“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!”
Secret Wedding
Emma Richmond
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,