Secret Wedding. Emma Richmond
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?’