Stepping out of the Shadows Page 3

  Yet for the rest of the day darkness clouded her thoughts, dragging with it old fear, old pain and memories of will-sapping despair at being trapped in a situation she’d been unable to escape.

  Because there was the ugly matter of the lie—the one that had won her freedom and Keir’s safety.

  Unseeingly, Rafe frowned at the glorious view from his office window, remembering black-lashed eyes and silky skin—skin that had paled that afternoon when Marisa Somerville had looked up and seen him. Her hands, elegant, capable and undecorated by rings had stiffened for a few seconds, and then trembled slightly.

  A nagging sense of familiarity taunted him, refusing to be dismissed. Yet it had to be just the random coincidence of eye colour and shape. Apart from those eyes, nothing connected Marisa Somerville to the drab nonentity who had been married to David Brown.

  Marisa was everything poor Mary Brown wasn’t.

  He let his memory range from glossy hair the colour of dark honey to satiny skin with a subtle sheen, and a mouth that beckoned with generous sensuality.

  A sleeping hunger stirred, one so fiercely male and sharply focused it refused to be dismissed.

  So, Marisa Somerville was very attractive.

  Hell, how inadequate was that? he thought with a cynical smile. His recollection of a body that even her restrained clothes hadn’t been able to subdue prompted him to add sexy to attractive.

  It hadn’t been simple recognition that had shadowed that tilted, siren’s gaze. His frown deepened. He considered himself an astute judge of reactions and in any other situation he’d have guessed Marisa’s had come very close to fear …

  Only for a second. She’d recovered fast, although a hint of tension had reappeared when her son had entered the shop.

  Possibly what he’d seen in Marisa Somerville’s face was nothing more than a feminine resistance to the basic, sexual pull between a fertile woman and a virile man—a matter of genes recognising a possible mate—a pull he’d also felt.

  Still did, he realised, drily amused by his hardening body.

  That certainly hadn’t happened in Mariposa, when he’d met Mary Brown. She’d looked at him with no expression, shaken his hand as though forced to and immediately faded into the background. What had lodged in his mind had been the dislocating contrast between fascinating eyes and the rest of her—thin, listless, her dragging voice, sallow skin and the lank hair of pure mouse scraped back from her face into a ponytail.

  Rafe looked around his office, letting the warmth and practicality of the room soak into him.

  This room represented the essence of his life; five generations of Peveril men and women had sat behind the huge kauri desk and worked to create the superbly productive empire that had expanded from a wilderness to encompass the world.

  He hoped one day a son or daughter of his would occupy the same chair behind the same desk, with the same aim—to feed as many people as he could.

  His father had set up an organisation to help the Mariposan government introduce modern farming practices, but after his death Rafe had discovered a chaotic state of affairs. That first, fact-finding trip to Mariposa had been the impetus to impose a proper chain of control, a process that involved total restructuring as well as hiring a workforce he could trust.

  He made an impatient gesture and turned to the computer. He had more important things to think about than a possible—if unlikely—link between Marisa Somerville and the wife of one of his farm managers.

  Yet he couldn’t dislodge the memory of that flash of recognition and the fleeting, almost haunted expression in Marisa’s eyes.

  Although Rafe rarely had hunches, preferring to follow his logical brain, when they did occur he’d learned to stick with them. A self-derisive smile curving his mouth, he checked the time in Mariposa, then picked up the telephone.

  His agent there was surprised at his question, but answered readily enough, “I was not part of this organisation then, you remember, but of course I do recall the circumstances. It was in the newspapers. Señor Brown burned down the machinery shed on that estancia. One of the farmhands almost died in the fire. I understand he was given the chance to leave or be handed over to the police. He left.”

  Brows drawing even closer together, Rafe demanded, “Why was I not told of this?”

  “I do not know.”

  In fact, it was just another example of the previous agent’s inefficiency. Mouth compressing into a thin line, Rafe said, “Of course you don’t. Sorry. When did this sabotage happen?”

