Stepping out of the Shadows Read online

  “There’s a spare car at home that might suit you.” Rafe’s tone was casual. Clearly he saw nothing odd in offering a replacement vehicle.

  She gave him a startled look. The lights of an oncoming car revealed the austere framework of his face, a study in angles and planes. Even the curve of his mouth—disturbingly sexy with its full lower lip—didn’t soften the overwhelming impression of force and power.

  He looked exactly what he was—a ruler, born to authority …

  A man to avoid. Yet every time she saw him—or thought of him—a forbidden, dangerous sensation darted through her. Fixing her eyes on the dark road ahead, she said firmly, “That’s a kind offer, but it’s not necessary.”

  “Think it over before you refuse. I know you open the shop tomorrow morning. Nine o’clock?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m coming into Tewaka just before then, so I could pick you up on the way. Then in the afternoon we could go out to my place and you can try the car.”

  “That’s very kind of you …” she said warily, her voice trailing away as every instinct shouted a warning.

  Dominant he might be, but it was ridiculous to think his offer meant he was trying to control her.

  Ridiculous. Silently she said it again, with much more emphasis, while she searched for a valid reason to refuse.

  “I can hear your but echoing around the car.” The note of cool amusement in his voice brought colour to her skin. “Independence is a good thing, but reluctance to accept help is taking it a bit too far.”

  Crisply she returned, “Thank you, but there’s no need for you to put yourself out at all.”

  His broad shoulders lifted in a negligent shrug. “If you’re ready on time tomorrow morning, calling for you will add less than five minutes to my journey.”

  Marisa opened her mouth, but he cut in before she could speak, saying, “Small country towns—even tourist places like Tewaka—build strong communities where people can rely on each other when they need support. The car I’m offering used to belong to my grandmother. No one drives it now, but it’s in good shape.”

  She rallied to say calmly, “I’ll accept your lift tomorrow, but I really won’t need to borrow a car. I can manage for a couple of days. And you don’t even know if I’m a good driver.”

  Heat flared in the pit of her stomach when her eyes clashed with his sideways glance. There was altogether too much irony in the iron-grey depths—irony backed by a sensuous appreciation that appealed to some treacherous part of her.

  She should be able to resist without even thinking about it.

  Well, she was resisting—resisting like crazy.

  Only she didn’t want to.

  And that was truly scary. Rafe Peveril was really bad news—danger wrapped in muscled elegance, in powerful grace, in unexpected kindness …

  “How good are you?” he asked almost idly, his tone subtly challenging.

  Marisa took a short, fortifying breath to steady her voice. “I think I’m a reasonably proficient driver, but everyone believes they’re competent, don’t they? It’s very kind of you to offer the car—”

  His mouth curved in a hard smile. “No more buts, please. And to set the record straight, I’m not particularly kind.”

  That made sense. Men who made it to the top of whatever field they entered usually didn’t suffer from foolish generosity.

  Remember that, she ordered the weak part of her that tempted her to—to what? Surrender? Accept being told what to do?

  So stop that right now, she commanded abruptly, and squared her shoulders. She’d vowed never to allow herself to feel useless again and wasn’t going to renege on that promise just because this formidable man was offering her the use of a car.

  So she said, “If I needed the help I’d accept it with gratitude, but it’s not necessary.” She might not buy food for a couple of days, but the pantry held enough to tide them over and independence was worth it.

  “Right.” His tone changed, became brisk and businesslike as he turned the wheel to go up the short drive to the cottage. “However, the offer’s still open.”

  Tracey met them at the door, her beam turning to blushing confusion when she saw who accompanied Marisa. Rafe knew how to deal with dazzled adolescents; his smile friendly, he offered the girl a ride back to the homestead.

  Marisa watched the car go out of the gate and stood for a moment as another car came around the corner, slowed and then sped by. Shivering a little, she closed the door on the darkness, her thoughts tumbling and erratic.

  Clearly Rafe Peveril was accustomed to getting his own way. And perhaps having grown up as son of the local big family, he felt some sort of feudal responsibility for the locals.

