The Sister Swap

by Susan Napier

  Her teasing flirtation had got her into trouble and she had not the first idea of how to extricate herself…or even if she wanted to. Ever since he had made that outrageous proposition, her delicious uncertainty had grown. Had he been joking? Or was he as serious as his body language suggested?

  ‘Does your mother visit you often?’ she asked, seeking the most mundane of subjects to try and cool her increasingly heated speculation.

  ‘Only often enough to disrupt what she calls the “comfortable complacency” of my life,’ Hunter said wryly, stirring his coffee. He took it plain, she noticed, black and bitter. ‘She travels a great deal. Although she has a home in Wellington she has artist friends all over the world who provide her with studio space whenever she wants it.’

  ‘That’s what I want to do.’ Anne’s eyes were full of dreams. ‘Experience different cultures at first hand by living in them instead of having to read about them in books. Languages are going to be my passport. When I get my degree I’m going to apply to the Department of Foreign Affairs, maybe even become a UN translator…’

  ‘I thought you wanted to be an author?’

  Anne bumped back to the ground. ‘Art doesn’t recognise national boundaries. If your mother can do it, so can I.’

  ‘I do see a certain resemblance,’ Hunter murmured, and watched her eyes flicker in dismay. She reminded him of his mother?

  ‘I’m nothing like your mother!’

  ‘Maybe not in looks—’ Anne’s anxiety subsided a little ‘—but you certainly have her eternal, exhausting optimism.’

  ‘Because I’ve learnt that believing the worst will happen is a powerful reason for giving up on life,’ said Anne fiercely, thinking of her mother who had, in the early days after her accident, come close to accepting the medical opinion that she would probably never walk again. ‘You’re an optimist too, even if you don’t want to admit it, or you wouldn’t write books where the hero triumphs in the end. You’d write gloomy, turgid tomes that pander to the intellectual snobbery that insists that only the certainty of death and the misery of human suffering make literature worthwhile—’

  ‘Pax, pax.’ He was laughing, catching her waving hand in both of his. ‘Calm down. I wasn’t criticising you—it was merely an idle comment…’

  ‘None of your comments is idle,’ she retorted, trying to ignore the way he was gently separating her fingers. ‘They work very hard at being cryptic.’

  ’What was so cryptic about saying you’re an optimist?’ he asked, turning her hand over so that his fingers slid between hers.

  ‘It was the way you said it,’ she insisted darkly.

  He lightly restrained her hand when she would have tugged it free. ‘Why do you find it so difficult to accept that I might admire and envy your joyful confidence that life will treat you kindly?’

  She looked at him through her lashes. To be admired and envied wasn’t what she wanted from him, but perhaps it was a start…

  ‘You didn’t think I was so admirable a couple of hours ago…’

  ‘I didn’t know you as well then as I do now,’ he said mockingly. ‘And a couple of hours from now perhaps I’ll know you even better…’

  Anne blinked. ‘You can be very silver-tongued when you want to be,’ she muttered warily.

  If only she had the experience to judge whether his words were an invitation or merely idle teasing. She didn’t want to mistake sophisticated flirtation for redhot desire and embarrass them both by bursting prematurely into flames. She was fairly close to spontaneous combustion as it was!

  ‘It was an essential qualification in my first career. I was a military attaché at several diplomatic postings.’

  He couldn’t have chosen a better way to divert her from her self-doubts.

  ‘You were in the army?’

  Anne was stunned, although, come to think of it, his physical and mental toughness could well be a hangover from military training. It would also explain that irritating habit of expecting people to jump to his orders.

  ‘I went through university on a military scholarship,’ he confirmed, his smile acknowledging the silent question immediately evident in her eyes as he continued. ‘That was in the days when we suffered in genteel poverty for the sake of Mum’s undiscovered genius. When she started achieving success she offered to buy out my commission but I figured that I owed the army their minimum five years after I graduated, especially when they offered me post-graduate studies at Duntroon after my officer training.’ The prestigious Australian military academy explained the puzzling abbreviation that had accompanied his degree in the calendar that Anne had consulted. ‘I minored in military history and tactics and made sure there was sufficient language content virtually to assure me overseas duty—’

  A light went on in her head at his overt blandness. ‘Let me guess. Russia!’

