through the casino’s lush tropical gardens, breathing in the soft night breeze with its fragrance of jasmine and frangipani, she reminded herself for about the millionth time that it would be worth the wait, worth putting up with Lester, even for another two years…
A sudden shout, and the sound of running feet, startled her out of her pleasant reverie. Hurrying towards the source of the commotion, she came to the old stable block behind the casino, now used as a general workshop and garages. Three figures were in the corner, behind Lester’s prized Mercedes, their shadows thrown in sharp relief against the wall by the orange glow from a flickering storm lamp.
‘Lester—no, stop it!’ Debbie, her stepfather’s most regular girlfriend, was sobbing and tugging at his arm.
Lester shook her off impatiently, and Debbie stumbled back. Now Natasha could see the third cowering figure— Jamie, the young son of the cook, a lad of about thirteen or fourteen. He had grown up here at Spaniard’s Cove, and earned a little extra money by helping the gardener before and after school.
‘You stinking little brat!’ Lester was shouting, his voice harsh with fury. ‘I’ll flay the hide from your body, you damned little—’
‘Lester!’ Natasha’s sharp word stilled him in the act of raising his hand—and she saw that in it he held an old horse-whip that he must have snatched down from the wall. The boy seized the opportunity to escape, darting away into the night before Lester could catch him.
He turned on her in fury. ‘Damn you! What did you have to stop me for? I was going to giving him the hiding of his life!’
Natasha returned him a look of icy contempt. ‘Why?’ she queried, her voice deliberately calm in the face of his anger. ‘What has he done?’
‘Done? He’s scratched my car, that’s what he’s done. Look! Just look at that!’ He pointed dramatically to a small scrape along the front wing.
She glanced at it, one finely drawn eyebrow arched in doubt. ‘It looks as if you scraped it against the doorpost driving it in,’ she pointed out.
‘I did nothing of the sort!’ he exploded. ‘You think I can’t manage to drive my own car into my own garage?’
‘Not if you’ve had a few drinks,’ she retorted coolly. ‘Like yesterday.’
His face had taken on an alarming tomato hue, and he raised his hand—for one tense moment Natasha thought he was going to strike her with the whip. But she faced him down, refusing to let him intimidate her. And at last he threw the whip to the ground and, muttering a vicious curse, turned on his heel and stalked out of the garage.
She let go her breath in a long sigh, realising that she was more shaken than she had been aware. She had known that Lester had a temper, but not that he could be violent. Stooping, she picked up the whip and hung it back on its hook. Behind her, Debbie was sobbing quietly.
‘Oh, Natasha… Thank you for stopping him,’ she breathed, dabbing at her eyes with a sodden handkerchief. ‘I was so frightened. He could have got into terrible trouble if he’d hurt that poor little boy.’
Natasha laughed dryly. She had always rather liked the older woman, though she could never quite understand what she saw in Lester—she could certainly have done a great deal better for herself. In her middle thirties, she was still extremely pretty, with soft golden hair and a dainty figure, and wide blue eyes which conveyed an air of gentle innocence—though she ran a very successful chain of beauty salons with concessions in all the best hotels on the island.
Suddenly an unpleasant thought struck her. ‘He’s never hit you, has he, Debbie?’ she asked bluntly.
The blonde gazed up at her in open surprise. ‘Oh, no,’ she assured her, shaking her head. ‘He’d never do a thing like that. He was just…rather upset when he saw the scratch on his car. He really loves that car, you know.’
Natasha nodded in wry agreement. It seemed a little absurd to her to have a car with a top speed of over a hundred and fifty miles an hour when the island was small enough to walk around in one afternoon and the roads would challenge the strongest automotive suspension. But Lester had always had extravagant tastes.
Debbie stroked her slim hand over the leather hood. ‘Sometimes I think he loves it more than he loves me,’ she mused sadly. ‘I just wish he’d say for definite if we’re going to get married. I’ll be forty before I know it.’
Natasha smiled crookedly. ‘I really don’t know why you put up with him,’ she remarked. ‘It’s not as if he treats you the way he should. Why don’t you finish with him, and find yourself the sort of decent man you deserve?’
Debbie shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘I love him,’ was her only explanation.
Natasha sighed, watching as the petite blonde quickly checked her make-up in a tiny mirror, to make sure that her tears hadn’t done too much damage, and then hurried away after Lester.
Natasha’s thoughts were troubled. Two years was still a long time—two years of living in Lester’s shadow, watching him, trying to make sure that he wasn’t somehow cheating her. Two years…
Wryly she shook her head. There really wasn’t a solution to her problem. Even if she found someone to marry she could easily find herself jumping out of the frying pan into the fire. Maybe working in the casino business had made her cynical, but the kind of marriages she saw there wouldn’t inspire anyone with much confidence in the institution.
Men with large wallets and larger egos, parading their trophy wives—wives who would be traded in for a younger, fresher model every couple of years. Unless, of course, it was the wife’s money they were splashing around the tables, while indulging in a little discreet dalliance with women like Darlene, happy to accept an arrangement of that nature in return for a few baubles.
No, marriage wasn’t the answer, she reflected as she snuffed out the storm-lamp and closed the garage doors. But she would have to think of something.
There was no sign of young Jamie—the lad had very wisely made himself scarce. The memory of the scene she had just witnessed made her feel slightly sick. Lester really would have beaten the boy if she hadn’t chanced upon the incident in time. What a nasty piece of work he was!
She was no longer in the mood for a pleasant stroll in the gardens, so instead she headed back around the building to the front entrance.
The casino bore little trace of its original function now. A solid construction of pink-tinged coral stone, with tall, narrow windows and a flat roof, it had been built to withstand the fierce hurricanes which occasionally swept in from the Atlantic to devastate the island. A large, square porch had been built over the main entrance, emblazoned with neon writing in pink and green that spelled out the words, ‘Spaniard’s Cove Casino’ on three sides. A wide step led up to the bronzed glass doors—the original heavy strapped-wood ones were permanently pinned back against the walls, only closed when there was a hurricane warning.
As she stepped inside, Natasha was greeted by the doorman, a great bear of a man who never really looked quite comfortable in his elegant dinner jacket and bow tie. He flashed her a beaming smile. ‘Evening, Miss Natasha.’
‘Good evening, Jem. How are you keeping?’
‘I’ve got no problems,’ he responded with a shrug of his huge shoulders, beaming even
