Secret Wedding

“I’ve just been congratulated,” Refalo drawled About the Author Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE EPILOGUE Copyright

“I’ve just been congratulated,” Refalo drawled

“Have you?” Gillan queried weakly. “On what?”

“My engagement.”

“Oh. That’s nice...isn’t it?”

He shook his head.

“Why? You don’t want to be engaged?”

“No.”

“Then break it off.”

He smiled. “You don’t wish to know who I’m engaged to?”

“No. Why would I want to know? I won’t know her, will I?”

“Won’t you?”

Eyes wide, wary, she croaked, “Who are you engaged to?”

The smile became sharklike. “You.”

Emma Richmond was born during the war in north Kent in England when, she says, “Farms were the norm and motorways nonexistent. My childhood was one of warmth and adventure. Amiable and disorganized, I’m married with three daughters, all of whom have fled the nest—probably out of exasperation! The dog stayed, reluctantly. I’m an avid reader, a compulsive writer and a besotted new granny. I love life and my world of dreams, and all I need to make things complete is a housekeeper—like, yesterday!”

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

NEVER again, Gillan thought, will I travel on a tourist flight. When I’m rich, I’ll always travel by private jet. Not that she was ever likely to be rich, but it was nice to dream. Of average height, brown hair layered short for convenience, Gillan was extraordinarily attractive, with a strong, humorous face, wide grey eyes and a quizzical smile.

She mingled with the rich and famous, but would never grace the fashion magazines that she took photographs for. Not tall enough for elegance, too busy for sophistication, she looked what she was—an amiable, hardworking young woman.

Casually dressed in beige cotton trousers and matching workshirt, she was comfortable and at ease. Rarely intimidated, rarely cross—although, at the moment, abominably weary—she gave a tired smile, and squirmed through the crush at the carousel.

Hitching her camera bag more securely onto her shoulder, she grabbed her suitcase, wrestled it onto the trolley, and thankfully made her way out of the baggage area. A tired official waved her through, and, making a superhuman effort to keep her trolley straight, she trundled behind the other weary passengers towards the pick-up point.

As she scanned the waiting faces for a sight of Nerina the impact of cobalt-blue eyes slammed into her like a physical shock, hitched her breath in her throat. He was the most devastating man she thought she had ever seen. Power, was her first conscious thought, Confidence, her second. Tall, dark-haired, distant. A man conscious of his own worth. And she yearned to reach for her camera, capture that image for all time.

He didn’t move or look away, merely continued to watch her, an expression of aloof superiority on his face. Aeons passed before she managed to wrench her eyes away, unglue her feet. Feeling a fool, she gave a wry smile, moved on. Nerina must be here somewhere, and she would have laughed like a drain if she could have seen Gillan’s uncharacteristic behaviour. So would she have done, normally—would have given her quirky smile, waved a hand in apology—but it had been somehow rather difficult to behave normally when confronted by that hypnotic stare.

‘Miss Hart?’ The voice was deep, flat-sounding—the sort of voice that carefully didn’t say all that was being thought. And it was the sort of question that dared you to answer in the negative—and she knew. Knew it would be him.

With an odd, sliding, peculiar feeling in her tummy, she slowly turned, stared up into mesmerising blue eyes.

‘Refalo,’ he stated briefly.

‘Pardon?’

‘Nerina’s brother.’

‘Nerina’s brother?’ she exclaimed in shock. ‘You can’t be!’ This man didn’t look like anyone’s brother! This man looked like somebody’s lover. Her disbelief bordering on panic, she just stared at him.

A small, rather cynical smile playing about his mouth, he queried mildly. ‘Nerina didn’t tell you of the devastating impact I have on the opposite sex?’

‘What?’ she demanded weakly.

‘But you’re quite safe,’ he continued smoothly. ‘I prefer my women with long hair. Shall we go?’ Without waiting for an answer, he took charge of the trolley and walked off.

