Secret Wedding
Emma Richmond
Just married?Gillan Hart was one of Nerina Micallef's two favorite people in the world. The other was her big brother, Refalo. He was an overprotective, cynical millionaire. Gillan was a feisty, independent female. Nerina–a romantic. If only she could get her two favorite people together….But, though Refalo was certainly not averse to the company of women, he preferred to make his own selection! Gillan was similarly unimpressed: in the few days she had known the sexy tycoon she'd been insulted, accused and propositioned…. Now, it seemed, she was married!Nerina had had to resort to plan B–rumor! What better way to convince two people they belonged together than tell the world they were secretly wed?
“I’ve just been congratulated,” Refalo drawled (#ue822ae08-9d22-5473-94df-09100177a779)About the Author (#u5e2fa1f2-1132-57c1-98ef-6eaafcd81897)Title Page (#u5141f672-7539-5843-b51d-163337759729)CHAPTER ONE (#u8ddb4e80-b505-50f0-a267-e2945cc03158)CHAPTER TWO (#ub65d44ca-1cac-59d8-922a-d28551ca3247)CHAPTER THREE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FOUR (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER FIVE (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SIX (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER SEVEN (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER EIGHT (#litres_trial_promo)CHAPTER NINE (#litres_trial_promo)EPILOGUE (#litres_trial_promo)Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
“I’ve just been congratulated,” Refalo drawled
“Have you?” Gillan queried weakly. “On what?”
“My engagement.”
“Oh. That’s nice...isn’t it?”
He shook his head.
“Why? You don’t want to be engaged?”
“No.”
“Then break it off.”
He smiled. “You don’t wish to know who I’m engaged to?”
“No. Why would I want to know? I won’t know her, will I?”
“Won’t you?”
Eyes wide, wary, she croaked, “Who are you engaged to?”
The smile became sharklike. “You.”
Emma Richmond was born during the war in north Kent in England when, she says, “Farms were the norm and motorways nonexistent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!”
Secret Wedding
Emma Richmond
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
CHAPTER ONE
NEVER again, Gillan thought, will I travel on a tourist flight. When I’m rich, I’ll always travel by private jet. Not that she was ever likely to be rich, but it was nice to dream. Of average height, brown hair layered short for convenience, Gillan was extraordinarily attractive, with a strong, humorous face, wide grey eyes and a quizzical smile.
She mingled with the rich and famous, but would never grace the fashion magazines that she took photographs for. Not tall enough for elegance, too busy for sophistication, she looked what she was—an amiable, hardworking young woman.
Casually dressed in beige cotton trousers and matching workshirt, she was comfortable and at ease. Rarely intimidated, rarely cross—although, at the moment, abominably weary—she gave a tired smile, and squirmed through the crush at the carousel.
Hitching her camera bag more securely onto her shoulder, she grabbed her suitcase, wrestled it onto the trolley, and thankfully made her way out of the baggage area. A tired official waved her through, and, making a superhuman effort to keep her trolley straight, she trundled behind the other weary passengers towards the pick-up point.
As she scanned the waiting faces for a sight of Nerina the impact of cobalt-blue eyes slammed into her like a physical shock, hitched her breath in her throat. He was the most devastating man she thought she had ever seen. Power, was her first conscious thought, Confidence, her second. Tall, dark-haired, distant. A man conscious of his own worth. And she yearned to reach for her camera, capture that image for all time.
He didn’t move or look away, merely continued to watch her, an expression of aloof superiority on his face. Aeons passed before she managed to wrench her eyes away, unglue her feet. Feeling a fool, she gave a wry smile, moved on. Nerina must be here somewhere, and she would have laughed like a drain if she could have seen Gillan’s uncharacteristic behaviour. So would she have done, normally—would have given her quirky smile, waved a hand in apology—but it had been somehow rather difficult to behave normally when confronted by that hypnotic stare.
‘Miss Hart?’ The voice was deep, flat-sounding—the sort of voice that carefully didn’t say all that was being thought. And it was the sort of question that dared you to answer in the negative—and she knew. Knew it would be him.
With an odd, sliding, peculiar feeling in her tummy, she slowly turned, stared up into mesmerising blue eyes.
‘Refalo,’ he stated briefly.
‘Pardon?’
‘Nerina’s brother.’
‘Nerina’s brother?’ she exclaimed in shock. ‘You can’t be!’ This man didn’t look like anyone’s brother! This man looked like somebody’s lover. Her disbelief bordering on panic, she just stared at him.
A small, rather cynical smile playing about his mouth, he queried mildly. ‘Nerina didn’t tell you of the devastating impact I have on the opposite sex?’
‘What?’ she demanded weakly.
‘But you’re quite safe,’ he continued smoothly. ‘I prefer my women with long hair. Shall we go?’ Without waiting for an answer, he took charge of the trolley and walked off.
Quite safe? Bemused, confused, she hurried to catch him up, opened her mouth to say—something, and closed it again. He’d probably been joking. Jokes when you were tired invariably fell flat, didn’t they? And he must be tired, as she was, if he’d been waiting to meet a plane that was impossibly late.
Aware only of his strong back as she dazedly followed him, feeling isolated in space and time, she fought to pull herself together, gave a distracted smile as he halted beside a small black car and transferred her luggage to the boot. They both reached for the passenger door-handle at the same time, and she drew back as though burned. Her hand still tingling from that brief contact, ears still attuned to the hissing snatch of her own breath, she climbed shakily into the passenger seat.
‘You don’t look like. . .’ she began haltingly as he climbed in beside her. ‘I mean, Nerina said. . .’ Nerina had said—implied—that her brother was old, and he wasn’t. With a helplessly negative little shake of her head, she tried to absorb the fact that this devastating man was Nerina’s brother—and couldn’t.
Reading dislike in his brief glance, distaste in his manner, she frowned. ‘I’m sorry the plane was late,’ she apologised quietly. ‘Baggage-handlers’ strike.’
‘I know,’ he said briefly.
Omniscient as well as devastating. Wow. A slight edge creeping into her tone, she persevered, ‘Had you been waiting long?’
‘No.’
Oh, goody, she thought, and felt the absurd prickle of tears behind her eyes. Tiredness, she assured herself; that was all it was. Reactions, perceptions were all shot to pieces in the early hours of the morning. Well-known fact. Everyone knew that. And she was tired. She’d had a punishing work schedule—a week of getting up early, going to bed late. All she had wanted was to go home.
But Nerina had begged her to come for a few days, said she was needed. And because Nerina was so very hard to say no to, she had agreed. She had been promised peace and quiet, a few days to unwind. Unwind? With this man on the scene? But perhaps he wouldn’t be on the scene, perhaps had only agreed to pick her up? Obviously reluctantly.
Feeling jaded and weary, nerves jangled, muscles tight, she glanced at him, at a stem profile, at a cheek that invited touch. Refalo Micallef. Founder of the Micallef Corporation. Hotelier and tourist-boat operator—which included running a fully-rigged schooner and a submarine for underwater safaris. He also ran a diving school. And he’d started with just one fishing boat inherited from his father. Impressive. But his sister had never told her of the impact he had on women.
With a sour smile, she asked quietly, ‘How is she?’
‘Nerina? Fine.’
‘The last blood count?’
‘Normal.’
‘No sign of rogue cells?’
‘No. They’re cautiously optimistic that the leukaemia won’t return.’
‘Good. She’s in bed?’
‘Bed? No. Sicily.’
