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Groom By Arrangement
SUSANNE MCCARTHY
A perfect stranger asked me to marry him today…Why? Because he's found out that my stepfather has full control of my business until I turn twenty-five or marry – whichever comes first. I need to gain control because my stepfather is a crook. This could be the perfect proposal….Of course, it's ridiculous! I've only just met this mysterious Hugh Garratt. I certainly don't know if I can trust him – or his motives. But then, he is the sexiest, most seductive man I've ever met….



“There could be a way—get married.”
Natasha stared up at him, stunned. “What?”
Those shark-gray eyes glinted with sardonic humor. “It’s quite simple. We get married, you break the trust—and the business is yours to do whatever you want with.”
“But…I can’t possibly marry you,” she protested, her heart thudding so hard she felt faint. “I mean…I barely even know you.”
“True,” he conceded, utterly reasonable. “Perhaps there’s someone else you could ask to stand in as a plausible bridegroom….”
“No…there isn’t. But…” She shook her head, struggling for control of her thoughts. “Really, this discussion is quite ridiculous. I have no intention of getting married—to you or anyone. Good night, Mr. Garratt.”
“Think it over,” he murmured. “Good night, Miss Cole. It has been…a delight to make your acquaintance.”
SUSANNE MCCARTHY grew up in south London, England, but she always wanted to live in the country, and shortly after her marriage she moved to Shropshire with her husband. They live in a house on a hill with lots of dogs and cats. She loves to travel—but she loves to come home. As well as her writing, she still enjoys her career as a teacher in adult education, though she works only part-time now.

Groom by Arrangement
Susanne McCarthy

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ONE
‘SEVEN. Bank pays nineteen.’ Natasha’s voice was soft and cool as she turned over the card. Deftly she paid out the winning bets, raked in the remaining chips and sorted them into the rack without even having to look at what she was doing.
Lord Neville had won a modest amount, and grinned as he put down his stake for the next hand. ‘See—I told you this was my lucky table!’
Natasha glanced towards the man sitting next to him, an unspoken question in her fine blue eyes enquiring if he wished to continue play—he had been losing fairly consistently for the past hour, and now had only a handful of chips left. He shook his head, returning her a wry smile.
‘No, thank you—you’ve just about cleaned me out.’ He rose easily to his feet, pocketing his last few remaining chips. ‘I think I’ll adjourn to the bar and drown my sorrows.’
She conceded merely a nod, but from beneath her lashes she slanted him a searching glance. This was the second successive night he had visited the Spaniard’s Cove Casino, and he had lost heavily both times. He didn’t seem particularly bothered about it, accepting the setbacks with the casual unconcern of a seasoned—and habitually unlucky—gambler.
There was really no reason why she should be surprised at that, of course. The life-blood of the casino business was moderately wealthy young men like this, men whose drug of choice was money—whether they were winning it or losing it. Some of them were crazy boys, with large trust funds and a low boredom threshold, others were businessmen whose own money was made in ways that perhaps wouldn’t stand too close a scrutiny.
And yet… Somehow this one didn’t look like a loser. There was a casual arrogance in the set of those wide shoulders, a firmness in the line of his jaw in spite of the lazy smile, that hinted that behind the air of laid-back amiability he was not quite what he seemed.
Her assessing survey told her that his white dinner-jacket might well have come from the same expensive tailor as his friend Lord Neville’s. But those impressive shoulders owed nothing to padding, and the immaculate cut did little to disguise a lithe, muscular physique that hinted at considerable reserves of strength. And his hands weren’t pampered and soft like the English aristocrat’s, either.
His hair was mid-brown, cut brush-short and pushed casually to one side, tipped with golden flecks which suggested that he was more at home out of doors than in these smoke-filled rooms—an impression heightened by the all-weather tan that certainly hadn’t come from a sunbed. And his eyes…they were the real giveaway. They were a dark, smoky grey, but something dangerous lurked in their secret depths. Predator’s eyes—shark’s eyes.
And they were regarding her now with a glint of sardonic amusement. ‘Perhaps by way of consolation you’ll have a dance with me later?’ he suggested, an inflection of lazy self-mockery in his voice.
Natasha shook her head. ‘I’m sorry—I don’t dance,’ she returned, distantly polite.
One dark eyebrow arched in mild surprise. ‘Never?’
‘Never.’ She hadn’t intended that slightly sharp note. But he unsettled her, and she didn’t like that.
‘That’s right, old chap.’ Lord Neville slapped his friend cheerfully on the shoulder. ‘Should have warned you. Don’t dance, and don’t accept drinks off the punters—famous for it.’
‘Is that so? What a pity.’ That slow, lazy smile was deliberately provocative, and Natasha bristled at the casual insolence with which he let his gaze drift down over her slender shape, subtly defined by the silver-grey silk jersey of her elegant evening dress. ‘But I shan’t give up hope of persuading you. I can be very persuasive when I put my mind to it.’
Natasha’s blue eyes flashed him a frost warning, but that aggravating smile lingered as he turned and strolled away across the room. Resolutely she turned her attention back to the blackjack table, refusing to let her gaze be drawn to follow that tall, well-made figure as he paused to watch the spin of a roulette wheel, slipping easily into a flirtation with a slinky brunette in a scarlet dress that was cut low enough to start a riot.
Her table was popular, and someone else had already slipped into his place as she flashed her professional smile and deftly shuffled the cards.
Her table was always popular, no matter what game she was dealing—and she was perfectly well aware that it wasn’t just her skill with a pack of cards that was the attraction. Gentlemen preferred blondes—wasn’t that what they said? And she was the classic blue-eyed blonde; one moonstruck young admirer had poetically likened the colour of her hair to a new-minted silver dollar.
But looks could be deceptive, and anyone who thought Natasha Cole was simply a pretty doll to decorate the tables and comfort a losing gambler when his wallet was empty soon learned their mistake. That cool smile, and those ice-blue eyes, could freeze a man at twenty paces.
As she dealt with the next hand, she cast a swift glance around the gaming room. It was busy tonight, all the roulette tables open, thousands of pounds worth of chips being traded for a few minutes of tense excitement. Another profitable night for Spaniard’s Cove, she reflected with a twist of ironic humour. Surely she ought to be pleased? After all, she owned the place.
Spaniard’s Cove had been a sugar plantation once, in her family for generations. But when the bottom had dropped out of the sugar-cane market her grandparents hadn’t been able to sell the land even at giveaway prices. Struggling for survival, they had hit on the idea of starting up a small casino in the empty shell of the old sugar warehouse.
It had proved an amazing success, quickly building a reputation among the wealthy yachting set as a friendly little place, nothing like the glittering money-palaces of Monte Carlo and Las Vegas. And her grandmother had been its queen—a real grande dame, who’d smoked too much and laughed like a horse.
A familiar little twinge of pain tugged at her heart-strings as she remembered her grandmother. Though it was nearly eight years now since she had succumbed to the heart condition which the doctor had frequently warned her would kill her if she refused to give up those dreadful cigarettes, sometimes she still found it hard to believe that the doughty old lady was no longer around.
It had been her grandmother who had more or less brought her up. She barely remembered either her father or her grandfather—she had been little more than a baby when they had been killed in a boating accident. And her mother had been a wistful, pale creature, always preferring to stay in the background. It had been her grandmother who had encouraged her to go to university. She would have been so proud of the degree in Business Studies that she had achieved last year. She had come home with so many plans. None of which had involved dealing blackjack.
Lester. The problem she had inherited along with Spaniard’s Cove. Her eyes penetrated across the smoky room to where her stepfather was holding court around the craps table with half a dozen of his high-rolling cronies.
