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The answer to her unasked question was the one she had expected.
'And just why are you here, Mr Deverenko? And don't tell me it's just to relax between tours!'
'If you can't call me David, you'd better settle for a deferential 'maestro',' he taunted her excessive politeness. 'Since you seem too in awe of me to treat me like a normal human being.'
'You still haven't answered my question, David.'
'All in good time. Aren't you going to show me to my room? I meant it when I said I was tired.'
'Yes, of course,' Clare said automatically, handing him his key and showing him out of the office. Actually, he did look rather worn. There were shadows beneath his dark eyes and a slight hollowness to his cheeks that had not been there the last time she'd seen him. Some of his exuberant vitality was missing, or at least dimmed. 'When did you arrive from London?' she asked, as they traversed the foyer and turned down the narrow, echoing hallway which led to the staff wing of the sprawling lodge.
'The day before yesterday. I'm used to air travel, it usually doesn't affect me too much, but we were doing some recording in London as well as the concerts, and I had two engagements in New York to fit in, thanks to the curse of Concorde. I have an American tour coming up next month, so I told Efrem—he's my manager—to extricate me from any minor engagements until then. I'm not as young as I used to be, and I refuse to perform the miracles I did when I was twenty… I'm thirty-five,' he offered her sidelong assessment.
'You look older,' she told him as she opened the door to Miles's twin-bedroomed suite.
He chuckled. 'Is that the truth, or are you just trying to emphasise your disapproval of me? What have I done, Clare, besides avail myself of your hospitality, to make you dislike me so?'
'I don't dislike you; I don't know you.'
'That's why I'm here.'
'What?' She swung around from her pretence of surveying the spick and span lounge.
Deverenko tossed his keys on to a kauri coffee-table and strolled across to look out the window at the splendid view of the glassy lake. 'You were right. You accused me of presumption, of making judgements about you and Tim without knowing anything about you. I'm here to remedy that.'
His dark eyes were a challenge that Clare didn't dare meet. 'You and I got off on the wrong foot—partly my fault, partly yours. But I don't think Tim should suffer because of our differences—'
'Tim's not suffering—'
'Sorry, poor choice of words. I mean, before either of us make a final decision about the other, I think we should get to know each other with open minds. Mmm?'
The prospect was appalling. Clare could feel herself begin to blush and turned away, but not quickly enough for his observant eye.
'Do I embarrass you? I don't mean to. The intimacy I suggest is intellectual rather than physical. You would not be compromising your position with your…er… employer.'
'My lover, you mean!' she was goaded by his delicacy to snap.
'Do I? Are you lovers…you and the 'old guy', to borrow my daughter's phraseology?'
'That's none of your business.'
'It would be if Miles Parrish had some stake in Tim's future. If, for example, he were to become the boy's stepfather.'
'Miles and I are not contemplating marriage at this time,' she clipped, still holding out the protective possibility. 'But even if we were, any decision about Tim would be mine.'
'Is that fair? Not to share the responsibility for him? Does not the family unit depend for its stability on all members sharing equal love and responsibility? Otherwise there can be conflict and resentment. Both natural and stepchildren should surely be treated equally.'
Clare ran a nervous hand through her hair, tucking it back behind her ear and then flicking it forward again when he stared at the exposed curve of her neck. 'How did we get into this ridiculously hypothetical discussion?' she asked shakily, wishing she wasn't so self-conscious in his presence.
'I was trying to find out whether you were serious about Miles Parrish. Does he know about this kissing cousin of yours in Auckland with whom you wrestle in gardens?'
Clare's mouth made a little 'O'. He was making her sound like a promiscuous tart—she who had never looked at another man since Lee had died! The dimple quivered on the verge of discovery, and her hand came up to depress it.
He was laughing at her. 'I am terrible, no? You are interested in neither of these two men. You only dally with them. The thought of anything serious makes you want to laugh.'
'No, it's your words that make me want to laugh,' she said quellingly. 'You speak better English than I do, so why do you put on this mock-Russian accent?'
'Habit. People expect it. They find it endearing.'
