Another little shiver streaked up her spine. Was this island voodoo he was talking about, like the priestess Tia Dalma performed for Captain Jack and his pirates in the movie?
“I, meanwhile, Googled you,” he went on matter-of-factly. “Along with the covers and reviews of your romance novels, I found your photograph, your Web site, the blogs you’ve posted, and several recent references to your personal tragedy in Midwestern newspapers online.” His big brown eyes softened then. “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Gamble. Sorry you learned such regrettable things about your husband and then had to deal with them.”
“Th—thank you,” she wheezed, determined not to bawl—not after all she’d endured to get to this time and place.
“And I’m damn glad your story matches up with my research!” He pulled a compact walkie-talkie from inside his jacket and flicked a switch. “Rodrigo? It’s a go, man! Come and get us!”
Cat’s jaw dropped. From around a protrusion of rocks where wild orchids and bougainvillea bloomed in profusion and palm trees swayed in the breeze, a dilapidated ferry boat chugged into view. A man in island-print shorts and dreadlocks waved his arm excitedly from the large round steering wheel, as though he were greeting a long-lost friend.
“Meese Gahm-bahl!” he called out. He steered the ferry within a few yards of the shore, dropped primitive anchors over the sides, and then shoved a makeshift ramp toward the Cadillac. “Meese Gahm-bahl, we be so very happy to see you, preety lady!”
Cat narrowed her eyes at Ramon as he put the car in gear. “Don’t tell me,” she muttered, peeved at her own naïveté, mostly. “Rodrigo has not only Googled me, but he attends the chats I do at the Novel Talk site and follows my blog.”
“Does the screen name ‘Ferry4U’ ring a bell?” Ramon laughed and eased the car onto the ramp. “He’s read every one of your books, Miss Gamble—borrowed them from the Contessa. We’re all tremendous fans, and so honored to have you here!”
She let out an exasperated gasp. Then she spotted the photo from her Web site enlarged and posted on the ferry’s grubby wall, with a scrawled sign that said WELCOME! “If this is how you treat honored guests—”
“Things aren’t always what they seem,” he crooned, squeezing her hand. “It’s my mission—my duty to the Contessa—to investigate the dozens of prospective buyers we hear from each month, and to separate the gemstones from the cut glass. And as far as I’m concerned, Miss Gamble, you’re the Hope Diamond.”
Why would she argue with that? She swore she heard the popping of a beer can somewhere behind them—as though Spike were congratulating himself for pulling this whole thing off. What an ego that angel had! Why couldn’t she have gotten the kind who spoke in reverent tones and glowed with a heavenly—
Hey, whadaya want here? At least I didn’t smoke in the car, right?
3
When Cat caught a glimpse of the house, nestled high among flowering bushes and palm trees, she fell in love. Had to have the place, without even seeing inside. Its flamingo paint, trimmed in bright white with flourishes of Victorian millwork, made her heart sing. Never in her wildest imagination could she have conjured up such a fabulous home!
She sat forward, gawking through the windshield as they rounded the curve in the driveway. “Oh, Ramon, it’s so beautiful! So different from anywhere I’ve ever lived—”
“Not so fast, Miss Gamble,” he warned, although he was chuckling at her little-girl exuberance. “Best for all of us if you make an informed decision. For you see, Leilani and I are part of the package.” His dark face remained utterly serious as he steered the Caddie into the garage at the rear of the house.
“How does that work?” she ventured. “I can’t imagine being considered part of the property—like furniture or—”
“It was Miss Borgia’s way of taking care of us, in appreciation for our years of service to her. Anyone who buys Porto Di Angelo must love my wife and me—and need us—as much as we do him or her. This is our home, you see.”
“And what a wonderful home it is.” Cat barely had the patience to wait for Ramon to open her door. From a white brick wing wall that extended behind the garage, she had a breathtaking view of the sea…areas of deep morning-glory blue accented by turquoise and green…waves breaking like lacy petticoats against a white sand shore…gulls circling lazily on the breeze that ruffled the leaves of the trees. A rainbow of tropical blossoms welcomed her with their heady scents, inviting her into the back patio area.
Was she really here? Could this estate really be hers? She inhaled deeply, reminding herself to be practical…to compare what she’d seen and heard with what Ramon and his wife told her.
“Wow, the flowers here pack a punch,” she remarked. Maybe she was jet-lagged, but the scent was reminiscent of marijuana smoke.
Ramon smiled, gesturing toward the hillsides covered with trees that had long bell-shaped white blooms. “Wait until this evening! These angel’s trumpet trees perfume the entire island with their musk. We have to be on our guard, though, because the leaves and blooms can be smoked as an asthma remedy…or as a narcotic. Which sometimes attracts uninvited guests.”
More pieces to this puzzle; more things to consider before she became Porto Di Angelo’s owner. Could she really handle these details without getting taken advantage of? Who should she believe?
“How have you maintained the property so perfectly, if the Contessa has been absent nearly two years?” she asked, recalling the plane steward’s story. “Where does the money come from to—”
“She has accounts in St. Lucia banks, as well as numerous trusts worldwide, which are managed by her attorney,” Ramon answered. He stood so close his sleeve brushed her arm. “Leilani and I are provided for in perpetuity, as is the estate.”
Cat pondered this, inhaling the brisk, clean scent of the sea and feeling more invigorated—more alive—than she had in years. “So you’re saying you and your wife could remain here forever, taken care of, whether or not you sell the place? Why allow someone to intrude on your little slice of paradise?”
Ramon leaned on the white railing, so his smile was mere inches from her own. His eyes held her in a momentary trance in which she imagined all manner of wild, erotic things he wanted to do to her—before she blinked to clear that fantasy from her mind.
“My Leilani and I were born to serve,” he murmured. “Porto Di Angelo needs a mistress—or master—to belong to, just as we do, if our life’s purpose is to be fulfilled.”
Cat saw not a hint of a mockery on his long, angular face. This man, dressed like a Fortune 500 CEO yet possessing the exotic mystique of these islands, was telling her he would serve…a concept so foreign to her, after being married to Laird King, that she had to mask her disbelief.
“Ah, but your mind is weary from your journey, and we speak of matters that can certainly wait, dear lady,” he crooned, gesturing toward a staircase painted in bright white enamel. “Leilani has prepared tea—a custom Valenzia observed with us every afternoon, no matter what her schedule.”
“And what sort of schedule did she have?” Cat mused aloud. “I don’t mean to sound presumptuous, implying she led a life of leisure, but—” She stopped at the top of the stairs inside an open porch overlooking that magnificent beach and sea. “—Well, if I lived here, I’d be thoroughly tempted to just move from one vantage point to another, gazing out over the sand and the surf—”
“And write no more of those wild, exciting stories?” a female voice challenged. “The world would be a sadder, less sensuous place without Catalina Gamble romances. You’ve given Ramon and me many hours of pleasure! I feel absolutely giddy, getting to meet you right here in our home!”
Who could argue with that? Or with the lush, petite beauty