  Well, he didn’t need to. This new local was capable of looking after herself and her son.

  She walked into Keir’s room to check him. In the dim light of the hall lamp he looked angelic snuggled into the pillow, his face relaxed in sleep.

  Her heart cramped. Whatever she did, she had to keep him safe.

  But she stood watching him and wondered at the source of her unease. Rafe hadn’t recognised her.

  And even if he did remember who she was and where they’d met, would it matter so much …?

  Pretending she’d never seen him before now seemed to be taking caution too far, her response based on a fear she thought she’d overcome. Thanks to the strength she’d developed, David was no longer a threat to her and no threat to Keir either.

  But only while he still believed that lie …

  She drew in a deep breath, wondering if the room was too hot. But Keir hadn’t kicked off his bedclothes and a hand on his forehead revealed a normal temperature. Stooping, she dropped a light kiss on her son’s cheek, waited as he stirred and half-smiled and then relapsed back into sleep, then left.

  Back in her bedroom, she walked across to the dressing table and opened a drawer, looking down at a photo taken by her father a few days after she’d arrived back home. Reluctant even to touch it, she shivered again.

  Never again, she swore with an intensity that reverberated through her. That pale wraith of a woman—hopeless, helpless—was gone for ever. Wiser and much stronger now, she’d allow no arrogant male to get close to her.

  So although Rafe Peveril was gorgeous and exciting and far too sexy in a powerfully male way, she’d take care to avoid him.

  She closed the drawer and turned away to get ready for bed. All she had to do was inform him she could deal with the situation and keep saying it until he got the message.

  And avoid him as much she could.

  But once she was in bed, thoughts of him kept intruding, until in the end she banished the disturbing effect he had on her by retracing the path that had turned her from a normal young woman to the wreck she’d been when she’d first seen him.

  Loneliness, early pregnancy—and a husband who’d callously greeted that news by saying he didn’t ever want children—had plunged her into a lethargy she couldn’t shake off. A subsequent miscarriage had stripped her of any ability to cope. The shock of her mother’s illness and David’s flat refusal to let her go back to New Zealand had piled on more anguish than she could bear.

  And then Rafe had arrived, tall and lithe and sinfully attractive, his intimidating authority somehow subtly diminishing David, and made his casual offer to take her home with him. By then she’d suspected she might be pregnant again and it was this, as well as her mother’s illness, that had given her the courage to stand up to her husband.

  Back in New Zealand and caring for her mother and a father whose grief-stricken bewilderment had rendered him almost helpless, she’d discovered that her pregnancy was a fact.

  It had been another shock but a good one, giving her a glimpse of a future. With that responsibility to face, she’d contacted a counsellor.

  Who’d told her not to be so harsh on herself. “A miscarriage, with the resultant grief and hormonal imbalance, can be traumatic enough to send some women into
deep depression,” she’d said firmly. “Stop blaming yourself. You needed help and you didn’t get it. Now you’re getting it and you’ll be fine.”

  And during the years spent with her parents and looking after her son, she’d clawed her way back to the person she’d been before David. Her fierce determination to make sure Keir had everything he needed for a happy life had kept her going.

  For him she had turned herself around. And because of him she would never marry again …

  * * *

  The next morning was busy, which was just as well. She’d been wound tightly, waiting for Rafe to call for her and Keir, but his pleasant aloofness almost convinced her that she had no reason to fear him. He might find her attractive, but a small-time shopkeeper was not his sort of woman. They tended to be tall and beautiful and well-connected, wear designer clothes and exquisite jewels, and be seen at the best parties all over the world.

  In the afternoon she and Keir worked in the cottage garden; by the time she went to bed she was tired enough to fall asleep after only a few thoughts about Rafe Peveril.

  She woke to Keir’s call and a raw taint of smoke that brought her to her feet. Coughing, she shot into Keir’s room and hauled him from bed, rushing him to the window and jerking back the bolt that held it in place.

