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If she was unattached, which seemed unlikely in spite of her ringless fingers. Women who looked like her—especially ones who exuded that subtle sexuality—usually had a man in the not-very-distant background.
Probably, he thought cynically, stopping to speak to a middle-aged woman he’d known from childhood, he’d responded to her so swiftly because it was several months since he’d made love.
From behind the flimsy barrier of the sales counter Marisa watched him, her pulse still hammering so loudly in her ears she hardly heard the rising shriek of the siren at the local fire-brigade headquarters.
She resisted the impulse to go and wash Rafe Peveril’s grip from her skin. A handshake was meant to be impersonal, an unthreatening gesture …
Yet when he’d taken her outstretched hand in his strong, tempered fingers an erotic shiver had sizzled through every cell. Rafe Peveril’s touch had been unbearably stimulating, as dangerous as a siren’s song.
If a simple, unemotional handshake could do that, what would happen if he kissed her—?
Whoa! Outraged, she ordered her wayward mind to shut down that train of thought.
For two months she’d been bracing herself for this—ever since she’d been appalled to discover Rafe Peveril lived not far from Tewaka. Yet when she’d looked up to see him pace into the shop, more than six foot of intimidating authority and leashed male force, she’d had to stop herself from bolting out the back door.
Of all the rotten coincidences … It hadn’t occurred to her to check the names of the local bigwigs before signing the contract that locked her into a year’s lease of the shop.
She should have followed her first impulse after her father’s death and crossed the Tasman Sea to take refuge in Australia.
At least her luck had held—Rafe hadn’t recognised her. It was difficult to read the brilliant mind behind his arrogantly autocratic features, but she’d be prepared to bet that after a jolt of what might have been recognition he’d completely accepted her new persona and identity.
She swallowed hard as the fire engine raced past, siren screaming. Please God it was just a grass fire, not a motor accident, or someone’s house.
Her gaze fell to the picture she’d just sold. Forcing herself to breathe carefully and steadily, she took it off the wall and carried it across to the counter.
Gina Smythe was the sort of woman Marisa aspired to be—self-assured, decisive, charming. But of course Rafe Peveril’s sister would have been born with the same effortless, almost ruthless self-confidence that made him so intimidating.
Whereas it had taken her years—and much effort—to manufacture the façade she now hid behind. Only she knew that deep inside her lurked the naive, foolish kid filled with simple-minded hope and fairytale fantasies who’d married David Brown and gone with him to Mariposa, expecting an exotic tropical paradise and the romance of a lifetime.
Her mouth curved in a cynical, unamused line as she expertly cut a length of gift-wrapping paper.
How wrong she’d been.
However, that was behind her now. And as she couldn’t get out of her lease agreement, she’d just have to make sure everyone—especially Rafe Peveril—saw her as the woman who owned the best gift shop in Northland.
She had to make a success of this venture and squirrel away every cent she could. Once the year was up she’d leave Tewaka for somewhere safer—a place where her past didn’t intrude and she could live without fear, a place where she could at last settle.
The sort of place she thought she’d found in Tewaka …
Half an hour later she was keeping a wary eye on the entrance while dealing with a diffident middle-aged woman who couldn’t make up her mind. Every suggestion was met with a vague comment that implied rejection.
Once, Marisa thought compassionately, she’d been like that. Perhaps this woman too was stuck in a situation with no escape. Curbing her tension, she walked her around the shop, discussing the recipient of the proposed gift, a fourteen-year-old girl who seemed to terrify her grandmother.
A movement from the door made her suck in an involuntary breath as Rafe Peveril strode in, his size and air of cool authority reducing the shop and its contents to insignificance.
Black-haired, tanned and arrogantly handsome, his broad-shouldered, narrow-hipped body moving in a lithe predator’s gait on long, heavily muscled legs, he was a man who commanded instant attention.
Naked, he was even more magnificent …
Appalled by the swift memory from a past she’d tried very hard to forget, she murmured, “If you don’t mind, I’ll give Mr Peveril his parcel.”
“Oh, yes—do.” The customer looked across the shop, turning faintly pink when she received a smile that sizzled with male charisma.
Deliberately relaxing her taut muscles, Marisa set off towards him. He knew the effect that smile had on women.
It set female hearts throbbing—as hers was right now.
Not, however, solely with appreciation.
In Mariposa his height had struck her first. Only when he’d been close had she noticed that his eyes were grey, so dark they were the colour of iron.
But in Mariposa his gaze had been coolly aloof.