  There was a pause, then the manager said a little stiffly, “I will need to check the exact date, you understand, but it was a few weeks after you and Mrs Brown left for New Zealand.”

  Rafe’s gaze narrowed. The phrase probably indicated only that English wasn’t his agent’s first language. Technically true, but not in the way it seemed to indicate.

  But if David Brown had thought …?

  With a sardonic smile Rafe dismissed the idea.

  However, it kept recurring during the following week as he hosted an overseas delegation, wining and dining them before intensive discussions that ended very satisfactorily.

  He celebrated by taking an old flame out to dinner, tactfully declining her oblique suggestion they spend the night together. Although he was fond of her and they’d enjoyed a satisfying affair some years previously, he was no longer interested. And was irritated when a roving photographer snapped them together as they left the reception. New Zealand had nothing like the paparazzi overseas, but the photograph appeared in the social news of one of the Sunday papers the next day.

  Back at Manuwai he found himself reaching for the telephone, only to realise that it was the weekend and he didn’t know Marisa Somerville’s number. It wasn’t in the telephone book either.

  And why did he want to ring her? Because she reminded him of another woman?

  Grimly, he recalled what he could of the day he and Mary Brown had left the estancia, little more than irritating flashes and fragments—more sensation than sight—of the storm that had brought the plane down. Even after he’d woken in the hospital bed, fully aware once more, he’d remembered nothing of the aftermath.

  He’d been told that Mary Brown had brought him to the hut, that she’d probably saved his life …

  And without warning a flash of memory returned—a quiet voice, his gratitude at the warmth of arms around him …

  That was all. Rafe swore and got to his feet, pacing across the room to stand at the window. He took a few deliberate breaths, willing his racing thoughts to slow. Why hadn’t he remembered that before?

  Had the sight of a pair of black-lashed green eyes prodded this elusive fragment from his reluctant brain?

  After he’d been released from hospital both he and Mary Brown had travelled to New Zealand in a private jet with a nurse in attendance—a flight he barely remembered, though obviously it had set the gossips in Mariposa buzzing.

  Well, let them think what they liked. He never pursued committed women, no matter how alluring.

  Ignoring the flame of anticipation that licked through him, Rafe shrugged. He’d find out whether Marisa Somerville was in a relationship soon enough. Tewaka also had gossips, and information inevitably found its way to him.

  Keir said fretfully, “Mummy, I don’t want you to go out.” He thought a moment before adding, “I might feel sick if you do.”

  At his mother’s look he grinned. “Well, I might.”

  “You won’t, my darling. I’ll be here when you wake up tomorrow morning and you’ll be fine with Tracey. And tomorrow is Saturday, so you can come into the shop with me.”

  Keir knew when persistence could—occasionally—be rewarded and also when to give up. The sigh he heaved was heartfelt, but the prospect of an ice cream muted its full force. “I like Tracey.”

  “I know. And here she comes now.”

  But Marisa couldn’t repress a few motherly qualms as she drove away. Although her landlord’s daughter—a sev
enteen-year-old with two younger brothers—was both competent and practical, with her mother available only a couple of hundred metres along the road, Marisa had never before gone out and left Keir to be put to bed.

  However, taking part in this weekly get-together of local business people was something she’d been promising herself. If nothing else it would expand her circle of contacts and she needed to take every opportunity to make her shop a success.

  Nevertheless, she felt a little tense when she walked into the room, and even more so when the bustling, middle-aged convener confided, “We’re honoured tonight—normally we don’t have speakers, but this afternoon I talked Rafe Peveril into giving us his ideas about how he sees the future of Northland and Tewaka.”

  “Oh, that should be interesting,” Marisa said with a bright, false smile that hid, she hoped, her sudden urge to get out of there.