Quite safe? Bemused, confused, she hurried to catch him up, opened her mouth to say—something, and closed it again. He’d probably been joking. Jokes when you were tired invariably fell flat, didn’t they? And he must be tired, as she was, if he’d been waiting to meet a plane that was impossibly late.

Aware only of his strong back as she dazedly followed him, feeling isolated in space and time, she fought to pull herself together, gave a distracted smile as he halted beside a small black car and transferred her luggage to the boot. They both reached for the passenger door-handle at the same time, and she drew back as though burned. Her hand still tingling from that brief contact, ears still attuned to the hissing snatch of her own breath, she climbed shakily into the passenger seat.

‘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, then gave a humourless laugh. He’d probably arrange for one to be delivered. All in that very polite, flat voice, of course. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Just to sleep.’

Without answering, he led the way upstairs and along to a room, put her belongings tidily inside. ‘I hope you’ll be comfortable.’

‘I’m sure I shall.’

‘Your bathroom is through there,’ he added, with a nod towards a door recessed beside the wardrobe. ‘Goodnight.’

‘Goodnight,’ she whispered, but he’d already gone. Slumping down on the side of the bed, she stared blankly at nothing, felt her eyelids droop, and roused herself to go and wash, slip into her nightie and climb thankfully between the sheets. Things would look better when she’d had a sleep. Tiredness had heightened her senses, interpreted things wrongly—that’s all it was.

But it wasn’t, because she was woken with a start at seven-thirty by what sounded like the clattering of tin cans. And she had no more clarity of thought than three and a half hours previously. Hands behind her head, she lay for a moment in the beautiful bedroom and tried to understand something she had laughed about in others. Instant impact, instant attraction—to a man who was so arrogantly sure of himself—it was frightening.

Another few hours’ sleep would have been nice, she thought ruefully, but if she didn’t get up, would that be another black mark against her?

Reluctant to face him, she nevertheless showered and dressed in comfortable long shorts and a T-shirt. Her cap of hair still damp, she made her way downstairs. It was a beautiful house—small, and interesting. She vaguely remembered Nerina saying that her brother had bought two houses that backed onto each other. Two front doors, she had laughed, two different addresses.

Searching for the dining room, she entered a short, glassed-in walkway, creating one side of a quadrangle, she saw, and encompassing what, in England, would have been the back garden—or two back gardens, if it was indeed two houses back to back. A tree, a fountain and a lounger casually abandoned on the flagstones. The patch of sky she could see was a bright, unclouded blue.

Hearing the soft pad of footsteps behind her, she tensed, slowly turned, felt the same alarming sensations as earlier.

‘Breakfast is this way,’ he informed her quietly.

With searching eyes that were kept carefully empty, a face that showed no emotion, she nodded and followed him to the dining room. Coffee and warm rolls had been set out for her.

‘Across the passage. We’ll talk when you’ve eaten.’ He left as quietly as he’d arrived.

Talk about what? The rules of the house? Letting out a breath which she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding, she poured her coffee, eased her dry throat. He was a man who jangled nerves, reproved with a look, made her feel tense and defensive, babble apologies for deeds not even recognised. The sort of man she had never encountered before. The same aura of authority clung to him this morning as it had the night before, and she wanted to go home.

Two cups of coffee and a massacred roll later, she stood, tried for composure, and walked into the room across the passage. He was standing at the window, staring out. A man of enormous power.

He looked as though he’d been out caulking a hull or something. Cream trousers with what looked like a tar stain across one knee, dark blue workshirt, cuffs rolled back to reveal powerful forearms, long-fingered hands, broad shoulders and a well-muscled back, as though he were no stranger to manual labour. A strong neck, an even stronger chin. Stubborn and forthright uncompromising. But then you would have to be uncompromising to amass the fortune that Nerina said he’d amassed.

