‘I didn’t know you were coming back or I would have made sure it was barred and bolted.’
