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'I'm sure she'd be thrilled to meet you,' said Clare with dry resignation. It was an understatement, and they both knew it. Cheryl Tyson would be over the moon at a personal introduction to one of the world's great violinists.
'I'll be delighted to meet her,' Deverenko said with a demureness that didn't suit him.
'I don't doubt it. She's small and dark and rather beautiful.'
'I prefer blondes with legs that go on forever,' said Deverenko with an innocence that had Clare choking in her orange juice.
'Your wife was a brunette,' she pointed out when she had recovered.
'Nina was an aberration…' The light flirtatiousness took on the warmth of reminiscence. 'A much-loved aberration.'
'I heard her play once, with the NZSO. She was marvellous.'
'Mmm. For a while, after she died, some of the music died with her, but she would have hated that. She hated me to be anything less than I could be. She was a perfect partner for those struggling years.' He appeared lost in thought for a few minutes—then, as he attacked his terrine with gusto, he said, 'So you went to a concert of Nina's and enjoyed it. I'm glad at least one of my family managed not to bore you to sleep during a performance.'
This time the blush couldn't be withheld and he chuckled, but his humour had a slightly malicious edge to it that told her he was truly offended.
'Oh, so you noticed…'
'Yes, I noticed. It was difficult not to: you were practically in the front row and your snores had the first violins fighting to keep tempo.'
'I wasn't snoring!' cried Clare, appalled at the possibility.
'And the boyfriend whose lap you were draped across was so busy leering down your cleavage that I doubt he heard a note, either.'
'He wasn't my boyfriend. I'd never seen him before. You only gave us three tickets, remember.'
'Then all I can say is that you a
llow strangers a great deal of latitude with your person. Next time you go to a concert, wear a high-necked dress. I suppose I should be thankful that you didn't come complete with Walkman to enliven the leaden evening.'
'I told you, I was tire—' She was about to placate his bruised sensibilities by telling him about her wretched flu, when Tim found them.
'Good morning, Mr Deverenko,' he said, as he slid his slight form into the seat beside his mother.
Clare opened her mouth to remonstrate with him for his early morning call, and then closed it again when she caught the faint shake of Deverenko's head.
'Have you told Grace what you want?' she asked instead.
'Of course I have.' Tim gave her an impatient look. 'What are you going to do today?' he asked the dark man who was studying mother and son together.
'Give the man a chance, Tim. He hasn't had his breakfast yet.'
'I thought you might have some suggestions,' said Deverenko. 'I've done the tourist route in Rotorua before, and I thought you might be able to recommend something a little different that doesn't involve too many other people.'
'Miles could take you hunting,' suggested Clare meanly.
'He doesn't want to hunt,' scorned Tim. 'He doesn't like hunting. He's a conservationist, aren't you, Mr Deverenko? It's in the book… that one you took off me, Mum, the one you were looking at—'
Clare avoided laughing brown eyes, hoist with her own petard.
'We could go out on the lake, though. Miles has this neat luxury launch.'
Clare winced inwardly at the 'we'. 'Mr Deverenko has his daughter with him, Tim. They're here to spend some time together.' It wouldn't hurt to let Tim know that he didn't have first claim on his hero's attention. 'He and Tamara may not want anyone else along.'
'He and Tamara would welcome the buffer,' said Deverenko blandly, as if he knew her fingers were crossed under the table. 'But three is an awkward number. If we go out, I think it would be better if both you and your mother come along with us.'
'I do have some work to do,' Clare murmured, and found herself the focus of two sets of reproachful eyes.
