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‘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…’
‘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?’