  He inclined his head in amusement at her envious exasperation. ‘My speciality was Soviet—now post-Soviet —politics.’

  ‘You speak Russian, don’t you?’ she accused. ‘I bet you’re as fluent a speaker as you are a reader. All those books in your bookcase…You knew I was taking Russian but you never said a word—’

  ‘Because I don’t give private tuition,’ he cut her off in his clipped, professional tone. ‘To anyone. I have enough on my plate. But you’re welcome to borrow any book that you think might be helpful to you.’

  Instead of taking offence at his stand-offishness, Anne found herself in complete agreement. Hunter was enough of a distraction when he was nowhere in sight, let alone shoulder to shoulder, mind to mind. The only private lessons that she would like from him had nothing to do with academics! Still, she owed it to her god-child to know something of the land of his father.

  ‘How long were you in Russia?’ Her fingers tightened on his in unconscious demand. ‘Have you been inside the Kremlin? Seen the armoury…?’

  By the time they were driven out of the restaurant door by the staff’s pointedly sweeping around their feet Anne was starry-eyed with determination that she would one day see the country that Hunter had brought alive for her so vividly. No wonder he was a successful writer; he had a gift for communicating not just the concrete reality of a place, but the emotional impact of it too.

  It wasn’t until they were walking back up the hill towards the warehouse that Anne realised that the underlying tension between them was back in full force. It had never really gone away, merely been masked by a more acceptable form of enthusiasm.

  ‘Perhaps we should have brought your car,’ she said, breaking the unnerving silence. Although he didn’t seem to use it often, she knew he had a cream-coloured Mercedes which he parked in the rental garage two buildings away from the warehouse.

  ‘The walk will do us good after all that cholesterol,’ Hunter replied, cupping her elbow to guide her across the deserted street. Under the bleaching, blue-white street-lights he looked almost like a stranger, hard-faced and remote. ‘Are you afraid?’

  Just in time she realised that he meant of the city at night. ‘No, it’s just that it smells like rain.’

  ‘Are you hoping for a polite discussion of the weather all the way home to avoid more personal topics?’ he asked, with his usual skill at sensing her nervousness.

  As he spoke a very fine mist of moisture began to drift gently down around their shoulders, haloing the overhead lights with reflective streamers. He laughed softly as he urged her into a run towards the first of the row of huge plane trees that marched towards the university, their pale, piebald trunks rising from the black tarmac where the street had been widened around them—nature victoriously fighting back against the encroachment of the city.

  ‘What is this—witchcraft? Or are you taking meteorology as a sideline?’ he said, slowing to a brisk walk, his grip sliding naturally from her elbow to her hand.

  ‘Which would you prefer?’ Even under the thick canopy of rustling leaves the haze of moisture swirled in their faces, but it was a warm and sensuous rain that was a
t once caressing and cleansing.

  ‘I think I’d prefer a scientific explanation but I suspect you’ll have a more romantic view.’

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with being romantic.’ Anne took issue with the cynical edge to his words.

  ‘Not unless it’s confused with something else. Then it can have painful consequences.’

  She was panting a little to keep up with him. ‘Are you warning me not to get romantic about you, Hunter?’

  He shortened his stride abruptly, half turning towards her. ‘Do you need to be warned?’

  She tossed her head, inadvertently loosening the casual French twist that anchored her slippery-clean hair. ‘That could be construed as a very arrogant thing to say.’

  He stopped in the shadow of a towering trunk, their linked hands jerking her to a sharp halt that caused her hairpins to dislodge further. ‘Is that a yes or no?’ he demanded tautly.

  ‘Which would you prefer?’ she asked again, mocking him with the altered context.

  He was relentless, his other hand grasping her shoulder and giving her the hint of a shake. ‘Just answer me, dammit! Why are you being so evasive?’

