His Last Gamble (3 page)

For the next five minutes the two sisters chatted happily, then, with a little cry at the sight of the time, Charmaine said she had to go, and they rang off, promising to speak tomorrow.

She showered quickly, washing and blow-drying her hair, before tying it back in a complicated but flattering French pleat. She then wound dark, almost black, brown velvet ribbons into the strands, which contrasted
beautifully
with the silvery sheen of her hair.

Next, she walked to her wardrobe and drew out the dark brown velvet dress. Too warm, really, for a balmy Barbados night, but she needed it to boost her confidence. It was one of her own creations, from autumn of last year. Cut with almost puritanical simplicity, it clung to her like poured chocolate. A deep v, narrow but plunging almost to her navel at the front was repeated, with a wider v at the back, bearing the delicate bones and contours of her shoulder and spine.

It clung tightly to thighs and hips, and stopped just above the knee. Accessorising this with a matching pair of chocolate brown high-heels, she completed the ensemble with long amber and tiger's-eye earrings, and a delicate tiger's-eye pendant that nestled between her cleavage.

As she suspected, the contrast to her pale, just-tanning skin and bright light hair was stunning.

She kept the make-up to a minimum. Rebecca, one of
Jonniee's
make-up girls, had always assured her that she had perfect skin, and since she was still too much a novice with more complicated make-up, she decided to keep it simple. A little blusher, a touch of mascara and darkening to the brows, and a neutral lipstick.

She looked like a model.

She looked perfect for what she needed to
do
tonight.

Friends at home would scream with laughter if they could see her now. Gone was the girl who slopped around in jeans and T-shirts, creating gorgeous evening gowns in the converted attic/studio of her small cottage. Gone was the girl who'd disappointed her father with her inability to even so much as star in the school nativity play. Gone was the blushing, shy, retiring girl, who boys quickly gathered around, only to quickly leave again, when they realised what a lie her looks truly were.

Because she didn't know how to flirt. Didn't know how to give them what they wanted. A pang for all those remembered and lonely nights shot through her, but she quickly shut them away. Time to concentrate on business. It was the illusion that mattered, after all. Her enemy would not see through the disguise, of that she was confident.

Tonight, the entire Jonniee gang was going to ‘The Palace.' It had been Jo-Jo's idea, to give them an advance feel for the place. So tonight was the night—she could just feel it in her bones—when she'd be coming face to face with Payne Lacey.

The man who had almost killed her sister.

* * *

Payne Lacey checked the slim gold Philip
Patek
watch on his wrist, and nodded. Not yet midnight and already the place was packed.

He was wearing black, not a tuxedo, but tailored slacks and jacket that had Saville Row written all over it. A white silk shirt with two buttons opened at the neck. Black Italian loafers, designed just for him by a little cobbler he'd discovered in Napoli, looked right at home against the plush navy-blue and gold-flecked Aubusson carpet that adorned the main salon.

Genuine oils lined oak-panelled rooms. Blazing chandeliers cast bright, sparkling light over the green baize tables. At one of the corner tables, a Japanese billionaire was losing at poker, being fleeced by a delighted, unable-to-believe-his-luck rancher from Wyoming.

The song of the slot-machines from the hall contrasted with the murmur of voices and the clink of baccarat crystal glassware as waiters and waitresses circled with champagne and the latest ‘in' cocktail. There were no clocks. No music. Nothing to distract the concentration of card players, dice throwers and roulette watchers.

He turned, amused and curious, as Jean-Luc, the head waiter, hurried forward towards the entrance to the main gambling salon, his normally unimpressed features creasing into a smile of welcome.

And a moment later he saw why. The fashion house contingent had arrived.

A
red-head in green led the way into the room, but just as her eyes lazered onto his, a vision in silver and dark chocolate appeared behind her. In contrast to the see-through gauzy material the red-head was wearing, the dark depth of velvet the other woman wore could have been chain-mail, so thoroughly did it conceal her skin and exquisite breasts. Yet Payne could feel his hands tingle, as if they were already caressing their tender weight. Unlike velvet, her skin, he knew, would be silky and warm and pulsing with life to his touch.

