The One-Night Wife Read online

  She believed him. He was a man of zero principles. Maybe Alain had lied about him cheating in that card game. Maybe he hadn't. A man who'd accept a woman in payment and carry her off was capable of anything.

  "Alain lied," she said desperately, as he dropped her into a seat in the tender. "He keeps a lot of money in his safe."

  Sean folded his arms and spread his feet apart.

  "And you'd know all about his money."

  "A million, at least," she said, refusing to be drawn away from the topic. ' 'You could tell him you changed your mind. That you want money, not—not—"

  Sean smiled coldly. "But I haven't changed my mind. I have exactly what I came for."

  Her face flooded with color. "Is that the kind of man you are, O'Connell? Do you buy your women?"

  "You're the one who put yourself up for sale, sugar."

  "That's not true! You were the one who suggested I make that wager that night."

  "And you leaped at it like a dog at a bone. Besides, what would Beaumont say if I told him I was bringing you back because you were uncooperative? According to you, I came back for more of what I already got." He smiled thinly. "I don't think he'd be very happy but hey, what do I know? Maybe I don't understand the complexity of the relation­ship."

  The threat seemed to work. He could almost see the fight going out of her. Her head drooped forward; her hair tum­bled around her face. Seeing her like this, her posture one of defeat, put a hollow feeling in Sean's belly. She was a liar. A cheat. A better con artist than any he'd ever met, and that was saying a lot.

  But he could make things easier. All he had to do was tell her the truth, that Beaumont had triggered an idea and it had nothing to do with sex.

  "Whit's wrong, sugar? It's just another slice off the loaf."

  Savannah's head came up. She opened her mouth, on the verge of telling him she had never slept with Alain or any­one else, but why bother? He wouldn't believe her. More to the point, why defend herself to a man like this?

  He was right. She really didn't have any choice. She'd cost Alain a fortune. Worse, she'd cost him his pride. He was demanding payback and he held her sister's well-being in the palm of his hand. If she refused to do his bidding, Missy would pay for it.

  "You're right," she said wearily. "What does it matter which of you I'm with? You're both snakes in the same pit."

  Her words jolted Sean. It wasn't true. Beaumont had used this woman in a scheme of revenge, but he...he—

  Her head was down again, her face made invisible by her hair. When she raised a hand and brushed at her eyes, he knew she was crying.

  Hell. The truth was, he was going to use her, too, and he suspected that even an ethicist would have a tough time making it sound as if his using her to live a lie was better than Beaumont using her in a petty game of get-even.

  But he wasn't Beaumont, damn it. Not that it mattered what she thought of him, but he wanted her to know that.

  "Maybe it's true," he said gruffly. "Maybe there isn't a lot of difference between him and me—except for one thing."

  Savannah looked up. He'd judged correctly. Tears glit­tered on her lashes and he fought the desire to take her in his arms and brush them away, until he recalled how she'd pulled that same stunt the last time.

  "I don't believe in owning people, Savannah."

  She gave a watery laugh. Sean stood straighter.

  "You behave yourself, do as you're told, give the kind of performance I expect, and I'll pay you."

  Her face turned white at the word "performance." He was about to explain what he'd meant but before he could, she drew a deep breath and expelled it. When she looked at him again, her eyes were flat.

  "How much?"

  Her voice was lowi So low that he had to lean forward to make sure he'd heard the question. It staggered him. Was it that simple? Mention money, and she turned docile as a lamb?

  It shouldn't have come as a surprise. He knew exactly what she was. The tears, tonight's sweetly girlish looks didn't mean a thing. They were window dressing laid over the skeleton of what Savannah McRae really was.

  "How much?" she said again, her voice a little stronger.

  Sean clenched his jaw. "Don't you want to know what you're going to be required to do first?"

  Color swept into her cheeks. "I'm not stupid, O'Connell. You don't have to spell it out."

  He thought of telling her she was wrong, but he'd be damned if he was going to tell her anything more than he had to. What she did didn't matter to her. Only money was important.

