‘My name isn’t Mary. It’s Marisa—Marisa Somerville,’ she responded in an assured, crisp voice.
Indeed. Assured and beautifully groomed, compared to Mrs Brown, Ms Somerville was a bird of paradise. Apart from the coincidences of eye colour and shape this woman bore no resemblance to the woman he’d seen in Mariposa.
Rafe held out his hand. ‘Sorry, but for a moment I thought you were someone else. I’m Rafe Peveril.’
Although her lashes flickered, her handshake was as confident as her voice. ‘How do you do, Mr Peveril.’
‘Most people here call me Rafe,’ he told her.
She didn’t pretend not to know who he was. ‘Of course—you grew up here, didn’t you?’
Had there been a glimmer of some other emotion in the sultry green depths of her eyes, almost immediately hidden by those dark lashes?
Rafe’s body stirred in a swift, sensually charged response that was purely masculine.
Out of the shop, away from temptation, he reminded himself curtly that he’d long ago got over the adolescent desire to bed every desirable woman he met.
But soon he’d invite Marisa Somerville to dinner.
About the Author
ROBYN DONALD can’t remember not being able to read, and will be eternally grateful to the local farmers who carefully avoided her on a dusty country road as she read her way to and from school, transported to places and times far away from her small village in Northland, New Zealand. Growing up fed her habit. As well as training as a teacher, marrying and raising two children, she discovered the delights of romances and read them voraciously, especially enjoying the ones written by New Zealand writers. So much so that one day she decided to write one herself. Writing soon grew to be as much of a delight as reading—although infinitely more challenging—and when eventually her first book was accepted by Mills & Boon she felt she’d arrived home.
She still lives in a small town in Northland, with her family close by, using the landscape as a setting for much of her work. Her life is enriched by the friends she’s made among writers and readers, and complicated by a determined Corgi called Buster, who is convinced that blackbirds are evil entities. Her greatest hobby is still reading, with travelling a very close second.
Recent titles by the same author:
ONE NIGHT IN THE ORIENT
(One Night In …)
THE FAR SIDE OF PARADISE
POWERFUL GREEK, HOUSE KEEPER WIFE
(The Greek Tycoons)
Did you know these are also available as eBooks?
Visit www.millsandboon.co.uk
Stepping out of the Shadows
Robyn Donald
MILLS & BOON
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CHAPTER ONE
HEART thudding more noisily than the small plane’s faltering engine, Rafe Peveril dragged his gaze away from the rain-lashed windows, no longer able to see the darkening grasslands of Mariposa beneath them. A few seconds ago, just after the engine had first spluttered, he’d noticed a hut down there.
If they made it out of this alive, that hut might be their only hope of surviving the night.
Another violent gust of wind shook the plane. The engine coughed a couple of times, then failed. In the eerie silence the pilot muttered a jumble of prayers and curses in his native Spanish as he fought to keep the plane steady.
If they were lucky—damned lucky—they might land more or less intact …
When the engines sputtered back into life the woman beside Rafe looked up, white face dominated by great green eyes, black-lashed and tip-tilted and filled with fear.
Thank God she wasn’t screaming. He reached for her hand, gave it a quick hard squeeze, then released it to push her head down.
“Brace position,” he shouted, his voice far too loud in the sudden silence as the engines stopped again. The woman huddled low and Rafe set his teeth and steeled himself for the crash.
A shuddering jolt, a whirlwind of noise …
And Rafe woke.
Jerking upright, he let out a sharp breath, grey eyes sweeping a familiar room. The adrenalin surging through him mutated into relief. Instead of regaining consciousness in a South American hospital bed he was at home in his own room in New Zealand.
What the hell …?
It had to be at least a couple of years since he’d relived the crash. He searched for a trigger that could have summoned the dream but his memory—usually sharply accurate—failed him.
Again.
Six years should have accustomed him to the blank space in his head after the crash, yet although he’d given up on futile attempts to remember, he still resented those forty-eight vanished hours.
The bedside clock informed him that sunrise was too close to try for any more sleep—not that he’d manage it now. He needed space and fresh air.
Outside on the terrace he inhaled deeply, relishing the mingled scent of salt and flowers and newly mown grass, and the quiet hush of the waves. His heart rate slowed and the memories receded into the past where they belonged. Light from a fading moon surrounded the house with mysterious shadows, enhanced by the bright disc of Venus hanging above a bar of pure gold along the horizon where the sea met the sky.
The
