From Waif To His Wife

CHAPTER FOUR

MAISIE, on that Sunday evening, was making lists of everything she had to do.

Put the house on the market; ditto the boat.

That was going to entail a significant amount of sorting and cleaning, enough to keep her busy for weeks.

Find herself somewhere else to live-if only there was some way she could keep the house, she thought wistfully. But no, she was going to need the money because, apart from anything else, she was shortly going to have to give up her job.

Single mothers might be accepted in other walks of life but not at the strict private school she taught at, she knew.

That didn’t mean to say she couldn’t give private piano lessons and that was what she would do. But it was going to take a while to build up pupils and a reputation.

She would also shortly have to give up her part-time job with the band for obvious reasons. That reminded her, though, that she did have a ball to play at during the week.

But she suddenly pushed her lists away with a sigh and went out onto the veranda. As she leant on the railing and watched the lights in the harbour below, she thought back over the last forty-eight hours and the incredible interlude on the Mary-Lue.

Would she ever hear again from Rafe Sanderson she wondered.

They’d parted company in the marina car park after she’d given him her address and phone number, and received a certain Jack Huston’s mobile number, his PA or something, in return.

He’d got into a sleek silver Ferrari and his last words to her, accompanied by a fleeting smile, had been, ‘Take care of both of you, Maisie Wallis.’

She felt herself grow warm as she remembered the fantasies she’d experienced about the man who was not the father of her baby.

It still amazed her, she realised, to find herself capable of feeling like that about another man. She forced herself to think about it.

Of course, she acknowledged, three and a half months of the growing realisation she’d been abandoned had coloured her feelings towards the man responsible for her pregnancy. To the extent that she had got mad, and she’d even got to the stage of hating him as much as she hated the fact that she’d been so foolish.

But should she hate him entirely? Because she might have found herself rather fiercely and protectively viewing the baby she was carrying as hers, but wasn’t it also always going to remind her of its father?

She sighed deeply as she contemplated the maelstrom of emotions she’d been flung into.

But she was left with two inescapable facts. What man was going to want her with another man’s child?

In other words, she told herself plainly, it was no good even thinking about the real Rafe Sanderson even if he did do the strangest things to her.

The other inescapable fact was that in a little less than six months she’d be responsible for another life and-sad as it was to have happened the way it had-she would have someone to love.

She sniffed as some tears escaped the ban she’d placed on them and rolled down her cheeks. And she acknowledged that it was the one thought that had kept her sane, it was the thought to hold on to, a baby in her arms. It was her lifeline.

Five days later, Jack Huston reported to Rafe Sanderson on the Mairead Wallis situation.

They were in Rafe’s office. It was half the size of a football field but, despite being more suitable for a luxury hotel lounge, it was the nerve centre of Sanderson Minerals and the Dixon pastoralist empire.

His boss was in his shirtsleeves with his tie loosened as he sat back in his chair and listened.

‘She is pregnant-don’t ask me how I got that information! I’m not proud of it.’

‘You might as well tell me,’ Rafe said ruefully.

Jack shrugged. ‘The agency I employed put a tail on her. She happened to go to her doctor. When she came out, the receptionist made an appointment for her to have an ultrasound scan in a fortnight. I’m told this corresponds with her being roughly four months pregnant.’

Rafe half smiled. ‘Go on.’

‘There’s absolutely nothing in her background to suggest she’s a con artist of any kind. She lived with her parents until they died six months ago in an accident. She has a bachelor’s degree in music, she teaches at a school renowned for its strict moral values and she plays back-up pianist in a band.’

‘So she told me. What kind of a band are they and has she any particular attachment to any member?’

‘No, they’re all married and it seems to be a respected band, in fact, highly sought-after. She also plays once a week at a church-run retirement home-out of the goodness of her heart-and ditto at dances for a Police Youth Citizen Club.’

Rafe raised an eyebrow. ‘Quite a do-gooder.’