  Ten days should have given her time to get over the impact of meeting him again, but it hadn’t. Five minutes later she was producing that same smile as the convener began to introduce Rafe to her.

  Smoothly he cut in, “Ms Somerville and I have already met.”

  “Oh, good,” the convener said, not without an interested note in her voice.

  Somehow Marisa found herself beside Rafe with her hard-won poise rapidly leaking away.

  “I believe you’re living in the Tanners’ farm cottage,” he said.

  Of course anyone who was interested—and quite a few who weren’t—would know. Marisa said briskly, “Yes, it’s very convenient.” And cheap.

  “So who’s looking after your son tonight?”

  Slightly startled, she looked up, brows raised. “That’s part of the convenience. Tracey—the Tanners’ daughter—is more than happy to babysit. She and Keir get on well together.”

  He nodded, dark head inclining slightly towards her, grey eyes cool and assessing. A rebel response—heady and heated in the pit of her stomach—caught her by surprise.

  “I hadn’t realised this is the first time you’ve come to one of these meetings,” he said.

  “I’ve been intending to, but …” Shrugging, she let the words trail away.

  “Point out the people you don’t know.”

  Surprised again, she did so, wondering if he was using this method to politely move away. However, although he introduced her to everyone she indicated, he stayed beside her until it was time for him to speak.

  Good manners, she thought stoutly, nothing more. Dragging her mind back to what he was saying, she realised that the quality of Rafe Peveril’s mind shone through his incisive words and she liked the flashes of humour that added to both his talk and his answers to questions afterwards.

  Reluctantly, she was impressed. Although his family had an assured position in the district, it was a long climb from New Zealand to Rafe’s rarefied heights—a climb into the world arena that would have taken more than intelligence and a sense of humour to achieve. To get as far as he had he’d need uncompromising determination and a formidable ruthlessness.

  In short, someone to be respected—and to avoid. Only too well did she understand the havoc a dominating man could cause.

  The media lately had been full of him, from headlines about the signing of an important takeover to a photograph of him with a very beautiful woman in the gossip pages, but he’d soon be leaving Tewaka.

  Hopefully to be away for another two months … That should give her time to stiffen her backbone and get over her disturbing awareness of the man.

  * * *

  When the meeting broke up—a little later than she expected—he caught up with her outside the library where the meeting had been held and asked, “Where’s your car?”

  Ignoring a suspicious warmth in the pit of her stomach, she indicated her elderly vehicle. “Right here. Goodnight.” It was too abrupt, but she hid her expression by bending to open the door.

  Their hands collided on the handle. The curbed strength Marisa sensed when his fingers closed momentarily over hers blitzed her with adrenalin. Before she could stop herself, she snatched her hand away as though she’d been stung.

  And then it took every bit of composure she possessed to meet his focused, steel-sheened scrutiny without flinching.

  Eyes narrowed, he pulled the door open and said coolly, “I rarely bite. Goodnight.”

  “Thank you.” The words stumbled off her tongue and she hastily slid behind the wheel.

  He closed the door on her and stood back.

  Fingers shaking, she dumped her bag and the folder on the seat beside her and fumbled for the car keys. Why didn’t he go away instead of standing on the pavement watching? Of course it took a while to find the key, but at last she finally stuffed it into the starter and turned.

  Instead of the comforting purr of the engine, there was an ominous click, followed by an even more ominous silence.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “OH, NO.” Swamped by a sickening feeling of impotence, Marisa jumped when the car door opened.

  Rafe’s voice, level and infuriatingly decisive, further fractured her composure. “Either your battery is flat or the starter motor’s dead.”

  She fought an unnecessary panic, barely holding back the unladylike words that threatened to tumble out. Although she knew it to be useless, she couldn’t stop herself from turning the key again, gritting her teeth when she was met with the same dead click.

  “That’s not going to help,” Rafe told her, sounding almost amused. “It’s the starter motor. If it had been the battery we’d have heard it try to fire.”

