Page 2 of His Last Gamble

She moved closer, fascinated by the size and lure of the Palace. A doorman, dressed in livery, came down the wide, fan-shaped steps as a Rolls-Royce Silver Ghost pulled up in front. A man in flowing Arabian robes stepped outside, and nodded gracefully as the doorman held open one of a double pair of heavily decorated doors that had come from a ruined monastery somewhere in Tuscany.

Since acquiring the Palace, legend had it that Payne Lacey had spared no expense in making sure that it lived up to its name.

It was known that several suites on the second and third floors were leased to the fabulously wealthy, famous and reclusive for exorbitant rates. One rumour that had since passed into legend had it that a star of Hollywood’s silver screen from the fifties, mysteriously retired and never seen for over thirty years, lived in the penthouse.

Looking at the casino, Charmaine could believe it. She felt as if she’d stepped into a Gothic novel. And that somewhere inside, like an evil Mr Rochester, Payne Lacey was aware of her presence. He knew why she’d come, and was laughing at her, waiting for her to make her move. Confident of defeating and humiliating her before she could even so much as say her first word. Which was nonsense, of course. But still, just the thought of it was enough to make her blood run cold.

She shook her head, then jumped as a noise to her left made her swivel around, blue eyes wide in alarm.

But it was only a gardener.

She felt like laughing, except that it wasn’t really funny. If just the mere thought of Payne Lacey could sap her confidence like this, making her react like a silly pre-school child hearing her first scary fairy story, then what realistic chance did she have of getting her revenge?

She moved forward, intrigued by the skill of fast-flying shears. He was squatting down with his broad back turned towards her, and as she watched, the sunlight rippled over his muscles, highlighting the ridges of shoulders and the lean expanse of smooth, bronze skin. He was wearing cut-off jeans, the denim almost white with age and wear, the ends ragged and looking like little white feathers against his powerful thighs.

He seemed oblivious to her presence, and as he duck-walked to the next area of overgrown greenery, she saw the tendons in his thighs stand out.

He was in superb shape, and she could understand why. Such huge gardens would require constant care and hard physical labour. And in this heat, too. Used to the cooler northern climes of her native Oxfordshire, Charmaine could feel her own strength wilting in the strong Caribbean sunshine.

This man, though, looked set to continue clipping and weeding, mowing and pruning for hours. Small rivulets of sweat beaded the hard planes of his cheeks, running to drip off his chin, glinting with the remains of a golden stubble.

He turned his head sharply, suddenly aware of her, and the cool grey eyes, as deep as a stormy ocean, took her by surprise.

His hair was dark gold, the colour of newly harvested corn, and she’d expected eyes the colour of her own. Not eyes like steel. They regarded her boldly, moving from her shining silvery hair to the tips of her toes.

‘Hello,’ she said, trying to shake off her discomfort under his gaze. She really was going to have to develop a much tougher skin than this if she was to survive the ordeal of the next few days. ‘That looks like hard work.’ Although naturally friendly by nature, she had always been plagued by shyness. Something, of course, a top-flight fashion model would never be!

The gardener turned and slowly stood up. And up. And up.

Charmaine blinked nervously and took an involuntary step back. Although, at five feet eight, she wasn’t exactly short herself, he seemed to tower over her. As he turned, she couldn’t help but notice that the muscles on his biceps matched those of his powerful thighs. His stomach was tight and washboard hard, his chest hairless and even more deeply bronzed than his back. In contrast, his light hair and grey eyes seemed even more disconcerting.

‘Plants deserve hard work,’ he said simply, his accent throwing her. It sounded American, and yet had a lilting, almost musical undertone that she knew she recognised, and yet couldn’t quite place.

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 dress — 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 twisted around their fingers.

Although, in all fairness, Charmaine didn’t think that this particular male of the species was all that twistable. Not even for someone like Jinx, the superstar of the upcoming Jonniee 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 unintentionally amusing.

‘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, 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 holidaymakers, must have his pick of beautiful women.

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

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