‘Sicily?’ she exclaimed in astonishment. ‘What on earth is she doing in Sicily?’
He hitched one shoulder in a minuscule shrug. A very irritating shrug.
Striving for patience, she persisted. ‘She invited me to stay for a few days and now she’s in Sicily?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed, as though his mind was not fully on what was being said.
Great. Nerina had gone away and left him holding the—baby? Was that what this was all about? Furious with his sister, he was now furious with her for coming? ‘I’d better find a hotel. . .’ she began wearily.
His laugh was—discordant. Why?
‘I know her offer was impulsive. . .’ she began—and impulse should be genetically removed at birth, she thought disgustedly. ‘You didn’t know I was coming?’ she guessed. ‘Didn’t want me to come?’
‘No,’ he agreed quietly.
Deflated, she gave a muffled sigh. ‘And brevity is your middle name is it?’ He merely glanced at her, his expression unreadable. ‘Did she say when she would be back?’
‘A few days—three at the most.’
And did she send an apology? Gillan wondered tartly. Say she was very sorry for putting her in this position, with a brother who didn’t want her here? ‘I’ll find a hotel. . .or go home.’
‘No.’
No? Because Nerina wanted her here? And Nerina must not be upset? ‘When did she go?’
‘This morning. Yesterday morning,’ he corrected himself in that same, quiet, flat voice. ‘Because, of course, it’s now tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’
‘Your command of the English language seems a little diffident,’ he observed with suspect dryness.
‘What? Yes,’ she agreed as she reflected on half-finished sentences, daft questions—because of tiredness, confusion, because of you, she wanted to add, and didn’t, because, of course, he knew that. He’d told her not five minutes ago of the impact he had on women. He must surely, therefore, know that he had the power to rob them of thought, of intelligence.
Aggravated, irritated, she leaned back, stared out at the dark sky, at old buildings that looked ghostly by moonlight. Rough roads, open spaces, small towns. She felt the silence in the car to be oppressive as they drove towards Valletta. It had been named for Grand Master Jean de la Vallette, Gillan remembered, and although Malta’s history was rich and varied it was mostly associated with the Knights of St John, and the islanders’ courage in World War II.
And she shouldn’t have come. She had known that, but Nerina’s insistence was so very hard to counter. So why wasn’t she here? Why rush off to Sicily the moment Gillan was due to arrive?
The car stopped, but it wasn’t until he switched off the ignition that she blinked, turned to look at him.
‘I can’t take the car any further,’ he said quietly—mockingly? ‘It’s only a short walk.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Welcome to Malta,’ he offered belatedly.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured with the same offhandedness.
His smile showed faint in the moonlight, but she couldn’t see if it was echoed in his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ she offered again, even more helplessly, and hated herself for sounding so meek.
He nodded, unlatched his door and climbed out. Oh, Nerina, Gillan thought despairingly, why are you doing this to me? I’m tired. I don’t need this hassle, even if your brother does look like a Greek god. Or a Maltese one. Did the Maltese have ancient gods? She didn’t know.
The stars, the moon, the echo of their footsteps brought an intimacy that was laughable as they walked through the quiet streets overhung by intricately wrought balconies. Clumsy on the cobbles beneath her feet, feeling divorced from reality, she felt foolish when he halted and she didn’t.
‘Miss Hart. . .’
Turning, she blinked, gave a rueful grimace, and walked back. ‘Sorry. Daydreaming.’
‘Yes.’ Opening the door of the tall, narrow house, he ushered her inside. The clock was just striking four. ‘Is there anything you’d like before I show you to your room?’
Punctiliously polite. She wondered what his reaction would be if she asked for a three-course meal, then gave a humourless laugh. He’d probably arrange for one to be delivered. All in that very polite, flat voice, of course. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Just to sleep.’
Without answering, he led the way upstairs and along to a room, put her belongings tidily inside. ‘I hope you’ll be comfortable.’
‘I’m sure I shall.’
‘Your bathroom is through there,’ he added, with a nod towards a door recessed beside the wardrobe. ‘Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ she whispered, but he’d already gone. Slumping down on the side of the bed, she stared blankly at nothing, felt her eyelids droop, and roused herself to go and wash, slip into her nightie and climb thankfully between the sheets. Things would look better when she’d had a sleep. Tiredness had heightened her senses, interpreted things wrongly—that’s all it was.
But it wasn’t, because she was woken with a start at seven-thirty by what sounded like the clattering of tin cans. And she had no more clarity of thought than three and a half hours previously. Hands behind her head, she lay for a moment in the beautiful bedroom and tried to understand something she had laughed about in others. Instant impact, instant attraction—to a man who was so arrogantly sure of himself—it was frightening.
Another few hours’ sleep would have been nice, she thought ruefully, but if she didn’t get up, would that be another black mark against her?
Reluctant to face him, she nevertheless showered and dressed in comfortable long shorts and a T-shirt. Her cap of hair still damp, she made her way downstairs. It was a beautiful house—small, and interesting. She vaguely remembered Nerina saying that her brother had bought two houses that backed onto each other. Two front doors, she had laughed, two different addresses.
Searching for the dining room, she entered a short, glassed-in walkway, creating one side of a quadrangle, she saw, and encompassing what, in England, would have been the back garden—or two back gardens, if it was indeed two houses back to back. A tree, a fountain and a lounger casually abandoned on the flagstones. The patch of sky she could see was a bright, unclouded blue.
Hearing the soft pad of footsteps behind her, she tensed, slowly turned, felt the same alarming sensations as earlier.
‘Breakfast is this way,’ he informed her quietly.
With searching eyes that were kept carefully empty, a face that showed no emotion, she nodded and followed him to the dining room. Coffee and warm rolls had been set out for her.
‘Across the passage. We’ll talk when you’ve eaten.’ He left as quietly as he’d arrived.
Talk about what? The rules of the house? Letting out a breath which she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding, she poured her coffee, eased her dry throat. He was a man who jangled nerves, reproved with a look, made her feel tense and defensive, babble apologies for deeds not even recognised. The sort of man she had never encountered before. The same aura of authority clung to him this morning as it had the night before, and she wanted to go home.
Two cups of coffee and a massacred roll later, she stood, tried for composure, and walked into the room across the passage. He was standing at the window, staring out. A man of enormous power.
He looked as though he’d been out caulking a hull or something. Cream trousers with what looked like a tar stain across one knee, dark blue workshirt, cuffs rolled back to reveal powerful forearms, long-fingered hands, broad shoulders and a well-muscled back, as though he were no stranger to manual labour. A strong neck, an even stronger chin. Stubborn and forthright uncompromising. But then you would have to be uncompromising to amass the fortune that Nerina said he’d amassed.
Well, Gillan hadn’t amassed a fortune, but she could be pretty uncompromising when she chose, especially where her own identity was concerned, and that was what she must think of. Her own identity. All else was folly.
‘Shall we clear the decks?’ she asked, with a brightness that rang false even to herself.
He made a small movement, then turned. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared at her, his blue eyes direct. ‘By all means. I’m certainly an advocate of plain speaking.’
‘Very well. Nerina lives with you?’
He gave a small nod.
‘And she invited me without your consent?’
‘Without my knowledge,’ he corrected her.
‘So I gathered, and yet she said. . .’
‘Yes?’ he invited, that small, cynical smile playing about his mouth. ‘She said. . .?’
Ignoring his query, a speculative frown in her eyes, she murmured, ‘And she only told you minutes before disappearing off to Sicily?’