  Only to feel the old sash window resist her frantic upwards pressure. A jolt of visceral panic kicking her in the stomach, she struggled desperately, but it obstinately refused to move. Ignoring Keir’s alarmed whimpers, she turned and grabbed the lamp from the table beside his bed, holding it high so she could smash one of the panes.

  And then the window went up with a rush, hauled up by someone from outside.

  Rafe, she realised on a great gulp of relief and wonder and fresh air.

  He barked, “Keir, jump into my arms.”

  Gasping, her heart hammering in her ears, she thrust her son at him and turned, only to be stopped by another harsh command. “Get out, now! The verandah is already alight. The house will go any minute.”

  She scrambled over the sill and almost fell on to the grass beneath. A strong hand hauled her to her feet.

  “Run,” Rafe commanded and set off across the lawn and on to the drive, Keir safely held in his arms.

  Half-sobbing, she watched as Keir was bundled into the back seat, then crawled in beside him as Rafe opened the driver’s door and got in.

  She had time only for a quick, hard hug before Rafe commanded abruptly, “Seat belts on. I need to get this car out of the way of the fire brigade.”

  So he must have called them. By the time Marisa had fastened the belts Rafe had the car purring quietly down the drive.

  Rafe glanced briefly over his shoulder, his words cutting through the darkness. “All right?”

  “Yes, thank you.” Her voice sounded thin and wavery, and in spite of the warm summer night she was trying to stop herself from shivering in case it frightened Keir further.

  “I’ve just come from the Tanners’ place, so they’ll still be up. I’ll take you there.”

  Desperate to get Keir away from the sight of the burning building, she nodded. A few hundred metres down the road the fire engine tore past, siren wailing, lights flashing, followed by a stream of volunteers’ cars.

  Keir stared, fascinated. “Can we go back?” he asked eagerly. “I want to see them.”

  “No.” She choked back a laugh that felt suspiciously like a sob. “The firemen need room to work and we’d only be in the way, darling.”

  “When I grow up,” he told her importantly, “I’m going to be a fireman.”

  Her hand tightened around his. “When you grow up you can be anything you want to be.”

  The big car slowed, drew into the Tanners’ gateway. All the house lights were on and Sandy Tanner came hurtling through the front door. He stopped, looked hard, then peered into the back as Rafe eased the car to a stop.

  “Oh, thank God,” he said hoarsely, wrenching the door open. “Come on, all of you, get into the house. Jo’s got the kettle on.”

  Obeying, Keir and Marisa scrambled out and into the comfortable homestead, Keir with a wistful glance over his shoulder at the belt of trees that hid the cottage. “Our house is all smoky,” he informed Jo Tanner, who gave him a swift hug.

  “But you’re here now and quite safe.” She straightened and looked at Marisa.

  Who asked steadily, “Could we put him down on a sofa somewhere under a blanket?”

  “Of course we can. Come with me and we’ll settle him.”

  Keir’s hand clutched in hers, Marisa followed Jo into the big family room.

  Briskly the older woman said, “You’ll find the sleeping bags in that cupboard, with the sheets folded beside them. You’ll want something else to wear too—I’ll get Tracey’s dressing gown. You and she are about the same size.”

  Still numb with shock, Marisa moved as if in a dream, spreading the sleeping bag on to the sofa and thanking the heavens that Keir still clutched his teddy bear. Like small boys the world over, Keir adored playing with his train and bulldozer, but Buster Bear went to sleep with him.

  By the time Jo arrived with a summery, striped dressing gown she’d calmed Keir down enough to tuck him in and promise him she wouldn’t go away. It was only when she pulled on Tracey’s gown that she realised she was still wearing pyjamas.

  OK, so the thin singlet top and boy-leg shorts would have revealed every line and curve of her body. Big deal, she thought trenchantly.

  She had a lot more than that to worry about.

  Everything she had was in the cottage, every precious memento—Keir’s baby photographs, his wide grin showing his first tooth, her parents’ wedding photo and the small silver-leaf brooch she’d loved to see her mother wear when she was a child …

  Swallowing, she forced down the nausea that gripped her. She couldn’t afford to break down. She had to be strong.

