Groom By Arrangement

CHAPTER ONE

‘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