Her grandmother had never really liked him, but as her health had started to fail she had been forced to hire a manager for the casino. Oh, Natasha couldn’t deny that he was good at his job—under his control, the profits had increased year on year. It was his methods she didn’t like, and what he had done to the place.
But, for the time being at least, she could do nothing about it. Three months after the old lady had died, he had married Natasha’s mother. It had been quite a surprise—everyone had always believed that Belinda Cole’s heart lay deep beneath the blue waters of the Mexican Gulf, where her first husband had drowned.
Somehow Lester had managed to convince her that his was the strong shoulder she’d needed to lean on. Had she ever loved him? Natasha had always doubted it. But in the end it hadn’t really mattered—never robust, within a year of her second marriage she had fallen victim to a serious viral infection and died. And in her will she had passed on to Lester her responsibility as one of the trustees of the estate Natasha would inherit from her grandmother on her twenty-fifth birthday.
Time had been kind to Lester Jackson. Though he was in his middle fifties, only a slight thickening of his waist-line marred his elegant figure, and he still had most of his hair, now a distinguished shade of silver. And many women found the crinkles around his eyes extremely attractive.
Oh, yes, he was still a good-looking man, affable and charming—everybody liked him. Everybody, it seemed, except Natasha.
Was she the only one who saw the lies, the unnecessary exaggerations, the empty boasts? Who knew how often the famous names he dropped so liberally into any conversation were of people he had never even met, how often the sharp business deals he claimed to have pulled off had never in fact taken place?
Every time she’d tried to discuss her plans for Spaniard’s Cove, he had cut her off point-blank. ‘Close down the casino? Don’t talk rubbish,’ had been his blunt response.
And her other trustee, Uncle Timothy, although sympathetic, hadn’t been a lot of help. ‘Well, strictly speaking, his duty is to ensure that the trust is secure, and achieving the best possible return,’ he had explained in his dry, pedantic way. ‘I’m afraid any changes—though I do think your ideas have excellent potential—could only be regarded as speculative at this point in time.’
So she had no choice but to wait until she was twenty-five. The only other way to have the trust wound up would be if she got married. But since she didn’t have a boyfriend—or even much chance of meeting someone suitable, given her present circumstances—that really wasn’t an option.
It had been her intention to go back to the States for a couple of years, or even to Europe—maybe get a job somewhere in the tourist industry, to gain some valuable experience for when she was able to have a free hand. But something had warned her to stay here, where she could keep an eye on her own interests.
Not that she had uncovered any evidence that Lester was cheating her—and she was quite sure that if she had missed anything Uncle Timothy would have noted it. He might be reluctant to argue with Lester over letting her develop Spaniard’s Cove the way she wanted to, but he was most conscientious about checking the accounts. It was just…some vague instinct that warned her that something wasn’t quite right.
So she kept her suspicions hidden—but those cool blue eyes were watchful. Two years. It wasn’t that long to wait…
It was an exciting prospect. Since the airport had opened, on the northern tip of the island, the tourists had been pouring in. And Spaniard’s Cove, with its smooth turquoise lagoon and white sandy beaches, sheltered within its spectacular surrounding hills, was a perfect spot for a luxury resort. There would be water-sports, of course—windsurfing, scuba-diving—and a golf-course, horse-riding, tennis. And the old sugar warehouse would be converted into an up-market health spa, complete with gymnasium, hydro-pool, aromatherapy…
And there would be no more smoke-filled rooms curtained from the outside world—and no more hot-eyed, sweaty-palmed gamblers.
Drifting back across the room, her gaze was drawn again to the tall figure of Lord Neville’s enigmatic friend. He was watching at one of the roulette tables as that slinky brunette tossed her chips and fluttered her outrageous lashes at him. Trust Darlene, Natasha mused with a touch of wry humour—her antennae always managed to lock onto the most attractive man in the place, no matter how crowded it was.
Attractive? Yes, she would give him that, she conceded with a certain dry detachment. She would put him in his early thirties, perhaps—which made it odd that she had never seen him before, if he was a regular gambler. Perhaps he had recently inherited a fortune, and was intent on losing it as quickly as possible? He would have little trouble doing that if he was a friend of Lord Neville, she reflected wryly—his crowd elevated pointless bravura to an artform.
Not that she cared in the least, she reminded herself with a small shrug of her slim shoulders. He was just another fool—even if he did look as if he possessed a little more intelligence than he had so far displayed at the tables. And if he was anxious to fritter away his money on wasteful pursuits, Darlene was certainly the one to help him.

A little before midnight Natasha handed over the blackjack table to one of the other croupiers, and slipped outside for a few minutes’ break in the fresh air.
She loved Spaniard’s Cove—though she had grown up here, she never ceased to be enchanted by its beauty. Encircled by tall volcanic outcrops, their weird outlines softened by the blue-green rainforest trees that clothed their steep sides, its beach was a perfect crescent of pink-white coral sand, lapped by the warm blue Caribbean sea. And at night the sky was like black velvet, spangled with a million stars so bright that when she was a little girl she had always imagined the angels must spend all day polishing them.
Strolling through the casino’s lush tropical gardens, breathing in the soft night breeze with its fragrance of jasmine and frangipani, she reminded herself for about the millionth time that it would be worth the wait, worth putting up with Lester, even for another two years…
A sudden shout, and the sound of running feet, startled her out of her pleasant reverie. Hurrying towards the source of the commotion, she came to the old stable block behind the casino, now used as a general workshop and garages. Three figures were in the corner, behind Lester’s prized Mercedes, their shadows thrown in sharp relief against the wall by the orange glow from a flickering storm lamp.
‘Lester—no, stop it!’ Debbie, her stepfather’s most regular girlfriend, was sobbing and tugging at his arm.
Lester shook her off impatiently, and Debbie stumbled back. Now Natasha could see the third cowering figure— Jamie, the young son of the cook, a lad of about thirteen or fourteen. He had grown up here at Spaniard’s Cove, and earned a little extra money by helping the gardener before and after school.
‘You stinking little brat!’ Lester was shouting, his voice harsh with fury. ‘I’ll flay the hide from your body, you damned little—’
‘Lester!’ Natasha’s sharp word stilled him in the act of raising his hand—and she saw that in it he held an old horse-whip that he must have snatched down from the wall. The boy seized the opportunity to escape, darting away into the night before Lester could catch him.
He turned on her in fury. ‘Damn you! What did you have to stop me for? I was going to giving him the hiding of his life!’
Natasha returned him a look of icy contempt. ‘Why?’ she queried, her voice deliberately calm in the face of his anger. ‘What has he done?’
‘Done? He’s scratched my car, that’s what he’s done. Look! Just look at that!’ He pointed dramatically to a small scrape along the front wing.
She glanced at it, one finely drawn eyebrow arched in doubt. ‘It looks as if you scraped it against the doorpost driving it in,’ she pointed out.
‘I did nothing of the sort!’ he exploded. ‘You think I can’t manage to drive my own car into my own garage?’
‘Not if you’ve had a few drinks,’ she retorted coolly. ‘Like yesterday.’
His face had taken on an alarming tomato hue, and he raised his hand—for one tense moment Natasha thought he was going to strike her with the whip. But she faced him down, refusing to let him intimidate her. And at last he threw the whip to the ground and, muttering a vicious curse, turned on his heel and stalked out of the garage.
She let go her breath in a long sigh, realising that she was more shaken than she had been aware. She had known that Lester had a temper, but not that he could be violent. Stooping, she picked up the whip and hung it back on its hook. Behind her, Debbie was sobbing quietly.
‘Oh, Natasha… Thank you for stopping him,’ she breathed, dabbing at her eyes with a sodden handkerchief. ‘I was so frightened. He could have got into terrible trouble if he’d hurt that poor little boy.’
