Читать книгу Stepping out of the Shadows - Robyn Donald - Страница 7

“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.

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.