Jack Huston paused. ‘Look, the profile that emerged from people who know her is of a girl who lived a sheltered life with doting parents, a rather straitlaced girl if anything, but at the same time capable of sparkling. Reading all the reports, I formed the opinion she might have been a little unworldly and she might have been particularly vulnerable when it happened. Nor,’ he added, ‘is she destitute, if we’re considering that as a motive for trying to attach herself to you.’

Rafe sat forward and dropped the pen he’d been toying with onto the desk. ‘Go on.’

‘If she sells her parents’ house, which she inherited, she’ll get a fairly tidy sum. It’s old and needs renovation, but the position is excellent.’

Rafe brooded for a moment. ‘So you are of the opinion someone using my name did take her for a ride?’

Jack lifted his shoulders. ‘Yes. She’s, according to all reports, well-liked, the opposite of what you’d call conniving and there’s no evidence she’s promiscuous. And the shock,’ Jack added, ‘of losing her parents was devastating, especially since they hadn’t been in Queensland that long and she doesn’t appear to have any other relatives.’

Jack paused for a moment then continued, ‘Which could have made her particularly vulnerable to, well, whoever.’

‘Yes,’ Rafe mused, ‘whoever. OK, thanks, Jack,’ he added abruptly, ‘you can leave it to me now.’

Jack Huston kept his own counsel as they prepared to move on to other business.

From his father’s side, Rafe Sanderson hadn’t inherited much family at all, so to speak, but the Dixon side of things was another matter.

His mother, Cecelia, had inherited the largest portion of the Dixon empire and she’d bequeathed the bulk of it to her son. That hadn’t been all she’d bequeathed to him, however. She had been the eldest of six children so Rafe had also inherited “head of the clan” status of a large, often turbulent family.

Rafe bore it with equanimity, mostly, although at times he was moved to exasperation. But, as Jack well knew, in times of adversity Rafe closed ranks around the family in the way only the ultra-wealthy could.

And, thinking of the fact that Mairead Wallis had claimed there was some resemblance between the father of her baby and Rafael Sanderson, he knew that that was exactly what was going to happen now. It moved him to a feeling of pity for a girl he’d never met…

Not that he imagined her plight would be completely ignored. Within reasonable limits his boss was a fair and just man, so if her seducer came from within the family he would no doubt make some arrangements for Mairead Wallis. But if she’d ever imagined she was going to be welcomed with open arms into the bosom of the Dixon-Sanderson clan-well, he had grave doubts.

As to who her seducer was, there was a fairly strong family resemblance amongst the Dixons-Rafe himself was said to be almost a carbon copy of his Dixon grandfather-but there were also a lot of them.

‘Oh,’ he said, ‘as for the band, they’re playing tomorrow night at a dinner-dance and I believe Miss Wallis is filling in for the regular pianist, who’s on holiday. Would you like me to…?’

‘What kind of dinner-dance?’

‘A ball really, a very posh black-tie charity “do” at the Cumberland. I believe they’re still selling tickets at-’ he gestured as if to say, no wonder! ‘-two hundred dollars a head.’

‘What have I got on tomorrow night?’ Rafe asked after a moment’s thought.

Jack flipped through his diary. ‘Uh-dinner with the McPherson-Ridges, also black-tie incidentally.’

‘OK, get me a ticket to the Cumberland bash, I’ll go on afterwards.’

‘Just one?’ Jack asked, then could have kicked himself as a cutting grey glance flew his way.

And Rafe Sanderson murmured, ‘That’s what I said.’

But after Jack’s departure, Rafe Sanderson took a couple of minutes to gather his thoughts on Maisie Wallis.

Yes, on what he now knew to be true, perhaps she was the kind of girl who might have got herself into this situation in all innocence-he grimaced-well, got swept off her feet by someone experienced, charismatic and the rest at a time when her world was bleak and grey and lonely.

It happened.

