His Last Gamble (2 page)

It was an odd thing to say, and she wasn't quite sure how to respond. His eyes moved over the silken flow of the sarong—the way it hugged her full breasts, clung to her waist like a lover, then wrapped sensuously around her thighs. His lips began to twist into a smile. A
speculative
look rose to his eyes.

Her skin began to tingle, as if someone was rubbing ice-cold sorbet all over it. She took a deep breath and told herself to relax. The other models would have taken a look like that in their stride.

They certainly wouldn't feel like running a mile!

‘I take it you like working here,' she managed to mumble, casting a somewhat helpless look around the lush garden. She almost groaned. What a pathetic thing to say. Why didn't she have the ability to flirt, like the other girls? They'd had the male staff on the plane over twisted around their fingers.

Although, in all fairness, she didn't think that this particular male of the species was all that twistable. Not even for someone like Jinx, the acknowledged star of the latest fashion shoot.

As if to confirm this instinctive understanding, the giant Adonis in front of her smiled. It was a strange smile, as if she'd said something really funny which didn't particularly amuse him.

‘Oh, it has its compensations,' he agreed, casually tossing down the pair of shears he was carrying and pushing back a lock of sweat-darkened hair that had fallen over his brow.

He moved towards her, his long loping strides eating the short distance between
them,
and making her retreat hastily. She flushed when he raised a sardonic brow, looked pointedly at the newly created distance between them, then merely stooped to retrieve a bottle of mineral water that had been resting near her feet.

Taking the top off, he drank deeply.

She watched, fascinated, the movement of his Adam's apple as it moved up and down the strong, tanned column of his throat. When he finished, he wiped the top of the bottle and put the top back on.

‘What's the matter?' he asked softly. ‘Did you think I was going to grab you and ravish you in the bushes?'

Charmaine, for one mad moment, had thought something exactly like that. Although why she should assume a man like this would be interested in her, she couldn't have said. A man who looked as good as this, living and working on a tourist island that was annually inundated with gorgeous female holiday makers, must have his pick of beautiful women.

She laughed nervously, and its utter falseness made her wince, deep inside.

‘No. No, of course not,' she denied uselessly.

But even as she spoke, she was aware that this Adonis of a man, this gorgeous blond giant, knew that she was lying. He looked at her, a slightly puzzled expression pulling his dark brows together.

‘You
are
one of the models doing a shoot over here, aren't you?' he said, making her stiffen in sudden alarm.

‘Yes. How did you know?' she asked, far more sharply than she'd meant to.

The stranger grinned sardonically. ‘Did you think it was a big secret or something? The whole island—well, this side of it anyway—knows that some models from England are doing a fashion shoot on the beach here and up at the casino.'

‘Oh,' she said, feeling somewhat deflated. Yes, that made sense. Certainly Payne Lacey would have been at pains to make sure that everybody knew about it. For wasn't it just one more feather in his cap? Owning a place coveted by a top-ranking fashion house.

‘For a fashion model you sure are jumpy,' the gardener said, distracting her dark thoughts, and replacing them once again with fear.

Was she so obviously a phoney then? So much of a fraud that even a humble gardener could spot her weaknesses?

‘What do you mean?' she said, trying to inject some scorn into her voice, some world-weary cynicism.

Those arctic ocean eyes swept over her again, and a dismissive grin made her blood begin to simmer. ‘Forget it,' he said casually, reaching down once more for the shears.

‘No,' she insisted grimly. ‘I mean it. What
did
you mean by that crack. I'm not jumpy.'

Not much!

He glanced back across at her from his contemplation of the hedge.

‘No? Then why are you acting like a virgin who's just wandered by mistake into an orgy?'

Charmaine blinked. ‘Wh-what did you just say?' she stuttered. She couldn't have heard him right.

Could she?

‘You see,' he said, grinning again, shaking his head as if she was providing him with no end of entertainment. ‘You looked shocked to the core. And here I was, thinking all fashion models were hard-as-nails, seen-it-all, done-it-all, women of the world.'