  Suddenly she was angry with him for trying to force her into analysing her feelings as if they were a research project she was submitting for an exam. They were feelings, for goodness’ sake, they didn’t have to be logical. They were supposed to be wild and wonderful.

  ‘To avoid having to confess that I’ve fallen madly in love with you, of course,’ she said with a sweet malice that she knew he would instantly discount.

  Sure enough he made an impatient growl. ‘You really like playing with fire, don’t you?’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed I’m a little singed around the edges?’ she said throatily, raising her free hand and loosening his tie before he could stop her. It made him look as reckless as she suddenly felt. After the way he had looked at her in the restaurant it was a little bit late to issue warnings! ‘I hate the cold, don’t you, Hunter? I’d far rather burn than freeze…’

  She flicked his collar button open and brushed her fingers against the hard collarbone, the taut sinews of his throat. Her thumb sank into a vulnerable hollow. His pulse was thundering as wildly as hers. Anne went weak with relief. She wasn’t sure how far she could carry this brazen overture without some responsive encouragement.

  With a movement that was blurringly fast he caught her hand and whipped it aside, moving forward at the same time so that their bodies collided with a cushioned force that sent Anne stumbling backwards into the nearest tree. When she caught her breath again she found herself trapped against the smooth bark, caged by Hunter’s hands firmly planted on either side of her narrow shoulders and the looming bulk of his body.

  ‘Hunter!’ In spite of her exultation that she had sparked a response, any response, she wondered apprehensively whether she had pushed him too far.

  ‘Anne…’ His face was in shadow, his eyes faint, glimmering slits in the dark that were no more expressive than his voice.

  He said nothing more and the silence stretched, along with her nerves. Only the occasional car passed up the hill and there were no other pedestrians. Over the hushed fall of rain she could hear his breathing keeping pace with hers, fast and uneven. What was he waiting for?

  Anne’s nerve broke first.

  ‘Hunter, we’re in a public place. What do you think you’re doing?’ Her demand was weak as she saw the whiteness of his teeth flash. She shifted, her one good pair of heels grating against the tree roots, one shoe turning so that she had to clutch at his shirt to stop herself pitching sideways, dragging him closer in the process. He didn’t protest, his torso crushing hers, his head lowering with deliberate slowness until his reply feathered against her lips.

  ‘What you want me to do…’

  Dammit, she wasn’t going to let him make this seduction sound totally one-sided. She jerked her head aside. ‘I never said I wanted to be manhandled—’

  He had the audacity to laugh, his breath caressing on her averted cheek.

  ‘No? I never said I wanted to be woman-handled, but you went ahead and did it anyway. So stop playing coy. You want this as much as I do.’

  At least he was admitting it. Anne slanted him a look from the corner of her eyes. A flurry of leaves parted overhead, allowing a shaft of street-lighting to strike his face, revealing its hungry tension.

  ‘Are you going to make me beg for it, Anne?’ he taunted as the shadows cloaked him again. ‘Is that the way you like it? Does it take a spicing of humiliation to turn you on?’

  Her chin whipped proudly up. ‘I don’t have any fetishes!’

  ‘Good, neither do I,’ he said, so smoothly that she knew she had just been manipulated, and when she opened her mouth to remonstrate so did he…right over the top of hers.

  His mouth was rough and urgent and suddenly the entire length of his body was grinding her sweetly against the tree, his legs crowding against hers, his shoes tangling with her high heels, and impatiently nudging them further apart as he narrowed his stance so that the anchor for her spinning universe was the sharp thrust of his hips.

  Anne felt the snag of her pretty jacket against the small splits in the bark at her back but couldn’t bring herself to care. What was a ruined dress compared to such bliss? She slid her palms across his silky shirt-front and around his back under his satin-lined jacket. Every inch of him felt taut and aroused and she revelled in the smothering heat that enveloped her as she surrendered to his extravagant demands. He kept her hard up against the tree, as if he was afraid she would escape if he eased the pressure of his body, but Anne was in no danger of running anywhere but headlong into pleasure.