So what was niggling him?

Wouldn’t you have thought she’d be more heartbroken? Or was she more of a pragmatist than getting herself pregnant in this manner seemed to suggest?

The phone on his desk buzzed and he dismissed his thoughts, and picked it up.

Maisie made her preparations for the night’s performance carefully the next afternoon.

She went to the hairdresser. Once home, she ran through Programe C on her piano, dinner music including some light classics then a gradual upping of the beat as the dancing got underway. Jim Wilson’s band was nothing if not versatile and although Maisie’s first musical love was the classics she was perfectly at home with whatever the band chose to play.

Then it was time to dress and, as she checked her reflection in the mirror, she was struck as she often had been before by the fact that few people might recognise this Mairead Wallis from her everyday Maisie Wallis.

“Teased out” might be how her hairdresser described her hair but what she produced was a glorious tangle of windswept curls that looked perfectly natural.

Then there was her make-up, stage make-up designed to enhance her features. Silver eyelids, emerald eye-liner, the strategic use of blusher, deep red lips and carefully darkened eyelashes. She’d taken some lessons when she’d first started performing.

And there was the dress. It was shocking pink, long, it moulded her figure and had a slit up the side. The bodice was encrusted with sequins, it was round-necked and sleeveless. It had also been made for her so, although it had undoubted “look at me” qualities, it was comfortable and solidly constructed.

And it somehow transformed her rather boyish little figure into a delightfully slim, willowy, more feminine outline.

Not, she paused to think, that she wasn’t going to have a distinctly feminine outline shortly. In fact, it was probably lucky she’d lost some weight early on because otherwise she might not have been able to fit into this dress…

Finally, those who thought shocking pink and redheads did not go together always changed their minds when they saw Mairead Wallis wearing it.

‘OK, all in place,’ she murmured to herself, and donned the black velvet cloak her parents had given her. She checked her music one last time and heard the band’s minibus toot. ‘Coming!’

The Cumberland had turned its ballroom into a magic dell in the forest.

The tables were decked in deep rose-pink cloths with cream napkins, with real pink and cream rosebuds as their centrepieces.

There were floral streamers forming a canopy over the ballroom with an exquisite crystal chandelier at the apex of the canopy. There were silk panels against the walls, hand-painted, by the look of it, with birds and trees and butterflies. There were candles on the tables in branched silver holders.

And it was an elegant throng that streamed into the ballroom as the band played softly in the background.

Dinner suits and beautiful gowns were the order of the night. Silks and taffetas shimmered in the candlelight, lace and voile sculpted figures. Diamonds glittered and pearls glowed in gold and platinum settings. Emeralds and rubies and sapphires complemented necklines and wrists, fingers and ears-all set off beautifully against mostly black dinner suits.

‘Who are these people?’ Paul, the guitarist, asked sotto voce.

‘The crème de la crème,’ Jim replied. He played percussion and was the lead singer. ‘So let’s give ’em a night to remember!’

It was Maisie thought she glimpsed Rafael Sanderson.

Dinner had been cleared away, the speeches made and the band had just played a number that had got the throng dancing their hearts out, then giving the band a breathless but ardent ovation.

Jim raised a hand for Maisie to take a bow along with the band, and she did so, several bows. Just as she was about to sit down again a tall figure with that familiar dark-blond hair caught her eye and she suffered an incredible pang of déjà vu for an instant, followed by an incredulous question-which Rafe Sanderson was it?

‘Maisie?’ Jim breathed.

‘Oh!’ She turned away and sat down hurriedly. ‘Sorry. Uh-where are we?’

‘Here!’ He indicated her sheet music. ‘Take a deep breath; you look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

She swallowed. ‘No, I’m fine!’ And she struck a chord that led the band into some classic pop, to the crowd’s further delight.

They packed up at two o’clock, an hour later than they’d planned. As they were leaving the ballroom, she felt a tap on her shoulder and looked up into the eyes of Rafael Sanderson, CEO of Sanderson Minerals.

