Groom By Arrangement

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.

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?

But those thoughts were well concealed behind her cool, professional smile as she dealt out the cards and raked in the chips. And the hours slipped past, uncounted.

At last the crowd began to thin a little. Natasha glanced at her watch and signalled the pit boss that she was going to close down the table, then racked up the chips and returned them to the cage, where the cashiers were busy with cheques and banknotes, quiet and serious as they counted with swift fingers, rarely, if ever, making a mistake.

A glance around the gaming room confirmed that everything was in order, nothing needed her attention. Finally, a curiosity she couldn’t resist drew her to the card rooms.

A low half-gallery ran along the length of the card rooms, so that spectators could watch without distracting the players or being able to interfere with play. Behind it, three curtained archways gave access to the main gaming room. Quite an audience had gathered tonight, hushed and intent as they watched the action at the table.

Hugh appeared to be quite relaxed—his jacket was on the back of his chair, his tie was loose and his shirt-collar unfastened, his cuffs rolled back over strong wrists that had been bronzed by the sun. His watch, she noticed for the first time, was a slim gold Cartier—nothing flashy, just very expensive. And he had a tumbler of whisky at his elbow, though she noticed that he was no longer bothering to even pretend to drink from it.

He seemed to sense her gaze, and glanced up, those grey shark-eyes glinting with a shared secret. He knew that she knew what no one else had yet guessed. They believed they had a pigeon for the plucking, one of those enthusiastic amateurs who was essential fodder for a good poker game, providing lots of money for everyone else to win. They were in for a surprise.

It was past two-thirty in the morning, but in here, as in the rest of the casino, time had no significance—day and night alike were excluded by the heavy dark green damask drapes which covered all the windows. But as Señor Santos tossed in his cards with an impatient gesture and rose to his feet Lord Neville glanced at his watch.

‘Well, I don’t know about you chaps, but I could do with stretching my legs,’ he remarked. ‘How about a break?’

Sheikh al-Khalid stubbed out his black cigarillo and glanced at the diamond-crusted Rolex on his wrist. ‘I, too, am in need of a little fresh air. Shall we say twenty minutes?’

There was general agreement, and, at a nod from Lester, the card room manager ceremoniously opened the case of the elaborate ormolu clock on the wall. ‘Play resumes at three,’ he announced solemnly.

Within a couple of minutes the exodus of players and spectators had left only Lester, Natasha and Hugh in the room. Lester began neatly stacking his plaques into rows—he had more than anyone else at the table. ‘You’re playing pretty well, son,’ he said to Hugh. ‘But a word of advice. If you’re showing a good pair, don’t be too eager to raise the first couple of rounds. Play ’em a bit. That way you won’t scare ’em off too soon, and you’ll get a decent pot instead of a paltry couple of big ones.’

Hugh returned him a long, level look from across the table, smiling slowly. ‘Thank you,’ he responded, polite, but with just the faintest thread of amusement in his voice. ‘A free lesson from a poker player? That’s a little unusual.’

Lester laughed, slightly unsure whether he was being mocked. But his usual arrogant self-confidence quickly reasserted itself. ‘Oh, I can afford to be generous, son,’ he expanded, grinning. ‘At the end of the day, I’m more interested in a good game of poker than the size of my winnings. Well, I think I’ll take me a breath of fresh air, too. See you later.’

The card room manager was moving discreetly around the table, emptying ashtrays and dusting down the smooth green baize. Still Hugh hadn’t moved. Natasha watched him, frowning slightly. He seemed impervious—to the smoky, airless atmosphere, to the time of night, to any bodily discomforts like hunger or the need to stretch his legs.

‘Aren’t you going to take a break?’ she queried, stiffly aloof. ‘It’s hot in here.’

He glanced up at her, that lazy smile taunting her. ‘I suppose it is.’

‘There are only another fifteen minutes before play starts again,’ she reminded him crisply. ‘If you’re late, you’ll be deemed to have been dealt out.’

He conceded a nod, that smile undisturbed, but remained in his seat.

Turning impatiently, she stalked from the room. Maybe she had been wrong about him—maybe he had realised that he really was out of his depth in this game after all, but didn’t have the guts to admit it and leave the table as Señor Santos had done. Maybe he was planning to be late back, and be dealt out by a default.

The casino was much quieter now. Three of the roulette tables had closed down, and only the more serious gamblers remained at the blackjack tables. In another couple of hours they, too, would have drifted away.

Gamblers.

Probably even her grandmother wouldn’t have understood how she felt. Of course, on a purely intellectual level she could accept that it was simply a form of adult entertainment—if people wished to spend their time and their money in that way, it was their own choice. But she hated having to have anything to do with it.

Only another two years, she reminded herself grimly. It wasn’t too long to wait.

With a brisk step she crossed to the bar to check that the staff were coping while the bar manager was on holiday, and whether they needed any more wine brought up from the cellar. Satisfied that all was well at the bar, she let herself through the discreet door concealed in the wood panelling, into the surveillance room.

A bank of video screens showed the gaming rooms from all angles. Concealed cameras could zoom in, watching for any signs of cheating. A woman sat before them, her eyes flicking from screen to screen, missing nothing as her knitting needles clicked swiftly in her fingers.

‘Everything OK?’ Natasha enquired quietly.

The woman nodded. ‘No problem, Miss Natasha. A nice, well-behaved crowd we have in tonight. Interesting game up in the back room, eh?’

She tilted her head towards two of the screens in the top row, which showed the principal card room. The table was now empty—Hugh had gone. Only the card room manager and the security guard remained, the faces that had been so impassive earlier now relaxed as they chatted between themselves. ‘Yes, Mabel,’ she confirmed pensively. ‘A very interesting game.’

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