Читать книгу Groom By Arrangement - Susanne Mccarthy - Страница 7

‘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.