He nodded.
‘Why?’ she wondered musingly. ‘She didn’t say it would be your house I would be staying in—didn’t say very much about you at all, except that you valued your privacy, went. . .’ Went your own way, she mentally completed as she remembered what else Nerina had said. And she could believe that; he looked the sort of man who thought his way was the only way.
With a bewildered little shake of her head, she continued, ‘She certainly didn’t say you wouldn’t want me here. In fact, she intimated that you would welcome me with open arms!’ With a small, very unamused smile, she added, ‘But the arms weren’t open, were they?’
‘No.’
‘So why, knowing what your reaction would be, did she invite me?’
‘You really don’t know?’
Puzzled, searching a face that gave nothing away, she shook her head.
‘Then you had best ask her, hadn’t you?’ he suggested smoothly. ‘When she rings you, as no doubt she will.’
‘But I won’t be here, will I?’ she argued, in tones that were creepingly derisive.
‘Won’t you?’
‘No, I’ll be on the next flight out. Going home.’
‘And who will tell Nerina?’ he asked somewhat drily.
‘You will.’
‘No,’ he denied, and his voice was soft, magnetic.
‘But you don’t want me here—have made it abundantly clear how you feel.’
‘Yes,’ he agreed bluntly. No hesitation, no concern for offended sensibilities, and she gave a twisted smile, hastily moved her eyes away from a mouth that was—seductive.
‘And I certainly don’t wish to stay in a house where I’m not wanted.’ With another brief laugh, she murmured, ‘She invited me for a little holiday, said—’
‘Then you must certainly have a little holiday,’ he said in tones that dripped honey. ‘On Gozo.’
‘What?’
‘Gozo. Malta’s sister island.’
‘I know what Gozo is! I just meant—’
‘That you didn’t want to go?’ So at ease, so in control, he walked across to the roll-top desk in the comer. ‘I’ll write down the address for you. We have a small villa in Xlendi.’
Following him, being careful not to stand too close, accidentally touch him, feeling helpless and frustrated, she watched him write. “‘Shlendi”?’ she queried. ‘That’s how you pronounce it?’
‘Mmm. Many of the names are of Semitic origin. Pronunciation could be a problem for you—’
‘If I was here long enough,’ she interrupted sweetly. ‘Which, of course, I won’t be.’
‘No.’
With a little glance of dislike—never mind the impact he had on her, he certainly wasn’t a man she could like—she stared at a stack of photographs to one side, idly reached for the top one. ‘What are these?’
‘Photographs for the promotional brochure—and do you normally examine other people’s belongings uninvited?’
‘No,’ she denied, ‘but I’m a photographer, and—’
‘Nerina invited you to take some for the brochure.’
‘Yes. She said you needed a photographer—which you obviously do,’ she added as she looked at them more closely, gave a disparaging grimace. ‘Who took these?’
‘Unimportant.’
Ignoring his dismissive tone, she fanned the photographs out with one quick sweep of her hand. ‘They look like someone’s holiday snaps. Boring. Predictable. You want to be different, innovative.’
‘Do I?’
‘Yes.’
Conscious of his nearness, the steady rise and fall of his chest, she focused desperately on the snaps. ‘You don’t just want to attract tourists, you want to live up to their expactations when they do come; you want—’
‘A promotional brochure,’ he completed for her.
Borrowing a shrug; she continued to separate the photographs and criticised, ‘A schooner, a submarine.’
‘It’s what we do, Miss Hart.’
‘I know, but you need to make it different, enticing, exciting—’
‘Submarines aren’t exciting,’ he contradicted her coolly. ‘They submerge. And we aren’t candidates for the Pulitzer Prize. We aren’t entering them in National Geographic. . .’
‘I didn’t say you were. All I’m saying is that these are—’
‘Boring. Yes, you said.’
‘And that you should get yourself a decent photographer,’ she concluded through her teeth.
‘You?’ he asked softly.
‘Me? After your comments, your behaviour? No.’
And the cynical smile was back. Handing her the piece of paper with the address of the villa on Gozo, he edged her to one side, began to gather up the snaps.
‘Why did you have them taken? To obviate the need for me to stay?’
He glanced at her, straightened, continued to square the photographs off in his strong hands. ‘I didn’t know you were coming, remember? And even if I had, as an attempt to make you leave it would have been a signal failure, wouldn’t it?’ he asked with a touch of dryness. ‘Because you seem to be staying. And so you get your wish. You may take the photographs. Of Gozo.’
‘Quickly?’ she put in, with a dryness to match his own.
He gave a slow nod, a glint of amusement in his eyes. A very appealing glint. ‘If I like them, I will use them. If I don’t. . .’
She shook her head. ‘Any snaps I take will be purely for the family album.’
‘Sour grapes, Miss Hart? Not very professional.’
Eyes narrowed, she observed softly, ‘You’re a man very easy to dislike, Mr Micallef.’
‘Refalo,’ he substituted mockingly.
‘Mr Micallef,’ she argued. ‘Friends use first names, and we aren’t going to be friends, are we? But I did not know that Nerina had hired me without your knowledge.’
‘Didn’t you?’ he derided. ‘Didn’t know that Nerina wasn’t in a position to hire anyone?’
‘No. I assumed you must have asked her to ask me.’ She might be attracted to him, affected by him, but it was getting a little tiring, always being on the receiving end. Her feelings were purely sensual, not at all based on knowledge of what he was like as a person. To date, that person had been thoroughly dislikable. ‘And, all things considered,’ she murmured, managing at least to hold his diamond-bright gaze, ‘which, of course, include your distrust and dislike, I think it would be best if I went home. Thank you for your—hospitality.’
He gave her a considering look. ‘Go to Gozo,’ he ordered softly.
‘Because your sister will give you grief if I don’t?’
‘Perhaps.’
‘Being as paranoid about your privacy as you are, aren’t you afraid that I will discuss your affairs, talk about you?’
‘Afraid? No, I’m not afraid, because I doubt you will find anyone on Gozo to talk to me about,’ he said drily. ‘And I’m not in the least paranoid. However, if it bothers you, you could always sign an affidavit swearing confidentiality.’
‘I could,’ she agreed. ‘Being Nerina’s friend doesn’t make me honest, does it?’
‘No, and if you weren’t, would signing a piece of paper deter you? And even if it did, do you think Nerina would forgive such arrogance? Your word will be sufficient, Miss Hart.’
“Then you have it. I swear on pain of death not to talk about the Micallef Corporation,’ she murmured with marginal sarcasm, ‘either now or in the future. I swear not to discuss your private concerns in public. I swear. . .’
A slow, bland smile stretched his mouth, and she cursed the warmth she knew flooded her cheeks.
‘Go take your photographs, Miss Hart.’
Feeling impotent—a feeling she wasn’t in the least used to—she continued to stare at him. ‘And if I do? You don’t intend to interfere?’
‘The word is “collaborate”,’ he argued smoothly. ‘And no, I’m sure you work better alone—don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
He hesitated for a moment, watching her carefully, then finally asked, How fond of my sister are you?’
Surprised, she exclaimed, ‘Very fond!’
‘Then when she comes back you will confirm that you like to work alone.’
‘In case she tries to make you go with me?’ she guessed.
‘No, in case she wishes to accompany you herself.’
Puzzled, she queried, ‘But you said she was fine now.’
‘She is. This has nothing to do with her health, only her—emotions.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘Then I will explain.’
