Secret Wedding

‘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.