Secret Wedding

‘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.