Groom By Arrangement

‘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?