Page 6 of Lela's Choice

“She wasn’t afraid.”Can I say that with any certainty now?Last week Lela would have sworn Sophie’s running away days were over, that her niece would take the necessary steps to prevent pregnancy and disease.

“If she’s afraid,” he repeated with patient deliberation. “If Sophie has control over her own movements and is free to come and go at will. If necessary, to offer her my protection and a flight home.”

“Control over her movements?” Lela swivelled in her seatbelt, while he kept his focus steadily on the road ahead. “You’re making it sound like a kidnapping.”

“You’re sure it isn’t?”

“She believes she’s in love, followed her boyfriend home.” Lela opted for a part truth, but was powerless to stop the anxious speculation he’d triggered. Duress raised the stakes. Duress suggested a crime had been committed.Why did you plant that seed, Papa?

“An offer of protection and a flight home might be attractive now she’s had a few days to think.”

“Illalu,” she whispered her Mama’s gentle Malti curse—oh my god. “Papa doesn’t make offers, he issues ultimatums.”Fatigue—how else do I explain my blunt, unprecedented character assassination of Papa to a virtual stranger?

“We’re looking for a young woman, who either decided she had no alternative except to run away or was pressured. Time is of the essence. I’m not interested in family squabbles between you and your father when a vulnerable young woman’s well-being is at stake.”

The disdain in his voice stunned her, stung her so she wanted to pour out the story of her father’s treatment of Sophie’s mother. Her family—Lela—carried deep emotional scars from Papa’s decision to exile and ultimately abandon her older sister, Mari, more than eighteen years ago. Her beautiful sister had been sixteen when she became pregnant, seventeen when she died, leaving behind her six-month-old daughter. By comparison, Sophie was an innocent. Mari’s options had been stolen from her. Lela wouldn’t allow Sophie to be bullied or manipulated into a similar situation.

Not a story she usually shared.

MacGregor’s disdain was a small price for the privacy she held so dear.

“Work with me,” he urged. “I’m a stranger. You’re the emotional hook she’ll recognise, trust. She’ll respond to you.”

“I won’t be used that way.”And Sophie didn’t trust me. Not when it mattered. “And just to clear up any potential misunderstanding ... Sophie didn’t confide in me. I’m not sure my superior claim to her trust holds anymore.” Sophie’s distrust was a permanent ache, but it didn’t change Lela’s determination to put her niece’s needs first.

“You won’t even try to be a bridge between Sophie and your family, your father?”

Lela gasped, a semi-hysterical, half gurgle born of thirty agonising hours in a pressurised capsule crossing the earth when she’d been prey to nameless fears and helpless to act. Her fingers itched to smack her relentless prosecutor.

At ten years of age, wretchedly afraid and alone at her sister’s deathbed, Lela had been determined her niece wouldn’t be exiled from the family as Mari had been. Without fully understanding, Lela had demanded her father take her and the baby home. The hospital social worker had stood behind her and made regular visits during those first few years, but the determination to fight had been Lela’s.

Using instinct, she’d rebuilt her family, been the bridge, peacemaker, negotiator and loyal foot soldier. She’d rarely fought her father’s edicts, had picked the issues where she wouldn’t bend.

Nothingwas more important to her than her family.

At twenty-eight, Lela had a clearer understanding of what was at stake, more power to influence the outcome, and knew the lines between right and wrong weren’t always straight. Dragging Sophie home might not be the best way to hold Lela’s family together.

No hired henchman could browbeat her, or prevent her from giving her niece space to choose her own future. Especially not an eccentric who christened her for an actor wearing a tutti-frutti hat and who was wearing a watch with a tiny crawling spider for a second hand.

“At the risk of repetition, MacGregor, you don’t know me.”

* * *

HAMISH LEFT THE CARto valet parking and her luggage to one of the bellhops at the porticoed entrance to the hotel. Trailing her to reception, he arrived in time to hear the polished attendant’s query.

“We have a booking for Carmen Vella.”

“My name’s CarmenLelaVella.” His Miranda proffered a smile inviting girlish co-conspiracy. “Papa made the booking. I use Lela—he forgets.” She slid an open passport and some sort of official name tag across the desk. “I use Lela Vella.”

Hamish watched the receptionist check her documents, won over by the warmth of Lela’s smile and her confiding tone, before returning the document.

“Welcome to the Excelsior, Ms. Vella. Your room is ready.”

Why the hell couldn’t you just tell me you call yourself Lela?

Hamish had calculated that having her under the same roof for the night gave him an advantage. For a start, he’d know where to find her. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

He planned to find Sophie, with or without Lela Vella’s cooperation, but Lela’s wariness raised a whole slew of new questions about the case.

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