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“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 motor, 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?”
“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.