Well, Gillan hadn’t amassed a fortune, but she could be pretty uncompromising when she chose, especially where her own identity was concerned, and that was what she must think of. Her own identity. All else was folly.

‘Shall we clear the decks?’ she asked, with a brightness that rang false even to herself.

He made a small movement, then turned. Folding his arms across his chest, he stared at her, his blue eyes direct. ‘By all means. I’m certainly an advocate of plain speaking.’

‘Very well. Nerina lives with you?’

He gave a small nod.

‘And she invited me without your consent?’

‘Without my knowledge,’ he corrected her.

‘So I gathered, and yet she said. . .’

‘Yes?’ he invited, that small, cynical smile playing about his mouth. ‘She said. . .?’

Ignoring his query, a speculative frown in her eyes, she murmured, ‘And she only told you minutes before disappearing off to Sicily?’

He nodded.

‘Why?’ she wondered musingly. ‘She didn’t say it would be your house I would be staying in—didn’t say very much about you at all, except that you valued your privacy, went. . .’ Went your own way, she mentally completed as she remembered what else Nerina had said. And she could believe that; he looked the sort of man who thought his way was the only way.

With a bewildered little shake of her head, she continued, ‘She certainly didn’t say you wouldn’t want me here. In fact, she intimated that you would welcome me with open arms!’ With a small, very unamused smile, she added, ‘But the arms weren’t open, were they?’

‘No.’

‘So why, knowing what your reaction would be, did she invite me?’

‘You really don’t know?’

Puzzled, searching a face that gave nothing away, she shook her head.

‘Then you had best ask her, hadn’t you?’ he suggested smoothly. ‘When she rings you, as no doubt she will.’

‘But I won’t be here, will I?’ she argued, in tones that were creepingly derisive.

‘Won’t you?’

‘No, I’ll be on the next flight out. Going home.’

‘And who will tell Nerina?’ he asked somewhat drily.

‘You will.’

‘No,’ he denied, and his voice was soft, magnetic.

‘But you don’t want me here—have made it abundantly clear how you feel.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed bluntly. No hesitation, no concern for offended sensibilities, and she gave a twisted smile, hastily moved her eyes away from a mouth that was—seductive.

‘And I certainly don’t wish to stay in a house where I’m not wanted.’ With another brief laugh, she murmured, ‘She invited me for a little holiday, said—’

‘Then you must certainly have a little holiday,’ he said in tones that dripped honey. ‘On Gozo.’

‘What?’

‘Gozo. Malta’s sister island.’

‘I know what Gozo is! I just meant—’

‘That you didn’t want to go?’ So at ease, so in control, he walked across to the roll-top desk in the comer. ‘I’ll write down the address for you. We have a small villa in Xlendi.’

Following him, being careful not to stand too close, accidentally touch him, feeling helpless and frustrated, she watched him write. “‘Shlendi”?’ she queried. ‘That’s how you pronounce it?’

‘Mmm. Many of the names are of Semitic origin. Pronunciation could be a problem for you—’

‘If I was here long enough,’ she interrupted sweetly. ‘Which, of course, I won’t be.’

‘No.’

With a little glance of dislike—never mind the impact he had on her, he certainly wasn’t a man she could like—she stared at a stack of photographs to one side, idly reached for the top one. ‘What are these?’

‘Photographs for the promotional brochure—and do you normally examine other people’s belongings uninvited?’

‘No,’ she denied, ‘but I’m a photographer, and—’

‘Nerina invited you to take some for the brochure.’

‘Yes. She said you needed a photographer—which you obviously do,’ she added as she looked at them more closely, gave a disparaging grimace. ‘Who took these?’

‘Unimportant.’

Ignoring his dismissive tone, she fanned the photographs out with one quick sweep of her hand. ‘They look like someone’s holiday snaps. Boring. Predictable. You want to be different, innovative.’

‘Do I?’

‘Yes.’