  Besides, she'd never believe him. What would he say? / want you to pretend to be my fiancee? He was having a bad enough time believing it himself. What had ever possessed him to come up with such an impossible scheme? Why hadn't he taken the time to think it over?

  Then again, why would he? Life on the edge had always been his thing.

  He swung away, snapped "Shove off" to the crewman. The engine started and the tender leaped forward. The roar of the motor and the slap of the sea against the hull provided enough of a sound block so the guy driving the boat wouldn't hear what he said next.

  "What's the most you've ever won in a poker game?"

  She gave him a chilly smile. "Women and cards. Yours is a simple world, O'Connell."

  "Sleeping with Beaumont and scamming strangers," Sean said coldly. ' 'Anybody can see that your world is far more intricate than mine."

  Her eyes filled with heat. She wanted to fly at him as she had earlier; he saw it in her face. Hell, he wanted her to. Wanted to hold her against him, subdue her, kiss her until she moaned...

  "Answer the question," he snapped, his anger at himself almost as great as his anger at her.

  "Four hundred thousand," she said, lifting her chin in defiance. "That was my record. I'd have topped it by a hundred thou if I'd won the night I played you."

  "But you didn't."

  "I came close."

  "Only because I let you."

  "Am I supposed to apologize for that? Poker's as much a game of tactics as it is chance."

  The lady gave as good as she got. That was probably her only redeeming quality.

  "What you mean is, it helps to be a good actor." The wind ruffled Sean's hair. He pushed it back from his fore­head. "It's why I wanted you."

  Color filled her face again. Sean almost laughed.

  "Forget that. I don't want you for anything kinky."

  Nothing kinky, but he wanted her to act when he made love to her? She hated him. Despised him almost as much as she despised Alain.

  "Five hundred thousand, Savannah. Exactly the amount I won from you." Sean smiled with his teeth. "That's what I'll pay you, if I'm satisfied with the job you do."

  Her mouth fell open. For a second, she looked as if she were going to leap up and dance him in wild circles. His gut knotted with distaste. Half a million bucks could go a long way toward making a woman like this happy.

  Then she seemed to get herself under control. "Those terms are acceptable."

  She spoke without emotion. For the second time in minutes, he wanted to take her in his arms, not to comfort her but to shake her.

  I just bought you, he wanted to snarl. / can use you any­way I want. Doesn't that bother you?

  Evidently not.

  "Done," he said, and held out his hand as the tender bumped against the dock.

  O'Connell herded her into his car. Then he took out his cell phone. She didn't pay much attention to his conversa­tion, which seemed to consist mostly of commands. He had a command for her, too. "Buckle up."

  She'd already done that. The memory of his hand slipping across her breasts was still vivid. He'd touch her soon enough, but she wasn't going to offer up an opportunity.

  Savannah shuddered. Think about something else, she told herself. Fortunately, O'Connell made it easy to do.

  The man drove like a maniac.

  He was in a hurry to get to his hotel. Things had not gone as he'd hoped the last time he'd brought her to
his bedroom. This time would be different.

  She'd given her promise.

  It was too late for regrets. Agreeing to O'Connell's offer had been her only choice. Now, all she could do was hope. That he wouldn't hurt her. That he wouldn't force things on her.

  She knew some of what could happen when a rich, pow­erful man thought he owned a woman. The men who played cards on the yacht sometimes brought women with then. She'd overhead things.

  Savannah shuddered again. Two weeks, that was all. Surely, she could endure whatever he did to her for that long. He was handsome. Not that it mattered but at least she wouldn't have to gag whenever he came near her.

  She knew that there were woman who'd envy her.

  A woman wouldn't have to act if this man took her to bed. She'd go willingly. Eagerly. She'd sigh when he put his hands on her, moan when he teased her lips apart with his.

  She shut her eyes and thought back to that first time he'd taken her to his hotel. He could have done anything he wanted. And he'd wanted, all right. There'd been no mis­taking the hardness of his arousal when he'd gathered her into his arms, but she'd wept and he'd sent her away. Yes, he'd been furious and, yes, he'd humiliated her by tossing money at her feet, but he hadn't done what he'd been en­titled to do.

