‘I discovered I’m actually quite good at it,’ admitted Rachel sheepishly, making Anne laugh. ‘I know, I know…it shocked me even more than it did Professor Lewis. He thought I was just another blonde bimbo looking to plug a hole in my schedule—practically shredded me to pieces that first semester. The Pit Bull, I call him…let him scent a weakness and those big jaws just go chomp!’
Anne wasn’t listening. She had spotted him at the exact moment that Rachel had mentioned his name. He was walking towards them at an oblique angle but there was no mistaking that tight, impatient stride or the saturnine expression. He was wearing a sports jacket over dark trousers and pale shirt and tie, and was carrying a bulging leather briefcase.
‘Professor Lewis? Professor Hunter Lewis?’ she said hollowly, hoping against hope that it was merely a ghastly coincidence.
‘Yeah. You know him?’
‘He’s a lecturer here?’
‘I told you, political studies.’ To her horror Rachel lifted her hand and waved to the man as he approached to pass their seated figures. ‘Hi, Hunter.’
She received a grunt in reply and a brief glance that didn’t even break his stride. Anne was relaxing again when the big head suddenly snapped back around and he came to a halt. Before he could beat her to it Anne scowled at him. As if it weren’t enough that she had to avoid him around the flat, now she was going to have to worry about running into him on campus as well.
To her dismay he backed up, ignoring his student, and stared at Anne. ‘What are you doing here?’ he snapped.
As if it had anything to do with him!
‘Following you, of course,’ she snapped back, flicking her long plait back between her defiantly stiff shoulder- blades.
His face darkened. ‘What in the hell for?’
He believed her! The incredible egotism of the man. ‘I’m a masochist. I’m hoping if I throw myself in your path often enough you’ll fall in love with me and invite me to live miserably with you ever after.’
Anne heard Rachel’s soft gasp, but ignored it in favour of maintaining her defiant front. He wasn’t her professor. To her he was just an obnoxious stranger.
‘Is that supposed to be a joke?’
‘Not to someone who doesn’t have a sense of humour.’
He didn’t dispute the point, instead abruptly switching tactics. ‘Are you taking an extension course here at the university?’ he asked more politely.
Ah, it was finally beginning to sink in that her life might not revolve entirely around him. She widened her eyes innocently. ‘Actually I’m thinking of enrolling in political studies.’
A brief spark of emotion glowed in the hooded gaze and then Anne was subjected to a long, silent look that would have made her blush if she hadn’t been so annoyed. ‘Sorry, my class already has a waiting-list,’ he said with silky insincerity.
‘Oh, dear, and I’m sure there won’t be any vacancies opening up when the term is under way and your students realise what a sweet-tempered and tolerant being you really are behind that gruff exterior.’
This time Rachel gave her a sharp nudge of her elbow in the kidneys and Anne felt guilty for allowing her temper to get the better of her discretion.
The dark gaze switched from Anne to Rachel’s flushed and curious face. ‘Been telling tales out of school, Rachel?’
‘Wouldn’t dream of it, Professor,’ said Rachel with glib mock-deference.
‘Oh, be my guest,’ he responded mildly. ‘I’d much rather have the wheat sorted from the chaff before the first lecture.’
‘The chaff being those who don’t treat every utterance of yours as a pearl of indisputable wisdom, I suppose,’ Anne murmured.
‘I’m surprised at a country girl mixing up her barnyard analogies. Perhaps you don’t know as much as you think you do, Miss Tremaine. It’s swine and pearls.’
She knew his condescension was deliberate but she couldn’t help responding to the provocation. ‘We didn’t keep pigs. I had to come to Auckland to encounter the behaviour of common swine.’
‘Er…hadn’t we better be going now, Anne?’ Rachel said hastily, picking up her leather satchel and getting to her feet, tugging her friend up with her.
‘Anne?’ The black eyebrows flattened. ‘I thought your name was Katlin.’
It had had to happen and Anne was proud of the way she handled it, letting none of her trepidation show.
‘My family calls me Anne,’ she said with perfect truth. ‘With an “e”,’ she added helpfully.
‘Why?’
He wasn’t asking about the ‘e’.
‘Because it’s one of my names,’ she said evasively. ‘A lot of people don’t like their middle names,’ she said, choosing her random comments carefully to avoid an outright lie. ‘I happen to like Anne. It’s a good, plain, uncomplicated name.’
Now that was a lie. She had always wanted to be called something more dramatic. Alexandra or Laurel…or even Elizabeth would have done. A name you could do some- thing with…
His eyebrows rose again and she knew that he was thinking exactly what she was—that a plain, uncomplicated name suited her looks. Though her eyes were large and thickly lashed they were an indeterminate colour-sometimes hazel, sometimes muddy blue, more often hovering disappointingly somewhere in between. She might have just scraped by as pretty with her winged brows balanced by a nicely shaped mouth, except that in between was the noble Tremaine nose which threw her small face all out of kilter. Her brothers used to tease her that it was lucky she had also inherited the impressive Tremaine chest when she went through puberty, otherwise her centre of gravity wouldn’t have shifted south of her chin!
Another impressive attribute, one that her brothers never teased her about because it had proved so vital to the family’s well-being, was her unshakeable, unbreakable loyalty towards those she loved.
The car accident that had severely injured her mother’s back when Anne was fifteen had been the start of the long process that had shaped her adult personality into that of a deeply compassionate woman, always willing to help those less fortunate than herself. Katlin had always been hopeless on the domestic front and at the time of the accident had already embarked on her ob- session with writing, so it had naturally fallen to Anne to put aside her quiet dreams of university study and travel and buckle down to the task of being ‘little mother’ to the rest of the family. She had done it as she did most things, with a good-natured enthusiasm that had served to reassure her father and brothers, and especially her bed-ridden mother, that it was no great self-sacrifice for her to leave school without even minimum qualifications. In between the cooking and cleaning and caring for her mother Anne had plugged away at correspondence courses, which had gone some way to appeasing her hunger for knowledge and intellectual stimulation, and if occasionally she felt sorry for herself she never let it show.
Over the years she had maintained an attitude of obstinate optimism towards her mother’s condition while everyone around her was losing hope. It had been a long, slow haul, but after numerous operations and continuing physical therapy Peg Tremaine’s condition had gradually improved to the point where, although she still wasn’t pain-free, she could move about and perform most household tasks without help. At last Anne had felt free to reclaim some of her childhood dreams, to fly the family nest and seek her own destiny.
But that destiny had immediately become inextricably bound up with Katlin’s. Typically, Anne had found the bonds of love were too strong for her selfishly to ignore her sister’s cry for help. So here she was, plain Anne masquerading as complex Katlin and shamefully