She turned to speak to the man behind her, and he saw with naked approval the elegant turn of her shoulders, the silken rope of hair that bounced almost to the level of her delightfully rounded derrière.

Again he felt the urge to go across to her, to run his finger down the length of her spine, to cup her buttocks in his hands, to trace the line of her hips. He walked swiftly towards her.

The blonde vision turned, saw him, and froze.

He smiled as a look of utter consternation crossed her lovely face.

‘Hello, I'm Payne Lacey and welcome to the Palace,' he said softly, vaguely aware that the red-head had pounced on him, looping one hand over his arm and was laughing huskily up at him.

‘Thanks. I'm Jinx,' she purred.

‘Of
course you are,' he replied, hiding his impatience with her behind a bland smile, before turning to the male of the group.

‘And you must be Gareth Jones-John. Payne Lacey.' He held out a hand firmly.

‘Oh, call me Jo-Jo,' he said at once, taking the outstretched hand with pleasure. ‘And I can see you've already met Jinx,' he said dryly. ‘Try to ignore her—she's a strumpet. This is . . .'

The rest of the introductions washed over him, however, as his gaze refused to leave the wide blue eyes that began to cool and then spit sapphire fire at him.

Charmaine felt dizzy. She even wondered, for one insane moment, if she was, in fact, dreaming. Having a nightmare. So unreal did the moment seem. This couldn't be true. It couldn't be real. In her mind, she'd rehearsed, over and over again, the moment when she finally came face to face with her enemy.

She knew he'd be good looking, charming and sophisticated. Lucy never fell for any other kind of man. And she'd expected to see him look at her speculatively, perhaps wondering arrogantly how long it would take him to bed her. She'd planned on smiling aloofly, telling him without words that he'd never do it. She'd imagined his confidence begin to waver, to see just a flicker of interest quicken in his jaded eyes as he recognised a challenge.

And after that, she would play it by ear.

But
this was nothing like she imagined. How could this man be Payne Lacey?

There'd been a mistake. There had to be. Or someone was playing a practical joke on her.

‘But you're the gardener,' she whispered helplessly.

Jinx laughed spitefully. ‘Hardly the gardener,' she purred, running a hand across Payne's sleeve. He was by far the best looking man here. And the owner of the casino too! She almost purred. A brief holiday affair would be just the thing.

‘No, she's right. Come on, 'fess up,' Jo-Jo said, sensing Charmaine's shock. He too had been somewhat surprised to find the tanned, nearly butt-naked Adonis of the afternoon meeting them this evening as the suave host. ‘Just what were you doing pruning the hedges?'

Jinx's green eyes sharpened. What was this?

‘It wasn't a hedge, but a hybrid Simon, my head gardener and myself, have been breeding for some time,' Payne corrected him quietly. ‘Not many people know about my passion for botany though. And it would almost certainly ruin my reputation as a lazy dilettante if it got out, so I'll ask you to keep quiet about it,' he said dryly.

‘Well, well, a Renaissance man,' Jinx purred. ‘Who'd have thought it.'

Who indeed, Charmaine thought grimly.
Her
anger, slow to build, began to boil. That he shared her passion for gardens only made her feel even more wrong-footed.

He'd known all along that she'd mistaken him for a hired hand. How he must have been laughing at her behind her back all this time. Even when she'd asked him about the inside of the casino, he'd pretended not to know or care.

Payne watched her anger build, and a tense excitement began to roil in the pit of his stomach. Her cheekbones flushed with temper, and she began to tremble, like the warning breeze that foreshadowed a hurricane. He felt himself holding his breath, waiting for the magnificent storm of scorn to break through.

But she swallowed it all back.

He saw her doing it, saw her struggling with her inner self, and felt bitterly disappointed. He'd been looking forward to crossing swords with her.

Instead, she smiled, feebly. Why?

Then he realised that, of course, she couldn't afford to make a bad impression on her boss and lover. Sleeping with Jo-Jo might have got her onto the shoot and off to a flying start in the super-model stakes, but insulting the owner of the casino where he hoped to shoot would hardly make for good bed-time conversation later on that night.

