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His face was remote but Anne knew him well enough by now to recognise that his rigid composure was indicative of internal turmoil. ‘Was that when her bulimia got out of hand?’
‘No.’ Her question shook him out of his state of suspended animation, throwing a mental switch, and he suddenly tugged at the sash he was holding and Anne gasped, catching at the knot at her waist as she felt it begin to give.
‘Shall we try the cushion out for size?’ he said with soft lechery, as if they hadn’t just been talking about a cataclysmic event in his life.
‘I thought you were going to make dinner?’ she murmured, to give herself time to think. Surely he couldn’t expect her simply to ignore his intimate revelations? He must have told her for a purpose. But what was it?
‘We can send out for pizza later.’ He gave a sharper tug so that she almost slithered into his lap. ‘You might show a little more enthusiasm. Or should I say a lot more…? That cushion was extremely expensive…’
That caught her on the raw, acutely conscious as she was of their financial disparity. Was he implying that her love was for sale? Did he know what an insult that was? ‘I didn’t realise you looked on it as an investment rather than a gift.’ She lifted her chin and flashed her eyes at him warningly. ‘Maybe if you show me the receipt I can work out how many kisses it’s worth!’
‘If you’re talking fair exchange you might consider offering me that painting of mine that my mother gave you by mistake.’ It had become a joke between them, his trying to bargain it away from her just as his mother had predicted, but this time Anne didn’t respond and he shrugged.
‘Well, it’s definitely more than a few measly kisses,’ he said smoothly. ‘I’d say you owe me an orgasm at least…’ His hand slipped inside the wrapped edge of the robe, and insolently between her legs.
She jerked to her knees, slapping his offensive hand away, glaring at him angrily, her breasts heaving against the twin embroidered dragons on their background of peacock silk as she sparked to his outrageous challenge. How could such an intelligent man be so utterly insensitive? she wondered.
His eyes lit with a sultry triumph at her reaction and it suddenly hit her what he was doing, what he always did as a prelude to their lovemaking…
‘Oh, no, you’re not going to get away with it this time!’ she said, forcing herself to relax back on her heels and drop her defensive posture.
‘Get away with what?’ he said, still with that same, darkly mocking expression.
‘Tormenting me. Starting an argument. That’s what you do, isn’t it, as part of your seduction routine? You never just take me in your arms to make love. You try to tip me off balance first. You say something deliberately to annoy me, or you tease me until I lash back. Why?’
He shrugged and stated with ungracious bluntness, ‘Adrenalin is a great aphrodisiac.’
‘I don’t need any aphrodisiacs around you,’ she countered steadily. ‘You must know by now you can turn me on with a look. And you certainly don’t seem to have any trouble getting aroused.’ She directed a pointed look at his lap. ‘So why does sex always have to start out as a battle, Hunter? What are you afraid of? It’s something to do with Deborah, isn’t it? About the way she died…’
His eyes narrowed at her insistence. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more.’
But he did. It was burning inside him. She could see that clearly now for the first time. Good God, while she had been busy tiptoeing around the edges of his forbidden zones, had he been wanting her to force him to this point?
‘Well, that’s just too bad,’ she told him hotly, taking the gamble of her life. ‘You’re going to! For once I’m making the rules around here and rule number one is that if you start something you damned well finish it. How did she die, Hunter?’
‘What’s the matter, Anne? Do you think I killed her?’ he murmured with an embittered sarcasm.
‘No! But I think you think you did.’
Her quiet words brought a violent release.
‘Oh, no, she definitely killed herself…while I was away overseas on a research trip. ODed on antidepressants—because there’s no danger of damaging your looks that way,’ he added with a bitterness that fended off her shocked compassion. ‘No, intellectually I know I didn’t kill her. However, I also know that our marriage was a disaster for her. But for my falling in love with her and convincing her to marry me, Deborah would be alive today, perhaps fulfilling that glorious potential of hers in the way that she was meant to…’
‘You can’t know that—if she had bulimia she already had latent problems—’
‘Yes, but I can’t deny the excellent probability that our marriage triggered them into full-blown depression. She left a note, you see, explaining why life wasn’t worth living any more. It was because she had realised that she didn’t have any life…there was only mine, slowly eating her up, growing fat and bloated off her weakness and dependence—a loathsomely vivid image for a bulimic. It was quite a brilliant little note, concise, fluid, emotionally wrenching. It’s ironic that some of her most powerful writing in years was in her suicide note…’
He took a harsh breath. ‘She said that I had paralysed her talent with constant emotional and physical demands, because I was jealous of her talent and obsessed with dominating every sphere of her existence. The only way she felt she could reclaim total control over her destiny was by dying. Divorce obviously didn’t occur to her as a possible alternative,’ he said aridly.
‘She was ill, I’m not,’ said Anne, softly drawing his attention away from the painful memories. ‘You don’t have to keep warning me about your dominating temperament. I got that message right from day one and it doesn’t frighten me. I’m not a reincarnation of Deborah. I’m nothing like her.’
‘I know.’ He picked up a lock of her hair and let it trail down over her breast, with a faint, whimsical smile. ‘Oh, God, I know…you’re more sensual than cerebral. You make a celebration out of life…’
‘Nothing like her at all,’ she repeated resolutely. ‘I’m physically strong, for one thing. And I come from a big family, so I’m used to rough-and-tumble emotions and to asserting myself against bullying. Just because I love you it doesn’t mean I’ve undergone a personality transplant—’
‘Anne—’
‘I’m still me. I’m not going to fall apart if you love me back…or if you leave me.’ She looked him dead in the eye. ‘I certainly don’t have Deborah’s hang-ups about my artistic talent being smothered by yours—’
