however, solely with appreciation.
In Mariposa his height had struck her first. Only when he’d been close had she noticed that his eyes were grey, so dark they were the colour of iron.
But in Mariposa his gaze had been coolly aloof.
Now he made no attempt to hide his appreciation. Heat licked through her, warring with a primitive sense of approaching danger. She forced a smile, hoping he’d take the mechanical curve of her lips for genuine pleasure.
“Hello, Mr Peveril, here’s your parcel,” she said, lowering her lashes as she placed it carefully on the counter.
“Thank you.” After a quick look he asked, “Do you give lessons in parcel wrapping and decoration?”
Startled, she looked up, parrying his direct, keen survey with a mildly enquiring lift of her brows. “I hadn’t thought of it.”
A long finger tapped the parcel. “This is beautifully done. With Christmas not too far away you’d probably have plenty of takers.”
Easy chitchat was not his style. He’d been pleasant enough in Mariposa, but very much the boss—
Don’t think of Mariposa.
It was stupid to feel that somehow her wayward thoughts might show in her face and trigger a vagrant memory in him.
Stupid and oddly scary. It took a lot of will to look him in the eye and say in a steady voice, “Thank you. I might put a notice in the window and see what happens.”
As though he’d read her mind, he said in an idle tone at variance with his cool, keen scrutiny, “I have this odd feeling we’ve met before, but I’m certain I’d remember if we had.”
Oh, God! Calling on every ounce of self-preservation, she said brightly, “So would I, Mr Peveril—”
“Rafe.”
She swallowed. Her countrymen were famously casual, so it was stupid to feel that using his first name forged some sort of link. “Rafe,” she repeated, adding with another meaningless smile, “I’d have remembered too, I’m sure.” Oh, hell, did that sound like an attempt at flirtation? Hastily she added, “I do hope your sister enjoys the painting.”
“I’m sure she will. Thank you.” He nodded, picked up the parcel and left.
Almost giddy with relief, Marisa had to take a couple of deep breaths before she returned to her customer. It took another ten minutes before the woman finally made up her mind, and while Marisa was wrapping the gift, she leaned 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
