Stepping out of the Shadows, page 7
Hiding an odd impatience by talking to her son, Rafe waited. Finally she swung out, managing the exit with grace and style.
Smiling, her expression serene, she said, “It’s a lovely car and I wish I’d seen your grandmother in it. But it’s really not necessary, and with the run of luck I’m having right now I’d be terrified I might drive it into a ditch. Thanks so much for offering it though.”
Had she been composing that formal little speech while she sat in the car?
If his newfound need to know what really happened in those empty hours after the crash led him to a stone wall, he might feel slightly foolish, but at least he’d be free to find out whether the sensual promise of her fascinating eyes held true.
His silence brought Marisa’s head up. A chill of foreboding ran through her when she met eyes of ice-grey.
That arctic survey heated when he smiled, a smile like an arrow to her heart, piercing and melting the armour she’d built around herself with such bleak determination.
That smile stayed with her, lodging in her brain like an alluring, far-too-dangerous irritant while she and Keir washed their clothes, hung them out in the fresh, flower-scented air and were shown into the nursery suite.
It was charming, with two bedrooms and a bathroom as well as a playroom that opened out on to a terrace and a garden. Closer inspection revealed that the garden was walled with timber slats and the only gate had a lock on it.
“Apparently I liked to explore,” Rafe told her when he noticed her examining it. “The fence went up the day my mother found me down on the beach by myself.” He glanced down at Keir, happily re-acquainting himself with his toys. “I was about half his age.”
At her sharp breath he smiled without humour. “Exactly.” He glanced at his watch. “I need to make a few calls but if you need anything, Nadine will help. I should be finished in an hour, so get settled in. You’ll want Keir to eat when?”
“Six o’clock.”
“Nadine can bring along a tray for him to eat here. When does he go to bed?”
“Seven o’clock.” She knew she sounded abrupt, but a sudden wave of exhaustion was sweeping through her—not physical tiredness, more a soul-weariness that sapped her energy.
Too much had happened in too short a time; she felt her life slipping out of her control and didn’t know how to regain it.
Rafe nodded. “Dinner is at seven-thirty. I’ll come and collect you then.”
She’d much rather have a tray on the small table in the nursery, but before she could say so, he continued coolly, “There’s a monitor in the bedroom, so if he wakes or stirs someone will hear him.”
After a slight pause she nodded. “Yes, fine. Th—” and stopped, warned by his sardonic expression to go no further with her thanks.
But over this at least she had some control. With her most dazzling smile she said, “I almost managed to hold back that time. I’ll see you at seven-thirty.”
Once he’d gone she stared around the room as though in a prison, before collecting herself. She couldn’t crumple now. Yet Rafe’s absence left behind an emptiness that startled her. He was … overwhelming, she thought, watching her son check out the bookshelf.
Idiot that she was, she’d not thought to bring his pathetic pile of books from the garage. Were his favourites a pile of ashes—the much-read tractor book and his favourite bedtime story about a cheeky dog, the bear tale she must have read a thousand times …?
Right then she could do nothing about them. And she didn’t want to think of Rafe Peveril’s disturbing impact, either. If his absence could make her feel this worrying emptiness, it was only because he was such a commanding presence, not because whenever she saw him her breath came faster and excitement sang through every cell.
Oh, she was fooling herself. His effect on her wasn’t due to his height, nor the breadth of his shoulders or the lean strength that proclaimed his fitness. Or even to his harshly handsome face, its angles and bold features set off by a mouth hinting at a dynamic male sexuality.
It came from within the man, based on character and the formidable, concentrated self-discipline, along with his uncanny knack for reading the world’s markets. Add a brilliant brain and he was a man to take very seriously.
She knew little about his rise to the top and not much more about his business empire, but she’d read an article in the business section of a newspaper praising his skilful governance for steering the organisation his father had left to its present prominence. The writer had also admired his firm control of it.
That had made her shiver. It still did. Control was something she understood only too well.
She banished him from her mind. “Keir, why don’t you choose one of those books for me to read you later, then we can walk around the garden just to see what’s there.”
She had a son to settle in spite of a future that had developed a snarl of setbacks. Far better to bend her brain to ways of dealing with them, instead of mooning over a man who’d been surprisingly kind.
* * *
Although it took Keir a while to get off to sleep, Buster Bear eventually worked his nocturnal magic, allowing Marisa to scramble into the one respectable outfit she’d grabbed from the crumpled pile saved by the firemen.
It looked tragic—exactly what you’d expect from something rescued from a fire. Tomorrow night, when she had clean dry clothes, she’d feel more human.
But she bit her lip as she examined herself in the long mirror. What on earth was a woman expected to wear to dinner in the home of a mogul?
“Probably not a green fake-silk shirt and tan trousers,” she informed her reflection, “but that’s all you’ve got.”
In spite of shaking them out and hanging them in the fresh sea-scented breeze from the window, their faint smoky aroma summoned alarming memories and not just of the previous night. Occasionally images of her sweaty terror as she dragged their luggage free of the plane wreckage still turned up in her dreams.
Squaring her shoulders, she turned away from the mirror and checked the baby monitor for the third time. Something too close to expectation fluttered in the pit of her stomach.