  Nevertheless, when Keir dropped off to sleep, she had to force herself to get up and walk out of the room.

  To her intense relief, the only person in the sitting room was Jo. She looked up and asked, “Has he dropped off?”

  “Yes, it didn’t take long. He rarely stirs, but I’ve left the door open and the light on just in case …”

  Her voice trailed away and she blinked back stupid tears.

  “He’ll be fine,” Jo said firmly. “Kids are surprisingly resilient. You’re the one in shock, not him. I’ll put the jug on—what would you like, tea or coffee?”

  “It had better be coffee.” She smiled weakly. “Jo, thanks so much—”

  “Nonsense,” Jo cut in firmly. “Don’t worry, we’ve got everything organised. Rafe wanted you to go home with him, but I managed to convince him that Keir would be happier here for the night, where he knows us. The men are over at the cottage checking up, but they should be back soon, and then we’ll know how badly the cottage has been damaged.” She glanced at the clock and added more water to the electric jug.

  Five minutes later a car pulled up outside. Nerves jumping, and acutely aware of the flimsiness of her clothes, Marisa leapt to her feet, bracing herself to meet Rafe’s iron-grey gaze when he walked in. “What’s happening? Is the cottage …?”

  She couldn’t finish, couldn’t force herself to put it into words.

  “Uninhabitable,” Rafe said, not trying to soften it.

  Marisa closed her eyes against his watchful scrutiny and dragged a painful breath into her lungs. “Did … Was it anything I’d done? I’ve been trying to work out whether I left anything on—the iron or …”

  “Relax, it had nothing to do with you.” Still in that level, dispassionate voice he went on, “It looks as though it was caused by someone flicking a cigarette butt out of a car window. The grass on the verge caught fire and the wind carried it up to the verandah. Once the balustrade caught it was pretty much all over.”

  “Was anything saved?”

  This time Sandy answered, his voice sympathetic. “A good part of your st
uff is all right, thanks to Rafe calling the brigade as soon as he saw the line of fire towards the house. The brigade killed the flames and Rafe and I helped them carry what was salvageable into the old garage there. It’s smoke and water-stained, but it should be OK.”

  She dragged in a painful breath. “I’m so sorry, Sandy. Can you repair the place?”

  “Not worth it,” he told her bluntly. “It’s an old house and once the fire got in it went up like a bomb. Bloody lucky Rafe happened to be passing and got you and young Keir out.”

  With an ironic smile Rafe said, “I had nothing to do with it, beyond yanking up the sash and catching the boy as Marisa pushed him through the window.”

  Foolishly, she wondered if meeting Rafe again had somehow set off some sort of tornado in her life, hurling all her careful plans into chaos …

  She locked her fingers together to stop them shaking. Struggling to master her weakness, she blinked again, perilously close to collapsing into undignified tears as she recalled her frenzied terror when the window refused to open.

  Rafe dropped one lean, strong hand over hers and squeezed. In a rock-steady voice he said, “Calm down. You saved yourself and your son, that’s the most important thing right now. Everything else we can deal with.”

  We? Forget about that, she thought, and then felt surly, because he was being unexpectedly kind. “I haven’t thanked you for opening the window,” she said. “I was panicking, and Keir—”

  He let her hand go and stepped back, waiting until she sank on to the sofa before continuing, “You were carrying something to break it—you’d have managed. Don’t worry, Marisa, everything will be all right.”

  Conventional words, yet strangely they were of some comfort. When Rafe spoke in that coolly purposeful tone she couldn’t imagine any power on earth gainsaying him.

  Lifting her chin, she straightened her spine and asked with irony, “Is that a promise?”

  Rafe smiled. “Only if you do as you’re told.”

  And watched with interest as her delicate black brows shot up at his blatant challenge. He was beginning to get some idea of her quality and admired that quick recovery and the strength it showed. Shocked and desperately worried, she was no weakling and her independence was bone-deep, as fierce and strong as the maternal devotion that had seen her get the boy out.