Charmaine felt herself blush hotly, and groaned inwardly. Oh no. Not now. But she felt the tell-tale colour wash over her, and knew, from experience, that when it left, it would leave her skin, even under her artful make-up, ghostly white.

Why did she have to be so cursed with shyness? All her life, she'd battled an almost paralysing bashfulness.

And besides, he was right. She
was
worlds away from the other models currently sleeping off jet lag back at the hotel. From their conversation on the flight over, she knew that most of them were exactly as this aggravating blond giant had described. Strong, sophisticated, sexually confident young
women.
A world away from herself. She'd never even taken a lover yet. And everybody knew that twenty-four was ridiculously old to still be a virgin.

How was she ever going to convince someone like Payne Lacey that she belonged in his world of gambling, champagne, high-living and casual sexual conquest, if she couldn't even fool a gardener?

The blond stranger watched, fascinated, as her colour ebbed and flowed. Her remarkable blue eyes darkened, became shadows. He watched her exquisite shoulders actually begin to droop.

When he'd first turned and seen her, he'd been stunned. Literally. He'd felt like the proverbial mullet, zapped with a lightning bolt. But not for the world would he have shown it. Faking more interest in the rare shrub he was pruning than her own far more beautiful self, had simply given him the means to get himself under control.

It hadn't taken him two seconds to figure out she must be one of the models from England. Nobody but a fashion model for a firm as prestigious as
Jonniee
could look half so gorgeous. That drop-dead gorgeous sarong, that silver hair, those eyes set in such a perfect face.

And that sort of trouble he could do without.

Now, though, as he watched her blush, he
wondered
just what in the hell was going on. Since when did women as beautiful as this one, with the world at their feet, act like a Victorian maiden being propositioned by a rascally footman?

‘This is my first shoot,' he heard her say, somewhat forlornly, and glanced at her sharply. Was she kidding? No, he realised, a moment later, she wasn't. As incredible as it seemed, she looked unsure of herself. Ah. So that explained it. She was just a baby piranha in the making and not a fully-fledged member of the shark club yet.

He felt himself smiling cynically. But once she saw herself on the front cover of
Vogue
, once playboys driving Ferrari's fell over themselves to take her out to dine in Paris, and men fought to buy her the biggest diamonds, then things would be different.

‘Don't worry, you'll ace it,' he said starkly, and although the words should have comforted her, somehow they didn't.

It didn't, somehow, feel like a compliment.

Hopelessly confused she merely smiled uncertainly. ‘I hope so.' A lot depended on it. And besides, she owed it to Jo-Jo not to entirely mess up his shoot.

‘I hear it's really nice inside there. Mr Lacey's supposed to have spent millions on it,' she said instead, steering the conversation to where she needed it to go. Not that she expected a mere gardener to be able to tell her
much.
Why, Charmaine thought, indignant on his behalf, she'd bet her year's salary that this man had never even seen inside it.

‘So they say,' he confirmed wryly, fascinated by the play of emotions that crossed her face.

Just then, a man turned down the path towards them. Dressed in a white linen tropical suit, a natty Panama hat, and casual Gucci loafers, he looked a typical Palace candidate. But there he was wrong.

‘Charmaine! Hey, there you are. I thought I saw you wandering down this way.'

Charmaine smiled brightly at Jo-Jo as he wound his way across to her, and she smiled even more widely as his dark brown eyes widened at the sight of the Adonis.

She could see his interest quicken.

‘Hello. This is my part . . . , er, the owner of
Jonniee,'
Charmaine said, stumbling over her near mistake. For although, to the world in general, Jo-Jo was
Jonniee,
only those in the business were aware that Charmaine Reece was the creative and designing force behind the fashion House. Jo-Jo, although occasionally coming up with the odd, stunning creation, was much more the ‘front man'. He did the television appearances and the magazine interviews. He was more than happy to play the fashion guru and reel in the big buyers.

And although he'd often nagged Charmaine to be far more than his near-silent partner,
she
seemed to like living in the shadows. The limelight had never been for her.