Of all the coincidences to be faced with, meeting Rafe had been the one she’d dreaded most—even more than seeing David again.
If this situation ever came to David’s notice it would only add to Keir’s safety. She couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow herself to regret the lie she’d flung at her husband when he’d demanded she return to Mariposa with him.
Marisa took a deep breath. She hadn’t cheated Rafe—she’d just used his name and his reputation.
A knock on the door tightened every muscle, forcing her to take a couple of deep breaths before she opened it.
“Is he asleep?” Rafe asked.
Still stiff with tension, she nodded. “Yes.”
Narrow-eyed, Rafe watched her close the door behind her. She looked tired, her exquisite skin paler than usual, those great eyes filled with shadows and mystery, and her lush mouth disciplined. Even so, erect and graceful, it was difficult to believe she was the woman he’d met in Mariposa.
So why didn’t he challenge her directly, ask her what the hell this masquerade meant? He had no answer to that, because for once he preferred not to know.
He asked, “Did you have any problems settling him down?”
“Some,” she admitted, “but I expected that, it’s been quite a day. Buster Bear won in the end though.” Her smile was slightly pinched, as though it was an effort. “He usually sleeps like a log, but I’m a bit concerned that he might have a nightmare.”
“Does he have many?”
“Not many, but after hearing Tracey’s account of the fire …” Her voice trailed away. She stiffened her shoulders and went on more briskly, “I’m glad there’s a baby monitor.”
Rafe opened the door into the small parlour. “Sit down and I’ll pour you a drink. I remember you like white wine.”
Would she realise that had been in Mariposa? She’d refused any of the red wine from the local wineries and her husband had said, “You’ll have to excuse Mary—she only likes New Zealand sauvignon blanc.”
And he’d given her some fruit concoction.
His words brought a faintly puzzled glance as she accepted the glass, but he noted the fine tremor across the surface of the liquid.
Perhaps she did remember.
However her voice was light and without nuance. “Along with other wines. Perhaps you’re confusing me with someone else?”
So she wasn’t going to admit anything. He lifted his own glass, untouched until then. “Possibly. Here’s to a pleasant stay for both you and the boy.”
“Thank you.” She sipped, then glanced down at her wineglass. “Would it be possible for me to have some fruit juice too? I’m rather thirsty and I might drink this too quickly.”
A faint colour stained her cheekbones, but she met his eyes steadily.
Surprised by a swift impulse of protectiveness, Rafe told her, “A brandy would probably be the best thing for you, but perhaps not until you’re ready for bed.”
She gave a slight laugh. “Oh, I’ll sleep well enough without it. But juice would be perfect, if you have any.”
“Lime or orange?”
Not unexpectedly, she chose lime. At this time of the year juice from the oranges on his trees was almost cloyingly sweet.
He poured some for her and some for himself.
After a startled look at his glass, she said, “This is fresh, isn’t it? Do you grow limes here?”
“Along with other citrus trees. We have a large orchard that provides enough fruit for the other houses as well as the homestead. In the early days when fruit and vegetables had to be home-grown in isolated districts, my forebears made sure there was enough to keep everyone on the station going.”
“It was the same—” she stopped, an unidentifiable emotion freezing her expression, and took another sip of the lime juice before continuing “—everywhere, really. I read about the early days on one of the high-country settlers in the Southern Alps—amazing that their wives managed.”
She’d made a good recovery, but Rafe would have bet on it not being what she’d intended to say. She’d almost referred to Mariposa.
She walked across to the windows to gaze out into the warm summer garden. Gathering strength? It had been a beast of a day for her, and she’d almost given away the one thing she seemed determined to keep from him.
When she turned it was to say quietly, “This is delicious. Thank you so much for asking us to stay. We need to come to some arrangement about sharing costs.”
Whatever he’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. He returned brusquely, “I don’t expect my guests to pay for any hospitality they receive.”
Black lashes drooped over her cool green gaze, screening her thoughts. “Your guests are your friends. Of course they don’t expect to pay you—and they can offer you hospitality in return. I can’t do that.” Her lashes came up and she met his eyes steadily. “Rafe, I don’t need charity and I won’t accept it.”
“This is hospitality, not charity. Jo Tanner would have offered you a bed if I hadn’t.”
Her body stiffened and her voice was brisk and no-nonsense. “And I’d have paid my way there too if Keir and I couldn’t find anywhere else.”
Something in her tone told him she’d already spent some time trying to find alternative accommodation. “No luck?” he asked, almost amused by the sharp glance she gave him.
Shrugging, she said in a muted voice, “No luck at all. I didn’t realise there were sailing championships this week at the yacht club, and I’d forgotten that next week the whole area has a country-music festival. Every bed-and-breakfast place I rang, every motel and hotel too, are booked out until well after the New Year.”
Rafe said curtly, “Then forget about trying anything else—and forget about paying too.” In his driest voice he added, “You may not realise this, but I can afford a couple of extra guests.” When she looked up sharply he added, “Provided they don’t eat too much, of course.”
