Groom By Arrangement

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.’