Natasha laughed dryly. She had always rather liked the older woman, though she could never quite understand what she saw in Lester—she could certainly have done a great deal better for herself. In her middle thirties, she was still extremely pretty, with soft golden hair and a dainty figure, and wide blue eyes which conveyed an air of gentle innocence—though she ran a very successful chain of beauty salons with concessions in all the best hotels on the island.
Suddenly an unpleasant thought struck her. ‘He’s never hit you, has he, Debbie?’ she asked bluntly.
The blonde gazed up at her in open surprise. ‘Oh, no,’ she assured her, shaking her head. ‘He’d never do a thing like that. He was just…rather upset when he saw the scratch on his car. He really loves that car, you know.’
Natasha nodded in wry agreement. It seemed a little absurd to her to have a car with a top speed of over a hundred and fifty miles an hour when the island was small enough to walk around in one afternoon and the roads would challenge the strongest automotive suspension. But Lester had always had extravagant tastes.
Debbie stroked her slim hand over the leather hood. ‘Sometimes I think he loves it more than he loves me,’ she mused sadly. ‘I just wish he’d say for definite if we’re going to get married. I’ll be forty before I know it.’
Natasha smiled crookedly. ‘I really don’t know why you put up with him,’ she remarked. ‘It’s not as if he treats you the way he should. Why don’t you finish with him, and find yourself the sort of decent man you deserve?’
Debbie shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I love him,’ was her only explanation.
Natasha sighed, watching as the petite blonde quickly checked her make-up in a tiny mirror, to make sure that her tears hadn’t done too much damage, and then hurried away after Lester.
Natasha’s thoughts were troubled. Two years was still a long time—two years of living in Lester’s shadow, watching him, trying to make sure that he wasn’t somehow cheating her. Two years…
Wryly she shook her head. There really wasn’t a solution to her problem. Even if she found someone to marry she could easily find herself jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. Maybe working in the casino business had made her cynical, but the kind of marriages she saw there wouldn’t inspire anyone with much confidence in the institution.
Men with large wallets and larger egos, parading their trophy wives—wives who would be traded in for a younger, fresher model every couple of years. Unless, of course, it was the wife’s money they were splashing around the tables, while indulging in a little discreet dalliance with women like Darlene, happy to accept an arrangement of that nature in return for a few baubles.
No, marriage wasn’t the answer, she reflected as she snuffed out the storm-lamp and closed the garage doors. But she would have to think of something.
There was no sign of young Jamie—the lad had very wisely made himself scarce. The memory of the scene she had just witnessed made her feel slightly sick. Lester really would have beaten the boy if she hadn’t chanced upon the incident in time. What a nasty piece of work he was!
She was no longer in the mood for a pleasant stroll in the gardens, so instead she headed back around the building to the front entrance.
The casino bore little trace of its original function now. A solid construction of pink-tinged coral stone, with tall, narrow windows and a flat roof, it had been built to withstand the fierce hurricanes which occasionally swept in from the Atlantic to devastate the island. A large, square porch had been built over the main entrance, emblazoned with neon writing in pink and green that spelled out the words, ‘Spaniard’s Cove Casino’ on three sides. A wide step led up to the bronzed glass doors—the original heavy strapped-wood ones were permanently pinned back against the walls, only closed when there was a hurricane warning.
As she stepped inside, Natasha was greeted by the doorman, a great bear of a man who never really looked quite comfortable in his elegant dinner jacket and bow tie. He flashed her a beaming smile. ‘Evening, Miss Natasha.’
‘Good evening, Jem. How are you keeping?’
‘I’ve got no problems,’ he responded with a shrug of his huge shoulders, beaming even wider. ‘I never have any problems.’
She smiled, glad that someone at least was content with life, and moved on to pause briefly at the reception desk and cast her eye over the guest register.
The main foyer was filled with the noisy clatter of slot machines, all gaudy spinning lights and synthesised chimes. They were an innovation of Lester’s—in her grandmother’s day there had been just four, the old-fashioned one-arm-bandit type, discreetly ranged down one wall. Natasha hated them—though she couldn’t deny that they made a tidy profit.
Beyond the foyer, the main gaming room was a glittering cavern, all polished wood and sparkling chandeliers, reflected into infinity by the gilded mirrors that lined the walls along both sides. A dark green carpet absorbed all the abuse of countless stiletto heels and casually discarded cigarette stubs, and slow fans on the ceiling redistributed the drifts of blue-grey cigarette smoke without having any noticeable impact on the heat.
Had it really been any different in her grandmother’s day, she mused, gazing around, or was it just that she had been seeing it then through the eyes of a child? But it had always seemed to her that the place had been much…friendlier, somehow. Oh, there had still been the glamour, the occasional film stars, the high-rollers, but her grandmother had been more interested in seeing people having a good time than in trying to take as much money as possible out of their pockets.
There had only been six roulette tables then, where now there were ten, crammed into the same amount of space, as well as more blackjack and craps. And in those days you’d never see any of those narrow-eyed men from Miami that Lester seemed so friendly with, who never took their jackets off, no matter how hot it got.
To her left was the supper room, where there was often a cabaret or dancing. One of the mirrors cast her a fleeting glimpse of her own reflection as she cut across the corner of the dance floor towards the bar to have a brief word with Ricardo, the bar manager, before he left for his holidays.
With her tall, slender figure and delicately carved features, her fine silver-blonde hair swept up into a neat coil at the back of her head, her elegant dress skimming her curves without too much cling, she knew that she looked every inch the ice Maiden.
That was what they called her, all the handsome young men who were so eager for her attention. She treated them all with the same blend of friendliness and reserve, keeping them safely at arm’s length with that cool, professional smile. She had no intention of getting involved with any of them. Her grandmother had warned her long ago that if she was ever going to let any man reach her heart, to make sure that he wasn’t a gambler.
She was close to the far side of the dance floor when she suddenly found herself confronted by Lord Neville’s enigmatic friend.
‘Ah, Miss Cole,’ he greeted her, completely blocking her way and smiling down at her with a glint of mocking humour. ‘So you’ve changed your mind about dancing?’
‘No, I haven’t,’ she protested indignantly—but those strong arms were already around her as he drew her smoothly into the middle of the dance floor. ‘Please let me go.’
His hold tightened almost imperceptibly, warning her that she wouldn’t escape unless she was willing to cause a scene. ‘Ah, but it’s such a romantic song,’ he urged, his foolish pleading markedly at odds with the raw masculine power that was holding her prisoner. ‘And I lost so much money at your table, too. Won’t you spare me just one dance to cheer me up?’
‘Somehow you don’t seem particularly downcast,’ she rapped back with a touch of asperity.
‘I’ve learned to hide it.’
‘Oh, really?’ She returned him a glance of glittering suspicion. ‘You’ve had plenty of experience, I suppose?’
‘I’m afraid so.’ He sighed, over-acting so ludicrously that she was almost forced to laugh. ‘You’d think I’d have learned to play a little better by now.’
‘If you’re a regular card-player, I’m surprised I’ve never seen you here before,’ she remarked, sure now that she was right—he had been losing deliberately. But why?
‘I don’t know how I can have missed it,’ he countered blandly, giving nothing away. ‘Have you worked here long?’
‘I don’t work here,’ she responded coolly. She really didn’t need this—the incident with Lester had left her already on edge. ‘I own Spaniard’s Cove.’
‘Oh?’ One brown eyebrow arched in interested question. ‘I thought Lester Jackson owned it?’
She shook her head. ‘He’s my stepfather, and one of my trustees; he manages it for me until I come of age under the terms of my grandmother’s will.’