‘Briefly? Or brutally?’ she queried nicely. ‘You really do dislike me, don’t you? And on such short acquaintance too.’
‘I dislike being manipulated, and I don’t like what you are doing to my sister.’ With no hint of emotion, either in voice or stance, he continued, ‘Ever since she met you, it’s been Gillan this, Gillan that. You have a lifestyle she envies, wants to emulate. And, frankly, I think you’re too old for her.’
‘Too old?’ she exclaimed, scandalised. ‘I’m twentynine!’
‘Nearly thirty.’
‘All right, nearly thirty,’ she agreed miffily. Thirty was all right; she could cope with being thirty. ‘I’m not in my dotage!’
He gave an odd smile. ‘I didn’t say you were, merely that you were too old for Nerina. She’s nineteen—a very impressionable nineteen. Because of her illness, she’s had very little childhood, very few teenage years to experiment, play games.’
‘Games?’ she asked in astonishment. ‘What sort of games?’
‘Games that the young play. Flirting, being silly, having fun. I love my sister and I want her to enjoy all the things she should have enjoyed if she hadn’t been so ill. And I want her to enjoy all those things with someone her own age, not someone who’s already played them. She thinks she wants to be like you—sophisticated—’
‘I’m not sophisticated,’ she protested. ‘I’m ordinary.’
‘But experienced,’ he said softly.
‘So?’ She glared defiantly.
‘So I don’t want Nerina to emulate you,’ he replied mildly.
‘Thanks very much.’
‘Look—’ he sighed ‘—I’m probably not explaining this very well—’
‘Oh, surely not!’ she derided sarcastically. ‘You appear to me to be a man who explains things right down to the last crossed T! No margin for error, no room for mistakes. . .cold, analytical—’
‘I want her to be young!’ he interrupted her.
‘I am young!’
‘But not silly, not giggly, not—learning. She needs to learn, needs not to have missed out on her youth. If she emulates you, she’ll have missed out.’
‘So you want me to tell her that I work best alone, that I don’t need her help.’
‘If you’re as fond of her as you say you are, then yes, you will.’
‘I am fond of her.’
‘Yet you have nothing in common. You’re ten years older than her.’
‘So? You make it sound unhealthy, and it isn’t! I befriended her, yes—’
‘And introduced her to just the sort of people I wish her to avoid.’
‘Rubbish!’
‘Not rubbish. You took her to a fashion shoot, without my knowledge or consent—’
‘Consent?’ she demanded in astonishment. ‘She’s not a baby!’
‘Yes, Miss Hart, she is! You encouraged her to disobey me, leave me in the hotel worried out of my mind, not knowing where she was—’
‘Now hang on a minute—’
‘No,’ he said coldly. ‘You hang on. You introduced her to a lot of unsavoury people—’
‘I introduced her,’ she interrupted furiously, ‘to two minor television stars, an agent and three top models. None of whom are unsavoury!’
‘Aren’t they?’ he asked with cold disbelief.
‘No! And surely Nerina didn’t tell you that they were? Because that I won’t believe.’
‘No, she didn’t. She told me nothing at all.’
‘And so you assumed it was a secret! That there was something to hide! No doubt made a great production out of it. Of all the clutch-headed—’
‘I beg your pardon?’ he asked icily.
‘Well, for goodness’ sake! You’ve just finished telling me you want her to play games—’
‘Not with people like that.’
‘They aren’t “people like that”!’
‘Aren’t they? Yet they, and you, encouraged her to stay out half the night—’
‘We stayed out until one! We drank soft drinks, talked. . . I don’t believe you! There was nothing terrible about it! She wanted to enjoy herself, and, the Lord knows, she’s had little enough of that over the last few years!’
Pushing one hand through her short hair with an exasperated sigh, she continued, wearily, ‘And that’s why you dislike me, is it? Because I took your sister to a party? Because I took her without your knowledge and consent? Well, I didn’t know you had no knowledge of it. I didn’t know you were waiting in the hotel, tearing your hair out.’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘No!’
‘Then, for Nerina’s sake, I will accept your version of events, but it doesn’t alter the fact that I still think you too old for her.’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake! We don’t live in each other’s pockets! We meet occasionally, write to each other. You want me to stop that now, do you?’
‘No, but I would certainly prefer it if you didn’t fill her head with details of your lifestyle.’
‘Lifestyle,’ she scoffed. ‘I go on photo shoots, and they aren’t in the least glamorous, let me tell you.’
‘They are to Nerina,’ he murmured drily. ‘Although, if I’m honest, I have to admit that my investigation didn’t actually turn up anything horrendous.’
‘Investigation?’ she demanded in horror. ‘What investigation?’ And, even more horrifying, what had he found out? Even Nerina didn’t know who she really was. Not the whole truth, anyway.
‘Something bothers you, Miss Hart?’
‘No. Yes. How dare you investigate me? Anyone would think I was a criminal! I admit it’s an unlikely friendship, but there’s nothing sinister in it.’
Nothing sinister—just something she wasn’t prepared to tell. As far as either of them knew—as far as she hoped they knew—apart from being a photographer, she was a voluntary member of the trust that had set up Nerina’s bone-marrow transplant, her only chance of beating the myeloid leukaemia she’d been diagnosed with. It wasn’t an outright lie, but it was a sufficient bending of the truth to be called one. She had, in a way, been a voluntary member of the trust. But only in a way.
‘Why the frown?’
‘Mmm? Nothing,’ she denied dismissively. Banishing the frown, she searched a face that gave nothing away. ‘So what did you find out?’
‘No need to look so alarmed; the investigation wasn’t very detailed. Should it have been?’ he asked softly.
‘No. I’ve done nothing of which I need be ashamed.’
‘Good. All I wanted was a composite of your character, your—integrity. Nerina is a very wealthy young woman.’
‘Because of you, because of your generosity to her—and you really can’t be too careful nowadays, can you?’ she asked tartly. But she was extraordinarily relieved that it hadn’t been very detailed, although it hurt that he should think she had befriended his sister because of her wealth. ‘You really thought I might be after her money?’
‘Or that you pitied her.’
‘She doesn’t need my pity.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘She doesn’t.’
‘Then there’s nothing more to be said, is there?’
‘No. Take the ferry tomorrow morning. You won’t mind taking the ferry?’
‘No,’ she replied helplessly.
‘Good. They run every hour. I’ll let Nerina know where you are.’
‘And that’s it?’
‘Yes, Miss Hart, that’s it.’ His mouth smiled. His eyes didn’t. ‘Spend the day as you please. There’s a pool in the left-hand wing bordering the courtyard; the fridge is stocked. Help yourself to whatever you might require.’
‘You don’t have a housekeeper?’ she asked in surprise.
‘No, not resident anyway. I prefer my—privacy,’ he mocked. ‘If there’s anything you need, get in touch with the office. The numbers are on the reverse of the piece of paper I gave you.’ Replacing the photographs on the desk, he stared at her for a moment in silence, and then walked out, quietly closing the door behind him.
So that was how a millionaire behaved. Collapsing into the chair beside the desk, she found that she very badly wanted to kick something. Or someone. Staring blindly at the photographs, she grimaced. A harbour. A few boats bobbing. A happy, smiling tourist face. With one swift, aggressive motion she swept them all onto the floor.
She could refuse, go home; she didn’t have to stay. But Nerina had begged her, literally begged. ‘Please, please come,’ she’d said. ‘You can take the photos for the brochure, or just have a little holiday, but you must come.’ Why? Was she ill—in trouble and didn’t like to tell her brother?
