His Last Gamble (10 page)

Just what the hell was he supposed to do with this child-woman?

* * *

They stopped for tea, the traditional good old English kind, at a small cafe near Bathsheba. She ordered India, he China, and she was amused to note that fresh baked scones, which her grandmother would be proud to acknowledge as her own, were served with home-made strawberry preserve and clotted cream. They were even seated outside, on surprisingly comfortable iron-work chairs, amidst a glorious garden.

Only the exotic blooms and colourful, darting birds gave away the fact that they were a long way from the Cotswolds or any other equally picturesque but utterly English pastoral location. That and the bright, fierce heat of the afternoon sun. Surely no such sun ever shined in Oxfordshire!

A young and very-much-in-love couple kissed under the shade of a big tree in one corner of the garden, whilst an old man dozed behind his newspaper at the next table over. Other than these, they had the place to themselves.

‘No wonder you chose to live here,' she said softly, watching as a bird, a flash of iridescent green, fed from the nectar of an hibiscus bloom.

‘It beats Cardiff on a wet Sunday afternoon,' he agreed, and for the first time Charmaine was able to put a name to that very slight, singsong
quality to his voice.

So he was Welsh. Or had been. Now nobody would deny he was a true citizen on the world. She was sure she'd read somewhere that he worked in both Australia and America before coming to Barbados.

She watched him reach forward and spoon a little piece of strawberry preserve and place it on the tip of his finger.

What on earth? She abruptly sat forward on her chair, her heart hammering in her breast. Surely he wasn't going to offer her the morsel? And if he did, would she actually have the nerve to lick it off? She knew that she should. If she was ever to win him over and break his fickle heart, she would have to start luring him somehow.

She swallowed nervously. Could she reach forward, slowly, letting her eyes become dreamy and sensuous, whilst capturing his wrist lightly in her fingers? A soft sigh feathered past her lips as she could almost feel the hard bone under her caressing fingers, his warm, tanned skin lightly dusted with fine, blonde hair. He'd catch his breath as she pulled his hand towards her, his own lips parting in desire as she opened her mouth, preparatory to pulling his finger inside.

Her tongue began to tingle in anticipation of licking the sweet jam from his finger, perhaps tasting the merest hint of salt from off his skin. He'd watch as her lips closed around
his
finger in a perfect ‘O' as she sucked. Only softly at first, but then harder, making him breathe harshly, maybe even . . .

‘Watch,' he said, and lifted his finger a little into the air in front of him—and firmly away from her.

She blinked, aware that she was the one breathing hard. She was the one caught in a web of sensuality. And then, the very next moment, before she had the chance to become angry or embarrassed, a flash of green and turquoise flashed across the air with a soft whirr of wings, and a small bird hovered over his finger.

Charmaine gasped. ‘Oh. Oh, he's beautiful.'

‘A sun bird, I think,' he said. ‘Marissa, the owner of the cafe, has spent years teaching them this trick.'

The bird landed on Payne's finger and began to lick the jam with a long, sticky tongue.

‘I can hardly feel him, he's so light,' Payne said, looking across at her, his heart contracting at the look of delighted wonderment in her eyes.

‘Can I?' she wondered aloud, reaching for the spoon eagerly.

‘Not too much,' he warned, and she put the merest speck of red onto her upturned fingertip.

The bird continued to feed hungrily on Payne's finger, but no other birds moved
towards
them. Then, just when she thought she would be out of luck, she caught a flash of crimson, black and white, out of the corner of her eye.

It was not a bird, however, but a butterfly, with elongated oval wings. She watched as if fluttered closer in that zig zagging haphazard flight unique to their species. Several times she thought it was going to fly away, but slowly it fluttered ever closer, seemed to hover playfully around her outstretched finger, as if working up the courage to land, then suddenly alighted.

Charmaine froze, determined not to scare the beautiful creature away. She was unaware how Payne stared at her, mesmerised by the sight. She looked so incredibly beautiful, rapt and blissful, in a world of her own.