Now he made no attempt to hide his appreciation. Heat licked through her, warring with a primitive sense of approaching danger. She forced a smile, hoping he’d take the mechanical curve of her lips for genuine pleasure.
“Hello, Mr Peveril, here’s your parcel,” she said, lowering her lashes as she placed it carefully on the counter.
“Thank you.” After a quick look he asked, “Do you give lessons in parcel wrapping and decoration?”
Startled, she looked up, parrying his direct, keen survey with a mildly enquiring lift of her brows. “I hadn’t thought of it.”
A long finger tapped the parcel. “This is beautifully done. With Christmas not too far away you’d probably have plenty of takers.”
Easy chitchat was not his style. He’d been pleasant enough in Mariposa, but very much the boss—
Don’t think of Mariposa.
It was stupid to feel that somehow her wayward thoughts might show in her face and trigger a vagrant memory in him.
Stupid and oddly scary. It took a lot of will to look him in the eye and say in a steady voice, “Thank you. I might put a notice in the window and see what happens.”
As though he’d read her mind, he said in an idle tone at variance with his cool, keen scrutiny, “I have this odd feeling we’ve met before, but I’m certain I’d remember if we had.”
Oh, God! Calling on every ounce of self-preservation, she said brightly, “So would I, Mr Peveril—”
“Rafe.”
She swallowed. Her countrymen were famously casual, so it was stupid to feel that using his first name forged some sort of link. “Rafe,” she repeated, adding with another meaningless smile, “I’d have remembered too, I’m sure.” Oh, hell, did that sound like an attempt at flirtation? Hastily she added, “I do hope your sister enjoys the painting.”
“I’m sure she will. Thank you.” He nodded, picked up the parcel and left.
Almost giddy with relief, Marisa had to take a couple of deep breaths before she returned to her customer. It took another ten minutes before the woman finally made up her mind, and while Marisa was wrapping the gift, she leaned forwards and confided in a low voice, “Gina Smythe’s not really Rafe’s sister, you know.”
“No, I didn’t know.” Marisa disliked gossip, so she tried to make her tone brisk and dismissive even though curiosity assailed her.
“Poor girl, she was in a foster home not far from here—one she didn’t like—so she ran away when she was about six and hid in a cave on Manuwai.”
At Marisa’s uncomprehending glance she elaborated, “Manuwai is the Peveril station, out on the coast north of here. The family settled there in the very early days. It’s one of the few land grants still intact—an enormous place. Rafe found Gina and took her home with him, and his parents more or less adopted her. Rafe’s an only child.”
“Ah, I see.” No wonder Gina and Rafe didn’t share a surname.
And she’d been so sure the woman’s sense of confidence had been born in her …
The woman leaned closer. “When I say his parents, it was his stepmother, really. His birth mother left him and his father when Rafe was about six. It was a great scandal—she divorced him and married a film star, then divorced him and married someone else—and it was rumoured the elder Mr Peveril paid millions of dollars to get rid of her.”
Shocked, Marisa tried to cut her off, only to have the woman drop her voice even further. “She was very beautiful—always dashing off to Auckland and Australia and going on cruises and trips to Bali.” Her tone made that exotic island paradise sound like one of the nether regions of hell.
Hoping to put an end to this, Marisa handed over the purchase in one of her specially designed bags. “Thank you,” she said firmly.
But the woman was not to be deterred. “She didn’t even look after Rafe—he had a nanny from the time he was born. His stepmother—the second Mrs Peveril—was very nice, but she couldn’t have children, so Rafe is an only child. Such a shame …”
Her voice trailed away when another customer entered the shop. Intensely relieved, Marisa grabbed the opportunity. “I’m pretty certain your granddaughter will love this, but if she doesn’t, come back with her and we’ll find something she does like.”
“That’s very kind of you,” the woman fluttered. “Thank you very much, my dear.”
The rest of the day was too busy for Marisa to think about what she’d heard, and once she’d closed the shop she walked along the street to the local after-school centre. She’d chosen Tewaka to settle in for various reasons, but that excellent care centre had been the clincher.
Her heart swelled at the grin from her son. “Hello, darling. How’s your day been?”
“Good,” he told her, beaming as he always did. To five-year-old Keir every day was good. How had Rafe Peveril’s days been after his mother had left?
Keir asked, “Did you have a good day too?”
She nodded. “Yes, a cruise ship—a really big one—came into the Bay of Islands, so I had plenty of customers.” And most had bought something.
Fishing around in his bag, Keir asked, “Can I go to Andy’s birthday party? Please,” he added conscientiously. “He gave me this today.” He handed over a somewhat crumpled envelope.
