Secret Wedding. Emma Richmond

      CHAPTER TWO

      ‘ME?’ Gillan squeaked. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! I’ve never been engaged in my life!’

      ‘No,’ he agreed smoothly.

      ‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’ she demanded as she fetched up rather painfully against the desk.

      ‘That you’re desperate?’ he queried, in tones that might have made a mass murderer think twice.

      ‘Desperate? For you? Are you mad? I don’t even like you!’

      ‘Like?’ he repeated. ‘I don’t think like was ever mentioned.’

      Eyes wide, wary, she put out her hands in a wardingoff gesture. ‘Now look here. . .’

      ‘Yes?’ he asked helpfully as he moved her hands aside and stood very, very close in front of her.

      With nowhere for her hands to go, she bunched them at her sides. ‘You think I had something to do with this? That I started a rumour about engagements?’

      ‘Didn’t you?’

      ‘No! I came for a holiday!’ she said stupidly, as though it were a mantra that would ward off evil. ‘And why on earth would I want to be engaged to someone I’d never even met?’

      ‘Why indeed?’ Searching her face, he finally gave a small nod. ‘Very well. Unless proven otherwise, I will accept your word.’

      ‘Kind of you,’ she derided shakily. ‘And who said we were engaged?’

      ‘Someone,’ he murmured unhelpfully. Turning away, he ordered over his shoulder, ‘Go to Gozo.’

      ‘Gozo? Now? After this?’

      Halting, he turned, face impassive. ‘Certainly after this. And if anyone asks you will not deny it.’

      Braver now that he wasn’t standing so close, she demanded, ‘Why won’t I?’

      ‘Because I said so.’

      ‘And your word is law?’

      He smiled again. ‘Believe it, Miss Hart,’ he said softly. ‘Believe it.’ Walking out, he closed the door quietly behind him.

      With a creaky sigh, as though the breath had been trapped in her lungs for too long, she braced her hands on the desk for support and perched weakly. Engaged? To him? Dear God. What sort of a joke was that? And why mustn’t she deny it? He couldn’t want to be engaged to her, for goodness’ sake!

      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