A CRY from Marco snapped Gina awake. She rolled out of bed in automatic response, then still groggy from the sleep she had finally fallen into, found herself completely disoriented in unfamiliar surroundings. It took several moments to get her bearings. A dim night-light came from a half-open door. It triggered the memory of where she was—the nanny's bedroom in King's Castle—and Marco was in the adjoining nursery.
She started to move towards the connecting door, then stopped, realising it was quiet now. Marco must have cried out in his sleep, then resettled. A bad dream? Since she was up, Gina decided she might as well check on him, make sure he was all right.
A soft murmuring made her hesitate. Was someone else attending to him? Had he been crying for some time before she woke? Rosita's rooms weren't far away. Frowning over the thought of the kindly housekeeper's sleep being disturbed, Gina snatched up the dressing-gown she'd tossed on the end of the bed and thrust her arms into the sleeves. Best for her to sit with Marco for a while, relieving Rosita of any sense of responsibility.
She grimaced over the sensual slide of silk and lace on her bare skin. The coffee-coloured gown and nightie from her honeymoon trousseau were more luxurious than practical garments. She'd put them away...hadn't worn them for years. It had been a silly impulse to pack them for tonight, yet when she'd chosen to, a night spent at King's Castle had seemed special enough to warrant wearing them.
And Alex King had made her feel...well, she'd wanted to feel like a woman again, not just a mother. He'd certainly made her feel it when he'd kissed her. Now she wished he hadn't. It was too disturbing. Better not to have needs aroused when they were never going to be answered. She savagely fastened the tie-belt around her waist, calling herself all sorts of a fool for indulging in fantasies that had nothing to do with real life.
Alex King wasn't for her.
She'd known all along he wasn't for her.
She was a twenty-six-year-old nobody with a child by another man, and he was engaged to be married to a glamorous dress designer who was experienced in leading a high-class, sophisticated life. Dressing herself up in expensive silk and lace didn't change anything.
Having achieved a reasonably modest appearance with her very non- motherly wrap-around, she tried to shove the weight of misery in her mind aside as she moved to the doorway and stepped into the nursery. Expecting to see Rosita, she was stunned to find her son being cradled and softly crooned to by the very man who'd caused her so much heartburn.
She hung on to the doorjamb while the shock subsided. Alex King had his back turned to her but there was no mistaking his identity. His head was turned in half profile, his gaze fixed on the face of the child in his arms.
Marco's mop of curls was nestled just above the crook of his elbow and it was obvious her little boy had been calmed and was lying contentedly still, being gently rocked back to sleep.
The scenario her eyes were taking in made no sense at all. Alex King was still in his formal dinner suit. The covers on Marco's bed were flung right back, though she remembered having tucked them in. What had happened? Why was Alex here with her son and not with his fiancée? What time was it?
She spotted a seahorse clock on one of the nursery walls. The hands showed almost half past one. The wedding reception had been due to end at midnight. As far as she could hear, the castle and its grounds were completely quiet. Alex must have taken Michelle home and returned, yet that didn't answer why he was in the nursery. Perhaps he'd heard Marco cry out when he was going upstairs to his quarters, but hadn't she closed the door to the corridor?
It was open now.
Totally perplexed she watched as he slowly lowered Marco back onto the bed, settling him gently on the pillow, then carefully lifting the covers over him, tucking them in at shoulder level. He stood for a moment, visually checking his handiwork, then bent over and pressed a soft kiss on Marco's forehead, apparently satisfied all was well now.
It was such a tender, paternal action, Gina felt her heart turning over. Angelo would have done this if he were still alive. It wasn't fair that Alex King was emitting the same fatherly caring, striking chords that jangled hopelessly in the barren spaces of her widowhood. He made too intimate a connection, too painfully intimate when it could never mean anything.
He turned from the bed, a serious, reflective expression on his face, and started towards the door to the corridor. Either he caught sight of Gina out of the corner of his eye or something made him suddenly aware of her presence. An abrupt jerk of his head had him looking directly at her and his forward movement froze.
Her whole body was instantly tremulous. It was lucky she was still hanging on to the doorjamb. It felt as though she was trapped in an earthquake and any chance of escape was irretrievably gone. She shouldn't have lingered—watching him. It had been stupid, dangerous.
Now he was watching her, and even across the room the intensity of his gaze was utterly riveting. It seemed the very air between them was charged with an electricity that had them both locked in a force-field that couldn't be broken.
How long they stood in a transfixed state, Gina had no idea. She noticed his bow tie was hanging loose and the top studs of his dress shirt were undone. He was undoubtedly aware of her bed-tousled hair and the skimpiness of her attire, although the mid-thigh-length gown did cover the more provocative lace edging of her very short nightie.
He took a step towards her, then checked himself, glancing back over his shoulder to assure himself Marco was sleeping peacefully. His gaze swung swiftly back to Gina. She hadn't moved, hadn't thought of moving. As Marco's mother, it was her right to be here. It was Alex King's presence that begged an explanation.
Apparently he thought so, too. As he stepped closer to her, he whispered, "I'm sorry you were woken. I think he's all right now."
"What was wrong?" she whispered back, maternal concern over- riding the inner turmoil raised by his proximity.
He grimaced apologetically. "When I came in, there was only a lump at the bottom end of the bed. He'd burrowed down under the covers and I was worried about him smothering."
"It's okay. He does that sometimes. Like a little possum snuggling into a safe pouch."
He gestured helpless ignorance. "I thought I'd better check he was breathing and lift him back on the pillow. I didn't mean to startle him into crying out."
She managed an ironic little smile. "Well, you did a good job of soothing him down again."
He returned her smile with a wry twist of his own. "At least, he didn't mind my nursing him. Maybe he remembered me from last week."
It was more than that, Gina thought. Marco instinctively responded to him in some elemental way, just as she did. The pain of their earlier encounter tonight suddenly gripped her heart.
"Why are you here?" she cried, louder than she meant to. "Ssh..." he warned, once more glancing back at Marco, his brows
lowered in concern.
Confused, disturbed, she didn't resist when he proceeded to bundle her back into the nanny's bedroom, following her in and pushing the door to barely a crack ajar, diminishing any sound they made, yet still allowing them to hear a cry from her son. She ended up against the wall beside the door and he was much closer to her, heart-thumpingly close, his hands lightly, hotly curled over her shoulders, burning through the thin silk.
She stared at his throat, frightened to look up at the face she found too attractive, the eyes that might see her quivering vulnerability and the wanton desire for him clawing through it.
"This probably won't make sense to you but I just wanted to look at him," he pleaded in a low voice, gravelled with needs she had no way of understanding.
"What can he mean to you?" she asked, shaking her head in non- comprehension.
His chest heaved as he drew in a long breath. "I was thinking... of how it might be... to have a son."
A curiosity? A yearning? She looked up, compelled to see exactly what he was expressing and he lifted a hand to cup her cheek, holding the tilt of her head while his eyes bored into hers, playing havoc with her own secret yearnings.
"He is a beautiful child...like his mother."
He was wrong. Marco was more like his father. But any thought of correction was swallowed up by the raging need to believe he really did find her beautiful. Her throat was so dry and constricted, she could barely make the protest that her sense of rightness demanded.
"You shouldn't say such things to me." "Why not? It's the truth."
She forced herself to say, "What about Michelle?"