He smiled wolfishly, knowing he had her right where he wanted her. And at the same
time,
tried to pretend that the thought of her belonging to another man didn't make him feel like chewing the expensive, hand-painted wall paper right off the walls.

‘Let's dance, gambling man,' Jinx purred, pulling on his arm coquettishly, and he sighed slightly. But there was nothing else a gentleman could do but oblige the lady.

‘Of course, I'd be delighted,' he said smoothly, steering her through the main salon to a small bar, dance and stage area. It was mostly empty, for although a sultry night-club singer, justly famous on the island, sang the blues to the accompaniment of a visiting New Orleans jazz combo, few came to the Palace to drink or dance.

Jinx nestled into him sensuously, but he was already looking over her shoulder, watching as some of the other models, the chief photographer, Charmaine and Jo-Jo wandered around the salons, checking out possible photo-opportunities, before heading up to the bar.

When the song ended, he firmly led Jinx to the others, and deposited her on a bar stool, ordering her a choice of drink, on the house.

Then he turned to Charmaine, her cameo profile perfect in the soft lighting. Behind him, the throaty-voiced singer began to sing ‘I Only Have Eyes For You.'

His lips twisted in self-mockery. How appropriate.

‘You
don't mind if I steal your lady from you for a dance, do you, Mr Jones-John?' he asked, holding out his hand to Charmaine, who stared at it like a rabbit might stare at a hooded cobra.

‘Jo-Jo, please,' he responded, eyeing first the casino owner then his friend, an arch, speculative look creeping across his face.

‘Oh, she's not his,' Jinx drawled spitefully, not best pleased at being dismissed so quickly.

Charmaine, having no other choice, reluctantly put her hand in his, but her legs shook as he led her to the dance floor. The neon-blue lighting and lingering smoke from the scented table candles reminded her of the kind of films where Bette Davis planned seduction and murder, and in which men were men, and women knew it! And she had to fight back the absurd desire to laugh. She was utterly out of her depth here. She must have been out of her mind to think she could ever pull this off.

‘Relax,' the deep timbre of his voice, again with that underlying melodic resonance that so thrilled her, whispered across the top of her head, his breath rustling the tendrils of hair on her forehead. He was so close, if he just bent his head a few more millimetres, his lips would be brushing her brow.

She shuddered as she longed, suddenly and violently, for him to do just that. To trail his lips across her temple, down beside her eye,
to
move across to kiss the tip of her nose and down to her mouth.

She firmed her lips against the imagined touch, but they throbbed, as if feeling cheated.

His arm felt like a band of molten steel around her waist, his fingers, resting on the bare skin of her back, like branding irons. Her thighs, encased in the velvet of her dress, trembled against the length of his own, and she was sure he must feel it.

Her head swam as she fought to get her breathing under control. She couldn't faint now. Couldn't do something so ignominious. And yet, she felt as if she was floating.

‘Are the stars out tonight . . . I don't know if it's cloudy or bright . . .'

The voice of the torch singer could have been directed only at her. She didn't know what was happening in the world outside. Here, on the dance floor, there was only the two of them. Payne's voice, his breath on her hair, his arms around her, the length of her body pressed to his. She was breathing in his scent, her very heartbeat synchronising itself to his.

‘You're beautiful,' he said softly. ‘But then, you must hear that every day. From lots of men.'

Charmaine's eyes snapped open. The spell abruptly broke.

She wondered, with something approaching hysteria, what he would say if she told him
that,
no, men in fact never said that to her. She never gave them the chance. On the rare occasions that she had dated, she never followed up on that first meal out, or that first visit to the cinema.

It was Lucy who was the famous actress. Lucy who could be really beautiful, just because she made people believe that she was so. Lucy who had the charm, the talent, the appeal. It had always been so.

She just designed dresses.

For a moment, she felt an intense longing to be back home. Safe in her cottage, with her cat, Wordsworth, and the garden that she loved to fill with all the old-fashioned country garden plants. There all was calm and right with her world. Here, she was lost. Buffeted by sensations and feelings that were alien and strange. And, she was sure, dangerous.