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 lie she’d told David—the lie that had finally and for ever freed her and her son?
Marisa took another deep breath and drained the mug of lukewarm tea. That wasn’t going to happen because her ex-husband didn’t care about Keir.
Anyway, worrying was a waste of time and nervous energy. All she had to do was avoid Rafe Peveril, which shouldn’t be difficult, even in a place as small as Tewaka—his vast empire kept him away for much of the time.
Closing the curtains on the sultry enchantment of the moon, she tried to feel reassured. While she kept out of his way she’d make plans for a future a long way from Tewaka.
Somewhere safe—where she could start again.
Start again …
She’d believed—hoped—she’d done that for the last time when she’d arrived in Tewaka. A soul-deep loneliness ached through her. Her life had been nothing but new starts.
Sternly she ordered herself not to wallow in self-pity. Before she decided 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,”