‘Can I buy you a drink?’ he murmured.

Her throat worked and she closed her eyes briefly. ‘That’s not funny.’

He frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘That’s what he said-so it was you,’ she added. ‘I thought for a moment, I wasn’t sure-uh, no, thanks. I-’

‘Perhaps I should have specified an orange juice and no seductive ulterior motives. Come.’

‘Hang on, I was leaving with the band, otherwise I’ll have to take a taxi and it’s late anyway!’

‘I’ll drop you home.’

‘Is-is there any news?’ she asked with her eyes widening.

‘No, but I need to ask you a few more things. It won’t take long.’

‘Maisie!’ Jim called.

‘Uh-Jim, it’s OK, I’ve met a-a friend and he’s going to drive me home.’

But Jim came back to be reassured and Rafe introduced himself.

‘Well, I like to keep an eye on her at this time of night but if you’re sure?’

‘I’m sure, Jim,’ Maisie said quietly. ‘I probably couldn’t be safer than with-Rafe.’

They found a quiet corner of the Cumberland’s lounge still serving beverages and he ordered coffee, she ordered hot chocolate.

‘Have you been here all night?’ she queried.

‘No, I came late.’

‘Still, it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it?’

‘No, I knew you were playing here tonight-you’re very good.’

‘Thank you. I started piano lessons when I was six. Does that mean you’re checking up on me in some way?’

He studied her comprehensively, the expert make-up she’d touched up only an hour ago, her hair, her lovely, rather provocative dress-and, with a twist of his lips, remembered the Maisie Wallis he’d fished out of Moreton Bay.

And he recalled with some astonishment that if it hadn’t been for her hair, he mightn’t have recognised her immediately tonight.

There was also her command of the piano, he thought, and the sense of rhythm that seemed to flow from her fingertips. That led him to consider her mental make-up. Of course there had to be natural talent but there must have been a lot of dedication and hard work expended to achieve her musical fluency.

Did she dance with the same fluency? he caught himself wondering out of the blue. And what would it be like to have that lovely little body in his arms, all that vitality under his direction right up close and personal? She’d been nice enough to hold fast asleep…

He grimaced and conceded that he’d proved one thing in the rather tiresome exercise he’d undertaken tonight. Most men could be forgiven for thinking Mairead Wallis, as opposed to Maisie, was sophisticated and worldly, a girl who might know the score until you got to know her better.

Then he noticed the faint blue shadows of tiredness beneath her eyes. ‘I suppose so. There is quite a difference between Mairead and Maisie Wallis. But should you still be doing this?’

‘I’m fine.’ Maisie moved restlessly. ‘There’s going to be even more of a difference shortly.’

‘Is that a suggestion that we get down to business?’ he asked wryly.

Maisie waited as their beverages were served and she took a fortifying sip of hot chocolate. ‘What is it you want to know?’

‘I want to know everything he told you.’

‘I can’t possibly remember everything,’ she protested.

‘Let’s start with anything to do with Karoo or the Dixon family.’

‘He never mentioned the Dixon family. I-I’m not sure if he grew up on Karoo Downs, but it sounded as if he spent a lot of time there one way or another, holidays and so on. Did you? Grow up there?’

‘No, but I spent a lot of time there one way or another. Could he have worked there?’

Maisie opened her mouth and closed it. ‘That wasn’t the impression I got, although, now that I come to think of it, there was the odd nuance of…of something…odd, something-I got the feeling there might be something uneasy…’ She broke off and shook her head. ‘I don’t really know what it was.’

Rafe Sanderson gazed at her for a long moment in a way that was rather unnerving-as if he was looking right through her.

‘So you think it could have been someone who worked there who bears you a grudge?’ she asked then with her eyes widening. ‘But-how does that explain the resemblance?’