But if that were the case, surely she would have been waiting impatiently at the airport, or up early this morning to speak to her? She wouldn’t have gone off to Sicily! And she must have known the reception Gillan would get from Refalo. It just didn’t make sense. Had her brother forced her to go to Sicily? That sounded more likely after his spiel about Gillan’s being too old for his sister.
He’d said he loved her, but was it more in the nature of possession? Some brothers were possessive. Not that she would know; she didn’t have a brother. And perhaps some of what he had said was true—logical, anyway. Pertinent. She was ten years older than Nerina, and in normal circumstances they probably wouldn’t have become friends. But the circumstances hadn’t been normal, and Nerina was worth helping, or protecting. A sunny, likable girl—and very young for her age. And Refalo, who loved her so very much, wanted her to grow up—whole. Was being sensible.
With an inward sigh, she wondered why life had to get so complicated. When she had first embarked on the deception, it had seemed a harmless thing, a simple thing; writing to her, use her as a confidante. All she had ever wanted was to meet the young girl who had been so ill. . . And she had certainly never expected to meet her brother!
Nerina had said he was old and starchy, but he wasn’t. Cold, distant, remote—but certainly not old. And to stay in his house with the chance of bumping into him, of maybe letting something slip that must never be let slip. . .
She would go to Gozo, she decided on a long sigh. But not to take photographs. She would wait to speak to the younger girl, find out what was going on, and then go home.
Vaguely aware of a phone ringing somewhere, she quickly gathered up the snaps and put them in a neat pile on the desk. After a moment’s hesitation, she pulled a piece of paper towards her and began to scribble a note. Propping it in a prominent position, she got to her feet, and had got halfway to the door when it opened. Halting, she stared at Refalo, felt that same odd feeling inside. That leap of attraction.
Casual, at ease, he quite obviously felt nothing, and she gave a wry, self-mocking smile as he propped a shoulder against the doorjamb, folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’ve just been congratulated,’ he drawled.
‘Have you?’ she queried weakly.
‘Yes.’
‘On what?’
‘My engagement.’
‘Oh. That’s nice.’
‘Is it?’
‘Well, yes. Isn’t it?’ she asked in bewilderment.
He stared at her, waited, a rather sardonic glint in his eyes.
‘Isn’t it?’ she repeated.
He shook his head.
‘Why? You didn’t want to be engaged?’
‘No.’
‘Then break it off.’
He smiled—the sort of smile that made you want to back off very fast.
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ she asked warily.
‘Don’t you know?’
‘Of course I don’t know!’
‘And you don’t wish to know who I’m engaged to?’
‘No. Why would I want to know? I won’t know her, will I?’
‘Won’t you?’
‘No! Look, will you just get to the point?’
He smiled again, straightened, advanced.
Gillan backed.
‘Ask me who I’m engaged to,’ he ordered, his voice so very, very soft.
Eyes wide, wary, she croaked, ‘Who are you engaged to?’
The smile became shark-like.
‘You.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘ME?’ Gillan squeaked. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve never been engaged in my life!’
‘No,’ he agreed smoothly.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ she demanded as she fetched up rather painfully against the desk.
‘That you’re desperate?’ he queried, in tones that might have made a mass murderer think twice.
‘Desperate? For you? Are you mad? I don’t even like you!’
‘Like?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t think like was ever mentioned.’
Eyes wide, wary, she put out her hands in a wardingoff gesture. ‘Now look here. . .’
‘Yes?’ he asked helpfully as he moved her hands aside and stood very, very close in front of her.
With nowhere for her hands to go, she bunched them at her sides. ‘You think I had something to do with this? That I started a rumour about engagements?’
‘Didn’t you?’
‘No! I came for a holiday!’ she said stupidly, as though it were a mantra that would ward off evil. ‘And why on earth would I want to be engaged to someone I’d never even met?’
‘Why indeed?’ Searching her face, he finally gave a small nod. ‘Very well. Unless proven otherwise, I will accept your word.’
‘Kind of you,’ she derided shakily. ‘And who said we were engaged?’
‘Someone,’ he murmured unhelpfully. Turning away, he ordered over his shoulder, ‘Go to Gozo.’
‘Gozo? Now? After this?’
Halting, he turned, face impassive. ‘Certainly after this. And if anyone asks you will not deny it.’
Braver now that he wasn’t standing so close, she demanded, ‘Why won’t I?’
‘Because I said so.’
‘And your word is law?’
He smiled again. ‘Believe it, Miss Hart,’ he said softly. ‘Believe it.’ Walking out, he closed the door quietly behind him.
With a creaky sigh, as though the breath had been trapped in her lungs for too long, she braced her hands on the desk for support and perched weakly. Engaged? To him? Dear God. What sort of a joke was that? And why mustn’t she deny it? He couldn’t want to be engaged to her, for goodness’ sake!
With a disbelieving shake of her head, she remained sitting for a few minutes longer. Feeling exhausted, she went slowly up to her room to repack her things. The sooner she was out of this house the better.
Two hours later she was at the ferry terminal with no clear idea of what she had passed through—just a vague impression of untarred roads, no traffic lights, white buildings and a blue sky—no clear idea of why she was there and not at the airport booking a flight home, and with the profound hope that no one would ever ask her if she was engaged. Engaged, she repeated incredulously to herself. Why would anyone say they were engaged? They didn’t even know each other.
Her mind on Refalo, with all the things she should have said and hadn’t said jammed in her head, she wondered why on earth she was meekly doing as she was told. It wasn’t as if she needed the work—she had plenty of commissions back home—and it certainly wasn’t like her to give in to dictators.
So why had she? Because Nerina was at the back of all this? And, even if she was, it had nothing to do with her! And she couldn’t believe she’d allowed Refalo Micallef to walk all over her! That man decidedly needed taking down a peg or two! So why didn’t you take him down a peg, Gillan?
With a scowl, she paid off the cabbie, stared in dismay at the queue, hesitated, then philosophically joined it, face still creased in lines of self-disgust. She wasn’t a child, for goodness’ sake! She could have said something!
An hour later, hot, sticky, she made her way up to the crowded deck, found a tiny space and leaned on the rail. The queue for drinks and food looked longer than the queue to get on, and, seeing as the trip only took half an hour, Gillan abandoned thoughts of quenching her thirst until she reached Gozo—and then abandoned them again.
White heat, a brightness that hurt the eyes. Blue, blue sky, an even bluer sea. And noise. An incredible wash of noise. Full of old-world charm, she remembered reading somewhere—more fertile, more picturesque, far more unspoilt than the sister island of Malta, which it possibly was—once you got away from the port. Staring helplessly at the chaos before her, where charm wasn’t even hinted at, she now knew why Refalo had asked her if she’d mind taking the ferry. Very funny, Refalo.
People with lists. People with temper. Tour guides frantically trying to match tourists to buses. People yearning for purpose. One severely stressed driver was climbing frustratedly out of one bus and into another in the frantic search for lost sheep. Another enterprising chap was lining people up along a wall and pinning numbers to their chests, another was actually tearing up his list—and there seemed to be an awful lot of people left over.
‘Name?’
Startled, she turned, stared at the fraught-looking young woman behind her and gave a small smile. ‘I’m not on your list,’ she told her gently. ‘I’m—er—independent.’
