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“School camps.”

“Doesn’t count. You knew she was supervised and safe.”

“Let’s be honest, young women across the world are breadwinners for their families at Sophie’s age. English is well understood in Malta. She can supervise herself.”

“You believe that?” Hamish turned a corner and stopped, drawing her with him to the side of the road.

“I have to believe that, or I’ll go crazy.”

“Why are you here? Why are you sticking to me like glue, when you could stay at the hotel or, like your father, have someone else do the work for you?” Hamish searched her eyes for an answer to the puzzle she posed. Her anxiety had been off the Richter scale at the thought of pregnancy, while she handled most other scenarios with practical good sense. Now, he understood, but could that fear have blinded her to everything else, to other changes in Sophie?

“Because I want to look into her eyes when I ask—'Why this way? Why did you run away without leaving a word? Why have you kept quiet when you know we’re worried?’ And if she needs it, to offer my support,” she said, passion echoing in every syllable.

“You think your father’s quest is about control and punishment, driven by thwarted authority. You’re saying that’s the way he does business,” Hamish stated, finding her expression as unsatisfactory as it was in those first photos. “That’s why you’re suspicious of my motives—Giovanni Vella’s proxy?”

“Your work history suggests you’re more than that.”

“And you’re waiting for me to prove it?”

“No.” She held her hands out in a sign of peace. “I’m doing what I came here to do.”

“So am I. The restaurant’s behind the Palace Armoury. If you don’t like it, there are plenty of others.”

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THE INTIMATE RESTAURANTwas welcoming and full, with people clustered around tiny tables that barely fitted their drinks and the fresh baskets of bread. A waitress at the bar waved a hand at Hamish and signalled for them to take a table squeezed against the front window. Then she manoeuvred her way through tables and bodies to reach them, handing out menus.

“What’s the local special tonight?” Hamish asked.

“Stuffat tal-fenek,” the waitress answered.

“I know that one.” Lela clapped in delight. “A rabbit stew, famous here in Malta. Slow cooked until the meat falls off the bone.”

“With a tomato, red wine and garlic sauce,” the waitress added.

“Let’s share one. Plus a vegetable dish and bread. Does that suit?” Hamish asked.

“Please.”

“Would you like wine, Miranda, or something else?”

“You can drop the Carmen Miranda comparison.” She looked wistful, as if she’d like to have a nickname.

“My granddad was a big fan of old movies. He would have seen anything she starred in. A very smart lady as well as a successful entertainer.”

“The Brazilian bombshell?”

“You did do your research. But you have to look beyond songs likeChica Chica Boom Chic—” he chided.

“You’re kidding!”

“—andunderstand she brought true Brazilian sound to Hollywood. Her artistic integrity was important for her, being true to her heritage. The name suits you.”

“Because I have integrity?”

“You do, but to be honest, it was a spontaneous reaction when you insisted on remaining nameless,” he answered. “Red or white?”

“Red, please. You heard my name at the Excelsior.”