Groom By Arrangement. SUSANNE MCCARTHY
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,