Page 37 of His Last Gamble

She made her way back to the hotel, the lobby of which was deserted at that hour, and went up to her room.

She had just slipped off her shoes, taken down her hair and wiped off her make-up when there was a tap at her door. She paused in front of the mirror, a cotton-wool pad in one hand, a bottle of cleanser in the other.

Who on earth? She put the things down and walked to the door and tentatively opened it.

‘Payne!’ she gasped, opening the door wider before she considered the consequences. ‘What are you doing here?’ she blurted.

‘Sorry but you left this behind,’ he said, handing over her bag.

‘Oh, thanks,’ she said blankly. He could always have handed it in downstairs, or waited until the morning, couldn’t he?

‘Er, come in. I was just about to have some coffee,’ she lied. ‘Would you like a cup?’

‘I’d love to. It’s been one hell of a night,’ he said wryly, coming in and looking around the small but pretty room with interest.

Charmaine, more nervous than she could ever remember being in the whole of her life, plugged in the kettle and reached for one of the sachets of coffee that the hotel provided. ‘Milk, sugar?’

‘Black’s fine,’ he said, his eyes going to the bed, and smiling at the sight of her plain white nightshirt. No sexy teddy for Charmaine.

He prowled the room, coming to a halt at the dressing table and the photograph in pride of place upon it. It was a picture of two women, faces pressed together, both laughing at the camera. Charmaine was unmistakable of course, her face make-up free, big blue eyes like Ceylon sapphires sparkling out at him.

And he recognised the other woman instantly too.

Lucy.

His eyes narrowed. His hand, which had been in the act of reaching out to bring the photograph closer, suddenly froze in mid-air.

Was Lucy part of her famous family? Well, why not? Now he came to think of it, he could remember Lucy talking about having an older sister. And he’d instantly recognised the name of the venerable doyen of the British stage and screen when Lucy had talked about her father.

So Charmaine was the other daughter. The one who didn’t like the limelight.

Things were beginning to make sense at last.

He turned abruptly as he sensed Charmaine coming towards him with two coffee mugs, and he quickly moved away from the table.

‘Thanks,’ he headed towards the French windows and stepped out onto the modest balcony and Charmaine, after a moment’s hesitation, stepped out to join him.

‘Are the nights always this lovely?’ she asked wistfully, looking up at a velvety sky, the stars bright as diamonds, while a half-moon silvered the Caribbean Sea as it lapped against the white sandy beach just yards away.

‘Yes, usually,’ Payne said quietly. ‘You’ve fallen in love with the place too then?’

Charmaine caught her breath. ‘Yes,’ she husked. ‘Yes, I’ve fallen in love with the Bahamas.’

And you. Oh, and you.

She turned abruptly and leant on the rail, looking out over the sea, turning her face from him, lest he read the truth in her eyes. Even in the moonlight, she was afraid that he’d be able to see right through her.

‘You looked wonderful tonight,’ Payne said. ‘You were really professional. You could carry on modelling if you wanted.’

Charmaine laughed. ‘Oh no. Once was enough. Never again.’

Besides, there’d be no reason to go on with this farce once she was back in England.

The thought of going back to Oxfordshire held no appeal anymore, and the thought saddened her. Once, her little cottage and pretty garden, Wordsworth and her work had been her entire universe and more than enough to keep her happy.

Now though, with the exception of Wordsworth, she felt she could give up all the rest tomorrow without a moment’s regret. If only this man would say he loved her.

‘Why don’t you stay?’ Payne said, startling her nearly out of her wits because, just for a moment, she was convinced that it was her own mind that had asked the question out loud.

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