Conscious of his nearness, the steady rise and fall of his chest, she focused desperately on the snaps. ‘You don’t just want to attract tourists, you want to live up to their expactations when they do come; you want—’

‘A promotional brochure,’ he completed for her.

Borrowing a shrug; she continued to separate the photographs and criticised, ‘A schooner, a submarine.’

‘It’s what we do, Miss Hart.’

‘I know, but you need to make it different, enticing, exciting—’

‘Submarines aren’t exciting,’ he contradicted her coolly. ‘They submerge. And we aren’t candidates for the Pulitzer Prize. We aren’t entering them in National Geographic. . .’

‘I didn’t say you were. All I’m saying is that these are—’

‘Boring. Yes, you said.’

‘And that you should get yourself a decent photographer,’ she concluded through her teeth.

‘You?’ he asked softly.

‘Me? After your comments, your behaviour? No.’

And the cynical smile was back. Handing her the piece of paper with the address of the villa on Gozo, he edged her to one side, began to gather up the snaps.

‘Why did you have them taken? To obviate the need for me to stay?’

He glanced at her, straightened, continued to square the photographs off in his strong hands. ‘I didn’t know you were coming, remember? And even if I had, as an attempt to make you leave it would have been a signal failure, wouldn’t it?’ he asked with a touch of dryness. ‘Because you seem to be staying. And so you get your wish. You may take the photographs. Of Gozo.’

‘Quickly?’ she put in, with a dryness to match his own.

He gave a slow nod, a glint of amusement in his eyes. A very appealing glint. ‘If I like them, I will use them. If I don’t. . .’

She shook her head. ‘Any snaps I take will be purely for the family album.’

‘Sour grapes, Miss Hart? Not very professional.’

Eyes narrowed, she observed softly, ‘You’re a man very easy to dislike, Mr Micallef.’

‘Refalo,’ he substituted mockingly.

‘Mr Micallef,’ she argued. ‘Friends use first names, and we aren’t going to be friends, are we? But I did not know that Nerina had hired me without your knowledge.’

‘Didn’t you?’ he derided. ‘Didn’t know that Nerina wasn’t in a position to hire anyone?’

‘No. I assumed you must have asked her to ask me.’ She might be attracted to him, affected by him, but it was getting a little tiring, always being on the receiving end. Her feelings were purely sensual, not at all based on knowledge of what he was like as a person. To date, that person had been thoroughly dislikable. ‘And, all things considered,’ she murmured, managing at least to hold his diamond-bright gaze, ‘which, of course, include your distrust and dislike, I think it would be best if I went home. Thank you for your—hospitality.’

He gave her a considering look. ‘Go to Gozo,’ he ordered softly.

‘Because your sister will give you grief if I don’t?’

‘Perhaps.’

‘Being as paranoid about your privacy as you are, aren’t you afraid that I will discuss your affairs, talk about you?’

‘Afraid? No, I’m not afraid, because I doubt you will find anyone on Gozo to talk to me about,’ he said drily. ‘And I’m not in the least paranoid. However, if it bothers you, you could always sign an affidavit swearing confidentiality.’

‘I could,’ she agreed. ‘Being Nerina’s friend doesn’t make me honest, does it?’

‘No, and if you weren’t, would signing a piece of paper deter you? And even if it did, do you think Nerina would forgive such arrogance? Your word will be sufficient, Miss Hart.’

“Then you have it. I swear on pain of death not to talk about the Micallef Corporation,’ she murmured with marginal sarcasm, ‘either now or in the future. I swear not to discuss your private concerns in public. I swear. . .’

A slow, bland smile stretched his mouth, and she cursed the warmth she knew flooded her cheeks.

‘Go take your photographs, Miss Hart.’

Feeling impotent—a feeling she wasn’t in the least used to—she continued to stare at him. ‘And if I do? You don’t intend to interfere?’

‘The word is “collaborate”,’ he argued smoothly. ‘And no, I’m sure you work better alone—don’t you?’