‘Well, don’t,’ she snapped, inwardly shocked at herself. That had been harsh. OK, Jack was a bastard; that didn’t mean all other men were. She had now veered from mildly brusque to downright rude. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘That came out all wrong.’
Mr Cowboy said nothing, but he continued to smile at her. She struggled to think of something to say – a rare phenomenon where Mara was concerned.
‘You’re clearly not local,’ she decided upon. ‘Do you live here or are you passing through?’
‘I live here,’ he said.
‘What do you do?’ Mara asked.
‘I run a business with my brother – custom-made motor cycles,’ Rafe explained.
‘Oh,’ said Mara. She knew precisely nothing about custom-made motor cycles. She had a vague recollection of Jack watching some American TV programme about it once. But he wasn’t a bike sort of man. No, Jack was a Porsche sort of man. That’s what he really wanted: a Porsche. He was determined to own a 911. A red one, with a black leather interior.
Mara wasn’t sure about red for a car, particularly a sports car. It seemed a bit flashy. Loud. But then, who was she to comment on vehicle colours when she was the proud possessor of a bright green Fiat Uno? Bright green was more of a happy statement than a shiny, red sports car. That was a bit of a macho cliché, surely.
‘And what do you call the business?’ she asked.
‘Berlin Bikes,’ he said. ‘That’s my surname: Berlin. Rafe Berlin.’
‘Oh, like the city! Cool! I like that,’ said Mara.
‘I could show you around,’ Rafe said.
‘I’m too busy to be shown around,’ Mara said quickly, and then realized she had ventured right back into ultra rude territory again. Where men were concerned, it was as if her manners had been surgically removed the day Jack dumped her. A Dumpectomy. ‘Sorry, that came out wrong. It’s simply that I have a lot of things on. I’ve taken a mad busy new job.’
‘What do you do?’ asked Rafe, which was a reasonable question under the circumstances. Mara toyed with a variety of answers: a trapeze artist in the circus, a burlesque dancer, a secret agent – but if she told him that she’d have to kill him. She went for the truth.
‘I … I used to sell houses, I worked in a property agency. Now I’m working for the man who’s just bought Avalon House – and living with my aunt, who runs the post office here.’
Damnit! That was far too much information to give away. She’d definitely never make it as a secret agent. One hot chocolate and she’d spilled everything. Secret agents had to be able to drink treble vodka martinis and lie brilliantly.
‘Kind lady, long dark hair, lots of cool jewellery – that’s your aunt?’ said Rafe.
Most of the bike stuff was delivered by couriers and turned up in giant vans or lorries. The post office wasn’t a place he was overly familiar with, but he was prepared to become their best customer if it would help him get to know this crazy girl whom he was liking more with every moment. He liked the rudeness of her, the sheer difference. Rafe had had girls throwing themselves at him since he was fifteen. This quirky girl was different.
‘Rafe Berlin, nice to meet you,’ he said, holding out a hand.
Mara took it. ‘Mara Wilson,’ she said, before fixing him with a gimlet glare. ‘Are you married? Engaged? Going out with anybody? The father of a passel of children, perhaps, on the run from paying maintenance?’
‘What’s a passel, exactly?’ Rafe enquired.
‘I don’t know,’ revealed Mara. ‘Loads. So, are you any of those things, otherwise connected with another woman?’
‘No,’ said Rafe truthfully.
Mara narrowed her eyes at him. ‘Tell me the truth,’ she said, channelling her inner secret agent.
‘That was the truth,’ Rafe said. ‘Why? Have you recently fallen victim to some married dude with a passel of children who won’t pay maintenance?’
The brief flicker of pain behind Mara’s eyes told him he wasn’t too far from the truth.
‘Sorry,’ he said, ‘didn’t mean to be intrusive.’
‘No,’ said Mara, apologetic, ‘it was my fault. I have been giving you the third degree.’
‘Why do they call it the third degree? Everyone says that around here,’ said Rafe. ‘I don’t get it.’
Mara shrugged, ‘One more weird Irish custom you’ll have to get used to,’ she said. ‘Us Irish are a mysterious race with a proud tradition of being poetic and given to flights of fancy.’ There, that all sounded mad enough to put him off her.
She gestured as she talked and he liked looking at her. Liked the way her eyes lit up. Liked the way those red curls bounced around and the lips, in that glossy fire-truck red, moved as she spoke, like she was creating a story out of thin air.
‘What brought you here, Rafe? Seems like an out-of-the-way place to start a business.’
‘It’s a long story,’ Rafe said, his merry eyes looking sombre. ‘My brother was badly injured in a bike accident. I came here to help him keep the business going.’ He pushed back his chair. ‘Gotta run, Red. Would you like to have dinner with me?’
Mara was momentarily at a loss for words again. She stared at him. ‘Dinner?’ she repeated.
‘Yes, dinner,’ said Rafe. ‘A meal we Kiwis traditionally have in the evening. Is there a mysterious Celtic way of saying this perhaps?’
She smiled at him for real then. Mara’s smile had the power to make anyone fall in love with her. Rich, warm, marvellous. ‘You’re asking me out to dinner?’ she said, as if the whole idea was both unexpected and totally delightful. ‘Dinner.’
Some madness possessed her. Dinner with another man: yes, that was the way to de-Jack her soul.
‘Dinner … I think I’d like that.’
‘And you can tell me about the married man with the passel of children.’
‘Not married at the time, though he is now, which is the problem – he didn’t choose me as the bride,’ said Mara. ‘Please, let’s not talk about him at all.’
‘Fine by me,’ said Rafe. ‘Any weird food allergies, before I decide what to cook?’
This left Mara nonplussed. ‘You’re going to cook for me?’
Jack didn’t know how to do anything but heat microwaveable meals or cook steak and baked potatoes. Red meat or ‘pierce the film and microwave for four minutes on high’. Nothing in between.
‘I love cooking,’ Rafe said, with a grin that revealed white, even teeth. His eyes were a hypnotic grey blue.
Going to his house seemed a bit risky, though.
‘No, let’s eat out,’ she said. ‘If you’re really nice, you can cook me dinner next time.’
As if there would be a next time.
Rafe drove the jeep down the drive and parked it outside the workshop. He always felt a surge of pride when he looked up at the big sign on the doors: berlin bikes – custom made motorcycles.
So far as the locals were concerned, this was simply a small business run by the two Berlin brothers. But to bike aficionados, Berlin Bikes ranked up there with Orange County Choppers. The Berlin brothers had more clients in the US and the rest of Europe than anyone in Avalon would believe.
Jeff’s jeep was in his spot and Karen’s car was parked up at the house. The house itself was lit up. Karen had the gift of homemaking. When she and Jeff had first moved in,