He looked away at last. ‘Maybe coincidence. Uh-the wedding you played at, where you first met him…can I have the details?’

She gave them to him, the date and the venue, then put a hand to her mouth. ‘Why didn’t I think of that?’

‘You didn’t realise you were dealing with an impersonator at the time?’ he suggested.

‘True,’ she nodded, ‘but now, well, he could be anyone, couldn’t he?’

‘Yes, but now you can leave it to me, Maisie,’ he murmured. ‘All right, when you’ve finished your chocolate, I’ll take you home.’ He signalled a waiter and asked for his car to be delivered to the entrance.

She drank her chocolate then looked around suddenly. ‘Are you on your own?’

‘Entirely.’ He stood up.

‘Do you usually come to balls alone?’ she asked with a surprised expression.

‘No, I usually do not.’ He shrugged and looked bored and irritable for a moment. ‘This was different, just business you could say.’ He held down his hand to her.

Maisie chose to rise without his assistance, her annoyance showing clearly in the tilt of her chin and that certain glint in her eyes.

‘Well, don’t let me delay you any longer, Mr Sanderson,’ she said evenly. ‘I’m quite happy to take a taxi home; in fact, I’d rather.’

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 time to do this.’ She said it rather whimsically but in fact her mind was racing.

‘I’ll be able to combine it with some business. I’ve been there several times before. In fact, I’ve sailed the Mary-Lue there, to the Vava’u group of islands. They have the finest natural harbour in the South Pacific.’

‘How wonderful,’ she enthused. ‘Tell me about it.’

So he did as they finished their lunch. About the marvellous volcanic and coral isles of Vava’u, about Tongatapu, the main island of Tonga and Nuku’alofa, the capital. About the pigs that wandered freely and the people who still often wore traditional garb-a woven palm mat tied round their middle over their clothes, and the choir singing in the local churches that was awesome. And above all the warmth of the local people.

‘I’m green with envy,’ she said. ‘So, I suppose there’s nothing more for me to do at the moment, but you will get in touch when you get back, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’

She put her napkin on the table then appeared to be struck by another thought. ‘How will I be able to get in touch with you in case I need to?’

‘You won’t need to while I’m in Tonga,’ he said definitely.

‘No, I suppose not. But when you get back?’

‘Use the number I gave you, Jack Huston’s, but I promise you I’ll be in touch.’

At that moment his own mobile rang and he pulled it out of his pocket, excused himself and got up to walk to the veranda railing.

‘Yes, Jack,’ he said into it. ‘Have you got the flight plan? OK. Book me into The Tongan Beach Resort for two nights-Tuesday, Wednesday, I’ll handle things from there. See you.’ He disconnected and turned back to her. ‘Well, Maisie, I’m sorry to end our lunch a bit abruptly but I have another appointment shortly.’

Maisie controlled her emotions brilliantly. She allowed none of her Oh, no you don’t, Rafael Sanderson! emotions to show.

She stood up and said casually, ‘Well, thanks for lunch. Don’t forget I’m relying on you to sort this out! Oh, and enjoy Tonga.’

He didn’t respond immediately because for one instant, as he watched her, so pretty in her smart outfit but a different sort of girl and plucky with it, he was tempted to spurn his advice to himself.

He knew he should forget the memory of her cuddled against him so sweet and trusting and lovely. Forget her poised, unusually attractive Mairead persona and the odd little thought that came with it-she could take her place anywhere.

Forget the fact that she was never boring to be with…

Because he could only further complicate her already complicated life.

And if that doesn’t work, he advised himself drily, remember she is carrying another man’s baby…

Not to mention the complications of who the bastard going round impersonating him could be, which was another good reason to take this tack.

‘My pleasure,’ he murmured, and started to walk her towards the lift. ‘I know I’ve said this before but look after yourself-and I mean properly,’ he added.

Was she imagining it, she wondered, or was there an air of finality to those words?

