LITMIR.BIZ

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      “There could be a way—get married.”

      Natasha stared up at him, stunned. “What?”

      Those shark-gray eyes glinted with sardonic humor. “It’s quite simple. We get married, you break the trust—and the business is yours to do whatever you want with.”

      “But…I can’t possibly marry you,” she protested, her heart thudding so hard she felt faint. “I mean…I barely even know you.”

      “True,” he conceded, utterly reasonable. “Perhaps there’s someone else you could ask to stand in as a plausible bridegroom….”

      “No…there isn’t. But…” She shook her head, struggling for control of her thoughts. “Really, this discussion is quite ridiculous. I have no intention of getting married—to you or anyone. Good night, Mr. Garratt.”

      “Think it over,” he murmured. “Good night, Miss Cole. It has been…a delight to make your acquaintance.”

      SUSANNE MCCARTHY grew up in south London, England, but she always wanted to live in the country, and shortly after her marriage she moved to Shropshire with her husband. They live in a house on a hill with lots of dogs and cats. She loves to travel—but she loves to come home. As well as her writing, she still enjoys her career as a teacher in adult education, though she works only part-time now.

      Groom by Arrangement

      Susanne McCarthy

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

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      CONTENTS

      CHAPTER ONE

      CHAPTER TWO

      CHAPTER THREE

      CHAPTER FOUR

      CHAPTER FIVE

      CHAPTER SIX

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      CHAPTER EIGHT

      CHAPTER NINE

      CHAPTER TEN

      CHAPTER ONE

      ‘SEVEN. Bank pays nineteen.’ Natasha’s voice was soft and cool as she turned over the card. Deftly she paid out the winning bets, raked in the remaining chips and sorted them into the rack without even having to look at what she was doing.

      Lord Neville had won a modest amount, and grinned as he put down his stake for the next hand. ‘See—I told you this was my lucky table!’

      Natasha glanced towards the man sitting next to him, an unspoken question in her fine blue eyes enquiring if he wished to continue play—he had been losing fairly consistently for the past hour, and now had only a handful of chips left. He shook his head, returning her a wry smile.

      ‘No, thank you—you’ve just about cleaned me out.’ He rose easily to his feet, pocketing his last few remaining chips. ‘I think I’ll adjourn to the bar and drown my sorrows.’

      She conceded merely a nod, but from beneath her lashes she slanted him a searching glance. This was the second successive night he had visited the Spaniard’s Cove Casino, and he had lost heavily both times. He didn’t seem particularly bothered about it, accepting the setbacks with the casual unconcern of a seasoned—and habitually unlucky—gambler.

      There was really no reason why she should be surprised at that, of course. The life-blood of the casino business was moderately wealthy young men like this, men whose drug of choice was money—whether they were winning it or losing it. Some of them were crazy boys, with large trust funds and a low boredom threshold, others were businessmen whose own money was made in ways that perhaps wouldn’t stand too close a scrutiny.

      And yet… Somehow this one didn’t look like a loser. There was a casual arrogance in the set of those wide shoulders, a firmness in the line of his jaw in spite of the lazy smile, that hinted that behind the air of laid-back amiability he was not quite what he seemed.

      Her assessing survey told her that his white dinner-jacket might well have come from the same expensive tailor as his friend Lord Neville’s. But those impressive shoulders owed nothing to padding, and the immaculate cut did little to disguise a lithe, muscular physique that hinted at considerable reserves of strength. And his hands weren’t pampered and soft like the English aristocrat’s, either.

      His hair was mid-brown, cut brush-short and pushed casually to one side, tipped with golden flecks which suggested that he was more at home out of doors than in these smoke-filled rooms—an impression heightened by the all-weather tan that certainly hadn’t come from a sunbed. And his eyes…they were the real giveaway. They were a dark, smoky grey, but something dangerous lurked in their secret depths. Predator’s eyes—shark’s eyes.

      And they were regarding her now with a glint of sardonic amusement. ‘Perhaps by way of consolation you’ll have a dance with me later?’ he suggested, an inflection of lazy self-mockery in his voice.

      Natasha shook her head. ‘I’m sorry—I don’t dance,’ she returned, distantly polite.

      One dark eyebrow arched in mild surprise. ‘Never?’

      ‘Never.’ She hadn’t intended that slightly sharp note. But he unsettled her, and she didn’t like that.

      ‘That’s right, old chap.’ Lord Neville slapped his friend cheerfully on the shoulder. ‘Should have warned you. Don’t dance, and don’t accept drinks off the punters—famous for it.’

      ‘Is that so? What a pity.’ That slow, lazy smile was deliberately provocative, and Natasha bristled at the casual insolence with which he let his gaze drift down over her slender shape, subtly defined by the silver-grey silk jersey of her elegant evening dress. ‘But I shan’t give up hope of persuading you. I can be very persuasive when I put my mind to it.’

      Natasha’s blue eyes flashed him a frost warning, but that aggravating smile lingered as he turned and strolled away across the room. Resolutely she turned her attention back to the blackjack table, refusing to let her gaze be drawn to follow that tall, well-made figure as he paused to watch the spin of a roulette wheel, slipping easily into a flirtation with a slinky brunette in a scarlet dress that was cut low enough to start a riot.

      Her table was popular, and someone else had already slipped into his place as she flashed her professional smile and deftly shuffled the cards.

      Her table was always popular, no matter what game she was dealing—and she was perfectly well aware that it wasn’t just her skill with a pack of cards that was the attraction. Gentlemen preferred blondes—wasn’t that what they said? And she was the classic blue-eyed blonde; one moonstruck young admirer had poetically likened the colour of her hair to a new-minted silver dollar.

      But looks could be deceptive, and anyone who thought Natasha Cole was simply a pretty doll to decorate the tables and comfort a losing gambler when his wallet was empty soon learned their mistake. That cool smile, and those ice-blue eyes, could freeze a man at twenty paces.

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