Читать книгу Secret Wedding - Emma Richmond, Emma Richmond - Страница 6

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.’