Emma Richmond - Secret Wedding

‘You never said!’ she accused.

‘You didn’t ask,’ Gillan pointed out gently.

‘I thought you were with me!’

‘I am. Was.’

‘Get in the car,’ Refalo ordered Francesca, and with a minuscule shrug she did as she was told. Shutting the door on her, he turned back to Gillan. ‘With her?’ he asked nastily. ‘In what capacity? Keeper? Minder? Hanger-on?’

A hint of warning in her tone, Gillan said softly, ‘With her by accident—coincidence. We’ve only just met. Are barely acquainted. And I—’

‘But you’d like the acquaintance to continue?’ he interrupted with brutal interest. ‘Expect a share in the goodies?’

‘No, I—’

‘Think yourself lucky I don’t prosecute you for abetting a minor,’ he interrupted dismissively. Picking up Francesca’s bag, he slung it inside, climbed behind the wheel, closed the door and accelerated away. He swerved round a coach, actually made it to the road that led up and away from the port, slammed to a halt, and expertly reversed back to where Gillan was still standing. The passenger door was flung open. ‘Get in.’

Gillan got. ‘She told you we’d only just met?’

‘Yes,’ he agreed tersely.

‘And do I get an apology?’

‘No.’

With a shrug that Francesca might have been proud of, lips slightly pursed, she placed her camera bag carefully on the floor, rested her case on her knees, and reproved him, too quietly for Francesca to hear, ‘“Judge not that ye be not judged.”’

He turned briefly towards her, stared into grey eyes, and stated flatly, ‘Any judgement made on me would be received without fear. I doubt the same could be said of you.’

‘Then you would be wrong. I know very little more than I heard at the port.’

His voice as low as hers, he demanded contemptuously, ‘But you’d like to know more? Make a nice little article for the gutter press, wouldn’t it?’

‘I don’t work for the gutter press. I’m a freelance photographer, as you very well know.’

‘And in my view anyone in the media will sell their soul for an exclusive whether they be photographer or writer. And wasn’t it so very convenient for you both to turn up on the same day? On the same ferry?’

‘Coincidence,’ Gillan said quietly.

‘Was it? Or very carefully planned?’

‘Don’t be absurd.’ Turning, she stared back at Fran. ‘Are you all right?’

‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ she demanded defiantly.

I don’t know, she wanted to say; I don’t know anything about what’s going on. Yet dramas seemed to follow her around like lost sheep. She’d lost count of the number of bizarre incidents that littered her life. Not that this was bizarre, she supposed, but it was certainly a drama.

Turning back to the front, she stared thoughtfully ahead. She gazed absently at the dusty track, the impressive church that stood above the small harbour, and considered asking about it. She changed her mind. She could, no doubt, get a guidebook. At the moment, she had rather more on her mind than architecture.

Moving slightly, she watched him from the corner of her eye as he set the car moving again. She didn’t know him very well, didn’t know him at all in fact, only had second-hand information gleaned from his sister and her own judgement based on their brief meeting on Malta. But, surely, to have a daughter you didn’t know you had suddenly turn up out of the blue in front of someone you thoroughly dislike should produce some reaction?

Yet nothing showed on that face, just bland indifference. He must be a damned good actor, she thought disagreeably; no one could be that uncaring. Could they? Was there a very large crack hidden behind that smooth façade? Or did he really accept the turning-up of unknown daughters as though it were commonplace? Perhaps it was commonplace.

With a gentle sigh, she continued to watch him, tried to find something—human. The mouth was firm—not tight, not angry—the nose dominant, the eyes unwavering. An extraordinarily attractive man—and one who’d obviously had a devastating impact on Francesca’s mother.

Or had he? Alarm she could have understood, or confusion—even anger—but he was behaving as though young women turned up on his doorstep with alarming regularity and he was really rather tired of the parade. Was it because he was a millionaire and this sort of thing was to be expected? Or because he’d sown a great many wild oats?

Her mind crowded with questions, she turned back to the view. This was an island of fishermen and farmers, she remembered absently as she gazed out at the terraced fields, the small dusty villages and always, in the distance, the azure sea—and he was hurtling the little car around as though he were on a racetrack.

So why didn’t his manner echo his driving? Weird. Seriously weird. But Fran’s aggression could now be accounted for, couldn’t it? Frightened at meeting her father, unsure of the reception she was going to get, she’d come out fighting.

Aware of the glance he flicked her, Gillan turned to face him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised quietly. ‘An outsider is the last thing you need at this moment.’

He didn’t answer, merely returned his attention to the road, and her aggravation with him returned.

. They were nearing the coast again, she saw, and then gave a little cry of delight as they drove above a small inlet.

‘Xlendi,’ he explained shortly.

She contemplated thanking him for the terse information, then changed her mind; it would probably sound sarcastic, and putting his back up further did not seem like a good idea. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she praised instead.

He didn’t answer, merely turned right onto a dusty track, without changing down, and drew up in front of a small white villa. There was no front garden as there would have been in England, just a paved area and a tub of mixed flowers to one side of the front door. He climbed from the car, wrenched open the front and rear doors, and ordered distastefully, ‘Inside. Both of you.’

‘You don’t need me!’ Gillan exclaimed hastily, and he stared her into silence.

‘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!’