‘I see…’ He seemed to be storing the information away in some kind of mental filing cabinet. ‘What is this place?’ He glanced up at the high ceiling, beamed with dark local mahogany. ‘It looks like it was some kind of warehouse.’
‘It was,’ she confirmed. ‘Spaniard’s Cove used to be a sugar plantation.’
‘Oh? What happened to it?’
‘Market forces happened to it,’ she explained, with a quirk of wry humour. ‘Sugar-beet largely took over from cane, and most of the big plantations went bankrupt. My grandparents tried turning the old plantation house into a hotel, but it was never really very successful—most of the visitors to the island preferred to stay on their own yachts in those days. Then they hit on the idea of converting this place into a casino, to lure in the customers, and…well, that was it.’
He nodded with what seemed like genuine interest. ‘What happened to the house?’
‘It was blown down by a hurricane before I was born. They never bothered to rebuild it—they used up the wood instead to build the cottages along the beach.’
‘And the land?’ he enquired. ‘I suppose it’s all been sold off?’
‘No.’ She couldn’t help wondering why he was asking so many questions. ‘Some of it’s used to grow bananas, and some of it’s rented off as smallholdings, but the rest is just lying fallow at the moment. I have some plans for the future, but they will have to wait until I’m twenty-five.’
He smiled, a smile that seemed to have a very odd effect on her pulse-rate. ‘So in the meantime you content yourself with dealing blackjack?’
‘Yes.’ For some reason it was difficult to keep her voice steady. Being held so close to him, she could breathe the subtle musky scent of his skin, like some kind of drug. ‘And sometimes I work one of the roulette tables.’
‘Ah, roulette.’ He sighed, once again the amiable loser. ‘I’m no luckier at that than I am at blackjack, I’m afraid.’
‘So why keep playing?’ she demanded, stung into irritation by the conviction that he was somehow mocking her.
He shrugged those wide shoulders in a gesture of casual dismissal. ‘Oh, just for a little excitement,’ he responded. ‘Will you be on the roulette tables tonight?’
‘No. I shall be dealing blackjack again when I’ve had my break.’
‘And what time do you finish?’
‘Not until we close.’
‘And then?’
‘I shall be checking the takings,’ she returned crisply.
Again that questioning arched eyebrow. ‘Oh? But I thought Lester managed the casino? Doesn’t he take care of all that?’
Natasha slanted him a searching glance from beneath her lashes, a little surprised at the question. Beneath that casual mien, he seemed to be trying to find out an awful lot about the way the casino was run. ‘We…take it in turns,’ she responded stiffly.
He laughed, seeming to know somehow that she was lying—though how could he know, after being here only two days, that she generally checked the takings herself? ‘You mean you don’t trust him to count your money?’ he queried, those disturbing shark-grey eyes glinting in sardonic amusement.
‘Of course I do,’ she insisted, injecting her voice with several degrees of frost. ‘I trust him totally.’ The lie came out easily—there was no way she was going to discuss her private affairs with this disturbing stranger. She twisted her wrist to glance pointedly at her watch. ‘Well, I’m afraid my break is nearly over,’ she announced coolly. ‘If you’ll excuse me, Mr…?’
‘The name’s Hugh.’ There was a note of mocking reproof in his voice. ‘I’ve told you twice already.’
‘I’m sorry. The casino has a great many customers— I’m afraid I really can’t remember every single name.’ She was lying—she had remembered his name. Hugh Garratt. Though why it had fixed itself in her mind, she wasn’t quite sure.
‘I thought it was a croupier’s job, to remember names?’ he taunted.
‘No—to remember the cards,’ she corrected him with a hint of lofty disdain.
‘And you can do that?’
‘Extremely well.’
‘Ah!’ He grinned, playing the big, amiable fool again. ‘No wonder I kept losing.’
She didn’t want to laugh, but she couldn’t help it. ‘So, will you be staying another night?’ she asked, struggling to maintain her usual air of untouchability.
He smiled, that dangerous smile that made her heart kick against her ribs again. ‘Do you want me to?’ he countered, his voice a little huskier, his breath warm against her cheek.
She drew back, her eyes flashing him an instant frost warning. ‘I was merely being polite,’ she snapped.
That smile lingered, taunting her. ‘Maybe I will,’ he mused softly. ‘I haven’t made up my mind yet. It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On whether I think it may be worth my while.’
She stiffened, her hackles rising. He appeared to have mistaken her for Darlene. ‘If you mean what I think you mean, you might as well leave right now,’ she retorted in a voice that would strip paint.
He merely laughed, feigning an innocence that would have fooled no one. ‘Now, what could you possibly think I mean?’ he taunted.
For one tense moment she felt an uncharacteristic urge to slap that arrogant face. She knew he had been deliberately needling her, but she was almost too angry to care if she made a scene. Instead she swept down and outwards with her elbows, to break his hold on her, and without another word turned him an aloof shoulder and stalked away.

CHAPTER TWO
‘WHO was that you were dancing with last night?’
‘No one,’ Natasha responded coolly, reaching for a second croissant. It was rare for Lester to appear at the breakfast table—he didn’t usually get up until the afternoon—and it didn’t augur a good start to the day. After the scene last night in the garage, she would have preferred to have had as little contact with him as possible.
Lester laughed unpleasantly. ‘It wasn’t “no one”,’ he insisted. ‘You never dance with the customers—what makes that one so special?’
‘He caught me as I was walking back to the bar,’ she conceded stiffly. ‘I couldn’t very well avoid him.’
‘It was the guy that’s been losing heavily on the blackjack tables.’ Lester’s pale eyes glinted with greed. ‘That’s the sort of punter I like. You be nice to him, girl. Schmooze him a little. Play him along. The guy’s a sucker—if he thinks he’s in with a chance of making it with you he’ll stick around until his pockets are empty.’
Natasha returned him a look of cold dislike, spreading her croissant with apricot jam and biting into it delicately. The table was their usual one, set in the sunny bay window of the empty supper room. None of the other tables was laid—the casino wouldn’t be open for another couple of hours.
Only the cleaners were in—she could hear one of them singing tunelessly as she worked, the quiet hum of a vacuum cleaner replacing the usual clamour of the slot machines in the foyer. In the gaming room the curtains at the long windows had been drawn back and the windows opened to air the room, letting the bright, unfamiliar sunshine stream in.
‘You’re suggesting I should let him think I might go to bed with him so that he’ll stay and go on losing money at the tables?’ she clarified with icy disdain.
‘So what’s wrong with that?’ Lester demanded, sneering. ‘You don’t have to deliver. Come on—you know how the game works.’
‘I might know how it works, but that doesn’t mean I have to like how it works,’ she countered. ‘Not the way you play it, anyway.’
Her stepfather slammed down his coffee cup, his face as red as a tomato. ‘Damned toffee-nosed bitch!’ he snarled. ‘This place’d be losing money hand over fist if it wasn’t for me. And what thanks do I get? You can’t even bring yourself to be civil to my friends.’
‘If by “friends” you mean that creep you brought over here last month, and if by “civil” you mean not objecting to his hands wandering all over me when I was talking to him, then forget it,’ she returned crisply. ‘His sort don’t warrant civility—in fact he’s damned lucky he didn’t get my knee in his groin. And you can warn him that if he tries that sort of thing on with me again, that’s exactly what he will get.’
Lester leaned forward, prodding a finger at her across the table. ‘You’d better watch your tongue, my girl. Nobody speaks to Tony de Santo like that,’ he warned menacingly. ‘He’s got connections.’
Natasha merely laughed. Her stepfather was always boasting of his friends and their ‘connections’, but she wasn’t impressed. ‘I’ll speak to him how I like,’ she retorted. ‘The man’s a snake—and that’s probably being unfair to snakes.’ Her appetite gone, she drained her coffee and got up from the table without bothering to finish her breakfast.
