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‘Old machines are noisy,’ she countered hurriedly. ‘Anyway, I was wondering whether to wait until you came back—’
‘In my bedroom?’ he asked smoothly. ‘Isn’t that where Mum found you?’
‘I thought you were in there,’ she said weakly.
‘Really?’ His eyebrow shot up and his mouth curved tauntingly. ‘I’m flattered.’
‘You know what I mean!’
‘Again, no, I don’t. You have the distinction of being the most incomprehensible female I’ve ever met. I just think I have you pinned down and you spring another surprise on me.’
‘What a relief,’ she said, not altogether jokingly. ‘At least I’m not boring. Look, if I were out to seduce you I wouldn’t try to do it with a babe in arms, would I?’
‘A lot of men find motherhood erotic.’
‘Do you?’ she couldn’t resist asking.
He tilted his head, studying her silently, his reluctance evident. Suddenly she had her answer and it was a deeply intriguing one. She leaned forward, resting her chin on her hands, intrigued by the notion. ‘You do, don’t you?’
‘In the abstract, I suppose it’s an instinctive male response to the concept of feminine ripeness—’
He had adopted a detached, lecturing tone and she wasn’t going to let him get away with it. ‘We’re not talking abstracts.’
‘Aren’t we?’ He concentrated on swirling a speared piece of kiwi fruit with thick chocolate sauce.
‘No,’ she dared. ‘We’re talking about me.’
Chocolate sauce dripped on to his hand and he licked it off, lifting his lashes again just in time to catch her mid-shiver.
His discomfort melted visibly away. He leaned across the table, offering her the chocolate-covered fruit on the end of his fork. ‘By all means let’s talk about you,’ he agreed with a velvety smoothness that was so unnerving that she opened her mouth and let him tease the sweet morsel inside. ‘What is it you really want from me, Anne? Why did you come over tonight?’
She chewed with unknowing sensuality as she struggled to cope with the hidden invitation in his eyes. ‘I wanted to explain about Jerry—and the others…’
She sensed his immediate withdrawal even before his face visibly chilled. ‘How you live your life is your own business.’
‘Yes, that’s sort of what it is,’ she grasped eagerly at the opening. ‘A business.’
‘Another “experience” you need for your writing?’ His voice was icy with distaste.
‘No, it’s because I know I can’t rely on the grant money to see me all the way through university,’ she admitted frankly, ‘so—’
‘So you’re willing to prostitute yourself for your education? Oh, I’m sorry, you’re called “sex workers” these days, I believe,’ he apologised with thinly veiled contempt.
Anne gaped at him. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You and your Johns. Or do you call them all Jerry?’
The penny dropped. He didn’t think her merely promiscuous, but mercenary as well! If she hadn’t been so outraged she would have laughed. ‘I wasn’t selling them sex, you moron, I was giving them massages!’
The middle-aged man at the next table turned his head in sharp interest and Anne ducked her head and hurriedly lowered her voice.
‘A physiotherapist at the hospital where Mum had her operations taught me therapeutic massage so she wouldn’t have to resort to pain-killers as much!’ she told Hunter fiercely. ‘Jerry and the others are athletes, for goodness’ sake, and if you say, Yes, sexual athletes, in that supercilious tone of yours I’ll empty this bowl of chocolate soup over your head.’
‘You would too, wouldn’t you?’ he murmured, eyeing her fists clenched on the sides of the small dish. He spread his hands, palms uppermost, with a rueful shrug. ‘Mea culpa What was I supposed to think?’
He believed her. Just like that! Perversely, Anne was annoyed by his belated trust. ‘You were supposed to give me the benefit of the doubt.’
‘As you did me and my incestuous mother?’ he turned the tables neatly to enquire.
