Or had he? Alarm she could have understood, or confusion—even anger—but he was behaving as though young women turned up on his doorstep with alarming regularity and he was really rather tired of the parade. Was it because he was a millionaire and this sort of thing was to be expected? Or because he’d sown a great many wild oats?
Her mind crowded with questions, she turned back to the view. This was an island of fishermen and farmers, she remembered absently as she gazed out at the terraced fields, the small dusty villages and always, in the distance, the azure sea—and he was hurtling the little car around as though he were on a racetrack.
So why didn’t his manner echo his driving? Weird. Seriously weird. But Fran’s aggression could now be accounted for, couldn’t it? Frightened at meeting her father, unsure of the reception she was going to get, she’d come out fighting.
Aware of the glance he flicked her, Gillan turned to face him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she apologised quietly. ‘An outsider is the last thing you need at this moment.’
He didn’t answer, merely returned his attention to the road, and her aggravation with him returned.
. They were nearing the coast again, she saw, and then gave a little cry of delight as they drove above a small inlet.
‘Xlendi,’ he explained shortly.
She contemplated thanking him for the terse information, then changed her mind; it would probably sound sarcastic, and putting his back up further did not seem like a good idea. ‘It’s beautiful,’ she praised instead.
He didn’t answer, merely turned right onto a dusty track, without changing down, and drew up in front of a small white villa. There was no front garden as there would have been in England, just a paved area and a tub of mixed flowers to one side of the front door. He climbed from the car, wrenched open the front and rear doors, and ordered distastefully, ‘Inside. Both of you.’
‘You don’t need me!’ Gillan exclaimed hastily, and he stared her into silence.
‘I said,’ he stated quietly, ‘Both of you.’ Without waiting to see if they complied, he strode up the short path and flung open the front door.
Fran marched inside, and Gillan reluctantly followed. It was blessedly cool and clean, but almost stark—not the sort of house she would have expected a millionaire to have. Perhaps Gozitans did it differently, didn’t flaunt their wealth, show off.
As she blinked to accustom her eyes to the dimness Refalo closed the door behind her, brushed past and halted beside an entry on the left. ‘In here.’
It was a long room full of clean, bright colours-whites, greens and blues—soothing and cool, if it hadn’t been for the man waiting to interrogate them. Turning back, she stared at him, waited.
He moved his eyes to a defiant Francesca. ‘Begin,’ he ordered with supreme detachment. ‘How old are you?’
‘Fourteen,’ she muttered.
‘And who put you up to this?’
‘No one!’
‘Then how much do you want?’
‘Oh, isn’t that just typical?’ Fran exclaimed disgustedly. ‘Why does everyone always assume I want something! I came to see what you were like!’
‘Angry is what I’m like,’ he retorted flatly. ‘And not fool enough to be taken in by some foolish little girl who thinks I might be a passport to wealth.’
‘I’m not foolish and I don’t want your wealth. You’re my father,’ she insisted stubbornly. ‘Your name is on my birth certificate.’
‘I don’t care if my name is tattooed on your bottom. I do not have a daughter.’
‘How do you know? I bet you’ve slept with hundreds of women!’
There was a nasty little silence, and Gillan leapt hastily into the breach. ‘How long have you known?’ she asked quietly.
‘A week,’ Francesca muttered.
‘A week?’ Gillan exclaimed in astonishment. ‘And you just decided on the spur of the moment to come and visit him?’
‘Be quiet,’ Refalo ordered.
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘You dragged me into this!’ Turning back to Fran, unaware of Refalo’s narrowed stare, she continued, ‘You didn’t write, explain?’
She shrugged, wound a long piece of hair round her finger. ‘He’s my father, isn’t he? It is allowed to go and see your father, isn’t it?’ she asked bitterly.
‘If he is your father,’ Refalo put in, and Gillan gave him a look of irritation. His attitude wasn’t helping anybody.
‘And are you sure?’ she asked gently. ‘Really positive?’
‘Yes!’ Fran hissed. Rummaging in the pocket of her jeans, she withdrew a grubby envelope and thrust it at Gillan.
Slowly opening it, she unfolded the girl’s birth certificate, stared at the name of the father, sighed, folded it and opened out the newspaper clipping that was with it. A grainy picture of Refalo stared back. The wording of the article had been raggedly torn away, so she had no idea what it might have said, or why his picture might have been in a newspaper.
‘I showed it to Mother,’ Francesca muttered. ‘She said it was him.’
‘Said I was your father?’ Refalo queried interestedly.
‘Yes.’
‘Go on.’
‘Go on with what? I found my birth certificate in a drawer!’
‘And you asked her?’
‘Of course I bloody asked her!’
‘Don’t swear,’ he reproved her automatically. Ignoring the mutinous look, he continued, ‘And what did she say?’
‘That she hadn’t told you! That she hadn’t loved you! That I was none of your business! Well, I am!’ she stated, giving him a defiant look, ‘And I wanted to know what you were like. If I was like you. She had no right not to tell me. To let me think I was Tom’s. I hate Tom!’
Her voice cracking, she swung away, kicked frustratedly at a small table. ‘And now they’re having their own baby! “This for the baby,”’ she mimicked bitterly, ‘“that for the baby. Oh, won’t it be nice, Francesca—a little baby brother or sister?” I hate them!’ she added vehemently. “‘Send Francesca back to boarding school,’ ” she continued angrily. “‘Baby can have her room. . .”’
‘Ah, no,’ Gillan said gently as she put a comforting arm round her, ‘I don’t believe that.’
Shrugging off the arm, Fran glared at her. ‘What do you know? I hate boarding school!’
‘So you ran away?’
‘Well, wouldn’t you?’
‘You’re fourteen, Fran–’
‘Don’t tell me how old I am!’ she burst out fiercely. Her mouth a tight line, fury in her eyes, she added, ‘And I don’t know why you had to come! It has nothing to do with you!’ With a little sob, she ran out, leaving an echoing silence behind her.
‘Oh, God!’ Gillan exclaimed softly. ‘Poor little girl. I’d better go after her.’
‘No,’ Refalo said quietly as he walked across to the front window and stared out. ‘Leave her be.’
‘Don’t be so callous!’ she reproved him angrily. ‘She—’
‘I said,’ he repeated, with the air of one who expected to be obeyed and usually was, ‘Leave her be. She’s