And, oh he wanted her to look at him like that!

He shook his head, frightening the bird on his hand into sudden whirling flight.

If he had any sense, he'd find out what she was up to, teach her not to play games with him, then send her packing back to her Oxford cottage a much wiser and perhaps sadder woman.

That was what he should do.

But when she turned starry eyes back to him, he knew he'd never be able to do it.

Well, so be it.

He was going to have to have her now. Have to find out where this was all taking him.
Because
he was sure she had some sort of scheme in mind. And since scheming obviously didn't come naturally to her, he was intrigued to find out what was behind it all. And if a taunting little voice whispered at the back of his mind that he was well and truly snared, he ruthlessly pushed it aside. After all, he could handle a novice like this with one hand tied behind his back. Right?

Charmaine felt the words she'd been about to speak dry up in her throat. As if sensing her sudden panic, the butterfly flew away.

Why was he looking at her like that?

‘Payne,' she croaked nervously.

‘Yes?' he said harshly.

‘Is something wrong?'

Payne smiled crookedly. ‘Wrong? What could possibly be wrong?' And so saying, he reached forward and pulled her finger into his mouth.

She gasped as he sucked lustily on her digit, turning her breasts into twin peaks of desire and making her snatch her hand away as if she was being burnt.

* * *

The sun was beginning to set as they roared into the turning to Six Men's Bay, where a small private marina was fenced off.

The bobbing yachts, furled sails gleaming white against the sea, their paint work turning
orange
with the glow of the setting sun, moved up and down with the gentle swell of the sea.

‘What are we doing here?' she asked, as he turned off the ignition and drew off his sunglasses.

‘Dinner,' he said simply.

‘Oh,' she said quietly. She was hardly dressed for dinner, but she wasn't about to point that out. Ever since that incredible moment in the tea shop, she'd been aware that something had changed between them.

She wasn't sure what it was, but it made her even more nervous.

Oh, he'd been the perfect host ever since, showing off the island of which he was justly proud, and making sure she saw all the sights. But he seemed almost reserved. Wary. Watchful even.

Now she climbed out of the car and looked around nervously. She couldn't see a club house.

Using one of the keys on his key ring, he unlocked the padlock securing the door in the chain-link fence, and she walked out onto the jetty. Through the gaps in the planks she could see the swirling motion of the sea beneath her.

‘This way,' he led her almost to the end, then turned, lightly climbing on board a large, sleek, ultra-modern yacht.

‘I thought . . .' she began nervously, then bit her lip. What had she thought?

‘Don't worry, I'm a good cook,' he called
down.
‘The crew always keep the fridge and pantry well stocked. I usually take her out at least once a week, but we'll dine in harbour tonight. It's the crew's night off.'

Charmaine looked up the gangplank at him, still hesitant.

‘She belongs to you?' she asked finally, looking towards the prow and the name plate, where she read it out loud. ‘Queen of Diamonds.' She laughed softly. Who else could it possibly belong to?

‘Come on up,' he said softly and disappeared inside. A moment later, lights softly gleamed from the interior.

She took a deep, deep breath and slowly made her way up the gang plank.

She'd never been on a yacht before in her life.

She stepped into a stateroom that, even to her untutored eyes, was the second word in luxury. Her feet sank down into thick, thick carpet in a gentle shade of mint green, whilst the palest of apricot covered walls panelled in pale oak. Deep dark brown leather sofas littered what looked like an acre of space; smoky glass and chrome tables held magazines, books, and a frightening-looking hi-fi system.

Through an alcove she heard the sound of pots and pans, and slowly walked around. She was sure one of the oil paintings fastened onto the wall was by a famous French impressionist.
An
antiques drinks cabinet displayed an exquisite decanter and cut glass tumbler set, as well as alcohol of every description. She sank down onto one of the sofas, only to get up and nervously prowl around again a moment later.

What was she doing here?

Doubtless the ‘Queen of Diamonds' had a master bedroom somewhere down below. Probably complete with a mirrored ceiling and black satin sheets!