  Rebellion sparking a hot, barely contained resentment, she hauled the key out. It was all very well for him—he didn’t have to worry about getting to and from work, or the cost of repairs. He could probably write out a cheque for whatever car he wanted, no matter how much it cost, and not even notice …

  Rafe’s voice broke into her tumbling, resentful thoughts. “This is an automatic, right?”

  “Yes,” she said numbly.

  “So it’s no use trying to push-start it. I’ll ring someone to come and collect it and then I’ll give you a lift home.”

  Marisa’s lips parted, only for her to clamp them shut again before her protest made it out.

  Wearing her one pair of high heels, it would take an hour—possibly longer—to walk back to the house. And she’d promised Tracey’s mother the girl would be home at a reasonable time.

  Then she had to get to work tomorrow. Marisa couldn’t yet afford any help in the shop and weekend child care cost more than she could afford, so on Saturday mornings Keir came with her.

  Rafe’s voice brought her head up and indignantly she realised that while she’d been working through her options, Rafe had taken her assent for granted. He already had his cell phone out and was talking as though to an old friend.

  “Patrick? Can you come to the library and pick up a car? Starter motor’s gone. No, not mine.” Without looking, he gave the name and model of Marisa’s elderly vehicle. “OK, thanks, see you soon.”

  He cut the connection and said to Marisa, “He’ll be here in a few minutes so you’d better clear anything you want from the car. I’ll take out your son’s car seat.”

  Marisa scotched her first foolish urge to tell him she could do it. Frostily, she said, “Thank you”, and groped for her bag.

  She’d vowed she would never let another man run her life.

  So did she wear some subliminal sign on her forehead that said Order me around—I’m good at obeying?

  Not any more.

  Oh, lighten up, she told herself wryly as she got out. She was overreacting. Rafe was a local; he knew the right person to contact. Allowing him to organise this didn’t put her in an inferior position.

  But that clutch of cold foreboding, the dark taint of powerlessness, lingered through her while she waited.

  Fortunately the mechanic arrived within minutes, a cheerful man around Rafe’s age who clearly knew him well.

  He checked the starter mo
tor, nodded and said, “Yep, it’s dead. We’ll take it to the garage.”

  Surprised, Marisa watched Rafe help. He was an odd mixture—a sophisticated plutocrat on terms of friendship with a mechanic in a small town in New Zealand.

  But what did she know of the man, really? He’d revealed impressive endurance and grim determination during their interminable trek through the Mariposan night and the rain. He’d made his mark in the cut-throat world of international business. Extremely popular with women, he’d been linked to some of the loveliest in the world.

  It was oddly—dangerously—warming to see that he still held to his roots in this small town in the northern extremity of a small country on the edge of the world …

  Once in Rafe’s car and heading home, she broke what was developing into an uncomfortable silence. “Thank you very much for your help.”

  His sideways glance branded her face. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” she said automatically, then tried for a smile. “Well, nothing except for major irritation at being let down by my car!”

  Rafe asked, “How will you manage without it?”

  “It won’t be a problem.” She hoped her briskness indicated her ability to deal with any situation. “As your friend Patrick seems fairly sure the car will be ready on Tuesday, I’ll ring the taxi service when I get home and organise a pick-up for tomorrow and Monday.”

  It would be an added expense on top of the repairs, one she could ill afford, but she’d manage.

  Rafe broke into her thoughts. “Can you drive with manual gears?”

  Startled, she nodded. “Yes.”

  She’d learned to drive the tiny car her parents towed behind their house bus. And in Mariposa the only vehicle available to drive had been an ancient Jeep.

  Although David had taken it out most days on to the estancia, and even when he didn’t, the keys were never in evidence.

  At first she’d believed he was concerned for her safety; Mariposan drivers could be pretty manic. Eventually she’d realised it was another way of exerting control.

  Dismissing that bitter memory, she asked bluntly, “Why?”