The One-Night Wife

  THE ONE-NIGHT WIFE

  SANDRA MARTON

  THE O'CONNELLS

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON • AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG • STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID • PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  * * *

  CHAPTER ONE

  He came into the casino just before midnight, when the action was getting heavier.

  Savannah had been watching for him, keeping her eyes on the arched entry that led from the white marble foyer to the high-stakes gaming room. She'd been afraid she might miss him.

  What a foolish thought.

  O'Connell was impossible to miss. He was, to put it bluntly, gorgeous.

  "How will I recognize him?" she'd asked Alain.

  He told her that O'Connell was tall, dark-haired and good-looking.

  "There's an aura of money to him," he'd added. "You know what I mean, cherie. Sophistication." Smiling, he'd patted her cheek. "Trust me, Savannah. You'll know him right away."

  But when she'd arrived an hour ago and stepped through the massive doors that led into the casino, she'd felt her heart sink.

  Alain's description was meaningless. It fit half the men in the room.

  The casino was situated on an island of pink sand and private estates in the Bahamas. Its membership was re­stricted to the wealthiest players in Europe, Asia and the Americas. All the men who frequented its tables were rich and urbane, and lots of them were handsome.

  Savannah lifted her champagne flute to her lips and drank. Handsome didn't come close to describing Sean O'Connell.

  How many men could raise the temperature just by stand­ing still? This one could. She could almost feel the air begin to sizzle.

  His arrival caused a stir. Covert glances directed at him from the men. Assessing ones from the women. Maybe not everybody would pick up signals that subtle, but catching nuances was Savannah's stock in trade.

  Her success at card tables depended on it.

  Tonight, so did the course of her life.

  No. She didn't want to think about that. Years ago, when she was still fleecing tourists in New Orleans, she'd learned that the only way to win was to think of nothing but the cards. Empty her mind of everything but the spiel, the sucker and the speed of her hands.

  Concentrate on the knowledge that she was the best.

  The philosophy still worked. She'd gone from dealing three-card monte on street corners to playing baccarat and poker in elegant surroundings, but her approach to winning had not changed.

  Concentrate. That was the key. Stay calm and be focused.

  Tonight, that state of mind was taking longer to achieve.

  Her hand trembled as she lifted her champagne flute to her mouth. The movement was nothing but a tic, a tremor of her little finger, but even that was too much. She wouldn't drink once she sat down at the poker table but if that tic should appear when she picked up her cards, O'Connell would notice. Like her, he'd have trained himself to read an opponent's body language.

  His skills were legendary.

  If you were a gambler, he was the man to beat.

  If you were a woman, he was the man to bed.

  Every woman in the room knew it. Too bad, Savannah thought, and a little smile curved her mouth. Too bad, be­cause on this hot Caribbean night, Sean O'Connell would belong only to her.

  Again, she raised her glass. Her hand was steady this time. She took a little swallow of the chilled Cristal, just enough to cool her lips and throat, and went on watching him. There was little danger he'd see her: she'd chosen her spot carefully. From this alcove, she could observe without being observed.

  She wanted the chance to look him over before she made her move.

  Evidently, he was doing the same thing before choosing a table. He hadn't stirred; he was still standing in the arch between the foyer and the main room. It was, she thought with grudging admiration, a clever entrance. He'd stirred interest without doing a thing.

  All those assessing glances from men stupidly eager to be his next victim. All those feline smiles from women ea­ger for the same thing, though in a very different way.

  Savannah the Gambler understood the men. When a player had a reputation like O'Connell's, you wanted to sit across the table from him and test yourself. Even if you lost, you could always drop word of the time you'd played him into casual conversation. Oh, you could say, did I ever tell you about the time Sean O'Connell beat me with a pair of deuces even though I had jacks and sevens?

  That would get you attention.

  But Savannah the Woman didn't understand those femi­nine smiles at all. She'd heard about O'Connell's reputation. How he went from one conquest to another. How he lost interest and walked away, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him. Why set yourself up for that? Emotions were dangerous. They were impractical. Still, she had to admit that Sean O'Connell was eye candy.

  He was six foot one, maybe two. He wore a black dinner jacket open over a black silk T-shirt and black trousers that emphasized his lean, muscular body. Dark-haired, as Alain had said. The color of midnight was more accurate.

  Alain hadn't mentioned his eyes.

  What color were they? Blue, she thought. She was too far away to be sure and, for an instant that passed as swiftly as a heartbeat, she let herself wonder what would happen if she crossed the marble floor, stopped right in front of him, looked into those eyes to see if they were the light blue of a tropical sea or the deeper blue of the mid-Pacific.

  Savannah frowned and permitted herself another tiny sip of champagne.

  She had a task to accomplish. The color of O'Connell's eyes didn't matter. What counted was what she knew of him, and how she would use that knowledge tonight.

  He was considered one of the best gamblers in the world. Cool, unemotional, intelligent. He was also a man who couldn't resist a challenge, whether it was a card game or a beautiful woman.

  That was why she was here tonight. Alain had sent her to lure O'Connell into a trap.