‘Then don’t stand in my queue! Sorry. God I hate people.’ With a weary sigh, she wandered off.
Yes, Gillan mentally agreed, people could sometimes be exasperating. Moving her suitcase to her other hand, easing the thick strap of her camera bag away from her neck, she began forcing her way through the crush. No one was going to rush forward with offers of assistance, she thought with a rueful smile; everyone was too busy looking after themselves, and if she wanted help she’d have to provide it herself.
Picking her way towards the far end of the port, her attention was caught by a small white car that hurled itself onto the quay and screeched to a halt in a shower of dust. Someone was in a hurry. Idly watching, she saw the driver’s door open—and Refalo Micallef emerge. And she felt the same tremor of shock she’d felt previously.
Disgruntled, she wondered if she was destined to get that feeling every damned time she saw him. It didn’t bode well for her peace of mind, did it? And it really wasn’t fair for one man to have such an impact on women.
But why was he here? Because he didn’t trust her not to blab about their supposed engagement? Or hadn’t he wanted her to come to Gozo until tomorrow? Why? Because Nerina was here and not on Sicily at all?
Eyes narrowed suspiciously, she continued to watch him. Powerful, arrogant, arbitrary. And deceitful?
The car had been driven with aggression, and yet the man who stepped out of it showed nothing more than the bland control he’d displayed earlier. It was impossible to know what someone was thinking when he hid his feelings so successfully. What a pity she seemed so incapable of hiding her own.
‘And how did you get here so quickly?’ she muttered aloud. ‘Power boat?’
‘What?’
Swinging round in surprise, she stared at the young girl standing behind her. She wore Doc Marten boots, shredded jeans and a skimpy top that looked none too clean. She had a mop of dark hair, that appeared not to have seen a brush in weeks, and a scowl to deter the bravest. With a vague remembrance of seeing her on the ferry, Gillan gave her a slight smile. ‘Sorry, talking to myself.’
‘Do you know him?’ the girl demanded aggressively, her eyes fixed on Refalo.
‘Who?’
‘Him!’ she retorted impatiently. ‘The man by the white car.’
‘Refalo? Yes, I know him. Why?’
‘Just wondered. He’s my father,’ she added, with an air of indifference that didn’t quite come off.
‘Your father?’ Gillan exclaimed blankly. ‘Don’t be absurd. He’s not married.’
She gave Gillan a look of disgust. ‘You don’t have to be married!’
‘I know. I mean. . .’ Yes, Gillan, what do you mean? The man had said himself that he had a devastating impact on women! And the natural result of having devastating impacts was—children. No, she mentally denied as she turned a frowning gaze back toward him. Nerina would have said if she’d had a niece. Wouldn’t she? ‘I didn’t know,’ she mumbled helplessly. ‘I mean, he never said.’
‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he?’
‘Wouldn’t he?’ she queried weakly. ‘Why?’
The girl gave a mirthless smile, began sauntering towards him. ‘Because he didn’t know.’
‘What? What?’ Grabbing her arm, Gillan hauled her round to face her. ‘What do you mean, he didn’t know?’
With a little sneer, the girl drawled, ‘Dear Mother never bothered to tell him.’ Pulling her arm free, she continued on her way.
Didn’t bother to tell him? Alarmed, bewildered, Gillan just stood there with her mouth open. Did he know now? Judging by the look of cold derision on his strong face, yes, he did.
She hovered, ready to—what? she asked herself exasperatedly. Leap in to defend the young girl? Berate him for not knowing he had a daughter? And then she began to laugh. Weakly, stupidly. First a fiancee, now a daughter, and all in one day. Oh, boy.
‘And you shall reap what you shall sow,’ she murmured piously to herself as she moved to join them, and was tempted to add, Serve him right. Only, of course, it was the innocent who suffered. Not that the young girl looked entirely innocent...
Dazedly shaking her head, she watched him advance on the girl and ask with the supreme indifference that must hide something, ‘Are you the one responsible for issuing orders for me to meet you?’
‘Yes,’ she agreed defiantly. ‘I’m Francesca—Fran. Your daughter.’
‘I don’t have a daughter.’ Turning to Gillan, he derided, ‘And I suppose you’re my wife?’
‘No, no,’ she denied with a sweet smile. ‘Still your fiancée.’
Diamond-bright eyes regarded her with distaste.
‘You’re engaged?’ Francesca demanded.
‘Yes,’ Gillan agreed with a malicious smile for Refalo.
‘You never said!’ she accused.
‘You didn’t ask,’ Gillan pointed out gently.
‘I thought you were with me!’
‘I am. Was.’
‘Get in the car,’ Refalo ordered Francesca, and with a minuscule shrug she did as she was told. Shutting the door on her, he turned back to Gillan. ‘With her?’ he asked nastily. ‘In what capacity? Keeper? Minder? Hanger-on?’
A hint of warning in her tone, Gillan said softly, ‘With her by accident—coincidence. We’ve only just met. Are barely acquainted. And I—’
‘But you’d like the acquaintance to continue?’ he interrupted with brutal interest. ‘Expect a share in the goodies?’
‘No, I—’
‘Think yourself lucky I don’t prosecute you for abetting a minor,’ he interrupted dismissively. Picking up Francesca’s bag, he slung it inside, climbed behind the wheel, closed the door and accelerated away. He swerved round a coach, actually made it to the road that led up and away from the port, slammed to a halt, and expertly reversed back to where Gillan was still standing. The passenger door was flung open. ‘Get in.’
Gillan got. ‘She told you we’d only just met?’
‘Yes,’ he agreed tersely.
‘And do I get an apology?’
‘No.’
With a shrug that Francesca might have been proud of, lips slightly pursed, she placed her camera bag carefully on the floor, rested her case on her knees, and reproved him, too quietly for Francesca to hear, ‘“Judge not that ye be not judged.”’
He turned briefly towards her, stared into grey eyes, and stated flatly, ‘Any judgement made on me would be received without fear. I doubt the same could be said of you.’
‘Then you would be wrong. I know very little more than I heard at the port.’
His voice as low as hers, he demanded contemptuously, ‘But you’d like to know more? Make a nice little article for the gutter press, wouldn’t it?’
‘I don’t work for the gutter press. I’m a freelance photographer, as you very well know.’
‘And in my view anyone in the media will sell their soul for an exclusive whether they be photographer or writer. And wasn’t it so very convenient for you both to turn up on the same day? On the same ferry?’
‘Coincidence,’ Gillan said quietly.
‘Was it? Or very carefully planned?’
‘Don’t be absurd.’ Turning, she stared back at Fran. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ she demanded defiantly.
I don’t know, she wanted to say; I don’t know anything about what’s going on. Yet dramas seemed to follow her around like lost sheep. She’d lost count of the number of bizarre incidents that littered her life. Not that this was bizarre, she supposed, but it was certainly a drama.
Turning back to the front, she stared thoughtfully ahead. She gazed absently at the dusty track, the impressive church that stood above the small harbour, and considered asking about it. She changed her mind. She could, no doubt, get a guidebook. At the moment, she had rather more on her mind than architecture.
Moving slightly, she watched him from the corner of her eye as he set the car moving again. She didn’t know him very well, didn’t know him at all in fact, only had second-hand information gleaned from his sister and her own judgement based on their brief meeting on Malta. But, surely, to have a daughter you didn’t know you had suddenly turn up out of the blue in front of someone you thoroughly dislike should produce some reaction?
