Page 2 of Lela's Choice

“Giovanni Vella is my father. I love him. We share a big house with my niece and Papa’s sister. There’s always contact.” She dimpled through her exhaustion, her smile devastating in its charm. Her response was a succinct summary but not quite the truth. Giovanni Vella might be the devil or a saint for all the inflection in her voice, and Hamish was no clearer on whether she’d cooperate in his search. “Tell me what Papa’s asked you to do.”

“Apart from working with you?” he asked. A frown marred her smooth brow, giving Hamish a clue. “You really weren’t expecting me? Here? Now?”

“Not so soon. But here you are.”

“How about I buy you a coffee, talk about what we each expected?” Hamish binned all the assumptions he’d made so far.

She nodded.

He took charge of her suitcase and headed out of the stream of people towards a nearby café.

Thera-ta-tatof her heels hitting the marble tiles of the concourse close behind beat out a message clearer than Morse code, even before she spoke. “I’m agreeing to a conversation. That’s all.”

* * *

LELA FOLLOWED HIM,her reactions slowed more by the memory of the searing heat in his jade green eyes when they’d first met hers than by jet lag. A heat fierce enough to spark flames. Relaxing shoulder and neck muscles bunched tight by his shocking scrutiny required conscious effort. She’d never experienced such raw need in a gaze, and the speed with which he’d dropped his ridiculously long lashes to hide his thoughts told her his reaction disturbed him as much as her.

She could almost believe she’d imagined it. An intensity at odds with the firm, dry touch of his hand when he’d taken charge of her luggage. She still hadn’t explained her name—CarmenLelaVella—but she’d used Lela since she was eleven years old. Calling her Carmen made him her father’s man. His joke about Carmen Miranda—an actress who’d died decades ago—made him sound more boomer than the mid-thirties he looked. Would he have the slightest clue how to relate to teenage runaways?

Sophie’s run away.

Approximately two and a half days, fifty-seven hours ago—Lela had lost track of minutes—, her motherless niece had run from their home in Sydney to Malta. Without warning. Except Papa had checked Sophie’s bank statement and discovered the flight. Papa was within his rights as Sophie’s guardian, but how had he known to look on the very day Sophie disappeared? He’d checked on Sophie’s boyfriend’s whereabouts too.

Finding Hamish MacGregor waiting added to Lela’s sense of being disconnected from reality.

She’d taken the first available flight out of Sydney. On the first leg of the journey, she’d focused on actions to keep the fear at bay, making lists of everything she needed to do. Then she’d used the brief stopover to call in favours and get the name of an agency that might help her in Malta.

With her plans made, the final leg had been filled with apologetic emails to her office and fruitless what-ifs about why Sophie hadn’t confided in her, why Sophie had run away with a boyfriend of a few months, leaving no explanation.Pregnant?Lela’s heart simply stopped whenever her mind strayed in that direction.

Papa had said he’d hire investigators. Lela had asked him to wait, so she hadn’t anticipated this booby trap.

Hamish MacGregor—Why does your name seem familiar?

She’d pleaded for forty-eight hours to manage her own search. A significant number considering Sophie had disappeared for forty-eight hours nearly six years ago. Papa’s investigator then had had few scruples and zero understanding of the sensitivities of an eleven-year-old girl.

But like then, Papa wasn’t giving her a moment alone in Malta. Why? Another question to add to her list.

Lela had one priority: find her niece and discover why she’d run.

Her father’s emissary placed coffees and a few sachets of sugar on the table. “I thought you’d be gone.” His presence was a brutal setback, but it didn’t excuse her behaving like a bad-tempered shrew. While she mistrusted his intent, it didn’t pay to alienate him. He might even be useful to her.

Just not tonight.

“I said I’d wait.” Keeping her word was a non-negotiable legacy from her mother, earning her both friends and enemies. “Thank you.” She picked up the cup and took a sip. A quick coffee, a few questions, then a blessed escape to her hotel. “That helps.” Silence, a comfortable bed, with a few hours sleep, if she was lucky, and she’d face whatever MacGregor and Papa had to throw at her.

“How long have you been on the move?” He ripped the top of a sugar sachet open and upended it into his coffee.

“About thirty hours with stopovers. The deviation to Cyprus was a surprise.”

He considered her, slowly stirring his coffee, then apparently came to a decision. “Why don’t you let me take you to the hotel, and we can talk after you’ve had a few hours’ rest?” He had to be joking.

“I’m jet-lagged, not stupid. I know damn all about you. I don’t know exactly what you’re doing here, whereyourhotel is, and to be perfectly frank, now that the caffeine is helping me think a little more clearly, I don’t want to know.” She started to rise. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“I’ve told you my name. The work I do.”

“Illegal movement of minors across borders?”

“That’s one of my areas of expertise.” His composure added to her unease, making her pause in the act of reaching for her bag. “Google me, if you want details.”

---