  She'd never deliberately used her looks to entice a man into wanting to win her more than he wanted to win the game, to so bedazzle him that he'd forget the permutations and combinations, the immutable odds of the hand he held so that he'd lose.

  It wasn't cheating. Not really. It was just a variation of the skill she'd developed back when she'd dealt three-card monte. Keep the sucker so fascinated by your patter and your fast-moving hands that he never noticed you'd palmed the queen and slipped in another king.

  Tonight was different.

  Tonight, she wanted the mark watching her, not her hands or the cards. If the cards came the right way, she would win. If they didn't and she had to resort to showing a little more cleavage, so be it.

  She'd do what she had to do.

  The goal was to win. Win, completely. To defeat Sean O'Connell. Humiliate him with people watching. After she did that, she'd be free.

  Free, Savannah thought, and felt her heart lift.

  She could do it. She had to do it.

  And she wanted to get started. All this waiting and watch­ing was making her edgy. Do something, she thought. Come on, O'Connell. Pick your table and let's start the dance.

  Well, she could always make the first move... No. Bad idea. He had to make it. She had to wait until he was ready.

  He was still standing in the entryway. A waiter brought him a drink in a crystal glass. Bourbon, probably. Tennessee whiskey. It was all he drank, when he drank at all. Alain had given her that information, too. Her target was as Amer­ican as she was, though he looked as if he'd been born into this sophisticated international setting.

  He lifted the glass. Sipped at it as she had sipped at the champagne. He looked relaxed. Nerves? No. Not
him. He was nerveless, or so they said, but surely his pulse was climbing as he came alive to the sights and sounds around him.

  No one approached him. Alain had told her to expect that. They'd give him his space.

  "People know not to push him," Alain had said. "He likes to think of himself as a lone wolf."

  Wrong. O'Connell wasn't a wolf at all. He was a panther, dark and dangerous. Very dangerous, Savannah thought, and a frisson of excitement skipped through her blood.

  She'd never seduced a panther until tonight. Even think-ing about all that would entail, the danger of it, gave her a rush. It would be dangerous; even Alain had admitted that.

  "But you can do it, cherie," he'd told her. "Have I ever misled you?''

  He hadn't, not since the day they'd met. Lately, though, his attitude toward her had changed. He looked at her dif­ferently, touched her hand differently...

  No. She wouldn't think about that now. She had a task to perform and she'd do it.

  She would play poker with Sean O'Connell and make the game a dance of seduction instead of a game of luck, skill and bluff. She'd see to it he lost every dollar he had. That he lost it publicly, so that his humiliation would be com­plete.

  "I want Sean O'Connell to lose as he never imagined," Alain had said in a whisper that chilled her to the bone. "To lose everything, not just his money but his composure. His pride. His arrogance. You are to leave him with only the clothes on his back." He'd smiled then, a twist of the mouth that had made her throat constrict. "And I'll give you a bonus, darling. You can keep whatever you win. Won't that be nice?"

  Yes. Oh, yes, it would, because once she had that money... Once she had it, she'd be free.

  Until a little while ago, she hadn't let herself dwell on that for fear Alain would somehow read her mind. Now, it was all she could think about. She'd let Alain believe she was doing this for him, but she was doing it for herself.

  Herself and Missy.

  When this night ended, she'd have the money she needed to get away and to take care of her sister. They'd be free of Alain, of what she'd finally realized he was... Of what she feared he might want of her next.

  If it took Sean O'Connell's humiliation, downfall and de-struction to accomplish, so be it. She wouldn't, couldn't, concern herself about it. Why would she? O'Connell was a stranger.

  He was also a thief.

  He'd stolen a million dollars from Alain in a nonstop, three-day game of poker on Alain's yacht in the Mediter­ranean one year ago. She hadn't been there—it had been the first of the month and she'd been at the clinic in Geneva, visiting Missy—but Alain had filled her in on the details. How the game had started like any other, how he'd only realized O'Connell had cheated after the yacht docked at Cannes and O'Connell was gone.

  Alain had spent an entire year plotting to get even.

  The money wasn't the issue. What was a million dollars when you'd been born to billions? It was the principle of the thing, Alain said.

  Savannah understood.

  There were only three kinds of gamblers. The smart ones, the stupid ones and the cheats. The smart ones made the game exciting. Winning against someone as skilled as you was a dizzying high. The stupid ones could be fun, at first, but after a while there was no kick in taking their money.

  The cheats were different. They were scum who made a mockery of talent. Cheat, get found out, and you got locked out of the casinos. Or got your hands broken, if you'd played with the wrong people.

  Nobody called in the law.

  Alain wanted to do something different. O'Connell had wounded him, but in a private setting. He would return the favor, but as publicly as possible. He'd finally come up with a scheme though he hadn't told her anything about his plan or the incident leading up to it until last week, right after she'd visited her sister.

  He'd slipped his arm around her shoulders, told her what had happened a year ago and what he wanted her to do. When she'd objected, he'd smiled that smile she'd never really noticed until a few months ago, the one that made her skin prickle.

  "How's Missy?" he'd said softly. "Is she truly happy in that place, cherie? Is she making progress? Perhaps it's time for me to consider making some changes."

