dominated the hill. It was said that Frederico Stefano Valeri, Isabella’s father, had built it so his wife could watch the boats coming in from the sea and the cane fields burning during the harvesting.
“Can we go up there, Mama?”
“Not today, Marco. But we will see the ballroom. It has huge balls covered with tiny mirrors hanging from the ceiling, and a wooden floor where the boards have been cut into fancy patterns.”
The steps were flanked by rows of magnificent palm trees and terraces with lushly displayed tropical flowers and plants and ferns. At the top of the rise, they moved onto a wide flagstoned path with beautifully manicured lawns of buffalo grass on either side. Ahead of them was a colonnaded loggia which prefaced the entrance to the castle. It covered a very spacious area. In the centre of it was a fountain, around which were casual groupings of chairs and tables. At one of these sat three people and Gina’s feet almost faltered at the charge of nervous excitement that ran through her as recognition sank in.
Alex King sitting with his grandmother. Alex King and his fiancée, she quickly amended, identifying the woman she’d seen in the photograph accompanying the newspaper article on their engagement. He’s taken, she ruefully reminded herself. Besides which, there never had been a chance of her meeting Alex King on any kind of social level—until this very moment. But if ever there was a man to turn her head and make her heart go pitter-pat, he was it—The Sugar King.
Of course she had loved Angelo, her husband. Angelo had been real life. This man had always been—and still was—unattainable fantasy. Yet with his gaze directly on her now as she and Marco approached, Gina could feel her pulse racing and little quivers attacking her thighs. He was so handsome. Manly handsome. Big and strong and with that intrinsic air of indomitable authority that seemed to say he could handle anything he was faced with. Definitely a king, measured against other men.
He smiled at Marco who had broken into an excited little skip at Gina’s side. The smile transformed the hard angles of his face, emitting a warm charm. His eyes twinkled at her son—startling blue eyes, given his suntanned olive skin and the thick wavy black hair that declared his Italian heritage. The blue eyes had to have come from his paternal line. Somehow they gave him an even more charismatic presence.
Probably Gina should have headed for the end of the table where Isabella sat. She didn’t think. She was automatically drawn to the end Alex King occupied. He pushed his chair back and stood up to greet her, making her overwhelmingly aware of just how big and tall he was. Such a powerfully built man, and her head was barely level with his broad shoulders.
Belatedly, Gina shot her gaze to his grandmother, whose autocratic command had brought her here and who should be given her prime attention. I’ve come on business, Gina fiercely told herself. Business, business, business… But it didn’t stop her from being overwhelmingly aware of the magnetic maleness of Alex King.
“My grandson, Alessandro,” the old lady announced with a benign smile that relieved Gina of any fear that she would be judged as ill-mannered.
She flicked an acknowledging glance up at the heart-stopping blue eyes.
“His fiancée, Michelle Banks,” the introductions continued.
Gina nodded and smiled and received a perfunctory little curve of the lips in return from the woman seated on the other side of the table. Full pouty lips, sexy lips. It was somewhat demoralising to see just how beautiful Michelle Banks was in the flesh—her golden hair sleeked back to a knot at the back, her face so perfectly sculptured it needed no softening effect, big almond-shaped, grey-green eyes, a classic nose, and a swan like neck emphasising her long, model-thin elegance.
She wore one of her signature tie-dyed scarf tops with a halter neckline—a garment that could only be worn well by very slim and small-breasted women—and the artistic pattern of earth colours was complemented by gold hipster slacks which affirmed there was no excess flesh anywhere on the fashion designer’s body.
Gina instantly felt fat. Which was stupid because she really wasn’t. She was simply built on a different scale to Michelle Banks. However, that common sense argument did nothing to lift the lead that had descended on her heart. This was the kind of woman Alex King wanted to marry. Would marry.
“Gina Terlizzi and her son, Marco,” Isabella finished.
“A pleasure to meet you, Gina. And Marco,” came the warm welcome from her grandson, the deep timbre of his voice striking pleasure chords right through Gina’s body. “A good family, the Terlizzis. Still in fishing boats?”
“Most of the men are,” she answered, amazed that he knew of them.
Many years ago his father, Robert King, had financed the Terlizzi family venture into fishing. His great-grandfather, Frederico Stefano Valeri, had begun the tradition of financing Italian immigrants into businesses when the banks had denied them loans. Everyone knew that the Kings would listen to a deal when more conventional financial institutions would not. Judgement was made more on the capability to succeed than on up-front money, and as far as Gina knew, no one had ever failed to pay back the Kings’ faith in them.
“And you’re Angelo’s widow,” Alex King went on, his tone softening with sympathy.
She nodded, even more astonished he knew her husband’s name.
“I remember reading about him going to the rescue of a lone sailor whose yacht had broken up on the reef.”
“The storm beat him. They both drowned,” she choked out.
“A brave man. And a very sad loss to you and your son.” The caring in his eyes squeezed her heart. “I trust your family has looked after you?”
“Very well.”
“Good! My grandmother tells me you’ve come to sing for her. You must want a drink first. Please…” He gestured to the empty chairs on the near side of the table, opposite to where his fiancée sat. “What would you like…wine, fruit juice, iced water?”
“Water for me, thank you.”
“And you, Marco?”
“Juice, please.”
“Only half a glass for him,” Gina quickly warned as she settled them both on chairs. Her eyes appealed for understanding. “He tends to spill from a full one.”
Another warming smile. “No problem.”
“So…you’re a professional singer,” Michelle Banks drawled, focusing Gina’s attention on her.
“I do get quite a few engagements—weddings, birthdays, other functions—but I can’t say I make a living from it,” Gina answered truthfully. No point in pretending to be something she wasn’t. In fact, more often than not she was asked to sing by family or friends with no fee offered at all.
“I presume you have had some training,” the woman pressed in a slightly critical tone that niggled Gina. What business was it of hers?
“If you mean singing lessons, yes. And I’ve competed in many eisteddfods over the years.”
“Then why didn’t you pursue a career with it?”
“Not every woman puts a career first,” Isabella dryly interposed.
Michelle
