From Waif To His Wife

And she drew her velvet cloak around her with a flourish and picked up her music case.

‘Don’t be silly, Maisie,’ he drawled. ‘It’s nearly three o’clock in the morning.’

‘Oh, I’m not being silly. I’ll ask the concierge to call me one and I’ll only step outside when it arrives. I’ll be perfectly safe.’

‘What, exactly,’ he said with exaggerated patience, although he shoved his hands into his pockets less than patiently, ‘are you mad about now?’

‘I’ll tell you. You make me feel like a statistic-perhaps I am in one sense, I certainly made my mistakes-but I’m also flesh and blood and I’m dealing with…with life the best way I can. So you can write me off as an irritating, boring bit of “just business”, it’s up to you, but don’t expect me to agree.’

‘Who said anything about-?’

‘You looked bored and irritated,’ she stated.

‘I got stuck at a table that was both and I’d already endured a formal dinner party,’ he answered. ‘It doesn’t usually happen to me and I probably should have sent Jack Huston along to check out Mairead Wallis-I didn’t for some reason. But you, as a matter of fact, were neither boring nor irritating.’

Maisie started to speak several times but she’d effectively had the ground cut away from her feet.

‘Let’s go,’ he added.

The Ferrari was waiting for them.

They said little on the way home and he got out and escorted her to her door.

When she’d turned some lights on, he said, ‘Take care again. I’ll be in touch.’

She said nothing, but she watched him stride down the path, so tall and devastatingly attractive in his dinner suit.

Then she whirled herself inside, closed the door and leant back against it with her heart banging in her breast.

What had he meant? Nothing, probably. Well, as a musician, she was neither boring nor irritating-that must have been it. Unless-no, Maisie, she chided herself, you’ve been down this path before, no…

She got a call from Rafe on Sunday morning, asking her to meet him at his apartment.

‘I do have some news this time,’ he said. ‘Can you make it at ten o’clock?’

She started to say yes then changed her mind and told him she had a standing date on Sunday mornings to play the piano at their happy hour for a retirement home. But, she said, she could meet him at twelve-thirty.

He agreed.

At twelve forty-five, Maisie buzzed his riverside apartment.

As always, her retirees had loved her Sunday happy-hour session, and as always she came away with little gifts-she had a whole collection of crochet-covered hangers and soaps and embroidered, sweet-smelling herb sachets.

She left those in her car, but carried his sister Sonia’s clothes, all carefully laundered, in a holdall.

This time it was Rafe who answered the buzzer and he directed her to the penthouse suite.

As the lift bore her upwards, she did a couple of mental checks. No loss of temper was even to be entertained.

Neither was any insidious response to Rafe Sanderson’s dynamic masculinity or any crazy little flutters of hope.

She stepped out right into the penthouse and took an unexpected breath. The panorama that met her eyes was breath-taking. A wide blue sky, the city and the Brisbane River wending its way around leafy Kangaroo Point and beneath the Storey Bridge.

There was a sumptuous coral-pink lounge suite that dominated the room. The walls were a darker coral and the carpet was cream. More lovely New Guinea rosewood featured in cabinets and occasional tables and some eye-catching art hung on the walls.

‘Maisie,’ Rafe greeted her as he rose from a settee.

But he frowned faintly because it was Mairead who’d come when he’d been expecting Maisie Wallis.

She wore a suede, amber, tulip-shaped skirt and a figure-hugging cinnamon long-sleeved knit top. Her hair was teased out and gold hoop earrings glinted through it. Her make-up was lighter than it had been a few nights ago, but subtly emphasised her eyes, the shape of her face and her mouth.

Her legs took on a new meaning in pale tights and high, slingback cream shoes. They were slender and lovely.

And he found himself wondering what exotic underwear she was wearing today…

‘I ordered us lunch,’ he added, belatedly as well as abruptly, and pointed to a table set for two outside on the terrace.

‘Thank you,’ she said quietly-truth be told, despite her mental checks and amazingly, after only a couple of days of his absence, it was a bit like a kick in the stomach to be in his presence again.

He wore light grey trousers and a black polo shirt. His belt was black leather, so were his shoes. He was shaved, she thought she detected a faint lemony cologne, and groomed-he looked every inch the powerful multimillionaire he was, and for some reason it struck a cold little chime in her heart.

Because she suddenly suspected she would cherish the memories of the other Rafe Sanderson she’d met. Not the first one but the wet one, the unshaven one, the grease-stained one, the man with a body to die for.

But not only that, something in his manner gave rise to a premonition this might be the last time they’d meet.

She turned that set of thoughts off with a mental click and held out the holdall to him. ‘Your sister’s clothes. I’ve washed them.’

‘Thanks.’

He gestured for her to proceed him onto the balcony.

She stepped through and sat down, unfurling a beige napkin.

He took the lid off a porcelain serving dish and revealed a creamy pasta dish with herbs, prawns and asparagus tips.

Maisie drew a deep breath and Rafe smiled. ‘I’m with you-it smells delicious.’

But, as he dished up the pasta and sat down, his face settled into unreadable lines and once again she had the feeling they’d got onto a new, rather chilling footing.

Maisie picked up her fork and he said, ‘Our quarry, the man who might have been impersonating me, could be found in Tonga. So I’ve made arrangements to fly out tomorrow.’

Her fork clattered to the table and her eyes nearly stood out on stalks. ‘You believe me now! But-Tonga!’

‘The proud Kingdom of Tonga, yes. Situated in the South Pacific just west of the international dateline.’

Maisie picked up her fork. ‘What’s he doing there?’

He ate for a moment then sat back. ‘That remains to be seen.’

‘Well, who is he? And how do you know about him?’

Rafe hesitated. ‘That’s classified information at the moment.’

Maisie stared at him with her lips parted. ‘Hang on, this could be the father of my baby! You can’t keep that as classified information from me!’

He smiled drily. ‘Actually, I can until I’ve verified things, but rest assured, if this is the guy, I’ll make the appropriate decisions on your behalf. In other words, Maisie, you can leave it up to me now.’

Maisie fought a pitched, private battle with herself and, for once in her life, won it. To contradict him angrily was not the way to go, not with this businesslike man who looked almost frighteningly capable of getting his own way.

Anyway, if she lost the battle she’d be left with no clues as to what this actually signified, this disengagement, but she had the strong feeling it meant something that might not be beneficial to her…

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ she said. ‘So-how will you get to Tonga?’

‘The company jet.’

She made a face. ‘How does a normal person get to Tonga?’

His eyes rested on her face in a rather narrowed, probing way then he said, ‘From Brisbane you have to fly via Nadi in Fiji or via Sydney. There aren’t daily flights, so it can be a time-consuming business.’

‘I’ve always thought it sounded rather fascinating-lucky you! It’s a bit surprising, though, that you’ve got the