Groom By Arrangement

‘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?’