  What had those words meant? Taken at face value they were benign, but something in his tone, his smile, his eyes gave a very different message. Savannah had stared at him, trying to figure out how to respond. After a few seconds, he'd laughed and pressed a kiss to her temple.

  "It'll be fun for you, cherie. The coming-out party for your twenty-first birthday, so to speak."

  What he meant was, she'd take O'Connell by surprise. She had yet to play in a casino; thus far, Alain had only let her sit in on private games.

  She'd come to him at sixteen, straight off the streets of New Orleans where she'd kept herself and Missy alive scamming the tourists at games like three-card monte. She was good but her winnings were meager. You could only play for so long before the cops moved you on.

  Alain had appeared one evening on the edge of the little crowd collected around her. He'd watched while she took some jerks who'd left their brains in their hotel rooms along with their baggage.

  During a lull, he'd stepped in close.

  "You're good, cherie," he'd said with a little smile. He sounded French, but with a hint of New Orleans patois.

  Savannah had looked him straight in the eye.

  "The best," she'd said with the assurance of the streets.

  Alain had smiled again and reached for her cards.

  "Hey," she said, "leave those alone. They're mine."

  He ignored her, moved the cards around, then stopped and looked at her. "Where's the queen?"

  Savannah rolled her eyes and pointed. Alain grinned and moved the cards again. This time, his hands were a blur.

  "Where is she now, cherie?"

  Savannah gave him a piteous look and pointed again. Alain turned the card over.

  No queen.

  "Watch again," he said.

  She watched again. And again. Five minutes later, she shook her head in amazement.

  "How do you do that?"

  He tossed down the cards and jerked his head toward the big black limo that had suddenly appeared at the curb.

  "Come with me and I'll show you. You're good, cherie, but I'll teach you to use your mind as well as your hands. We can make a fortune together."

  "Looks like you already got a fortune, mister."

  That made Alain laugh. "I do, but there's always more. Besides, you intrigue me. You're dirty. Smelly."

  "Hey!"

  "But it's true, cherie. You look like an urchin and you sound like one, too, but there's aje ne sais quoi to you that intrigues me. You're a challenge. You'll be Eliza to my Professor Higgins."

  "I don't know any Eliza or Professor Higgins," Savan­nah replied sourly.

  "All you need to know is that I can change your life."

  Did he take her for a fool? Four years in foster homes, one on the streets, and Savannah knew better than to get into a car with a stranger.

  She also knew better than to let something good get away.

  She'd looked at the limo, at the man, at his suit that un­doubtedly cost more than she could hope to make in another five years of hustling. Then she looked at Missy, sitting placidly beside her on the pavement, humming a tune only she could hear.

  Alain looked at Missy, too, as if he'd only just noticed her.

  "Who is that?"

  "My sister," Savannah replied, chin elevated, eyes glint­ing with defiance.

  "What's wrong with her?"

  "She's autistic."

  "Meaning?"

  "Meaning she can't talk."

  "Can't or won't?"

  It seemed a fine distinction no social worker had ever made.

  "I don't know," Savannah admitted. "She just doesn't."

  "There are doctors who can help her. / can help her. It's up to you."

  Savannah had stared at him. Then she'd thought abou
t the long, thin knife taped to the underside of her arm.

  "You try anything funny," she'd said, her voice cold, her heart thumping with terror, "you'll regret it."

  Alain had nodded and held out his hand. She'd ignored it, gently urged Missy to her feet and walked them both into a new life. Warm baths, clean clothes, nourishing food, a room all her own and a wonderful residential school for Missy.

  And he had kept his word. He'd taught her everything he knew until she knew the odds of winning with any combi­nation of cards in any game of poker, blackjack or chemin defer.

  He hadn't touched her, either.

  Until recently.

  Until he'd started looking at her through eyes that glit-tered, that lingered on her body like an unwelcome caress and made the hair rise on the back of her neck. Until he'd taken to pressing moist kisses into the palm of her hand and, worse still, calling her from her room in his chateau or her cabin on his yacht whenever he had visitors, showing her off to men whose eyes glittered as his did, who stroked their fingers over her cheekbones, her shoulders.

  Which was why she'd agreed to take Sean O'Connell to the cleaners.

  It was the best possible deal. Alain would get what he wanted. So would she. By the night's end, she'd have enough money to leave Alain and take care of Missy with­out his help. To run, if she had to—though surely she wouldn't have to run from Alain.

  He'd let her go.

  Of course he would.

  Savannah raised the champagne flute to her lips. It was empty. Just as well. She never drank when she played. To­night, though, she'd asked for the Cristal at the bar, felt the need of its effervescence in her blood.

  Not anymore.

  She put her empty glass on a table and smoothed down the shockingly short skirt of the red silk slip dress Alain had selected. It wasn't her style, but then the life she was living wasn't her style, either.

  Savannah took a deep breath and emptied her mind of everything but the game. She shook back her long golden hair and stepped out of the shadows.

  Ready or not, Sean O'Connell, here I come.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Goldilocks was finally going to make her move.