No, she decided, she wasn’t imagining it.

The lift arrived and she stepped in and waved at him, quite sure he never intended to deal with her in person again, never to know that she had other ideas.

She went straight home and got on to her computer. While she was waiting for websites to load, she realised she was still magnificently angry, not only because she refused to be brushed aside like this, but also because she wasn’t a fool.

It had become as clear as crystal to her that Rafe Sanderson knew the man who’d taken such advantage of her and could well have decided to protect him.

How he knew had also become clear the more she thought about it. He must have somehow got the guest list from the wedding she’d been playing at, but, while it would have meant nothing to her, one of those names on it must have meant something to him.

Take it a step further and recall the resemblance between the two men and it could only mean they were related…

There could be no other reason for keeping that name from her as classified information. No other reason for a man to take three days out of his busy schedule to track someone down in the wilds of the South Pacific.

Her eyes widened as she brought up The Tongan Beach Resort-it was on Vava’u. Bingo, she thought. But how to get to the fabulous group of islands without it taking for ever or breaking the bank?

She was almost cross-eyed when she came up with a flight from Brisbane to Fiji that connected reasonably with a direct flight, a new service, to Vava’u.

She sighed with relief, goggled a bit at the price, but she had started a holiday fund and could pay the balance in instalments on her credit card-she just hadn’t anticipated going to Tonga, but the more she saw of it, the more enchanted she was.

She made the booking that would see her arrive in Vava’u the following evening. Then she scrolled through the accommodation options and found the Backpacker’s Hostel in Neiafu, the capital of Vava’u. It wasn’t possible to book online immediately, she discovered, but at least she knew of the existence of cheap accommodation.

Finally she sat back and felt some of her anger drain away and some consternation seep in, in its place. Had she let her temper run away with her?

She shrugged. She was as much, if not more entitled to find out who had been impersonating Rafe Sanderson; that was what it boiled down to and no one could tell her any different.

But how did the real Rafe Sanderson fit into it all? For her?

‘An impossible dream,’ she answered herself quietly, ‘but it’s shattered now, anyway.’

Yes, she couldn’t deny the attraction that had sprung up for her, so surprisingly, out of a heart that she’d thought had been turned to stone and at the last time in her life that it should have happened to her.

Perhaps it had started life as a slender shoot brought to life by the fact that he’d made her feel safe and not only in his arms after rescuing her?

Perhaps it was compounded by the fact that he was the only person, apart from her doctor, who knew?

At least someone, she thought, had taken into account the vagaries of pregnancy and made her feel looked after, however briefly. He’d also divined how she felt about this baby…

Was it only natural she’d felt something for him?

On the other hand she knew so little about him, it was wildly insane even to think of him in any other terms than as a man who had briefly been kind to her.

And now she was angry with him. Now she didn’t know how far she could trust him. Who was to say, for example, his impersonator wasn’t a married man? If so, and he was family, he would have all the resources at Rafe Sanderson’s disposal-and she had no doubt they were formidable-close ranks around him.

Would she even get a name?

She pulled a tissue from the box on the desk and blew her nose.

But the thing is, Maisie, she told herself, that’s not the point.

The point is-there are several.

No man, least of all Rafe Sanderson who could have anyone, is going to want you, pregnant with another man’s child. Why do I have to keep reminding you of that? she asked herself with a touch of impatience.

But the most important point of all is that you have to stop bobbing around like a cork, emotionally and in every other sense. You have to set goals and if you firmly believe a child deserves to know who its father is, this is the way to go.

She packed carefully that night.

She was an organised traveller and used to travelling light.

Then she looked through her small jewellery bag and took out her mother’s gold signet ring. It was like a lucky charm for her and she always wore it when she was away, sometimes on her left hand, where, when it was turned under, it looked like a wedding band. It had proved handy on several occasions to protect her from men on the prowl.

For some reason, she put it straight onto her left hand for her trip to Tonga…