Stepping out of the Shadows. Robyn Donald
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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.
CHAPTER TWO
TO SAVE money, Keir stayed at the shop after school two days each week. He enjoyed chatting to customers and playing with toys in the tiny office at the back.
Which was where he was when Marisa heard a deep, hard voice. Her heart thudded painfully in her chest.
Rafe Peveril. It had been almost a week since he’d bought the gift for his sister, and she’d just started to relax. Please, let him buy another one and then go away and never come back, she begged the universe.
In vain. Without preamble he asked, “Do you, by any chance, have a relative named Mary Brown?”
Panic froze her breath. Desperately she said the first thing that wasn’t a lie, hoping he didn’t recognise it for an evasion. “As far as I know I have no female relatives. Certainly not one called Mary Brown. Why?”
And allowed her gaze to drift enquiringly upwards from the stock she was checking. Something very close to terror hollowed out her stomach. He was watching her far too closely, the striking framework of his face very prominent, his gaze narrowed and unreadable.
From the corner of her eye she saw the office door slide open. Her heart stopped in her chest.
Keir, stay there, she begged silently.
But her son wandered out, his expression alert yet a little wary as he stared up at the man beside his mother. “Mummy …” he began, not quite tentatively.
“Not now, darling.” Marisa struggled to keep her voice steady and serene. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
He sent her a resigned look, but turned to go back, stopping only when Rafe Peveril said in a voice edged by some emotion she couldn’t discern, “I can wait.” He looked down at Keir. “Hello, I’m Rafe Peveril. What’s your name?”
“Keir,” her son told him, always ready to talk to adults.
“Keir who?”
Keir’s face crinkled into laughter. “Not Keir Who—I’m Keir Somerville—”
Abruptly, Marisa broke in. “Off you go, Keir.”
But Rafe said, “He’s all right. How old are you, Keir?”
“I’m five,” Keir told him importantly. “I go to school now.”
“Who is your teacher?”
“Mrs Harcourt,” Keir said. “She’s got a dog and a kitten, and yesterday she brought the kitty to school.” He shot a glance at Marisa before fixing his gaze back on the compellingly handsome face of the man who watched him. “I want a puppy but Mum says not yet ‘cause we’d have to leave him by himself and he’d be lonely all day, but another lady has a shop too, and she’s got a little dog and her dog sleeps on a cushion in the shop with her and it’s happy all day.”
And then, thank heavens, another customer came in and Marisa said evenly, “Off you go, Keir.”
With obvious reluctance Keir headed away, but not before giving Rafe a swift smile and saying, “Goodbye, Mr Pev’ril.”
Rafe watched until he was out of hearing before transferring his gaze to Marisa’s face. “A pleasant child.”
“Thank you,” she said automatically, still spooked by the speculation in his hard scrutiny. “Can I help you at all?”
“No, I just came in to tell you I’m now very high in my sister’s favour. When I told her you had painted the picture she was surprised and wondered why you hadn’t signed it. We could only make out your initials.”
She couldn’t tell him the last thing she wanted was her name where someone who knew her—or David—might see it. So she smiled and shrugged. “I don’t really know—I just never have.”
He appeared to take that at face value. “She asked me to tell you that she loves it and is over the moon.”
Marisa relaxed a little. “That’s great,” she said.
“Thank your sister from me, please.”
“She’ll probably come in and enthuse about it herself when she’s next up, so I’ll leave that to you.” His matter-of-fact tone dismissed her, reinforced by his rapid glance at the clock at the back of the shop. “I have to go, but we’ll meet again.”
Not if I see you first, Marisa thought uneasily, but managed to say, “I’m sure we will.”
Parrying another hard glance with her most limpid smile, she tried to ignore her jumping nerve-ends as she moved away to deal with another customer, who’d decided to begin Christmas shopping.
Surprisingly for an afternoon, a steady stream of shoppers kept her so busy she had no time to mull over Rafe’s unexpected visit or the even more unexpected attention he’d paid to her son.
Or her reckless—and most unusual—response to him. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that she’d slept entwined in his arms, heart to heart, her legs tangled in his, her skin warming him …
Get out of my head, she ordered the intrusive memories.
Later, after they’d got home, she hung out a load of washing, trying to convince herself that her apprehension was without foundation. A wistful pain jagged through her as she watched Keir tear around on the bicycle that had been her father’s final gift to him.
It was foolish to be so alarmed by Rafe Peveril. He was no threat to her or—more important—to Keir.
Because even if her ex-husband was still working for the Peveril organisation, she no longer needed to fear David. Not for herself, anyway … She was a different woman from the green girl who’d married him. She’d suffered and been lost, and eventually realised that the only way she’d survive was to rescue herself.
And she’d done it. Now she had a life and the future she’d crafted for herself and her son. She’d let no one—certainly not Rafe Peveril—take that from her.
Yet for the rest of the day darkness clouded her thoughts, dragging with it old fear, old pain and memories of will-sapping despair at being trapped in a situation she’d been unable to escape.
Because there was the ugly matter of the lie—the one that had won her freedom and Keir’s safety.
Unseeingly, Rafe frowned at the glorious view from his office window, remembering black-lashed eyes and silky skin—skin that had paled that afternoon when Marisa Somerville had looked up and seen him. Her hands, elegant, capable and undecorated by rings had stiffened for a few seconds, and then trembled slightly.
A nagging sense of familiarity taunted him, refusing to be dismissed. Yet it had to be just the random coincidence of eye colour and shape. Apart from those eyes, nothing connected Marisa Somerville to the drab nonentity who had been married to David Brown.
Marisa was everything poor Mary Brown wasn’t.
He let his memory range from glossy hair the colour of dark honey to satiny skin with a subtle sheen, and a mouth that beckoned with generous sensuality.
A sleeping hunger stirred, one so fiercely male and sharply focused it refused to be dismissed.
So, Marisa Somerville was very attractive.
Hell, how inadequate was that? he thought with a cynical smile. His recollection of a body that even her restrained clothes hadn’t been able to subdue prompted him to add sexy to attractive.
It hadn’t been simple recognition that had shadowed that tilted, siren’s gaze. His frown deepened. He considered himself an astute judge of reactions and in any other situation he’d have