Possibly what he’d seen in Marisa Somerville’s face was nothing more than a feminine resistance to the basic, sexual pull between a fertile woman and a virile man—a matter of genes recognising a possible mate—a pull he’d also felt.
Still did, he realised, drily amused by his hardening body.
That certainly hadn’t happened in Mariposa, when he’d met Mary Brown. She’d looked at him with no expression, shaken his hand as though forced to and immediately faded into the background. What had lodged in his mind had been the dislocating contrast between fascinating eyes and the rest of her—thin, listless, her dragging voice, sallow skin and the lank hair of pure mouse scraped back from her face into a ponytail.
Rafe looked around his office, letting the warmth and practicality of the room soak into him.
This room represented the essence of his life; five generations of Peveril men and women had sat behind the huge kauri desk and worked to create the superbly productive empire that had expanded from a wilderness to encompass the world.
He hoped one day a son or daughter of his would occupy the same chair behind the same desk, with the same aim—to feed as many people as he could.
His father had set up an organisation to help the Mariposan government introduce modern farming practices, but after his death Rafe had discovered a chaotic state of affairs. That first, fact-finding trip to Mariposa had been the impetus to impose a proper chain of control, a process that involved total restructuring as well as hiring a workforce he could trust.
He made an impatient gesture and turned to the computer. He had more important things to think about than a possible—if unlikely—link between Marisa Somerville and the wife of one of his farm managers.
Yet he couldn’t dislodge the memory of that flash of recognition and the fleeting, almost haunted expression in Marisa’s eyes.
Although Rafe rarely had hunches, preferring to follow his logical brain, when they did occur he’d learned to stick with them. A self-derisive smile curving his mouth, he checked the time in Mariposa, then picked up the telephone.
His agent there was surprised at his question, but answered readily enough, “I was not part of this organisation then, you remember, but of course I do recall the circumstances. It was in the newspapers. Señor Brown burned down the machinery shed on that estancia. One of the farmhands almost died in the fire. I understand he was given the chance to leave or be handed over to the police. He left.”
Brows drawing even closer together, Rafe demanded, “Why was I not told of this?”
“I do not know.”
In fact, it was just another example of the previous agent’s inefficiency. Mouth compressing into a thin line, Rafe said, “Of course you don’t. Sorry. When did this sabotage happen?”
There was a pause, then the manager said a little stiffly, “I will need to check the exact date, you understand, but it was a few weeks after you and Mrs Brown left for New Zealand.”
Rafe’s gaze narrowed. The phrase probably indicated only that English wasn’t his agent’s first language. Technically true, but not in the way it seemed to indicate.
But if David Brown had thought …?
With a sardonic smile Rafe dismissed the idea.
However, it kept recurring during the following week as he hosted an overseas delegation, wining and dining them before intensive discussions that ended very satisfactorily.
He celebrated by taking an old flame out to dinner, tactfully declining her oblique suggestion they spend the night together. Although he was fond of her and they’d enjoyed a satisfying affair some years previously, he was no longer interested. And was irritated when a roving photographer snapped them together as they left the reception. New Zealand had nothing like the paparazzi overseas, but the photograph appeared in the social news of one of the Sunday papers the next day.
Back at Manuwai he found himself reaching for the telephone, only to realise that it was the weekend and he didn’t know Marisa Somerville’s number. It wasn’t in the telephone book either.
And why did he want to ring her? Because she reminded him of another woman?
Grimly, he recalled what he could of the day he and Mary Brown had left the estancia, little more than irritating flashes and fragments—more sensation than sight—of the storm that had brought the plane down. Even after he’d woken in the hospital bed, fully aware once more, he’d remembered nothing of the aftermath.
He’d been told that Mary Brown had brought him to the hut, that she’d probably saved his life …
And without warning a flash of memory returned—a quiet voice, his gratitude at the warmth of arms around him …
That was all. Rafe swore and got to his feet, pacing across the room to stand at the window. He took a few deliberate breaths, willing his racing thoughts to slow. Why hadn’t he remembered that before?
Had the sight of a pair of black-lashed green eyes prodded this elusive fragment from his reluctant brain?
After he’d been released from hospital both he and Mary Brown had travelled to New Zealand in a private jet with a nurse in attendance—a flight he barely remembered, though obviously it had set the gossips in Mariposa buzzing.
Well, let them think what they liked. He never pursued committed women, no matter how alluring.
Ignoring the flame of anticipation that licked through him, Rafe shrugged. He’d find out whether Marisa Somerville was in a relationship soon enough. Tewaka also had gossips, and information inevitably found its way to him.
Keir said fretfully, “Mummy, I don’t want you to go out.” He thought a moment before adding, “I might feel sick if you do.”
At his mother’s look he grinned. “Well, I might.”
“You won’t, my darling. I’ll be here when you wake up tomorrow morning and you’ll be fine with Tracey. And tomorrow is Saturday, so you can come into the shop with me.”
Keir knew when persistence could—occasionally—be rewarded and also when to give up. The sigh he heaved was heartfelt, but the prospect of an ice cream muted its full force. “I like Tracey.”
“I know. And here she comes now.”
But Marisa couldn’t repress a few motherly qualms as she drove away. Although her landlord’s daughter—a seventeen-year-old with two younger brothers—was both competent and practical, with her mother available only a couple of hundred metres along the road, Marisa had never before gone out and left Keir to be put to bed.
However, taking part in this weekly get-together of local business people was something she’d been promising herself. If nothing else it would expand her circle of contacts and she needed to take every opportunity to make her shop a success.
Nevertheless, she felt a little tense when she walked into the room, and even more so when the bustling, middle-aged convener confided, “We’re honoured tonight—normally we don’t have speakers, but this afternoon I talked Rafe Peveril into giving us his ideas about how he sees the future of Northland and Tewaka.”
“Oh, that should be interesting,” Marisa said with a bright, false smile that hid, she hoped, her sudden urge to get out of there.
Ten days should have given her time to get over the impact of meeting him again, but it hadn’t. Five minutes later she was producing that same smile as the convener began to introduce Rafe to her.
Smoothly he cut in, “Ms Somerville and I have already met.”
“Oh, good,” the convener said, not without an interested note in her voice.
Somehow Marisa found herself beside Rafe with her hard-won poise rapidly leaking away.
“I believe