Secret Wedding

‘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?’