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He fingered the bottom of her sweater meaningfully. ‘I just made it my business.’
She slapped his hand away. ‘All right, yes, it’s low-cut. So what?’
‘Take the sweater off.’
‘What for?’ She looked around incredulously. Surely he wasn’t going to start anything here? She knew he was angry, but—
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ With swift impatience he forcibly stripped the sweater over her head, rolled it up ruthlessly small and stuffed it into her capacious black shoulder-bag. Then, while she was still spluttering, he spun her round and began pulling her hair out of its neat plait.
‘What the—?’
When her hair was rippling down around her shoulders he spun her round again, hooked a finger in the low point of the sweetheart neckline of her shiny, sleeveless Lycra leotard and pulled it down another dramatic inch. Her cotton trousers had a high waist and pleats at the front which drew attention to the contrast between her trim hips and the generous curves above.
‘Believe me, no one is going to notice that you’re not in regulation evening wear,’ he growled. ‘Especially the men.’
‘Well, it’s not my fault,’ she growled back, to hide her chagrin that his actions had been innocent of lust. ‘I didn’t ask to be hijacked out to sea.’
For a moment she thought he was going to smile but the gleam of appreciative humour must have been an illusion. ‘We’re not going anywhere,’ he informed her tersely. ‘The Russian Trade Commission is having a function on board to celebrate a new Russian-New Zealand tourism deal. Perhaps later you’ll tell me what you were asking for down there on the dock. Or should I say hustling for…?’
‘You know I wouldn’t—’
‘I really don’t have time to go into it right now,’ he cut her off abruptly, prodding her back towards the open deck. ‘We’re already late. You can explain everything later. For now just mind your manners and try to behave as if you’re a lady…’
Hunter escorted her to a crowded bar and, suddenly warmly expansive, introduced her—in Russian—to the captain and several officers and various members of the Trade Commission who were impressed by her fledgling language skills. Anne glowed with pride and not even Hunter’s amused condescension could dim her sense of accomplishment.
Unfortunately, nowhere did she see anyone who looked anything like Dmitri.
There was a light sprinkling of local celebrities but most of the guests appeared to be fairly anonymous and, apart from a few brief speeches when they moved into a small dining-room, there were few formalities. The main aim seemed to be for everyone to eat and drink themselves into a frivolous frame of mind and soon Anne had forgotten the uncomfortable circumstances of her arrival and was actually enjoying herself, in spite of the fact that Hunter would allow her only one small taste of iced vodka.
As she had feared, he also stuck close to her side and it was some time before she noticed that the only people they chatted to for any length of time were middle-aged men or couples, yet there were a number of unattached and personable young men present. Was Hunter being mist
rustful or merely possessive? Anne wondered with slightly irritated amusement as he firmly steered her away from yet another engaging male grin. Another of his tricks was to brush a strand of hair back over her shoulder as she talked, the familiarity of the gesture a subtle male signal of protective interest that was silent but extremely effective.
‘Am I forgiven?’ he murmured in her ear as they finally rose after a superb dinner that had begun with caviare and piroshki and finished with blinis. Her pretutorial appetiser of macaroni cheese back at the flat hadn’t stopped Anne from enjoying every splendid bite.
Now, with live Russian folk music playing in the background, there was apparently to be more vodka and vivacity and possibly a chance to escape Hunter’s vigilance.
‘What for?’ she asked, aware that there was still a dangerous edge to his politeness, honed by undeniable success of his arrangement of her décolletage.
‘Rescuing you from your own folly. You still haven’t thanked me, by the way.’
‘Thank you.’ She owed him that, at the very least, although she couldn’t resist the qualification, ‘But it might be worth remembering that there are times when people might not want to be rescued from their folly.’
A brief, brooding shadow crossed his expression, then he acceded self-derisively, ‘Quite so. I’ll try to remember that the next time I’m tempted to play white knight.’
‘You were more pirate than white knight,’ Anne commented tartly.
‘Once aboard the lugger and the girl is mine?’ His black eyes gleamed at the hackneyed misquote. ‘But the girl is mine already. It just remains to be seen how many others can make the same claim…’
‘You already know there aren’t any others,’ she flared, unable to challenge his justifiable arrogance on any other grounds.
‘All I know is what you choose to tell me,’ he corrected her, pinning her with his flat black gaze. ‘And sometimes you must admit that your words seem to be very much at odds with your actions…’
She wasn’t listening. Over his shoulder Anne had seen a new face and all her attention was suddenly sharply focused on the other side of the room. Her hand went instinctively into her pocket and she fingered the creased photograph uneasily, wondering how on earth she was going to handle this with the discretion that Katlin had requested, particularly with Hunter in tow.
‘I think I need another vodka.’
Unfortunately Hunter interpreted her response perfectly.
