Secret Wedding. Emma Richmond

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      ‘You don’t look like. . .’ she began haltingly as he climbed in beside her. ‘I mean, Nerina said. . .’ Nerina had said—implied—that her brother was old, and he wasn’t. With a helplessly negative little shake of her head, she tried to absorb the fact that this devastating man was Nerina’s brother—and couldn’t.

      Reading dislike in his brief glance, distaste in his manner, she frowned. ‘I’m sorry the plane was late,’ she apologised quietly. ‘Baggage-handlers’ strike.’

      ‘I know,’ he said briefly.

      Omniscient as well as devastating. Wow. A slight edge creeping into her tone, she persevered, ‘Had you been waiting long?’

      ‘No.’

      Oh, goody, she thought, and felt the absurd prickle of tears behind her eyes. Tiredness, she assured herself; that was all it was. Reactions, perceptions were all shot to pieces in the early hours of the morning. Well-known fact. Everyone knew that. And she was tired. She’d had a punishing work schedule—a week of getting up early, going to bed late. All she had wanted was to go home.

      But Nerina had begged her to come for a few days, said she was needed. And because Nerina was so very hard to say no to, she had agreed. She had been promised peace and quiet, a few days to unwind. Unwind? With this man on the scene? But perhaps he wouldn’t be on the scene, perhaps had only agreed to pick her up? Obviously reluctantly.

      Feeling jaded and weary, nerves jangled, muscles tight, she glanced at him, at a stem profile, at a cheek that invited touch. Refalo Micallef. Founder of the Micallef Corporation. Hotelier and tourist-boat operator—which included running a fully-rigged schooner and a submarine for underwater safaris. He also ran a diving school. And he’d started with just one fishing boat inherited from his father. Impressive. But his sister had never told her of the impact he had on women.

      With a sour smile, she asked quietly, ‘How is she?’

      ‘Nerina? Fine.’

      ‘The last blood count?’

      ‘Normal.’

      ‘No sign of rogue cells?’

      ‘No. They’re cautiously optimistic that the leukaemia won’t return.’

      ‘Good. She’s in bed?’

      ‘Bed? No. Sicily.’

      ‘Sicily?’ she exclaimed in astonishment. ‘What on earth is she doing in Sicily?’

      He hitched one shoulder in a minuscule shrug. A very irritating shrug.

      Striving for patience, she persisted. ‘She invited me to stay for a few days and now she’s in Sicily?’

      ‘Yes,’ he agreed, as though his mind was not fully on what was being said.

      Great. Nerina had gone away and left him holding the—baby? Was that what this was all about? Furious with his sister, he was now furious with her for coming? ‘I’d better find a hotel. . .’ she began wearily.

      His laugh was—discordant. Why?

      ‘I know her offer was impulsive. . .’ she began—and impulse should be genetically removed at birth, she thought disgustedly. ‘You didn’t know I was coming?’ she guessed. ‘Didn’t want me to come?’

      ‘No,’ he agreed quietly.

      Deflated, she gave a muffled sigh. ‘And brevity is your middle name is it?’ He merely glanced at her, his expression unreadable. ‘Did she say when she would be back?’

      ‘A few days—three at the most.’

      And did she send an apology? Gillan wondered tartly. Say she was very sorry for putting her in this position, with a brother who didn’t want her here? ‘I’ll find a hotel. . .or go home.’

      ‘No.’

      No? Because Nerina wanted her here? And Nerina must not be upset? ‘When did she go?’

      ‘This morning. Yesterday morning,’ he corrected himself in that same, quiet, flat voice. ‘Because, of course, it’s now tomorrow.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Your command of the English language seems a little diffident,’ he observed with suspect dryness.

      ‘What? Yes,’ she agreed as she reflected on half-finished sentences, daft questions—because of tiredness, confusion, because of you, she wanted to add, and didn’t, because, of course, he knew that. He’d told her not five minutes ago of the impact he had on women. He must surely, therefore, know that he had the power to rob them of thought, of intelligence.

      Aggravated, irritated, she leaned back, stared out at the dark sky, at old buildings that looked ghostly by moonlight. Rough roads, open spaces, small towns. She felt the silence in the car to be oppressive as they drove towards Valletta. It had been named for Grand Master Jean de la Vallette, Gillan remembered, and although Malta’s history was rich and varied it was mostly associated with the Knights of St John, and the islanders’ courage in World War II.

      And she shouldn’t have come. She had known that, but Nerina’s insistence was so very hard to counter. So why wasn’t she here? Why rush off to Sicily the moment Gillan was due to arrive?

      The car stopped, but it wasn’t until he switched off the ignition that she blinked, turned to look at him.

      ‘I can’t take the car any further,’ he said quietly—mockingly? ‘It’s only a short walk.’

      ‘Oh, right.’

      ‘Welcome to Malta,’ he offered belatedly.

      ‘Thank you,’ she murmured with the same offhandedness.

      His smile showed faint in the moonlight, but she couldn’t see if it was echoed in his eyes.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ she offered again, even more helplessly, and hated herself for sounding so meek.

      He nodded, unlatched his door and climbed out. Oh, Nerina, Gillan thought despairingly, why are you doing this to me? I’m tired. I don’t need this hassle, even if your brother does look like a Greek god. Or a Maltese one. Did the Maltese have ancient gods? She didn’t know.

      The stars, the moon, the echo of their footsteps brought an intimacy that was laughable as they walked through the quiet streets overhung by intricately wrought balconies. Clumsy on the cobbles beneath her feet, feeling divorced from reality, she felt foolish when he halted and she didn’t.

      ‘Miss Hart. . .’

      Turning, she blinked, gave a rueful grimace, and walked back. ‘Sorry. Daydreaming.’

      ‘Yes.’ Opening the door of the tall, narrow house, he ushered her inside. The clock was just striking four. ‘Is there anything you’d like before I show you to your room?’

      Punctiliously polite. She wondered what his reaction would be if she asked for a three-course meal, СКАЧАТЬ