Taking it, she thought wryly that in a way it was a pity he’d settled so well. A sunny, confident boy, he’d made friends instantly and he was going to miss them when they left. “I’ll read it when we get home, but I don’t see any reason why not.”
He beamed again, chattering almost nonstop while they shopped in the supermarket. Marisa’s heart swelled, then contracted into a hard ball in her chest. Keir was her reason for living, the pivot of her life. His welfare was behind every decision she’d made since the day she’d realised she was pregnant.
No matter what it took, she’d make sure he had everything he needed to make him happy.
And that, she thought later after a tussle of wills had seen him into bed, included discipline.
Whatever else he missed out on, he had a mother who loved him. Which, if local gossip was anything to go by, was more than Rafe Peveril had had. He’d only been a year older than Keir when his mother had left.
She felt a huge compassion for the child he’d been. Had that first great desertion made him the tough, ruthless man he was now?
More than likely. But although the sad story gave her a whole new perspective on him, she’d be wise to remember she was dealing with the man he was now, not the small deserted boy he’d once been.
That night memories of his hard, speculative survey kept her awake. She hated to think of the way she’d been when she’d first met him—ground down into a grey shadow of a woman—and she’d been hugely relieved when he didn’t recognise her.
Images sharpened by a primitive fear flooded back, clear and savagely painful. Two years of marriage to David had almost crushed her.
If it hadn’t been for Rafe Peveril she’d probably still be on that lonely estancia in Mariposa, unable to summon the strength—or the courage, she thought with an involuntary tightening of her stomach muscles—to get away.
It had taken several years and a lot of effort to emerge from that dark world of depression and insecurity. Now she had the responsibility of her son, she’d never again trust herself to a man with an urge to dominate.
Twisting in her bed, she knew she wasn’t going to sleep. She had no camomile tea, but a cup of the peppermint variety might soothe her enough.
Even as she stood in the darkened kitchen of the little, elderly cottage she rented, a mug of peppermint tea in hand, she knew it wasn’t going to work. She grimaced as she gazed out into the summer night—one made for lovers, an evocation of all that was romantic, the moon’s silver glamour spreading a shimmering veil of magic over the countryside.
Bewildered by an inchoate longing for something unknown, something more—something primal and consuming and intense—she was almost relieved when hot liquid sloshed on to her fingers, jerking her back into real life.
Hastily she set the mug on the bench and ran cold water over her hand until the mild stinging stopped.
“That’s what you get for staring at the moon,” she muttered and, picking up her mug again, turned away from the window.
Seeing Rafe Peveril again had set off a reckless energy, as though her body had sprung to life after a long sleep.
She should have expected it.
Her first sight of him at the estancia, climbing down from the old Jeep, had awakened a determination she’d thought she’d lost. His raw male vitality—forceful yet disciplined—had broken through her grey apathy.
From somewhere she’d summoned the initiative to tell him of her mother’s illness and that she wasn’t expected to live.
Then, when David had refused Rafe’s offer to take her home, she’d gathered every ounce of courage and defied him.
She shivered. Thank heavens she was no longer that frail, damaged woman. Now, it seemed incredible she’d let herself get into such a state.
Instead of standing in the dark recalling the crash, she should be exulting, joyously relieved because the meeting she’d been dreading for the past two months had happened without disaster.
Oh, Rafe had noticed her, all right—but only with masculine interest.
So she’d passed the first big hurdle. If only she could get rid of the nagging instinct that told her to run. Now—while she still could.
What if he eventually worked out that she and Mary Brown were the same woman?
What if David was still working for him, and he told her ex-husband where she and Keir were?
What if he found out about the lie she’d told David—the lie that had finally and for ever freed her and her son?
Marisa took another deep breath and drained the mug of lukewarm tea. That wasn’t going to happen because her ex-husband didn’t care about Keir.
Anyway, worrying was a waste of time and nervous energy. All she had to do was avoid Rafe Peveril, which shouldn’t be difficult, even in a place as small as Tewaka—his vast empire kept him away for much of the time.
Closing the curtains on the sultry enchantment of the moon, she tried to feel reassured. While she kept out of his way she’d make plans for a future a long way from Tewaka.
Somewhere safe—where she could start again.
Start again …
She’d believed—hoped—she’d done that for the last time when she’d arrived in Tewaka. A soul-deep loneliness ached through her. Her life had been nothing but new starts.
Sternly she ordered herself not to wallow in self-pity. Before she decided to put down roots again, she’d check out the locals carefully.
Also, she thought ruefully, if she could manage it she’d buy some dull-brown contact lenses.
