Groom By Arrangement

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.