The family’s private apartment was on the upper floor of the casino, in the old warehouse manager’s quarters. Natasha still shared it with Lester—somehow neither of them had got around to moving out. But, since neither of them spent very much time there, even taking their meals downstairs in the supper room, sharing it had never really been a problem.
But now, as she climbed the narrow staircase, she pulled a wry face. Maybe it was time to start talking about one of them living elsewhere.
What she needed was a swim to burn the edge off her tension, she decided briskly. She changed into a swimsuit and pulled her T-shirt and shorts back on over top, and then, pausing only to pick up some sunscreen and a towel, a broad-brimmed hat and a good book, she slipped down the back stairs, past the kitchens and out into the clear morning sunshine.
The beach would be crowded, but she knew of another one, hidden away, just ten minutes’ walk through the trees. It was quite small, so few people ever found it, and she could usually be guaranteed almost total privacy. Swinging her straw bag across her shoulder, she set off along the path which led past the beach cottages and up over a spur of dark volcanic rock, and then down to the tree-sheltered cove, with its deserted patch of white sand lapped by the turquoise-blue Caribbean Sea.
At this time of the morning the water had already been pleasantly warmed by the sun. She swam for a while with a smooth, powerful stroke, diving down beneath the sparkling surface to visit the rock pools and pockets of coral where shoals of tiny bright fish darted about, until she felt the coiled springs inside her begin to unwind and a pleasant ache of tiredness in her muscles.
The tiny beach was still empty as she climbed up out of the water. Scrubbing her hair roughly dry with the towel, she tucked it beneath her sunhat and then spread the towel out beneath a convenient rock, smoothed a generous dollop of suncream into her skin, perched her sunglasses on her nose and sat down with her back against the rock to enjoy the sheer bliss of solitude and a good book.
For about a minute. She had barely read half a page when the peace of the morning was abruptly shattered by a banging and thumping, and she glanced up to see a tall, familiar figure emerging from beneath the trees, a wind-surf board clutched clumsily under his arm. Uttering a most unladylike expletive under her breath, she bent her head over her book, shielding her face with the brim of her hat.
Dammit! Any intrusion on her quiet retreat would have been unwelcome—but if it had to be invaded, why on earth did it have to be by Hugh Garratt…?
‘Hello, there,’ he greeted her with amiable good humour. ‘What a pleasant surprise.’
‘Indeed.’ Her tone would have dampened most men’s attempts to engage her attention.
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you?’ he queried politely—though the unmistakable lilt of amusement in his voice confirmed that he actually knew perfectly well that he was disturbing her. In fact, she wouldn’t be at all surprised if he had come down here with that deliberate intention.
‘Not in the least,’ she rapped in answer, not bothering to look up from her book.
‘I came down to try out this windsurfing lark,’ he confided disarmingly. ‘Only I didn’t want anyone to see me making a fool of myself until I can get the hang of it.’
She tilted up her head, slanting him a suspicious glance from behind her sunglasses. ‘You’ve never tried it before?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not. I’ve often promised myself I’d have a go, though, so I thought I might as well take this chance, while I’m here.’
‘Well, don’t let me stop you.’ She returned her attention to her book, doing her best to ignore him as he stripped off his faded T-shirt to reveal a remarkably well-made torso, all smooth, hard muscle beneath lightly bronzed skin, with a smattering of rough dark hair across the width of his chest, arrowing down to…
Swiftly she snatched her eyes back to the jumbled words on the page, angry at her own awareness of him. He was just another punter—and one who couldn’t tell the difference between a brush-off and a come-on, apparently. Hadn’t she known more than enough of those? Her mouth compressed in irritation, she turned the page of her book—and then realised that she hadn’t read any of the previous three paragraphs.
‘Excuse me…?’
His shadow fell across her, a few grains of sand sprinkling onto her feet. She drew in a long, slow breath to indicate her annoyance, and then looked up at him. ‘Yes?’
‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I wondered if I could borrow a little of your suncream?’ he queried with a hint of diffidence, as if afraid she would bite his head off. ‘I forgot to bring any, and I don’t want to get burned.’
She was tempted to remark that he already seemed to have a pretty good tan, but she knew that wasn’t necessarily enough protection from the damaging rays of the hot Caribbean sun. ‘Of course.’ She nodded curtly, dipping her hand into her bag and pulling it out. ‘Here.’
‘Thank you.’
Even without looking up, she was still aware of him standing so close to her—and to judge from the sounds of the gloops and slurps he was using up half the tube of cream. Then there was another moment of hesitation.
‘I don’t like to bother you again…’ His voice was all innocent apology, his smile one of ingratiating charm. ‘But would you mind putting some on my back for me? I can’t reach.’
With a sigh of weary exasperation, she laid down her hat and her book, and, rising to her feet, almost snatched the tube from him. ‘Turn around, then,’ she ordered grudgingly, squeezing out a pool of cream into the palm of her hand.
She began at the nape of his neck, working out along his wide shoulders, smoothing the cream briskly into his warm skin. Beneath her hand, those well-defined muscles were firm and resilient over the steel hardness of bone. She had been right about how fit he was, she mused absently—this was all prime male, not a trace of softness in him.
Slicking the cream across his back, she continued to rub it in, circling slowly, over and over, all her attention focused on her task as she worked her way over the smooth ridges of muscle and down the long cleft of his spine. Last night, even with the three-inch heels of her evening sandals, she had been aware of how tall he was, but now, barefoot in the sand, his six-foot plus seemed to tower over her.
Her mouth felt suddenly dry, and the sun seemed to have grown hotter, making her feel a little light-headed. And some kind of strange magnetic force was drawing her closer, closer, until she could have slid her arms around his waist, leaned herself against him, felt the raw power in that hard male body next to hers…
Abruptly she drew back, startled. She had been within an inch of actually doing it, of making a complete fool of herself.
‘There you are.’ Her voice was stiff from the effort of suppressing the slight tremor in her throat. ‘That’s enough.’
‘Thank you.’ He turned, smiling slowly—and she was quite sure that he knew exactly what effect he was having on her. At least she still had her sunglasses on—he couldn’t see her eyes. But he must be aware of how ragged her breathing was, the way her hand was trembling as she tried to put the lid back on the cream. He was much too close—and that wide chest, hard-muscled and hair-roughened, was much too male. She just had to touch…
‘There’s a bit there you haven’t rubbed in properly,’ she excused herself awkwardly, putting up her fingertips to a melting streak of white just above his heart, where that fascinating smattering of rough hair curled over the sculpted curve of a well-defined pectoral muscle.
‘Thank you.’ His voice had taken on a huskier timbre, and with an odd little frisson of excitement she realised that he too was aware of that strange sizzle of electricity between them…
But he had deliberately engineered this, the warming voice inside her brain reminded her sharply—it hadn’t happened by chance. He was sly, devious, manipulative—in short, a man. She drew back, retreating behind her usual façade of icy disdain. ‘There. You shouldn’t get sunburned now, so long as you don’t stay out too long.’
He laughed that lazily mocking laugh. ‘I’m very obliged to you. You can go back to your book now.’
‘Thank you!’ she retorted snappily, sitting down again and slapping her hat on her head, snatching up her book and focusing all her attention on the page.
But she could no more forget his presence than fly to the moon. A few minutes later, she glanced up to see him floundering around on the sailboard, lurching from one side to the other. She watched with growing impatience, until finally she sighed, and shook her head. ‘Don’t over-compensate,’ she called to him. ‘You’re gripping the bar too tight.’
He glanced over his shoulder, wobbled, but by some miracle didn’t fall in.
