LITMIR.BIZ

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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 shrugged. “Seems a waste if your voice is good enough.”

      She raised her perfectly arched eyebrows at Gina who bristled at the implied put-down. Why did Alex King’s fiancée feel the need to put her on the spot like this. She was a woman who appeared to have everything other women might envy, including the man whose ring she was wearing.

      “It wasn’t the kind of life I wanted,” she answered simply. “As to whether my voice is good enough, I’m here—” she transferred her gaze to Isabella “—for Mrs. King to judge if it meets her requirements.”

      “And I’m looking forward to hearing it,” the older woman said, smiling encouragement. “Indeed, if it is true to your performance on tape…” She looked directly at her grandson. “…you may very well want Gina to sing at your wedding, Alessandro.”

      Silence. Stillness. For the first time Gina lost her own self-consciousness enough to realise there were tensions at this table that had nothing to do with her. Or perhaps she had become an unwitting focus for them. Very quietly she picked up her glass of water and drank, grateful to be out of the direct firing line.

      Michelle Banks glared at Alex, clearly demanding his support. He stirred himself, addressing his grandmother with an air of pained patience.

      “Nonna, we have already discussed this. Michelle wants a harpist, not a singer.”

      “I heard what Michelle wants, Alessandro,” came the coolly dignified reply. “Did I hear what you want?”

      “It is the bride’s day,” he countered with a slight grimace at the contentiousness behind the question.

      Isabella regarded his fiancée with an expression of arch curiosity that Gina instantly felt had knives behind it. “Is that what you think, Michelle—that a wedding belongs only to the bride, and the groom must fall in with everything she wishes?”

      Michelle gave a smug little smile. “Alex is happy for me to have a harp playing.”

      “I’ve never thought a harp—indeed, any musical instrument—can project the warmth and emotion that a human voice can.”

      “It’s purely a question of taste,” Michelle argued. “A harp is very elegant.”

      “Undoubtedly. However, to my mind, even within a showcase of elegance, room could be made for some spotlight on love at your wedding.” She turned a smile on Gina. “Are you now refreshed enough to sing?”

      “Yes. Thank you.” She set her glass down and picked up her handbag. “I did bring a backing tape. Are there facilities for it to be played in the ballroom or…”

      “Of course.” She nodded to her grandson. “Alessandro will set it up for you and give you a remote control for pausing between songs.”

      Gina’s heart fluttered.

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