Stepping out of the Shadows. Robyn Donald
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And cheap.
“So who’s looking after your son tonight?”
Slightly startled, she looked up, brows raised. “That’s part of the convenience. Tracey—the Tanners’ daughter—is more than happy to babysit. She and Keir get on well together.”
He nodded, dark head inclining slightly towards her, grey eyes cool and assessing. A rebel response—heady and heated in the pit of her stomach—caught her by surprise.
“I hadn’t realised this is the first time you’ve come to one of these meetings,” he said.
“I’ve been intending to, but …” Shrugging, she let the words trail away.
“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.