‘Stand up straight. Hold your head up,’ she instructed. ‘You don’t need to watch your feet.’
He wobbled again, righted it, and wobbled the other way. ‘The darned thing just seems to go all over the place!’ he protested wryly.
‘Don’t think about it too hard. Bend your knees a little, and let the board ride.’ She put the book down and walked to the water’s edge. ‘Don’t watch the front of the board—keep your eyes on where you’re going.’
He sped along nicely for a moment, but then seemed to hit a lump in the water and lost it again. ‘Damn—I just can’t get the hang of it,’ he complained. ‘I seem to have rotten balance.’
Her eyes narrowed suspiciously—he didn’t look the sort who would be poor at sports. He turned clumsily, letting the board run in towards the shore.
‘It might be better if you showed me,’ he suggested hopefully.
The look she slanted him warned him that she was pretty sure he was playing games, but she received only the most innocent smile in response. With nothing else to say, she took the board from him. ‘The first thing is to balance the board and up-haul the sail,’ she explained. ‘Don’t bother about sinking—snap it up and sheet it in as quickly as you can.’
She felt the familiar tug as the wind caught in the sail, felt the bounce of the waves beneath her feet, and instinctively turned the rig to gybe around and skim out across the water. ‘See? You keep your shoulders forward, lift onto your toes…’
‘What…?’ he called from the shore. ‘I can’t hear you.’
‘Lift onto your toes…’ Impatiently she realised that it was no good—the wind was carrying her words away. Reluctantly she swung the board around again, and headed back to the beach. ‘Get up behind me, and I’ll show you.’
He accepted the invitation with an alacrity which confirmed her suspicion that he had planned for just such an outcome, stepping up behind her and reaching around to grasp the bar, listening attentively as she instructed him how to hold it. With two of them on it the board was a little less stable, but as soon as the breeze caught the sail it began to scud out across the water, as graceful as a bird.
Natasha had always thought that this swimsuit was perfectly respectable—soft shades of blue and green, with a satiny sheen, and not cut particularly low. But now, with Hugh Garratt’s bare chest against her bare back, his bare thighs brushing against hers, she was rather too conscious that all he had to do was glance down over her shoulder and he would have an unhindered view into the soft shadow between her breasts. And she was heatedly aware of their ripe swell, and the way the tender peaks had puckered into taut buds, their contours clearly visible beneath the damp, clinging Lycra.
As she stiffened in tension, the board snatched and started to topple. Instantly Hugh righted it, the small movement not the sort of instinctive reaction she would have expected of a beginner.
‘You suddenly seem to be getting very good at this,’ she remarked, a sardonic inflection in her voice.
‘I am, aren’t I?’ he responded with simple pride, his breath warm against her hair. ‘You must be a good teacher.’
‘It’s got nothing to do with me,’ she retorted. ‘You’ve been on a sail board before.’
‘A few times,’ he conceded, his laughter soft and husky. ‘But with you sitting there so frosty, frowning at me over your sunglasses, I couldn’t think of any other way of getting close to you.’
And close he was, much closer than was necessary to keep the sail board afloat—folded around her, every inch of his body seeming to touch hers somewhere. ‘You’re…nothing but a fraud!’ she protested, the tremor in her voice betraying the confusing responses she didn’t know how to control.
He chuckled, a low, sensuous sound that she could feel as well as hear. ‘Oh, no—I assure you I’m a lot more besides that, when you get to know me.’
‘I don’t want to get to know you,’ she insisted. ‘You probably cheat at cards.’
‘I can’t be a very good cheat, then,’ he countered promptly. ‘I lost all that money.’
In spite of herself, she was forced to laugh. ‘Are you never lost for words?’ she demanded, exasperated.
He didn’t answer at once, and she glanced briefly up at him over her shoulder—to find him gazing down into her eyes, holding them in a strangely hypnotic spell. ‘I am now,’ he murmured smokily. ‘Do you know, you’re even more beautiful when you laugh?’
She felt something inside her beginning to melt…but then the folly of flirting while balanced on a sail board was brought home to her forcefully as it started to tilt.
‘Whoops…’ She corrected it with small movement, but the weight of the two of them was upsetting the balance. It swayed the other way, jolting as it hit a wave, and Natasha knew it was going to dump them both in the water.
Hugh’s arm slipped around her waist as they tipped backwards, holding her close against him. They went under with a splash, both shrieking with laughter. The water was warm and clear, sunlight turning the spray to a sparkling cascade of diamonds. Her hair streamed around her as he turned her in his arms, and they surfaced together, body on body, legs entwined, their mouths so close…
When had she ever said he could kiss her? But as his lips brushed over hers she made no effort to push him away. Maybe she had been hoping that he would, wondering what it would be like…
But the compelling heat of his mouth was far more than she could have dreamed, dizzying her senses, driving any last shreds of rational thought from her mind. Slowly, languorously, his tongue lapped along the full curve of her lower lip, arousing a sensuous response from somewhere deep inside her, turning all her bones to jelly.
All her defences were designed to keep men at arm’s length—they were of no use at such close quarters. His wicked tongue slid again across the silky membranes just inside her lips, and then sought to plunder deeper, swirling into all the most sensitive corners of her mouth in a flagrantly erotic invasion.
Her whole body was curved against his, her aching breasts crushed by the hard wall of his chest, their tender peaks sensitive to the friction of every tiny movement between them. Her arms had somehow tangled themselves around his neck, and his hand had slipped slowly down over her bare back, holding her close enough to warn her of the tension of male arousal in him.
But the rational part of her brain had been stunned into silence by the unexpected impact of that kiss. She was kissing him back, a fierce hunger awakening inside her like nothing she had ever known before, a temptation so sweet that she didn’t know how to resist it.
Her head tipped back as she gasped raggedly for breath, and his kisses trailed a hot path down the long, slender column of her throat, into the sensitive hollows at its base, as his hand stroked up over her slim midriff to cup and mould the ripe, aching curve of her breast, crushing it beneath his palm, the taut bud of her nipple sizzling beneath that delicious abrasion.
She was floating in a world of pure sensation, the soft, warm waters of the Caribbean lapping around her part of the magic of his caresses. But suddenly her foot touched the sandy bottom, her toes grazing against a jagged edge of broken coral, and the sharp sting brought her abruptly to her senses.
Shocked by her own wantonness, she pulled back out of his arms, suddenly aware that he had eased the strap of her swimsuit down over her shoulder, almost exposing the naked curve of her breast. ‘Wh… What do you think you’re doing?’ she demanded fiercely, fumbling to pull the awkward wet Lycra back up again.
‘You don’t know?’ His sardonic laughter taunted her as he shook his head in mocking disbelief. ‘I’d heard you were a mite frostbitten, but I’m sure you must have been kissed at least a couple of times before.’
She had struck out at him before she had formed the conscious thought in her brain, but he was much too quick for her, catching her wrists as she fought against him, simply amused by her fury.
‘Temper…!’ he chided, holding her off with ease. ‘You’re really blowing your image this morning.’
Natasha snatched her hands away from him, splashing back into the water. It was impossible to retreat with any semblance of dignity, half-wading half-swimming up to the beach, but she just wanted to get away as quickly as possible—away from those mocking, mesmerising eyes, away from that taunting smile. As soon as she reached the shallows she stood up, striding across the soft sand towards the tree-shaded path, snatching up her book and her towel as she passed.

‘No more bets now, please, ladies and gentlemen.’ Natasha cast a cool glance along the table to check that all the players were ready, and then set the roulette wheel spinning, dropping in the silver ball with a deft hand so that it whirled and danced in the bowl, clattering in and out of the dish until at last it settled. ‘Fifteen, black,’ she announced, swinging out her rake to pull in the losing chips and deftly counting out to the winners.
