"GINA! You're wanted out front!"
It was more a command than a call. Gina Terlizzi quickly set aside the greenery she was sorting for the floral arrangements and hurried from the back room to answer it, wondering why her presence was required out front. As the owner of the florist shop, her aunt preferred to deal with the customers herself.
The reason was instantly evident and punched her heart with shock— Marco, her two-and-a-half-year-old son, firmly in the grip of an elderly woman. And not just any elderly woman. Recognition of Isabella Valeri King came hard and fast, doubling the shock.
This shop was in Cairns and King's Castle was in Port Douglas, seventy kilometres further north, but the whole Italian community in far North Queensland knew this remarkable woman and held her in the highest respect. A quiver of apprehension ran down Gina's spine at being put on the mat in front of her.
"Are you the madre of this boy?" she demanded, her aristocratic bearing taut with disapproval.
Gina tore her gaze from the piercing dark eyes to look down at her son who was gazing up at his captor with something like awe. "Yes," she answered huskily. "What have you done, Marco? Why aren't you in the backyard?"
He gave her his triumphant achievement look, his brown eyes dancing with mischief, an appealing smile flashing from his adorable little face, his mop of dark curls bobbing as he proudly confessed, "I got boxes an' climbed up an' opened the gate."
Which meant he wasn't safely contained here at work anymore. Gina heaved a deeply exasperated sigh. "Then what?"
"I rode my bike."
"He was out on the street, pedalling his tricycle at wild speed, and almost ran into me," came the telling accusation.
Gina stood very straight, facing the music as best she could. "I'm terribly sorry that his lack of control put you at risk, Mrs. King, and I'm grateful you've brought him in to me. I thought he was playing safely in the backyard."
"It seems your son is an enterprising child. Boys will be boys. You must always keep their very active ingenuity in mind."
This softer piece of advice reduced Gina's tension considerably. "I will. Thank you again for returning him to me, Mrs. King."
She was subjected to more scrutiny, as though everything about her was being meticulously catalogued; her long streaky-brown hair, the bangs that swept across her forehead, her thickly lashed amber eyes, her too wide mouth, the bone structure of her face, her long neck, the obvious curves of her full breasts underneath her sleeveless blouse, the neatness of her waist, emphasised by the belt on her skirt, the breadth of her hips, the shape of her bare legs and her feet, which were simply encased in sandals.
It was embarrassing, as though she was being measured for being a careless creature who didn't have enough interest in looking after her son properly. Which wasn't true at all. Gina prided herself on being a good mother. It was just that Marco could be a little devil at times.
"I understand you are a widow."
The knowing statement surprised her into replying, "Yes, I am." "How long?"
"Two years."
"Perhaps the boy needs a man's hand."
Gina flushed at the implied criticism. "Marco does have uncles." "You are a very attractive young woman. No one is courting you?" "No. I...uh...haven't met anyone I...um..." She floundered hopelessly under the direct beam of those intensely probing eyes. "You were very attached to your husband?" "Well, yes..."
"This is not good for the boy—your working in a shop, unable to supervise him properly. You need a husband to support you. The right man would lift this burden from you."
"Yes," she agreed. What else could she do? Arguing with Isabella Valeri King was far too daunting an option. She could only hope her aunt, who was standing silently by, would not take offence. It was a family favour that she had a part-time job here, and allowed to bring Marco with her.
As long as he didn't make a nuisance of himself!
She would definitely be in trouble once Isabella Valeri King departed.
However, no immediate exit took place. Despite having delivered her lecture on Gina's situation, the old lady stood her ground and suddenly took an entirely different tack.
"You are also a wedding singer."
"Yes." How did she know these things about her?
"Your agent sent me a tape of your songs. You have a lovely voice." Finally enlightenment. "Thank you."
"You are aware that weddings are held at King's Castle?" "Yes, of course." The most exclusive and expensive weddings!
"I am always looking for good singers and I have found it wise to test a voice in the ballroom. The acoustics are different to those in a recording studio."
The fabled ballroom! Gina had never been there but stories about the castle abounded. Was this a chance to be actually hired as a singer for fabulous weddings? Could she ask for a much bigger fee? Travelling money? It was an hour's drive from Cairns to Port Douglas. Her mind zipped through a whole range of exciting possibilities.
"I would require a trial run. Are you free to come on Sunday afternoon?"
"Yes." It wouldn't have mattered if she'd asked for the moon, Gina would have said yes. This was a huge opportunity for her to earn far more than the peanuts she was usually paid for singing.
"Good. Three o'clock. And bring the boy with you." She looked down at Marco whose hand she still held firmly. Amazingly he hadn't tried to wriggle his fingers free of captivity. In fact, he appeared fascinated by this lady who spoke with such authority to his mother. "You will come to visit me with your madre, Marco."
"I could have him minded," Gina quickly suggested, anxious not to have her audition disturbed by any mischievous behaviour from her unpredictable son.
That earned a stern glare. "You will not." As though realising her tone was too sharp, she smiled, firstly down at Marco, then at Gina. "He is quite an endearing little boy. I shall enjoy watching him at play. We will have afternoon tea in the loggia and let him run free in the grounds."
"That's...very kind. Thank you."
"Go to your madre now, Marco." She released his hand and lightly patted his curls. "And do not ride your bike in the street again. It is not the place to play."
He obediently trotted over to Gina's side and took her hand. "How old is he?"
"Two and a half."
"He rides very well for his age," came the astonishingly approving comment. "The tricycle is by the door."
"Thank you."
"Three o'clock Sunday," she repeated imperiously. "We'll be there, Mrs. King. And thank you once again."
Ten minutes to three...Gina slotted her little Honda Swift under one of the bougainvillea and vine-laden pergolas that flanked the steps up to King's Castle. This was the visitors' parking area, and apart from her own car it was empty, which made her feel all the more nervous.
For the umpteenth time she checked that the backing tape for her songs was in her handbag. It might not be needed. She had no idea if she was expected to sing with or without music for this audition. At least she had it if it could be used. The driving mirror reflected that her make-up was still fine, not that she wore much—a touch of eyeliner, mascara, lipstick.
Her hair was freshly washed and blow-dried to curve around her shoulders. She hoped she looked like a professional singer.
Marco had fallen asleep in his car seat. She'd dressed him in navy shorts and a T-shirt striped in red, green and navy—navy sandals on his feet. With his dark curls and eyes, such strong colours really suited him and he looked very cute. For herself, she'd chosen a sleeveless lemon shift with a navy band edging the armholes and scooped neckline. Teamed with navy accessories, it was an outfit that always made Gina feel smartly dressed— a much-needed boost for confidence today.
Having unbuckled Marco's safety harness, she gently woke him then lifted him out. Luckily he was never grumpy after a nap. It was like, "Hi, world! What's new?" and he was all bright-eyed, ready to go and discover it.
"Are we at the castle, Mama?"
"Yes. I'll just lock the car and we'll walk up to it." "I can't see it."
"You will in a minute."
As they walked up the steps his gaze was trained in entranced wonder at the tessellated tower that 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 demoralizing 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.