Читать книгу Groom By Arrangement - Susanne Mccarthy - Страница 8

‘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.