Secret Wedding. Emma Richmond
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.
‘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