Secret Wedding. Emma Richmond

.’

      ‘Autocratic?’ he asked helpfully.

      ‘Yes. And unkind. She needs comforting:

      ‘No, Miss Hart,’ he denied smoothly. ‘She needs leaving alone. Tell me about her.’

      ‘I don’t know anything about her! I met her five minutes before you did. She asked me if I knew you, I said yes, and that was it!’

      ‘Was it?’ he asked sceptically.

      ‘Yes.’ With an irritable twitch, she moved away, stared disagreeably at an inoffensive vase. And it’s surely understandable she muttered, if she’d only just found out, that she’d want to know if she was like you?’

      He gave a twisted smile. ‘Unlikely, seeing as I have no daughter.’

      ‘Your name’s on the birth certificate.’

      ‘Certificates can be forged.’

      ‘Yes, but surely not by her?’ she swung back to exclaim. ‘She came on impulse!’

      ‘Did she?’

      ‘You don’t believe her?’

      ‘I don’t know what I believe!’ he stated flatly.

      Don’t you? she wondered. Staring at his strong back, she eventually asked quietly, ‘Why are you so sure? I mean. . . when you were young, you could have–probably did. . . Most. . .’ Oh, shut up, Gillan. With a deep sigh, she opened out the birth certificate that Fran had thrust at her. ‘Her mother’s name is Elaine Dutton. And you are listed as the father.’

      ‘Never heard of her. When was she born?’

      ‘Fourteenth of June.’

      ‘Full term?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ she replied helplessly. ‘How would I know?’

      ‘Then let’s assume she was.’ His voice clipped, authoritative, like a lawyer, he continued, ‘That would make conception the middle of October in the previous year.’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Here?’

      ‘What?’

      ‘Here?’ he repeated. ‘On the island?’

      ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, the certificate only lists the place of birth, not conception. And, before you ask, no, I do not know how she found you, or what her mother said, thought, felt. I’m doing my best!’

      ‘Kind of you,’ he praised with humourless irony, then he turned and twitched the certificate out of her hand.

      ‘But if you’re not—’

      ‘I’m not,’ he said positively.

      ‘Then I’ll leave you to sort it out,’ she decided in exasperation. ‘Find a hotel. . . Yes,’ she insisted when he began to shake his head.

      ‘No,’ he said, his attention still fixed on the birth certificate. ‘You will stay here.’

      ‘But why?’

      ‘To keep an eye on her.’

      ‘But it isn’t any of my business,’ she protested.

      ‘Isn’t it?’ he asked, with a rather cynical smile.

      ‘No!’

      ‘Then humour me.’

      ‘Humour you?’ she practically shouted. ‘Why on earth would I want to humour you?’

      He just looked at her, waited. And she sighed and stated quietly, ‘Nerina.’

      ‘Yes. Nerina. She’s going to ring you, remember? And I will not,’ he added grimly, ‘have her hurt, worried or upset.’

      ‘And finding out that her precious big brother might have a daughter would do that, would it?’

      ‘Not “might”, Miss Hart,’ he corrected her. ‘I do not have a daughter. And I have no idea whether it would upset her or not, but I don’t intend for her to know. And you have a promotional brochure to do, don’t you?’

      ‘Do I?’ she asked wearily.

      ‘Yes. And it will need your full attention, won’t it?’

      ‘I can give it my full attention from a hotel. You could let Nerina know where I am.’

      ‘No, here; it will be easier to collaborate.’

      ‘Interfere,’ she muttered.

      ‘Collaborate,’ he insisted.

      ‘And Francesca won’t think she’s being spied on?’

      He gave a derisive little nod.

      Swinging away, frustrated, irritated, tired, she muttered, ‘I was hired—’

      ‘By my sister,’ he put in helpfully.

      ‘By your sister,’ she gritted. ‘I thought it was because I’m innovative, able to give a fresh slant—which apparently turns out to be a load of old nonsense, because she was in no position to hire me, or even invite me. And now. . . Now I’m not only your fiancee but expected to be Mother Superior to a young, frightened—’

      ‘Manipulative,’ he put in smoothly.

      ‘All right, maybe manipulative young lady. But so as she won’t suspect spying I am to pretend to be ace photographer for the Micallef Corporation.’

      ‘I thought you were an ace photographer. I’m sure Nerina told me you were.’

      ‘Shut up!’ she gritted fiercely. ‘And, ace or not, it’s a job I cannot do if I’m supposed to be supervising a fourteen-year-old girl, or if you’re continually breathing down my neck and overriding my innovations just so that you too can keep an eye on Francesca!’

      ‘I have no intention of overriding your innovations,’ he argued, in that same smooth tone which was beginning to make her feel very, very violent indeed. ‘Neither have I any intention of allowing that young lady to forge any more weapons—which I suspect she might try to do if we are alone in this villa. I cannot leave her here by herself; neither am I prepared to stay here unchaperoned. You were intending to stay for a few days anyway; very little is different.’

      ‘Except I’m to be the chaperon.’

      He inclined his head. ‘What could be more natural but for my fiancée to look after her?’ he derided. ‘And when Nerina rings you will say nothing, do nothing—’

      ‘And if you answer the phone? Won’t she be surprised to find you here?’

      He stared at her, for ever, a very thoughtful look in his eyes. ‘No,’ he denied eventually, ‘she won’t be in the least surprised.’ Indicating the other piece of paper that she was holding, he waited, hand outstretched.

      With an irritated gesture she thrust it at him. ‘Why won’t she be?’

      ‘Ask her.’

      With a snort of frustration, she demanded, ‘And Francesca? What are you going to do about her?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘She really does think she’s your daughter.’

      ‘But at whose instigation?’

      ‘No one’s! She just wanted to know if she was like you!’

      ‘So you keep saying, but repetition won’t make it true. I don’t have a child.’

      ‘She isn’t a child! And if you value your skin, don’t for goodness’ sake call her one.’

      ‘Value my skin?’ he queried slowly as he folded the papers and put them in his pocket. ‘Surely the boot is on the other foot?’

      ‘But