A wry, tantalising smile curved her mouth and quick laughter glimmered in the green depths of her eyes. “I’m not such a big eater,” she returned, deadpan, “but Keir will probably amaze you with the amount he gets through.”
“He looks as though he might grow into a big man.” She’d know he was probing, even though he spoke in his most casual tone. “Is his father tall?”
After a taut moment of hesitation, she nodded. Rafe recalled David Brown—over six feet, and well-built—and felt an odd stab of something that was far too much like jealousy. Although he’d never expected virginity from his lovers, for some exasperating reason the thought of her making love to anyone roused an unsuspected resistance.
Experience told him she felt the same heated attraction he did. Which was possibly why she’d just tried to erect barriers with her suggestion of payment.
Setting boundaries on their relationship.
That stung. Periodically his sister accused him of being spoilt by too much feminine attention. Perhaps she was right, although Rafe hadn’t been very old when he’d realised that many of the women who flirted with him were more attracted by his financial assets than his personality.
If he knew Marisa’s reason for playing this odd game, he might find her reticence and refusal to cast lures in his path refreshing.
Impatience rode Rafe hard, knotting his gut. Once he had all the facts, he’d be better able to deal with the situation.
Her divorce from David Brown had been finalised just over two years after she’d left Mariposa. His PI had also discovered the boy’s date of birth, almost exactly nine months after she’d got on to the plane for New Zealand.
Edgily aware of the saturnine cast to her host’s expression, Marisa said, “You’re going to get thanked in spades if we don’t come to some arrangement about paying board. After all, I would have had to pay you for borrowing your grandmother’s car.”
“Borrowing doesn’t require payment,” he pointed out.
She stared at him, then summoned a lopsided smile. “It was a slip of the tongue.”
“A Freudian one?” he enquired affably.
Her composure slipped a fraction. Heat warmed the skin across her cheekbones, but she kept her head up. “Freudian or not, it doesn’t matter. I can’t stay where I’m not allowed to pay my way.”
He frowned, then lifted his broad shoulders in a dismissive gesture. “All right,” he said crisply. “You’d better find out the going rate for board for one woman and a five-year-old child, plus the rental of a thirty-year-old car.”
Suspicious, she stared at him and saw a gleam of amusement in the dense blue of his eyes. “I shall,” she said stiffly. “And while Keir and I are staying here we’ll keep out of your way as much as possible.”
“Fortunately that won’t be too difficult,” he drawled and drained the rest of his glass. “The house is big enough for us to avoid each other quite successfully, but I expect to see you at dinner each night. Anything else—Keir’s routine, for example—you’ll have to organise with Nadine.”
Privately Marisa considered the housekeeper had more than enough to do caring for this huge house without being bothered by the necessary changes a small child would make.
Staying here would only be a temporary measure. And Rafe was right. Not only was the homestead big enough for them to steer clear of each other, but by the time she left for work and came back again, the day would be gone.
Which left only the evenings …
Long evenings, as Keir was in bed by seven o’clock every night.
In spite of everything, the thought of dining each night with Rafe aroused a sneaky, unbidden sense of anticipation that startled her as much as it shamed her.
CHAPTER SIX
RAFE was a sophisticated, considerate host, making sure Marisa had what she wanted, talking about the district with the affection and insight of a resident, even making her laugh, yet his excellent manners didn’t quite mask that subtle aloofness.
Until dinner was almost over, when he asked, “Is something wrong with your dessert?”
A note in his voice told her he knew very well that the poached pears and honey-flavoured crisp biscuits were utterly delicious.
Warning herself to control her expression more carefully, she said, “Absolutely nothing—Nadine is a superb cook. I was just thinking that once we’ve finished dinner I’ll go and check Keir again. I don’t want him to wake up in a strange place and not know where I am.”
“Nadine would have let us know if he’d stirred. Eat up and we’ll have coffee.”
She said swiftly, “Would you mind if I didn’t tonight? It’s been quite a day …”
Rafe’s mouth hardened, then relaxed. “Of course you can do what you want. As you say, it’s been a difficult day for you.” And he was perfectly polite when he escorted her to the nursery suite a few minutes later.
Yet every step she took beside him reinforced Marisa’s feeling of narrowly escaping something she didn’t even recognise.
Tension had given her a slight headache. All she craved was a good night’s sleep with no dreams about fire and no long, dark hours spent worrying over the future.
Keir of course was blissfully relaxed beneath the covers, with a parade of horse and unicorn posters looking down benignly from the walls. Smiling, Marisa picked up his bear and tucked it in beside him.
Keir was safe. That was all she cared about—all she could afford to care about.
As she always did, she bent and kissed his forehead, and as he always did he stirred and his mouth curved before he drifted off again.
Just as well someone was able to sleep, Marisa thought trenchantly some hours later, staring at the moon from her window. She felt like the only person left on earth. Usually a summer night brought some coolness with it, but not this one, and after discovering no night attire in the pile of clothes she’d scooped up from the garage, she’d gone to bed in a T-shirt and briefs.
Wryly she thought if she’d stripped off completely she might have stayed asleep instead of waking feeling sweaty and enervated. At least the air coming through the open windows was a little cooler than inside the room.
