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.