  His mouth moved from her hot mouth to her jaw, her throat and the soft curve of her breasts above the strapless dress. Like the subtle rain his touch was moist and mystical, at once soothing and arousing. His thick hair brushed the underside of her chin as he bent to her body, and the hands that had earlier caged her ran rest- lessly up and down her sides, settling at last on her hips and dragging them forward into the centre of his need. Instinctively Anne lifted her knee, not even feeling the shoe slip off her foot and bounce into the gutter as she pressed the inside of her thigh against his lean flank, like a rider trying to sense the next move of a powerful, unruly stallion.

  He made a thick, greedy sound and immediately slid his hand into the crook of her raised knee, tugging it higher on his hip so that he could settle more securely between her legs, trailing his hand up the back of her thigh to cup the curve of her buttock, its smooth roundness tautened by her wanton pose.

  His aggression instantly slowed and altered as he made the intimate, unhurried journey over and over again, caressing her thigh and massaging Anne subtly against his rocking hips until she echoed the incoherent sound that he had made, feeling the velvety friction against her bare skin build up into an explosive frustration. She wrapped her leg around him, trying to capture the elusive sensation with the supple flexibility of her body.

  Another car passed and even though they were protected by the tree’s night shadow Anne felt exposed by the brief wash of light against her closed eyelids. She didn’t want to stop but she longed to touch Hunter the way that he was touching her, under his clothes…

  She clenched her hand in his hair and choked, ‘Hunter, please—’

  His answer was to return to her mouth, smothering her murmured protest. ‘Please what? Aren’t you burning yet, Anne? I am,’ he growled huskily.

  ‘We’re in the street—’

  He stroked that same, knowing path with his large hand. ‘I’ve never made love standing up…’ he said into the moist cavern of her mouth.

  Anne was momentarily diverted. ‘Haven’t you?’ she asked shakily, conscious of the fact that he saw her as a sexy woman of the world and that it wouldn’t do to sound shocked. She settled for a vague rendition of the truth…which he would soon discover for himself if things went much further! ‘Well, there’s a first time fo
r everything.’ Her voice sank another sultry octave as she made the honest vow, ‘And I can promise you’ll experience a lot of firsts with me…’

  ‘I look forward to it.’ He licked at the leaping pulse in her throat, a tiny lash of fire. ‘I’ve always been conservative in matters of sex…until now.’ His finger traced the delicate line of her panties as he watched her face, avidly enjoying her flagrant response. ‘You arouse some very radical desires, but I’m sure you know that. I suppose you’re used to driving men to extremes…’

  She shivered as the pad of his finger threatened the integrity of the lace-trimmed elastic. If he could make her feel like this she would agree to anything. His hair was thick and silky between her fingers and she inadvertently tightened them again.

  ‘Oh, yes, I do it all the time,’ she said hoarsely, arching back against the tree, almost forgetting her misgivings about their lack of privacy until she caught sight of a white car looming out of the misty rain, slowing abruptly as the headlights picked out her lone shoe lying in the gutter.

  ‘Uh, Hunter—’ She struggled to wrest her leg from his grasp.

  ‘Mmm…?’

  ‘Hunter, let me go!’ She didn’t dare struggle when he ignored her ragged plea. ‘Hunter, for goodness’ sake-it’s the police!’

  She almost fell as he jerked upright at her furious hiss. The blue-striped passenger door of the police car opened and Anne hurriedly tried to smooth down her crumpled dress and re-pin her collapsing hair as a uniformed officer stepped out.

  ‘Are you all right, miss?’

  ‘Uh, yes, fine. Just fine!’ said Anne brightly, limping away from the tree, conscious of the other officer behind the wheel observing their encounter with his partner.

  ‘Is this your shoe?’ He bent to pick it up, not taking his wary eyes off Hunter.

  She took the proffered shoe and wobbled on one foot as she slipped it back on. ‘Yes, thank you, it fell off when I—when we—that is, when we…’ She became conscious of Hunter standing stiffly at her side and nudged him sharply to indicate that she needed some cooperation.