  He'd done enough, though. Touched her. Kissed her. Sometimes, in the deepest part of the night, she thought she could still feel his hands on her, his mouth...

  Savannah sat up straight.

  What did any of that matter? She'd made a deal with Sean O'Connell and if she kept her part of it and he kept his, she'd have the money it would take to fly to Switzerland and take Missy to a new place where she'd get the same excellent treatment. She'd cover their trail carefully so Alain could never find them.

  She had to keep all that in mind. It would make what came next bearable.

  The car purred as Sean downshifted. Savannah blinked and focused on the blur of palms, white sand and blue water outside the window. Had they sped past the turnoff to his hotel? Yes. Yes, they had. A town called Bijou lay ahead of them. It was reputed to live up to its name by being a jewel box of designer and couturier boutiques, all in keeping with Emeraude's profile as an unspoiled playground for the incredibly rich.

  Why was O'Connell taking her there?

  "We're going to do some shopping," he said, as if she'd spoken the question aloud.

  Shopping? In Bijou?

  "If you'd given me time to pack, you wouldn't have to buy me a toothbrush."

  She tried to sound flippant. It didn't work. Her voice was scratchy and it shook. Damn it, she wasn't going to let him see her sweat. What kind of shopping did he have in mind? Leather? Teenybopper minis? A froth of lace that would turn her into an obscene version of an upstairs maid? Maybe the shops here carried such things. From what she'd ob-served of Alain's friends, the very rich could also be very decadent.

  O'Connell slowed the car as they entered the town. Under other circumstances, she'd have been enthralled. Cobble­stone streets radiated from a central fountain surrounded by lush beds of bougainvillea. Mercedes, Ferraris, Maseratis and Lamborghinis were neatly parked along the curbs.

  How did they get all those cars to this dot in the ocean? Savannah thought, and almost laughed aloud at the absurd­ity of the question. The rich and powerful could arrange for anything. Wasn't her presence at O'Connell's side proof of that?

  He pulled into a parking space, got out of the car, came around to her side. "Out," he said, pulling open the door.

  She got out. It was late—almost nine—and the shops were shuttered. So much for O'Connell's shopping trip, she thought, but he took her arm and tugged her toward the nearest door.

  No leather in the windows. No cheesy minis or endless yards of lace, either. There was nothing in the windows except discreet gold script that spelled out a name so well-known it seemed to ooze money.

  "They're closed," she said, and came to a halt.

  "They're open. I phoned when we left the harbor."

  So that was what the commands had been all about. O'Connell could get a place like this to stay open for him?

  "How'd you pull that off?" she said pleasantly. "Is the manager into you for a gambling debt?''

  "You've got a smart mouth, McRae." Sean's hand tight­ened on her elbow. "Let's go."

  "I don't know what you're thinking," Savannah said quickly, ' 'but I promise you, I am not spending a penny of what you're going to pay me on anything this place sells."

  He turned toward her. She saw a muscle knot in his jaw.

  "Is that your deal with Beaumont? Does he give you money, then make you pay for your clothing out of it?"

  Alain bought her clothes. Not jeans or shorts or the cotton tops she lived in. She ordered those online, paid for them with the small amount of money he permitted her to keep from her gambling winnings. He bought her gowns and the accessories to go with them. His taste had never been hers but lately, it made her stomach turn. He'd begun buying her things that made her feel cheap.

  "You're a beautiful woman, cherie," he said when she protested a dress cut too low, a gown with too high a slit. "Why hide it from the world?"

  But there wasn't a reason in hell to tell any of that to this man.

  "My arrangements with Alain have nothing to do with you," she said coolly. "I'm talking about our deal, O'Connell."

  ' 'Relax, sugar. I have no intention of making you pay. In our little drama, wardrobe's the director's responsibility."

  "Just what is our little drama? I think I'm entitled to know."