Yet nothing showed on that face, just bland indifference. He must be a damned good actor, she thought disagreeably; no one could be that uncaring. Could they? Was there a very large crack hidden behind that smooth façade? Or did he really accept the turning-up of unknown daughters as though it were commonplace? Perhaps it was commonplace.
With a gentle sigh, she continued to watch him, tried to find something—human. The mouth was firm—not tight, not angry—the nose dominant, the eyes unwavering. An extraordinarily attractive man—and one who’d obviously had a devastating impact on Francesca’s mother.
Or had he? Alarm she could have understood, or confusion—even anger—but he was behaving as though young women turned up on his doorstep with alarming regularity and he was really rather tired of the parade. Was it because he was a millionaire and this sort of thing was to be expected? Or because he’d sown a great many wild oats?
Her mind crowded with questions, she turned back to the view. This was an island of fishermen and farmers, she remembered absently as she gazed out at the terraced fields, the small dusty villages and always, in the distance, the azure sea—and he was hurtling the little car around as though he were on a racetrack.
So why didn’t his manner echo his driving? Weird. Seriously weird. But Fran’s aggression could now be accounted for, couldn’t it? Frightened at meeting her father, unsure of the reception she was going to get, she’d come out fighting.
Aware of the glance he flicked her, Gillan turned to face him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised quietly. ‘An outsider is the last thing you need at this moment.’
He didn’t answer, merely returned his attention to the road, and her aggravation with him returned.
. They were nearing the coast again, she saw, and then gave a little cry of delight as they drove above a small inlet.
‘Xlendi,’ he explained shortly.
She contemplated thanking him for the terse information, then changed her mind; it would probably sound sarcastic, and putting his back up further did not seem like a good idea. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she praised instead.
He didn’t answer, merely turned right onto a dusty track, without changing down, and drew up in front of a small white villa. There was no front garden as there would have been in England, just a paved area and a tub of mixed flowers to one side of the front door. He climbed from the car, wrenched open the front and rear doors, and ordered distastefully, ‘Inside. Both of you.’
‘You don’t need me!’ Gillan exclaimed hastily, and he stared her into silence.
‘I said,’ he stated quietly, ‘Both of you.’ Without waiting to see if they complied, he strode up the short path and flung open the front door.
Fran marched inside, and Gillan reluctantly followed. It was blessedly cool and clean, but almost stark—not the sort of house she would have expected a millionaire to have. Perhaps Gozitans did it differently, didn’t flaunt their wealth, show off.
As she blinked to accustom her eyes to the dimness Refalo closed the door behind her, brushed past and halted beside an entry on the left. ‘In here.’
It was a long room full of clean, bright colours-whites, greens and blues—soothing and cool, if it hadn’t been for the man waiting to interrogate them. Turning back, she stared at him, waited.
He moved his eyes to a defiant Francesca. ‘Begin,’ he ordered with supreme detachment. ‘How old are you?’
‘Fourteen,’ she muttered.
‘And who put you up to this?’
‘No one!’
‘Then how much do you want?’
‘Oh, isn’t that just typical?’ Fran exclaimed disgustedly. ‘Why does everyone always assume I want something! I came to see what you were like!’
‘Angry is what I’m like,’ he retorted flatly. ‘And not fool enough to be taken in by some foolish little girl who thinks I might be a passport to wealth.’
‘I’m not foolish and I don’t want your wealth. You’re my father,’ she insisted stubbornly. ‘Your name is on my birth certificate.’
‘I don’t care if my name is tattooed on your bottom. I do not have a daughter.’
‘How do you know? I bet you’ve slept with hundreds of women!’
There was a nasty little silence, and Gillan leapt hastily into the breach. ‘How long have you known?’ she asked quietly.
‘A week,’ Francesca muttered.
‘A week?’ Gillan exclaimed in astonishment. ‘And you just decided on the spur of the moment to come and visit him?’
‘Be quiet,’ Refalo ordered.
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘You dragged me into this!’ Turning back to Fran, unaware of Refalo’s narrowed stare, she continued, ‘You didn’t write, explain?’
She shrugged, wound a long piece of hair round her finger. ‘He’s my father, isn’t he? It is allowed to go and see your father, isn’t it?’ she asked bitterly.
‘If he is your father,’ Refalo put in, and Gillan gave him a look of irritation. His attitude wasn’t helping anybody.
‘And are you sure?’ she asked gently. ‘Really positive?’
‘Yes!’ Fran hissed. Rummaging in the pocket of her jeans, she withdrew a grubby envelope and thrust it at Gillan.
Slowly opening it, she unfolded the girl’s birth certificate, stared at the name of the father, sighed, folded it and opened out the newspaper clipping that was with it. A grainy picture of Refalo stared back. The wording of the article had been raggedly torn away, so she had no idea what it might have said, or why his picture might have been in a newspaper.
‘I showed it to Mother,’ Francesca muttered. ‘She said it was him.’
‘Said I was your father?’ Refalo queried interestedly.
‘Yes.’
‘Go on.’
‘Go on with what? I found my birth certificate in a drawer!’
‘And you asked her?’
‘Of course I bloody asked her!’
‘Don’t swear,’ he reproved her automatically. Ignoring the mutinous look, he continued, ‘And what did she say?’
‘That she hadn’t told you! That she hadn’t loved you! That I was none of your business! Well, I am!’ she stated, giving him a defiant look, ‘And I wanted to know what you were like. If I was like you. She had no right not to tell me. To let me think I was Tom’s. I hate Tom!’
Her voice cracking, she swung away, kicked frustratedly at a small table. ‘And now they’re having their own baby! “This for the baby,”’ she mimicked bitterly, ‘“that for the baby. Oh, won’t it be nice, Francesca—a little baby brother or sister?” I hate them!’ she added vehemently. “‘Send Francesca back to boarding school,’ ” she continued angrily. “‘Baby can have her room. . .”’
‘Ah, no,’ Gillan said gently as she put a comforting arm round her, ‘I don’t believe that.’
Shrugging off the arm, Fran glared at her. ‘What do you know? I hate boarding school!’
‘So you ran away?’
‘Well, wouldn’t you?’
‘You’re fourteen, Fran–’
‘Don’t tell me how old I am!’ she burst out fiercely. Her mouth a tight line, fury in her eyes, she added, ‘And I don’t know why you had to come! It has nothing to do with you!’ With a little sob, she ran out, leaving an echoing silence behind her.
‘Oh, God!’ Gillan exclaimed softly. ‘Poor little girl. I’d better go after her.’
‘No,’ Refalo said quietly as he walked across to the front window and stared out. ‘Leave her be.’
‘Don’t be so callous!’ she reproved him angrily. ‘She—’
‘I said,’ he repeated, with the air of one who expected to be obeyed and usually was, ‘Leave her be. She’s leaning on the railing above the bay. She’ll come to no harm out there.’
‘I wasn’t talking about harm! I was talking about emotions! Something you clearly know nothing about!’
Not angry, not annoyed by her outburst, he merely stared at her.
With a glare of frustration, she gritted, ‘You really are the most. . .’
‘Autocratic?’ he asked helpfully.
‘Yes. And unkind. She needs comforting:
‘No, Miss Hart,’ he denied smoothly. ‘She needs leaving alone. Tell me about her.’
‘I don’t know anything about her! I met her five minutes before you did. She asked me if I knew you, I said yes, and that was it!’
‘Was it?’ he asked sceptically.