‘Trying a change of scenery tonight?’ a familiar, faintly mocking voice murmured close behind her.
A hot little prickle of awareness ran down her spine, but she disdainfully refused to even turn her head. ‘I frequently run a roulette table,’ she countered in voice of icy dignity.
‘Ah, well—perhaps I’ll have better luck if I change my game,’ Hugh responded with that air of amiable good humour that was beginning to seriously annoy her, strolling round to take a stool that had just been vacated right opposite her position.
Natasha kept her professional smile pinned firmly in place—she wasn’t going to let Hugh Garratt see that she was the slightest bit bothered whether or not he joined her table. But she couldn’t quite prevent her eyes from slanting in his direction—snatching them swiftly away again as his glance caught hers. And he smiled that idiotic smile that would fool absolutely no one that he was as stupid as he was trying to make people believe he was.
‘No more bets now, please.’ She was glad of the familiar routines of the game to anchor her concentration. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen—no more bets now.’
Hugh had put his chips on red—and it came up black. Natasha refused to allow herself to glance across the table as she raked in his chips. He was up to something—she was quite sure of it. Only a sucker would play even-money bets on a table with a double zero. But quite what he was up to she hadn’t yet worked out.
He stayed at the table for about half an hour, and lost maybe a couple of thousand dollars, betting with a reckless good humour that had all the table laughing with him. That drew others to see what all the jollification was about, making the table the centre of attraction of the whole room.
‘This time it’s got to be the red!’ he insisted, taking another large swig from the whisky tumbler he was waving around ostentatiously—though Natasha had noticed that, for all he appeared to be drinking from it, the level seemed to be remaining pretty much the same. ‘It can’t come up black five times in a row!’
Darlene was back, anchoring herself firmly to his side and fluttering her false eyelashes up at him. ‘Well, if you’re betting on the red, my money’s on the black,’ she giggled. ‘Don’t you mind losing all that money?’
‘Ah, you have to hold on and wait for your luck to change,’ he asserted cheerfully. ‘It’s got to happen—any minute now.’
‘Well, I won’t hold my breath.’
‘Heartless wench.’ He slipped his arm around her waist, smiling that wicked smile. ‘Stick around and watch for the fireworks.’
‘Last bets now, please,’ Natasha rapped out, startled by the cutting edge in her own voice. ‘Thank you, ladies and gentlemen,’ she added more smoothly, flashing her cool smile. ‘Last bets, please.’
Lester had wandered over to see what was causing all the excitement, and watched approvingly as Hugh carelessly tossed a pile of chips onto the red diamond.
It wasn’t even a truly evens bet since along with the American wheel Lester had introduced the American rule—if the spin came up on the zero of double zero, the player lost the whole stake—instead of the English system of returning half. Natasha had argued vociferously against its introduction—it had seemed to her that the house advantage on the roulette table was already quite sufficient. But, as Lester had pointedly reminded her, most of the time the punters didn’t even seem to notice.
Hugh certainly didn’t seem to care. Apparently half drunk, he was laughing rather too loudly, his arm draped casually around Darlene’s shoulders as if he needed her to prop him up. ‘Come on, Lady Luck,’ he pleaded, playing out the role of the reckless gambler from some cheap B movie. ‘Spare me just one of your sweet smiles tonight.’
Natasha did her very best to ignore him. If he was the sort who was attracted to Darlene’s amply displayed charms, she wasn’t remotely interested in him.
Not that she would have been interested anyway. So far as she was concerned, any man who came in through the doors of the casino carried a warning sign that spelled TROUBLE in giant red letters. No sensible woman would want to get involved with a gambler—even one that was winning.
But then across the table those wicked shark-grey eyes caught hers—and the glitter in them owed absolutely nothing to alcohol. Her heart gave a sudden thud. She was right—he was faking.
Was she the only person around the table who was aware of the charade? It seemed so—everyone else was laughing, enjoying the foolery. But why was he doing it? Last night she had wondered if he was working with a partner, drawing all the attention to himself while someone else worked a scam at one of the other tables. But her careful checking of all the surveillance videos had revealed nothing. So what was his game…?
He had held her gaze for much longer than she had intended, and she felt herself growing strangely warm, the memory of the way he had kissed her creeping into her mind, the way that strong, sensitive hand had caressed her breast… She drew in a long, deep breath, struggling to steady the beating of her own heart, and returned him the sort of cool, level look which would put most men very firmly in their place.
‘Last bets now, please, ladies and gentlemen.’ Damn—she had already said that.
Hugh lost yet again, and to Natasha’s relief Lord Neville came over and demanded his attention, dragging him off to one of the blackjack tables, Darlene clinging to his arm like an leech.
With him gone from her table, she was able to feel a little more relaxed. She knew it was crazy to let him affect her like that. It was just because…she was still annoyed with herself about that encounter on the beach this morning. She wasn’t even sure why she had let it happen. OK, so he had a good body, and a certain attractive way of smiling… And, yes, all right—she was intrigued. Why was he acting like some drunken, weak-minded fool, when she was pretty sure he was anything but? What was he up to?
Anyway, for the moment at least he was out of her hair. She refused to let herself think about him, and when she took her break she was careful to check that he was nowhere near the dance floor before crossing to the door that led to the back stairs and slipping up to the family apartment on the top floor.
She was surprised to find Lester there, kneeling on the floor beside the private safe in the little-used sitting room. He closed it quickly when she walked in, swinging back the section of bookshelves that concealed it. ‘Well, we should be in for a pretty good night tonight,’ he declared gleefully.
Natasha arched one finely drawn eyebrow in cool question.
‘It seems our Mr Hugh Garratt thinks he can play poker,’ Lester explained, riffling a thick wad of banknotes. ‘I’ve let him persuade me to cut him in on our game.’
‘Poker?’ With a sudden kick of certainty Natasha saw the whole puzzle fall into place. ‘I don’t think you should play poker with him, Lester,’ she warned tautly.
Her stepfather laughed, cocksure. ‘Why not? If he’s sucker enough to sit down with me, why shouldn’t I fleece him? Teach the sap a lesson.’
She shook her head, wondering why she should bother to waste her breath. She really couldn’t care less if Lester lost his money—or, come to that, if Hugh did. ‘I think you’ll find you’ve underestimated him,’ she persisted. ‘You might find it isn’t you doing the fleecing.’
Lester sneered. ‘You think I’m stupid? I’ve marked him these past few days. He’s a friend of that chinless aristocrat Neville—what does that tell you?’
‘Not a lot,’ she responded dryly. ‘He may be a friend of his, but that doesn’t mean he’s one of his crowd.’
‘Fancy him, do you?’ he queried, his voice edged with sarcasm. ‘Well, there’s a first—I always thought you had ice in your britches. It’s a pity you couldn’t have a bit more sense than to fall for some bonehead like that. You’d better say goodbye to him—I doubt if he’ll stick around very long after I’ve finished with him. He’ll be lucky if he can find a banana boat to work his passage home!’
‘Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ she threw back at him. ‘At least it’ll be your own money you’re losing.”
‘Of course it is!’ Was it her imagination, or had he been just a little too quick to respond, a little too indignant? ‘I have no need to touch the casino’s money.’
Natasha had no real reason to doubt him—although she didn’t really know where his wealth had come from. Of course, as her trustee and manager of the casino he received a share of the profits, but she wasn’t sure that that was sufficient to finance his extravagant lifestyle—the expensive Italian suits and hand-made silk shirts that stuffed his wardrobe, the prime Havana cigars he liked to smoke, the private jet he hired on a regular basis whenever he wanted to pop across to Miami.