OK, perhaps not, she admitted to herself a moment later. Not when she had evidence of such exquisite taste all around her.

But it would definitely have a bed. A big bed.

And a man like Payne Lacey would almost certainly expect to be using that bed later on. And not alone, either.

He'd expect some return for all the time he'd lavished on her today, after all. Why, even now, he was neglecting his precious casino in order to wine and dine her. What happened when it came time to pay the piper?

‘Pan fried sea-bass with a tossed salad all right?' he asked from just behind her, making her jump like a startled cat and shoot around.

‘Oh, er, yes. Yes. Fine,' she stammered.

He returned to the kitchen, or galley, she supposed it should be called, and a moment later heard the sizzling of fish.

Nervously she pulled open some French doors and found herself out on deck, with the
glorious
panorama of a sunset over the ocean spread out in front of her in all its glory.

She should be happy.

She was exactly where she wanted to be. Her plan to snare and break Payne Lacey seemed well on track. She was young, about to dine with a rich and handsome suitor on his fabulous yacht, and she had all the delights of the Caribbean right there at her fingertips. So why did she feel so . . . . . . miserable?

Because, she realised a moment later, it was all a sham. The man cooking her dinner was not her lover, but a man she despised. She was not here in pursuit of love, but for cold, meagre revenge.

Her life, suddenly, felt like nothing but a forgery, and her immediate future held nothing in store but a pile of comfortless ashes.

And it was then that it hit her, with all the force of a hammer blow. She was in love with Payne Lacey!

CHAPTER SEVEN

Charmaine clung weakly to the deck rail. In love? Now where had that preposterous notion come from? Of course she wasn't in love. Not with Payne Lacey, the man who wooed, threw over, and nearly killed her sister. She couldn't
possibly
be in love with him, of all men.

She shook her head, fighting off a giddying sense of panic. She was just . . . overwhelmed. Yes, that was all. After all, that was understandable, she told herself fervently.

As a child she'd always been shy, and in the shadow of her famous family and her beloved sister. So she'd sought refuge in her one talent, and through sheer hard work and diligence, had succeeded in the world of fashion design. But although her career had always been as bright and shinning as anyone could have wished for, her social life had been nonexistent. She had, literally, no experience of men. Even her closest male friend was gay.

So when a man like Payne Lacey suddenly began to court her, of course she was bowled over. She wouldn't be human otherwise. He was rich, sexy, handsome, exciting. All the things that were supposed to turn a girl's head.

But not her heart! There was nothing about the man that touched her heart—there couldn't be. He was callous, uncaring, and probably didn't even believe that such a thing as love actually existed. In his world, women were for wooing and bedding then dumping, ready for the next one.

She thought of his nephew and his defence of some unknown friend's wife and sighed. OK, so the man wasn't a total monster. No human being was. But that didn't mean she'd lost her heart to him. It didn't!

She
watched the sun go down, the stars come out, and the dark exotic night darken around her. From the shore, the perfume of night-blooming flowers scented the sea breeze.

Perhaps she was just in love with this place, and with this moment in time. But not with the man. She couldn't be in love with the man. She wouldn't let herself be. It was just too . . . unthinkable.

‘Dinner's ready,' he said softly, cutting across her agonised thoughts and making her whirl around with a small gasp. She had no idea how she looked in that moment, all barelegged and defensive, eyes widened in alarm and lips softly parted.

For a second, his eyes seemed to glow as soft as a wisp of wood smoke. But surely that was an optical illusion she told herself unsteadily. There was nothing soft in this man's make-up!

And then he stepped aside, and she forced herself forward, back into the yacht's interior. She must act naturally. It was time she stopped being such a rabbit, she admonished herself, and show some backbone.

He led her silently to the galley—which had its own dining room off to one side. As a centrepiece it had a small, round dark oak table and matching chairs. Pure white candles, held in intricate silver candlesticks were placed either side of two perfectly laid out table settings. A silver ice bucket contained an
opened
bottle of wine.