‘Yes.’ With an irritable twitch, she moved away, stared disagreeably at an inoffensive vase. And it’s surely understandable she muttered, if she’d only just found out, that she’d want to know if she was like you?’
He gave a twisted smile. ‘Unlikely, seeing as I have no daughter.’
‘Your name’s on the birth certificate.’
‘Certificates can be forged.’
‘Yes, but surely not by her?’ she swung back to exclaim. ‘She came on impulse!’
‘Did she?’
‘You don’t believe her?’
‘I don’t know what I believe!’ he stated flatly.
Don’t you? she wondered. Staring at his strong back, she eventually asked quietly, ‘Why are you so sure? I mean. . . when you were young, you could have–probably did. . . Most. . .’ Oh, shut up, Gillan. With a deep sigh, she opened out the birth certificate that Fran had thrust at her. ‘Her mother’s name is Elaine Dutton. And you are listed as the father.’
‘Never heard of her. When was she born?’
‘Fourteenth of June.’
‘Full term?’
‘I don’t know,’ she replied helplessly. ‘How would I know?’
‘Then let’s assume she was.’ His voice clipped, authoritative, like a lawyer, he continued, ‘That would make conception the middle of October in the previous year.’
‘Yes.’
‘Here?’
‘What?’
‘Here?’ he repeated. ‘On the island?’
‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, the certificate only lists the place of birth, not conception. And, before you ask, no, I do not know how she found you, or what her mother said, thought, felt. I’m doing my best!’
‘Kind of you,’ he praised with humourless irony, then he turned and twitched the certificate out of her hand.
‘But if you’re not—’
‘I’m not,’ he said positively.
‘Then I’ll leave you to sort it out,’ she decided in exasperation. ‘Find a hotel. . . Yes,’ she insisted when he began to shake his head.
‘No,’ he said, his attention still fixed on the birth certificate. ‘You will stay here.’
‘But why?’
‘To keep an eye on her.’
‘But it isn’t any of my business,’ she protested.
‘Isn’t it?’ he asked, with a rather cynical smile.
‘No!’
‘Then humour me.’
‘Humour you?’ she practically shouted. ‘Why on earth would I want to humour you?’
He just looked at her, waited. And she sighed and stated quietly, ‘Nerina.’
‘Yes. Nerina. She’s going to ring you, remember? And I will not,’ he added grimly, ‘have her hurt, worried or upset.’
‘And finding out that her precious big brother might have a daughter would do that, would it?’
‘Not “might”, Miss Hart,’ he corrected her. ‘I do not have a daughter. And I have no idea whether it would upset her or not, but I don’t intend for her to know. And you have a promotional brochure to do, don’t you?’
‘Do I?’ she asked wearily.
‘Yes. And it will need your full attention, won’t it?’
‘I can give it my full attention from a hotel. You could let Nerina know where I am.’
‘No, here; it will be easier to collaborate.’
‘Interfere,’ she muttered.
‘Collaborate,’ he insisted.
‘And Francesca won’t think she’s being spied on?’
He gave a derisive little nod.
Swinging away, frustrated, irritated, tired, she muttered, ‘I was hired—’
‘By my sister,’ he put in helpfully.
‘By your sister,’ she gritted. ‘I thought it was because I’m innovative, able to give a fresh slant—which apparently turns out to be a load of old nonsense, because she was in no position to hire me, or even invite me. And now. . . Now I’m not only your fiancee but expected to be Mother Superior to a young, frightened—’
‘Manipulative,’ he put in smoothly.
‘All right, maybe manipulative young lady. But so as she won’t suspect spying I am to pretend to be ace photographer for the Micallef Corporation.’
‘I thought you were an ace photographer. I’m sure Nerina told me you were.’
‘Shut up!’ she gritted fiercely. ‘And, ace or not, it’s a job I cannot do if I’m supposed to be supervising a fourteen-year-old girl, or if you’re continually breathing down my neck and overriding my innovations just so that you too can keep an eye on Francesca!’
‘I have no intention of overriding your innovations,’ he argued, in that same smooth tone which was beginning to make her feel very, very violent indeed. ‘Neither have I any intention of allowing that young lady to forge any more weapons—which I suspect she might try to do if we are alone in this villa. I cannot leave her here by herself; neither am I prepared to stay here unchaperoned. You were intending to stay for a few days anyway; very little is different.’
‘Except I’m to be the chaperon.’
He inclined his head. ‘What could be more natural but for my fiancée to look after her?’ he derided. ‘And when Nerina rings you will say nothing, do nothing—’
‘And if you answer the phone? Won’t she be surprised to find you here?’
He stared at her, for ever, a very thoughtful look in his eyes. ‘No,’ he denied eventually, ‘she won’t be in the least surprised.’ Indicating the other piece of paper that she was holding, he waited, hand outstretched.
With an irritated gesture she thrust it at him. ‘Why won’t she be?’
‘Ask her.’
With a snort of frustration, she demanded, ‘And Francesca? What are you going to do about her?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘She really does think she’s your daughter.’
‘But at whose instigation?’
‘No one’s! She just wanted to know if she was like you!’
‘So you keep saying, but repetition won’t make it true. I don’t have a child.’
‘She isn’t a child! And if you value your skin, don’t for goodness’ sake call her one.’
‘Value my skin?’ he queried slowly as he folded the papers and put them in his pocket. ‘Surely the boot is on the other foot?’
‘But she believes you are her father! She really does believe that! And shouldn’t she have those back?’
‘No.’ With a dismissive gesture, he turned to stare from the window, shoved his hands into the pockets of his cream trousers. His broad back invited touch. A stunning man, arrogant, cynical, sensual—the sort of man who frazzled nerves, drove women to acts of folly. Like Fran’s mother?
Her sigh deeper, she persisted, ‘If you aren’t her father, then why would your name be put on the birth certificate?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘And you don’t even remember her? Elaine?’
‘I didn’t know her.’
‘Yet she told Fran she’d never loved you, hadn’t wanted you to know.’
‘Even though she thought me wealthy?’ he asked derisively.
‘What?’
‘The newspaper clipping—it mentioned it.’
‘Oh.’
Turning, he glanced at her, gave a cruel smile.
‘And you think that makes a difference? It doesn’t,’ she told him quietly, ‘because I’m sure this has nothing whatsoever to do with your wealth.’
‘Are you? So why now?’
‘What?’
‘Why has she suddenly decided to look me up now?’ he elaborated with heavy patience.
‘Because she said she only found out last week that she wasn’t Tom’s, because she was unhappy at boarding school.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know. She’s a teenager. Aren’t teenagers always unhappy?’
‘Are they? Were you?’
‘No,’ she replied helplessly. ‘But, whether you’re her father or not, please, please try to understand what this is doing to her,’ she urged earnestly.
‘To her?’ he queried. ‘What do you think this is doing to me?’
‘I don’t know, do I?’ she asked aggravatedly. ‘I doubt anyone ever knows what anything does to you!’
‘Then guess. I’ve had some man on the phone hysterically insisting I do something! What?’ he demanded rhetorically. ‘Mount a search-and-rescue?’
‘When?’
‘What?’
‘When did he ring?’ she demanded, teeth still gritted.
‘Does it matter?’
‘Yes!’ she insisted. It didn’t, of course, but she was much too cross actually to make sense.
With a dismissive gesture, he muttered, ‘I don’t know—half an hour ago, an hour.’
‘Tom.’
‘What?’
‘Maybe it was Tom,’ she offered with helpless impatience.
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