His Last Gamble Read online

  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.’

  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 wardr
obe 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 hurrican
e. 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.