Secret Wedding

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‘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.