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‘My name isn’t Mary. It’s Marisa—Marisa Somerville,’ she responded in an assured, crisp voice.

Indeed. Assured and beautifully groomed, compared to Mrs Brown, Ms Somerville was a bird of paradise. Apart from the coincidences of eye colour and shape this woman bore no resemblance to the woman he’d seen in Mariposa.

Rafe held out his hand. ‘Sorry, but for a moment I thought you were someone else. I’m Rafe Peveril.’

Although her lashes flickered, her handshake was as confident as her voice. ‘How do you do, Mr Peveril.’

‘Most people here call me Rafe,’ he told her.

She didn’t pretend not to know who he was. ‘Of course—you grew up here, didn’t you?’

Had there been a glimmer of some other emotion in the sultry green depths of her eyes, almost immediately hidden by those dark lashes?

Rafe’s body stirred in a swift, sensually charged response that was purely masculine.

Out of the shop, away from temptation, he reminded himself curtly that he’d long ago got over the adolescent desire to bed every desirable woman he met.

But soon he’d invite Marisa Somerville to dinner.

Stepping out of the Shadows

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