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‘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!