He had hinted from time to time that it was down to his shrewd business dealings, but she was inclined to doubt that—from what she had heard, chatting to old friends of her grandmother’s, he was something of a joke among the business community of the island. She had more or less assumed that it must be his poker winnings that supported his income—he was a reasonably good player, she had to admit that, and his weekly game was quite a feature, drawing in the high-rollers as well as plenty of ordinary punters attracted by the glamour.
And so it had drawn in Hugh Garratt. The amiable fool, losing his money with a cheerful shrug, inevitably attracting Lester’s eye when he was looking for a couple of greenhorns to provide the stake-fodder to sweeten the kitty at the poker table. Except that tonight Natasha suspected he had made a very big mistake.
‘You can come and watch if you like,’ Lester added, tucking the wad of notes into his jacket pocket. ‘Only don’t be too long, or you’ll miss the action.’ Again he chuckled, confidently anticipating a rewarding evening’s play, and with a swagger of his well-set shoulders went off downstairs.

CHAPTER THREE
IT WAS a little past midnight, and the casino was at its busiest, the atmosphere hot and stuffy, blue with the haze of cigarette smoke. There were crowds around the roulette tables, the blackjack tables were full, and every slot machine in the hall was flashing its coloured lights and chiming its bells like some kind of alien spacecraft that had overdosed on magic mushrooms.
Natasha was dealing blackjack again, but from time to time she heard reports on the progress of the poker game being conducted in the principal card room at the back of the casino. Eight players had sat down at ten o’clock, but already two had been dealt out, and unless Señor Santos had a significant run of luck he’d be out before long, too.
‘Lester’s having a good night tonight,’ someone remarked.
‘Maybe. But I reckon the Englishman’s got his measure. They’re still psyching each other out, but he’s got the advantage—no one knows his game.’
‘Yeah, but he don’t know theirs, neither. Could get interesting.’
Natasha listened, but said nothing. The essence of poker was to control the table, to be able to out-guess your opponent, to read his tactics without giving away your own. She still wasn’t sure if she had read Hugh Garratt’s tactics correctly. Was he just a fool, about to lose his shirt, as Lester so confidently believed? Or was he very, very clever?
But those thoughts were well concealed behind her cool, professional smile as she dealt out the cards and raked in the chips. And the hours slipped past, uncounted.
At last the crowd began to thin a little. Natasha glanced at her watch and signalled the pit boss that she was going to close down the table, then racked up the chips and returned them to the cage, where the cashiers were busy with cheques and banknotes, quiet and serious as they counted with swift fingers, rarely, if ever, making a mistake.
A glance around the gaming room confirmed that everything was in order, nothing needed her attention. Finally, a curiosity she couldn’t resist drew her to the card rooms.
A low half-gallery ran along the length of the card rooms, so that spectators could watch without distracting the players or being able to interfere with play. Behind it, three curtained archways gave access to the main gaming room. Quite an audience had gathered tonight, hushed and intent as they watched the action at the table.
Hugh appeared to be quite relaxed—his jacket was on the back of his chair, his tie was loose and his shirt-collar unfastened, his cuffs rolled back over strong wrists that had been bronzed by the sun. His watch, she noticed for the first time, was a slim gold Cartier—nothing flashy, just very expensive. And he had a tumbler of whisky at his elbow, though she noticed that he was no longer bothering to even pretend to drink from it.
He seemed to sense her gaze, and glanced up, those grey shark-eyes glinting with a shared secret. He knew that she knew what no one else had yet guessed. They believed they had a pigeon for the plucking, one of those enthusiastic amateurs who was essential fodder for a good poker game, providing lots of money for everyone else to win. They were in for a surprise.
It was past two-thirty in the morning, but in here, as in the rest of the casino, time had no significance—day and night alike were excluded by the heavy dark green damask drapes which covered all the windows. But as Señor Santos tossed in his cards with an impatient gesture and rose to his feet Lord Neville glanced at his watch.
‘Well, I don’t know about you chaps, but I could do with stretching my legs,’ he remarked. ‘How about a break?’
Sheikh al-Khalid stubbed out his black cigarillo and glanced at the diamond-crusted Rolex on his wrist. ‘I, too, am in need of a little fresh air. Shall we say twenty minutes?’
There was general agreement, and, at a nod from Lester, the card room manager ceremoniously opened the case of the elaborate ormolu clock on the wall. ‘Play resumes at three,’ he announced solemnly.
Within a couple of minutes the exodus of players and spectators had left only Lester, Natasha and Hugh in the room. Lester began neatly stacking his plaques into rows—he had more than anyone else at the table. ‘You’re playing pretty well, son,’ he said to Hugh. ‘But a word of advice. If you’re showing a good pair, don’t be too eager to raise the first couple of rounds. Play ’em a bit. That way you won’t scare ’em off too soon, and you’ll get a decent pot instead of a paltry couple of big ones.’
Hugh returned him a long, level look from across the table, smiling slowly. ‘Thank you,’ he responded, polite, but with just the faintest thread of amusement in his voice. ‘A free lesson from a poker player? That’s a little unusual.’
Lester laughed, slightly unsure whether he was being mocked. But his usual arrogant self-confidence quickly reasserted itself. ‘Oh, I can afford to be generous, son,’ he expanded, grinning. ‘At the end of the day, I’m more interested in a good game of poker than the size of my winnings. Well, I think I’ll take me a breath of fresh air, too. See you later.’
The card room manager was moving discreetly around the table, emptying ashtrays and dusting down the smooth green baize. Still Hugh hadn’t moved. Natasha watched him, frowning slightly. He seemed impervious—to the smoky, airless atmosphere, to the time of night, to any bodily discomforts like hunger or the need to stretch his legs.
‘Aren’t you going to take a break?’ she queried, stiffly aloof. ‘It’s hot in here.’
He glanced up at her, that lazy smile taunting her. ‘I suppose it is.’
‘There are only another fifteen minutes before play starts again,’ she reminded him crisply. ‘If you’re late, you’ll be deemed to have been dealt out.’
He conceded a nod, that smile undisturbed, but remained in his seat.
Turning impatiently, she stalked from the room. Maybe she had been wrong about him—maybe he had realised that he really was out of his depth in this game after all, but didn’t have the guts to admit it and leave the table as Señor Santos had done. Maybe he was planning to be late back, and be dealt out by a default.
The casino was much quieter now. Three of the roulette tables had closed down, and only the more serious gamblers remained at the blackjack tables. In another couple of hours they, too, would have drifted away.
Gamblers.
Probably even her grandmother wouldn’t have understood how she felt. Of course, on a purely intellectual level she could accept that it was simply a form of adult entertainment—if people wished to spend their time and their money in that way, it was their own choice. But she hated having to have anything to do with it.
Only another two years, she reminded herself grimly. It wasn’t too long to wait.
With a brisk step she crossed to the bar to check that the staff were coping while the bar manager was on holiday, and whether they needed any more wine brought up from the cellar. Satisfied that all was well at the bar, she let herself through the discreet door concealed in the wood panelling, into the surveillance room.
A bank of video screens showed the gaming rooms from all angles. Concealed cameras could zoom in, watching for any signs of cheating. A woman sat before them, her eyes flicking from screen to screen, missing nothing as her knitting needles clicked swiftly in her fingers.
‘Everything OK?’ Natasha enquired quietly.
The woman nodded. ‘No problem, Miss Natasha. A nice, well-behaved crowd we have in tonight. Interesting game up in the back room, eh?’
She tilted her head towards two of the screens in the top row, which showed the principal card room. The table was now empty—Hugh had gone. Only the card room manager and the security guard remained, the faces that had been so impassive earlier now relaxed as they chatted between themselves. ‘Yes, Mabel,’ she confirmed pensively. ‘A very interesting game.’

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