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‘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.’
