Stepping out of the Shadows. Robyn Donald

forwards and confided in a low voice, “Gina Smythe’s not really Rafe’s sister, you know.”

      “No, I didn’t know.” Marisa disliked gossip, so she tried to make her tone brisk and dismissive even though curiosity assailed her.

      “Poor girl, she was in a foster home not far from here—one she didn’t like—so she ran away when she was about six and hid in a cave on Manuwai.”

      At Marisa’s uncomprehending glance she elaborated, “Manuwai is the Peveril station, out on the coast north of here. The family settled there in the very early days. It’s one of the few land grants still intact—an enormous place. Rafe found Gina and took her home with him, and his parents more or less adopted her. Rafe’s an only child.”

      “Ah, I see.” No wonder Gina and Rafe didn’t share a surname.

      And she’d been so sure the woman’s sense of confidence had been born in her …

      The woman leaned closer. “When I say his parents, it was his stepmother, really. His birth mother left him and his father when Rafe was about six. It was a great scandal—she divorced him and married a film star, then divorced him and married someone else—and it was rumoured the elder Mr Peveril paid millions of dollars to get rid of her.”

      Shocked, Marisa tried to cut her off, only to have the woman drop her voice even further. “She was very beautiful—always dashing off to Auckland and Australia and going on cruises and trips to Bali.” Her tone made that exotic island paradise sound like one of the nether regions of hell.

      Hoping to put an end to this, Marisa handed over the purchase in one of her specially designed bags. “Thank you,” she said firmly.

      But the woman was not to be deterred. “She didn’t even look after Rafe—he had a nanny from the time he was born. His stepmother—the second Mrs Peveril—was very nice, but she couldn’t have children, so Rafe is an only child. Such a shame …”

      Her voice trailed away when another customer entered the shop. Intensely relieved, Marisa grabbed the opportunity. “I’m pretty certain your granddaughter will love this, but if she doesn’t, come back with her and we’ll find something she does like.”

      “That’s very kind of you,” the woman fluttered. “Thank you very much, my dear.”

      The rest of the day was too busy for Marisa to think about what she’d heard, and once she’d closed the shop she walked along the street to the local after-school centre. She’d chosen Tewaka to settle in for various reasons, but that excellent care centre had been the clincher.

      Her heart swelled at the grin from her son. “Hello, darling. How’s your day been?”

      “Good,” he told her, beaming as he always did. To five-year-old Keir every day was good. How had Rafe Peveril’s days been after his mother had left?

      Keir asked, “Did you have a good day too?”

      She nodded. “Yes, a cruise ship—a really big one—came into the Bay of Islands, so I had plenty of customers.” And most had bought something.

      Fishing around in his bag, Keir asked, “Can I go to Andy’s birthday party? Please,” he added conscientiously. “He gave me this today.” He handed over a somewhat crumpled envelope.

      Taking it, she thought wryly that in a way it was a pity he’d settled so well. A sunny, confident boy, he’d made friends instantly and he was going to miss them when they left. “I’ll read it when we get home, but I don’t see any reason why not.”

      He beamed again, chattering almost nonstop while they shopped in the supermarket. Marisa’s heart swelled, then contracted into a hard ball in her chest. Keir was her reason for living, the pivot of her life. His welfare was behind every decision she’d made since the day she’d realised she was pregnant.

      No matter what it took, she’d make sure he had everything he needed to make him happy.

      And that, she thought later after a tussle of wills had seen him into bed, included discipline.

      Whatever else he missed out on, he had a mother who loved him. Which, if local gossip was anything to go by, was more than Rafe Peveril had had. He’d only been a year older than Keir when his mother had left.

      She felt a huge compassion for the child he’d been. Had that first great desertion made him the tough, ruthless man he was now?

      More than likely. But although the sad story gave her a whole new perspective on him, she’d be wise to remember she was dealing with the man he was now, not the small deserted boy he’d once been.

      That night memories of his hard, speculative survey kept her awake. She hated to think of the way she’d been when she’d first met him—ground down into a grey shadow of a woman—and she’d been hugely relieved when he didn’t recognise her.

      Images sharpened by a primitive fear flooded back, clear and savagely painful. Two years of marriage to David had almost crushed her.

      If it hadn’t been for Rafe Peveril she’d probably still be on that lonely estancia in Mariposa, unable to summon the strength—or the courage, she thought with an involuntary tightening of her stomach muscles—to get away.

      It had taken several years and a lot of effort to emerge from that dark world of depression and insecurity. Now she had the responsibility of her son, she’d never again trust herself to a man with an urge to dominate.

      Twisting in her bed, she knew she wasn’t going to sleep. She had no camomile tea, but a cup of the peppermint variety might soothe her enough.

      Even as she stood in the darkened kitchen of the little, elderly cottage she rented, a mug of peppermint tea in hand, she knew it wasn’t going to work. She grimaced as she gazed out into the summer night—one made for lovers, an evocation of all that was romantic, the moon’s silver glamour spreading a shimmering veil of magic over the countryside.

      Bewildered by an inchoate longing for something unknown, something more—something primal and consuming and intense—she was almost relieved when hot liquid sloshed on to her fingers, jerking her back into real life.

      Hastily she set the mug on the bench and ran cold water over her hand until the mild stinging stopped.

      “That’s what you get for staring at the moon,” she muttered and, picking up her mug again, turned away from the window.

      Seeing Rafe Peveril again had set off a reckless energy, as though her body had sprung to life after a long sleep.

      She should have expected it.

      Her first sight of him at the estancia, climbing down from the old Jeep, had awakened a determination she’d thought she’d lost. His raw male vitality—forceful yet disciplined—had broken through her grey apathy.

      From somewhere she’d summoned the initiative to tell him of her mother’s illness and that she wasn’t expected to live.

      Then, when David had refused Rafe’s offer to take her home, she’d gathered every ounce of courage and defied him.

      She shivered. Thank heavens she was no longer that frail, damaged woman. Now, it seemed incredible she’d let herself get into such a state.

      Instead of standing in the dark recalling the crash, she should be exulting, joyously relieved because the meeting she’d been dreading for the past two months had happened without disaster.

      Oh, Rafe had noticed her, all right—but only with masculine interest.

      So she’d passed the first big hurdle. If only she could get rid of the nagging instinct that told her to run. Now—while she still could.

      What if he eventually worked out that she and Mary Brown were the same woman?

      What if David was still working for him, and he told her ex-husband where she and Keir were?

      What if he found out about the