The Sister Swap

It had, but not in the way that Anne had fondly en-visaged. She had been a great deal less thrilled with her sister’s brilliant solution to the problem of her ongoing writer’s block but, after discreetly consulting Katlin’s doctor about his concerns for his patient’s mental and physical health, she had reluctantly allowed herself to be persuaded.

Hunter was regarding her morose expression thoughtfully. ‘My mother doesn’t like this painting either. She regards it as a depressing aberration in her abstract style.’

Anne perked up at the realisation that her faux pas hadn’t been quite so bad after all. ‘Then why did you buy it?’

His square-cut mouth pulled into a mocking curve. ‘To annoy her. She lives in a rarefied environment of more or less undiluted praise these days. She sometimes needs reminding that she’s as human as the rest of us.’

‘A very expensive way to make your point,’ said Anne disapprovingly, thinking that Hunter Lewis evidently didn’t have to struggle along on a mere lecturer’s income, to be able to indulge such an expensive whim. ‘And not very filial either.’

‘Do I take it you believe that family loyalty should override other ethical considerations…like personal integrity or honesty, or expecting people to accept responsibility for their own actions?’

Anne’s eyes skated away from his. He was speaking idly and at random, she reminded herself. ‘Blood is thicker than water,’ she muttered uneasily.

‘Ah, yes, I forgot you have a cliché for every occasion. So you believe that the rights of the individual are paramount over the rights of the state?’

‘I didn’t come here for a political discussion,’ she said gruffly, feeling guiltier than ever before.

‘No, that’s right.’ He strolled over to the kitchen and lifted the lid off her pasta sauce, giving her a cynical smile as he bent to inhale the smell of the contents. ‘You came to deliver the poor bachelor a wholesome, home-cooked meal—purely out of the goodness of your heart…A bit heavy-handed with the dried basil, weren’t you?’

‘I’ll have you know I only use fresh herbs when I cook and there’s exactly the right amount of basil in there,’ Anne said, infuriated by his casual criticism. ‘I’ve made that sauce hundreds of times and no one’s ever com-plained before…’

‘Perhaps country palates aren’t as discriminating as city-bred ones—’

Anne said a rude word, then blushed when his eyebrows rose.

‘What makes you such an expert anyway?’ she said defensively.

‘I was taught classic cuisine by an Italian chef.’

Anne resisted the urge to snatch back her modest offering. ‘You took a cooking course?’

‘Not as such. Maria gave me lessons purely out of the goodness of her heart.’

Irony threaded the innocent statement and the wicked glint of anticipation in his black eyes warned Anne not to make the obvious mistake of enquiring further into Maria’s identity. She had a feeling that he would enjoy embarrassing her by telling her that it was not only as a chef that the woman had excelled.

‘Naturally you don’t have to eat it if it’s not up to your impeccable standard,’ she said stiffly.

‘No doubt I’ll manage to choke it down.’

She felt a very strong desire to empty the sauce over his supercilious head. The amount of best-quality beef mince that she had used in the sauce would have lasted her three meals.

‘Oh, please, don’t suffer on my account,’ she snapped.

‘I won’t,’ he assured her smoothly, and there was a small silence.

She sighed. It would appear that she was going to have to grovel after all, since her bribery had patently failed to charm. She caught her plait over her shoulder and began fiddling with the end as the silence lengthened.

‘By the way, while you’re here…’

‘Yes?’ She brightened, her eyes shifting from gloomy hazel to hopeful blue at his apparent tentativeness. Perhaps he wanted to ask a small favour of her, thereby enabling her casually to suggest a trade!

‘Perhaps you’d like to use my telephone?’

‘Telephone?’ she echoed blankly, hoping her shock would be mistaken for polite surprise.

‘That is why you’re here, isn’t it?’ His voice was a strange mixture of gravel and silk.

‘Whatever makes you say that?’ she said bravely.

‘The way you keep sneaking glances at it. The phone box down the street has been vandalised, I noticed yesterday. And now here you are, oozing charm to a surly brute—’

‘I never called you a brute!’ she protested weakly. ‘A brute is unreasoning and unintelligent—’

‘You must think me both if you expected to fool me so easily, after making such a point of avoiding me like the plague since you moved in—’

‘Since you’ve so kindly and unexpectedly offered, I may as well take advantage of your good temper,’ interrupted Anne loftily. She marched over to the wall and lifted up the receiver. ‘You know, you’re a very mistrustful man,’ she said as she dialled the number. ‘If you remember it was your