The gardener's eyes narrowed on hearing her slip. He glanced at Jo-Jo with weary eyes. Saw a thirty-something, good-looking man, who could boost an up-and-coming model's career into the stratosphere.

The smile he gave Charmaine was pure grim irony. So much for the maidenly blushes. Or maybe she was just an old-fashioned girl after all? When all was said and done, sleeping with the boss to get on was an old and trusted tradition.

Charmaine had no trouble reading his thoughts, and felt herself go cold all over. She lifted her chin, hoping for the proud and haughty look, but inside she felt herself shrivelling up. This man thought she was cheap.

But what did it matter? He was nothing. Meant nothing. She'd probably never even see him again.

‘Well, we'll leave you to get on,' she said, but her voice merely sounded wounded and hurt. Not at all haughty and proud.

‘Jo-Jo, let's have some champagne,' she said brightly, watching as her business partner's eyes widened in surprise. He knew as well as she, that she didn't drink. But, bless him, he didn't let her down.

‘Sure, sweetheart, just what I was thinking. The sun doesn't have to be over the yard arm
for
me
to break out the Bolly.'

She took his arm and let him lead her away, but all the time she could feel the glare of glacial grey eyes boring into her back.

And she felt, absurdly, like crying.

CHAPTER TWO

Darkness fell suddenly that night, and from her tiny hotel balcony, Charmaine watched, enchanted, as the sun set over the sea, turning the evening from shimmering red to violet, to deepest purple.

The ringing of the telephone shattered the quiet, and reluctantly tearing her eyes away from the first twinkling stars appearing in the warm tropical night sky, she picked up the receiver, smiling instantly as she recognised her sister's voice.

‘Hi, Sis, how's Paradise?'

Charmaine laughed and sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘Fine, just lovely. How's Desdemona shaping up?'

‘Oh, you know. Same as ever. Some day I'm going to find a director who actually wants her to fight back!'

Lucy, her half-sister, was currently wowing Stratford-upon-Avon critics with her portrayal of Shakespeare's tragic heroine.

‘But you're getting standing ovations.
Mother
would have been so proud,' she pointed out.

Their mother had been an actress too, appearing in many British films in the fifties and sixties, before dying ten years ago. Her second marriage to Charmaine's father had failed, although both girls were still very close to him. A well-respected actor himself, he had always been disappointed with Charmaine's lack of talent, and had always regarded her success in the fashion world as a poor second best. Not that he'd ever said so. But both girls knew that Lucy, although not his blood, was far more his daughter.

‘I know. I'm thinking of trying to break into films. I've had it with this starving-artist-in-a-garret gig. My agent thinks it's a good time for it. So who knows—my next call might be from Hollywood.'

Charmaine laughed. She could almost picture Lucy's face, gamine, mobile, a perfect blank canvas for any emotion she cared to portray. But her voice, when it came next, sounded pensive, and Charmaine felt her knuckles tighten on the receiver.

‘So, you're on the west coast of the island,' she said, her voice too carefully nonchalant to be sincere. ‘I somehow assumed you'd be in the capital.'

‘Oh, you know Jo-Jo,' Charmaine said, hoping her voice didn't sound as tense as she felt. ‘He wanted beaches.' She didn't mention
the
casino. She knew she must never mention that. If Lucy got just one whiff of what she was up to . . .

‘How are you feeling? No stage fright?' she asked, trying to change the subject, then could have kicked herself. Lucy was bound to think she was just trying to check up on her. As her next, tight little words, proved.

‘I'm fine. I'm not taking any medication. It was an accident, you know. What happened last month.' Her voice, usually so warm, sounded defensive.

Charmaine leaned forward on the bed, hugging her stomach with one arm for comfort. It still made her feel physically ill to think how close Lucy had come to dying.

‘No more sleeping pills, sis, I promise,' her sister reassured her. ‘And I'm having too much fun playing the fair Desdemona to be suffering from stage fright. Besides, Othello is quite a dish. We're going out for Thai food tonight at this new restaurant by the river.'