  He bent his head to hers. "You're my fiancee."

  "Excuse me?"

  "You heard me," he said with impatience. "For the next two weeks, you're my fiancee. We're here to buy you what­ever you'll need to return to the States with me and meet my family."

  Savannah stared at him. So much for leather and upstairs maids. "That's your fantasy?"

  His laugh was quick and harsh. "Believe me," he said, "it's damned near as much a surprise to me as it is to you."

  He put his hand into the small of her back and opened the door. A bell tinkled discreetly somewhere in the distance as they stepped into a hushed world of ivory silk, mirrored walls and low couches. The elusive scent of expensive per­fume drifted on the air.

  A salesclerk, dressed in the same ivory silk that paneled the walls and covered the couches, glided toward them.

  "Wait," Savannah said frantically. "What assurance do I have that you'll keep your end of our bargain?"

  The cold look O'Connell gave her almost stopped her heart. He held up his hand. The clerk smiled and stayed where she was.

  "The same assurance I have that you'll keep yours," he said in a low voice. "My word."

  She thought about telling him his word didn't mean much, but that would have been a lie. A gambler's word was everything.

  "You don't want to accept it, we can call the whole thing off. I'll take you back to the Lorelei. You can explain your return to Beaumont."

  Savannah shook her head. "Your word is good enough."

  "And yours?"

  Their eyes met. He'd slipped his arm around her waist; he was holding her against him, a little smile playing on his mouth. She knew it was in preparation for the charade they were about to perform for the clerk but for a moment, oh, just for a moment, she imagined what it would be like if he were taking her to this place because she mattered to him, because he wanted to see her in silks and cashmeres, wanted to enjoy the sight of her in them in public, the excitement of stripping them from her when they were alone.

  A tremor went through her, and she blanked the ridicu­lous images from her mind.

  "My word's as good as yours, O'Connell."

  "Sean."

  ' 'Does it matter?''

  "Yes. My fiancee would call me by my first name."

  "You want to explain what this is all about?"

  His lips twisted. "In due time." His gaze dropped to her mouth. "But first—first, I think we need to forma
lize our arrangement."

  "Formalize it?"

  "Uh-huh." He looked into her eyes. What she saw in his—the heat, the hunger—made her breath catch. "Some­thing in lieu of signing a contract in front of a notary pub­lic."

  Slowly, he lowered his mouth to hers. From the corner of her eye, she saw the clerk turn discreetly away. There was no question what he was going to do. And there was time, plenty of time, to draw back or at least to turn her head to the side. Savannah did neither. She would let him kiss her. Wasn't the kiss part of what she'd agreed to?

  She'd let it happen solely for that.

  Still, when his mouth touched hers, she felt her knees buckle. He drew her closer, kissed her again. The blood roared in her ears and she moaned softly against his lips. Her heart began to pound. She knew that his was, too. She could feel it galloping against hers.

  Sean drew back, his hands cupping her shoulders, holding her away from him. Savannah opened her eyes. His expres­sion was shuttered and cold.

  "My fiancee is ready now," he said.

  The words were directed to the clerk, but they might as well have been for her. His message was clear. He could turn her on anytime he wanted. He knew it. Now, she knew it, too.

  The realization made her feel cheaper than she already did.

  Really, she hadn't thought that was possible.

  CHAPTER NINE

  They were still choosing clothes and accessories as mid­night approached.

  At least, Sean was. Savannah was simply a mannequin standing before him on a little platform in front of a wall of mirrors.

  At first, he didn't even bother asking her opinion. The clerk would bring out an armful of clothing and display it.

  Yes, he'd say, no, yes, maybe.

  Then the clerk would take Savannah to the fitting room where she'd put on the dress or suit or whatever Sean had chosen, slip into matching shoes the clerk seemed to whisk out of the air, and go out to the platform to await a nod of approval.

  After a while, Sean began asking what she thought.

  "Do you like this?" he'd say, and she'd look into the glass, at the stranger looking back, a woman with her eyes, her face, her body.