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flying around if she was to look like a professional chef.

      Having checked that she’d packed everything into her bag, Hannah said goodbye to her fellow backpackers and headed off to The Boardwalk Café, needing to pick up some breakfast and hoping to beg a lift from someone going her way. One good thing about being on the tourist track. People were usually generous about giving help. It was fun chatting about where you’d been and what lay ahead.

      Optimism put a happy smile on Hannah’s face. Today was going to be a great day. It was lucky she’d seen the job advertisement in the Cairns newspaper two weeks ago, lucky her résumé had won her an interview. If her luck held good—and why wouldn’t it?—by tonight she would be the new chef on the top cat of the Kingtripper line.

      “The phone. It is Antonio. For you,” Rosita announced, carrying the cordless telephone to where Isabella Valeri King was enjoying morning tea by the fountain in the loggia.

      Yesterday Isabella had celebrated her eightieth birthday. She did not feel eighty. Her hair was white, her skin more wrinkled than she cared to notice, but she could still sit with a straight back and her dark eyes missed very little of what was going on around her. Rosita, who had taken care of her needs for the past twenty years, had insisted she rest today, but Isabella’s mind never rested.

      Antonio…her second eldest grandson, thirty-two years old and too footloose and fancy-free for Isabella’s liking. Something had to be done about that and soon. Time was the enemy as one got older. The young thought they had all the time in the world, but it wasn’t so. It had to be used wisely and well, not frittered away.

      “Thank you, Rosita.” She smiled at her most trusted confidante and lifted the telephone to her ear. “What is the problem, Antonio?”

      A call during the day invariably heralded a problem.

      “Nonna, I need your help.”

      “Of course.”

      “I’m at Cape Tribulation. There’s a management hitch at the tea plantation here. I’ll have to fly down to the other plantation at Innisfail and fix things at that end. The problem is, I had today earmarked to interview three people who’ve applied for the job of chef on Duchess…”

      Isabella’s interest was instantly sparked. “And you would like me to do that for you and select the best?”

      A huge sigh of relief. “Can do? I’ll have them redirected from the office at the marina up to the castle for you.”

      “It will fill in my day very nicely, Antonio.”

      “Great! They’re all young women…”

      Splendid, Isabella thought. Perhaps one might be a possible wife. Antonio would need someone who liked being on a boat.

      “…and according to their résumés, which I’ll have brought up to you, they’ve had years of experience in the catering business. What I specifically need is a chef who can cook fish really well. That’s expected on Duchess. So make sure you question them on that, Nonna. Test them out.”

      She smiled at his confidence in her ability to do so. And why shouldn’t he respect her judgement? She’d been supervising the catering for the weddings at the castle for many years and never had there been a complaint about the food served. Isabella had always insisted on the best and knew how to get it.

      “You can safely leave this matter in my hands, Antonio. Go and sort out your management problem with a clear mind.”

      “Thanks, Nonna. I’ll catch up with you this afternoon.”

      “Hannah O’Neill?” Speculative interest in the receptionist’s eyes. “Lucky you’re early. Unfortunately, Mr King is tied up with other business so I’m to redirect you to King’s Castle where Mrs King will conduct the interview.”

      “Fine!” Hannah flashed an agreeable smile. “If you’ll just point the way…”

      Surprise in the receptionist’s eyes. “You don’t know King’s Castle?”

      Was she supposed to know? “I only arrived in Port Douglas a couple of hours ago. Still getting my bearings,” Hannah quickly explained, throwing in an apologetic shrug. “Must say I headed straight for this marina. Great place…”

      “Oh! Well, keep going along Wharf Street, on up the hill and you can’t miss it. You’ll see the visitors’ parking area. The steps there will lead you to…”

      A real castle! Hannah could hardly believe her eyes as she reached the top of the steps some fifteen minutes later. It even had a tesselated tower! Positively medieval! Although the colonnaded loggia that fronted the massive building could have been lifted straight from ancient Rome. A simply amazing place, set here overlooking the ocean in far North Queensland. A very commanding place, too.

      Hannah’s curiosity was instantly piqued. What kind of people owned it, lived in it? Only great wealth could maintain it like this, she decided, eyeing the manicured lawns and magnificent tropical gardens. There had to be some really interesting history behind it all, too. Maybe she could winkle some of it out of Mrs King during the interview. People did enjoy talking about themselves and the less talk focused on Hannah, the better.

      It surprised her to see an elderly woman seated outside in the loggia. She looked perfectly relaxed, in command of a table placed near a very elaborate stone fountain. In front of her were several manila folders and a tray holding refreshments; a jug of fruit juice, another of iced water, a plate of cookies, three glasses. As Hannah approached, she realised the woman was subjecting her to a very thorough scrutiny. She also noted her autocratic air, the black silk dress and the opal brooch pinned at her throat.

      Hannah had anticipated meeting a much younger woman, but she suddenly had no doubt that this was Mrs King, and while she might be a white-haired old lady, the mind behind those brilliant dark eyes was razor-keen. Hannah felt she was being catalogued in meticulous detail, from the wavy wisps that invariably escaped her plait, to the cleanliness of her toe nails poking out from her sandals.

      She was suddenly super conscious of her bare midriff and wished she’d worn a skirt instead of the hipster jeans which might or might not be showing her navel. Looking down would be a dead giveaway of an attack of nerves. Hannah held her head high, shoulders back, spine straight, and blasted any negative judgement with her best smile.

      “Hannah O’Neill?” the woman inquired, a slightly bemused expression on her face.

      “That I am,” Hannah replied, employing an Irish lilt for a bit of friendly distraction.

      A nod, a half smile. “I am Isabella Valeri King.”

      Which was definitely a mouthful of name, underlining a heritage that probably had royalty in its background. Being hopelessly ignorant of any useful facts, Hannah maintained her smile and warmly replied, “A pleasure to meet you, Mrs King.”

      Another regal nod. “Please sit down, Miss O’Neill, and help yourself to any refreshment you would like.”

      Hannah was glad to put the table between her and any possible sight of her navel. She wasn’t usually self-conscious about her body, but then she wasn’t usually in the presence of a woman who exuded aristocracy and was dressed like a duchess. Certainly not in these tropical climes.

      She poured herself a glass of fruit juice, managing not to spill a drop, and determined not to be intimidated out of putting her best foot forward, even if it was only shod in a brown leather sandal. After all, hadn’t the old Roman senators worn leather sandals in their villas?

      “Quite fascinating the list of places where you’ve worked, Miss O’Neill,” came the first leading comment. “Have you been travelling around Australia alone?”

      “Well, not all alone. I’ve made friends here and there and sometimes journeyed on with them. It’s good to have company on long trips.”

      “And much safer for a young single woman, I’d imagine. Or are you attached

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