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Chapter One

Hamish MacGregor gavea silent whistle. The images he’d seen of Carmen Vella hadn’t done her justice: professional websites, her niece’s social feed—Carmen was often in the background. Good enough for recognition, although the unskilled snap-and-upload photography was exposed the moment Hamish spotted the flesh-and-blood woman through the customs gates at Luqa, Malta International Airport.

Her hair matched the Insta pics, thick and blue-black, while the gamin cut framed distinctive facial features. Her sculpted cheekbones were balanced by a softly rounded chin, a slightly too-wide mouth, and a straight nose. From close study, he knew her eyes were ebony, not black—the subtle browns and greens had held his attention longer than strictly necessary for identification purposes.

Every single image had missed the energy emanating in waves from the woman walking towards him. He’d want her passion on his side in a fight. Maybe that explained why her father had despatched her from Australia rather than come himself.

She was also gorgeous—impossible to ignore. Her purposeful stride emphasised the vitality contained in her compact body. Her skin tone was a warm olive, a reminder of her family’s Mediterranean origins. She wore a loose tomato-red sweater and tailored, straight, dark trousers atop short leather boots, but the sense of lush curves had him sucking in a breath.

The air around her snapped with electricity.

Ms. Carmen Vella was making a dramatic entrance, if you equated drama with stealing one’s breath. Her head lifted to scan her surroundings, and her rich, dark gaze collided with his.

Desire was immediate—the kind he hadn’t experienced since he was an adolescent, when hormones regularly swamped more cerebral considerations.Any considerations, if I’m honest.

His reaction rocked him. Mindless lust was a relic of his adolescence, along with his drum kit. He valued women, loved his mother and sisters and respected the women who worked for him. It took more than an attractive package to trigger his libido.

Why Carmen Vella?

The kicker was the secrets clouding her eyes in those images he’d studied. They’d stuck in his mind. He understood defencelessness. His success as a domestic violence and child protection advocate depended on it. This woman wasn’t defenceless, but the disconnect between the vulnerability in her eyes in the photos and the self-possession in every line of the elegant Ms. Vella tugged at him. She cleared the final exit, her journey from Sydney, Australia, to Valletta, Malta, complete.

“Carmen Vella?” He closed the last few metres between them.

Her head turned, her body stilled, her expression unreadable. “You work for my father?”

Question or accusation?He held his palms up in a gesture of goodwill. “I work for myself. I was in Malta on other business, but I’ve agreed to stay a few days longer to assist you and your family search for your niece.”

“I haven’t asked for your assistance.” Her voice was deep and low, the soft cadence at odds with the wariness he read in her stare. He hadn’t expected suspicion.

“Your father ...” he started.

“I’m here independently of my father.” She placed careful emphasis on each word.

“Carm—I mean, Ms. Vella.”

“Only my father calls me Carmen.”

“Miranda, we’re blocking the exit.” There was a time when saying Carmen instantly sparked the response Miranda—at least in his house, where his grandfather had been hooked on old movies. “Let’s get out of everyone’s way.” He raised his voice enough to explain to a casual onlooker why he’d reached for her suitcase.

“Miranda!” She held tightly to her bag. Her scent, a little peppery, was proving a more reliable clue to the woman than the short bio he’d uncovered in his limited research. “Seriously? CarmenMiranda? A 1940s Hollywood star. What century are you from?”

“Give me an alternative.”

“Who are you?” she demanded. He was close enough to be singed by the sparks flying off her.

“Hamish MacGregor. I’m an Australian lawyer, specialising in the illegal movement of minors across international borders.” He extracted his passport from his jacket pocket and passed it to her. “As I said, I’m in Malta on other business and agreed to provide some assistance.”

“To Papa?” She scanned his passport, a slight tremble in her hand.

“Aren’t you both pursuing the same objective?”

“I’m not sure of his objective.”

Hamish was also close enough to glimpse the weariness he’d missed at first glance. The turbulence in her beautiful eyes testified to an internal battle. He was impressed when self-control trumped tiredness and anxiety about her missing niece.

“Sorry, I wasn’t expecting Papa to contact me so soon.”

“But you were expecting contact.” Hamish’s instructions from Sydney had been explicit.