Emma Richmond - Secret Wedding

With a disbelieving shake of her head, she remained sitting for a few minutes longer. Feeling exhausted, she went slowly up to her room to repack her things. The sooner she was out of this house the better.

Two hours later she was at the ferry terminal with no clear idea of what she had passed through—just a vague impression of untarred roads, no traffic lights, white buildings and a blue sky—no clear idea of why she was there and not at the airport booking a flight home, and with the profound hope that no one would ever ask her if she was engaged. Engaged, she repeated incredulously to herself. Why would anyone say they were engaged? They didn’t even know each other.

Her mind on Refalo, with all the things she should have said and hadn’t said jammed in her head, she wondered why on earth she was meekly doing as she was told. It wasn’t as if she needed the work—she had plenty of commissions back home—and it certainly wasn’t like her to give in to dictators.

So why had she? Because Nerina was at the back of all this? And, even if she was, it had nothing to do with her! And she couldn’t believe she’d allowed Refalo Micallef to walk all over her! That man decidedly needed taking down a peg or two! So why didn’t you take him down a peg, Gillan?

With a scowl, she paid off the cabbie, stared in dismay at the queue, hesitated, then philosophically joined it, face still creased in lines of self-disgust. She wasn’t a child, for goodness’ sake! She could have said something!

An hour later, hot, sticky, she made her way up to the crowded deck, found a tiny space and leaned on the rail. The queue for drinks and food looked longer than the queue to get on, and, seeing as the trip only took half an hour, Gillan abandoned thoughts of quenching her thirst until she reached Gozo—and then abandoned them again.

White heat, a brightness that hurt the eyes. Blue, blue sky, an even bluer sea. And noise. An incredible wash of noise. Full of old-world charm, she remembered reading somewhere—more fertile, more picturesque, far more unspoilt than the sister island of Malta, which it possibly was—once you got away from the port. Staring helplessly at the chaos before her, where charm wasn’t even hinted at, she now knew why Refalo had asked her if she’d mind taking the ferry. Very funny, Refalo.

People with lists. People with temper. Tour guides frantically trying to match tourists to buses. People yearning for purpose. One severely stressed driver was climbing frustratedly out of one bus and into another in the frantic search for lost sheep. Another enterprising chap was lining people up along a wall and pinning numbers to their chests, another was actually tearing up his list—and there seemed to be an awful lot of people left over.

‘Name?’

Startled, she turned, stared at the fraught-looking young woman behind her and gave a small smile. ‘I’m not on your list,’ she told her gently. ‘I’m—er—independent.’

‘Then don’t stand in my queue! Sorry. God I hate people.’ With a weary sigh, she wandered off.

Yes, Gillan mentally agreed, people could sometimes be exasperating. Moving her suitcase to her other hand, easing the thick strap of her camera bag away from her neck, she began forcing her way through the crush. No one was going to rush forward with offers of assistance, she thought with a rueful smile; everyone was too busy looking after themselves, and if she wanted help she’d have to provide it herself.

Picking her way towards the far end of the port, her attention was caught by a small white car that hurled itself onto the quay and screeched to a halt in a shower of dust. Someone was in a hurry. Idly watching, she saw the driver’s door open—and Refalo Micallef emerge. And she felt the same tremor of shock she’d felt previously.

Disgruntled, she wondered if she was destined to get that feeling every damned time she saw him. It didn’t bode well for her peace of mind, did it? And it really wasn’t fair for one man to have such an impact on women.

But why was he here? Because he didn’t trust her not to blab about their supposed engagement? Or hadn’t he wanted her to come to Gozo until tomorrow? Why? Because Nerina was here and not on Sicily at all?

Eyes narrowed suspiciously, she continued to watch him. Powerful, arrogant, arbitrary. And deceitful?

The car had been driven with aggression, and yet the man who stepped out of it showed nothing more than the bland control he’d displayed earlier. It was impossible to know what someone was thinking when he hid his feelings so successfully. What a pity she seemed so incapable of hiding her own.

‘And how did you get here so quickly?’ she muttered aloud. ‘Power boat?’

‘What?’

Swinging round in surprise, she stared at the young girl standing behind her. She wore Doc Marten boots, shredded jeans and a skimpy top that looked none too clean. She had a mop of dark hair, that appeared not to have seen a brush in weeks, and a scowl to deter the bravest. With a vague remembrance of seeing her on the ferry, Gillan gave her a slight smile. ‘Sorry, talking to myself.’

‘Do you know him?’ the girl demanded aggressively, her eyes fixed on Refalo.

‘Who?’

‘Him!’ she retorted impatiently. ‘The man by the white car.’

‘Refalo? Yes, I know him. Why?’

‘Just wondered. He’s my father,’ she added, with an air of indifference that didn’t quite come off.

‘Your father?’ Gillan exclaimed blankly. ‘Don’t be absurd. He’s not married.’

She gave Gillan a look of disgust. ‘You don’t have to be married!’

‘I know. I mean. . .’ Yes, Gillan, what do you mean? The man had said himself that he had a devastating impact on women! And the natural result of having devastating impacts was—children. No, she mentally denied as she turned a frowning gaze back toward him. Nerina would have said if she’d had a niece. Wouldn’t she? ‘I didn’t know,’ she mumbled helplessly. ‘I mean, he never said.’

‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he?’

‘Wouldn’t he?’ she queried weakly. ‘Why?’

The girl gave a mirthless smile, began sauntering towards him. ‘Because he didn’t know.’

‘What? What?’ Grabbing her arm, Gillan hauled her round to face her. ‘What do you mean, he didn’t know?’

With a little sneer, the girl drawled, ‘Dear Mother never bothered to tell him.’ Pulling her arm free, she continued on her way.

Didn’t bother to tell him? Alarmed, bewildered, Gillan just stood there with her mouth open. Did he know now? Judging by the look of cold derision on his strong face, yes, he did.

She hovered, ready to—what? she asked herself exasperatedly. Leap in to defend the young girl? Berate him for not knowing he had a daughter? And then she began to laugh. Weakly, stupidly. First a fiancee, now a daughter, and all in one day. Oh, boy.

‘And you shall reap what you shall sow,’ she murmured piously to herself as she moved to join them, and was tempted to add, Serve him right. Only, of course, it was the innocent who suffered. Not that the young girl looked entirely innocent...

Dazedly shaking her head, she watched him advance on the girl and ask with the supreme indifference that must hide something, ‘Are you the one responsible for issuing orders for me to meet you?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed defiantly. ‘I’m Francesca—Fran. Your daughter.’

‘I don’t have a daughter.’ Turning to Gillan, he derided, ‘And I suppose you’re my wife?’

‘No, no,’ she denied with a sweet smile. ‘Still your fiancée.’

Diamond-bright eyes regarded her with distaste.

‘You’re engaged?’ Francesca demanded.

‘Yes,’ Gillan agreed with a malicious smile for Refalo.