The One-Night Wife Read online

  * 'Right. I did. But..." He paused, then let out a long sigh.

  "You're right, I did. Okay. I'll introduce you as my wife. I'll say—I'll say we met, went crazy for each other, eloped... Now what?"

  "I told you, I don't want to do it."

  His smile was quick and unpleasant. ' 'Remember what I said about not having a choice? Well, neither do you... unless you're not interested in earning that money."

  "It's an impossible plan."

  In his heart, he was starting to think so, too. The last thing he needed was to hear those words from her lips.

  "It'll be a cinch. We'll buy a ring. Rings. Engagement, wedding bands—one for you, one for me."

  "Only a man would think that's all there is to marriage!" Savannah threw out her hands. "Has it occurred to you that we don't know the first thing about each other?"

  "I thought of that. It's why I need you for two weeks. It'll give us time to get acquainted, so to speak, before my mother's birthday, and...Savannah?"

  She shook her head, turned her back to him, but not be­fore he'd seen the tears in her eyes. He went to her quickly, stepped in front of her and clasped her shoulders.

  "Savannah," he said softly, "what is it?"

  What, indeed? He wanted her to play a game. It was a lot better than the games she'd expected he wanted, or Alain's obscene plans. Two weeks of acting and a half-million dollar payoff. How come her heart felt as if it might break?

  "Listen to me," she said desperately. "What you want us to do is a mistake."

  "Then you'll do it?"

  Her chin came up. "You said it yourself. I don't have much choice, do I?"

  Sean looked at her. Her eyes were smudged with ex­haustion; the night breeze had turned her hair into a tangle of curls and her sweatshirt bore a smattering of potato chip crumbs.

  She was, in other words, even more beautiful. How could a woman be a mess and still be beautiful? No way could he figure it out.

  "Why don't you have a choice?" he said, after a minute.

  "That's a dumb question."

  "It's the first intelligent question I've asked you." His hands cupped her shoulders. "I'm not talking about our ar­rangement, I'm talking about your—your relationship with Beaumont." She tried to pull away; he held her fast before him. ' 'Why do you let him run your life? Why are you with him?"

  She stared at him. Could she tell him? About herself, and her childhood. About Missy. About everything?

  God, was she losing her mind? This man had all but bought her. He'd bought her. What could she possibly tell him that would mean a damn?

  "I can't—1 can't explain."

  "Maybe I can help. If he has something on you—"

  "Has something?"

  "Yeah. You know. If you've ever done something you don't want anyone to know about. Been arrested. Been charged with—"

  "You think I'm a criminal?"

  "No. I don't think that. I just think there must be a reason you're with a man like that."

  "I'm with him," she said flatly. "That's all."

  "You despise him. And he treats you as if—as if—"

  "O'Connell, I'm tired. We made a deal and I'm prepared to go through with it. You want a fiancee? You'll have one."

  Her voice had turned hard. So had her eyes. Who was the real Savannah? Was she someone who didn't think it was nice to lie, or someone who'd do anything for money?

  "I want a fiancee for two weeks," he said. "Then a wife for a one-time, show-stopping performance."

  "A one-night wife," she said, with a bitter smile.

  "Yes. Can you manage that?"

  "I can manage anything for five hundred thousand dol­lars," Savannah pulled away from him. "Where do I sleep?"

  He looked at her for a long minute. Then he smiled, though the smile never reached his eyes.

  "What if I said you sleep in my bed?"

  She felt her pulse quicken, but she kept her eyes locked to his. "I thought you said—"

  "Maybe I changed my mind."

  Again, the seconds ticked by. She couldn't read his face at all. Did he mean it? Would he demand she sleep with him? She wouldn't do it, not for all the money in the world. She wouldn't let him undress her, caress her, take her on that journey she'd never experienced. It would be terrible. It would be...

  It would be ecstasy. She'd dreamed of his hands on her breasts. His mouth on her thighs. His body, pressing her down into the softness of the bed.

  Savannah raised her chin. "Maybe you want too much for the money, O'Connell."

  He laughed softly. "Maybe," he said, and before she could do anything to stop him, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. It was a kiss given without mercy, hard and demanding and, heaven help her, it was everything she wanted.

  She stopped thinking, stopped wondering, stopped doing anything but feeling. She wound her arms around Sean's neck and met his explosive passion, matched it, opened her mouth to the sharp nip of his teeth. He groaned, lifted her into his erection, slid his hand under her sweatshirt, under her T-shirt and cupped her breast.

  "Yes," she sobbed as he bent his head and took her nipple into his mouth. A flame seemed to shoot from her breasts straight down into her belly. She dug her hands into his hair, needing his kisses against her breast, needing them on her mouth, needing him as she had never permitted her­self to need anyone.

  "Sean," she whispered. "Sean, please..."

  "What?" His voice was thick. "Please, what? Tell me."

  "I want—I want—"

  All at once, he stopped. He raised his head and looked at her through cold eyes.

  "I know exactly what you want," he said. "That's good, sugar. It's very good. Thanks for letting me see you'll be as terrific in this role as you were the night we met."

  "No. Sean—"

  "Relax." He spoke calmly, as if they hadn't just been in each other's arms. "You won't have to take your act on the road. Hell, if you can be this convincing after a couple of kisses, why would I want you to do anything more?"

  Savannah's heart seemed to stop beating. She wanted to die. She wanted him to die. What he'd done...

  "You can have the bedroom." He looked her up and down, a satisfied little smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Hell, McRae, nothing's too good for a performer like you."

  The smile, the cutting words, brought her back to life.

  "You," she sputtered, "you—you—you—"

  She grabbed a vase, flung it, watched it shatter into a million pieces as it hit the door that swung shut behind him.

  "I hate you," she screamed. "I hate you, Sean O'Connell!"

  Savannah buried her face in her hands and sank to the floor. What a lie! She hated him, yes, but the person she hated most was herself.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Sean was up well before six o'clock the next morning.

  He tried phoning down for coffee. Room service, it seemed, wouldn't be able to accommodate him for another half hour.

  "We do have coffee at the reception desk for our early-rising guests," the clerk told him.

  Grumbling, Sean headed to the lobby, poured himself a cup of the stuff from a silver pot and glugged it down.

  On the way back to the elevator, he made a pit stop in the men's room. Bad idea. The face that greeted him in the mirror wasn't pretty. He needed a shave, a shower and a way to stop scowling, but everything connected to those necessities was behind his closed bedroom door.

  He went back to the desk, took the silver pot and a cup, offered a terse "You don't mind, do you?" to a clerk who looked as if he'd sooner argue with one of the crocs that inhabited the island's swampy north shore, and headed back to his suite.

  Half an hour later, he was going crazy. He paced, he drank coffee, he paced some more. The coffee was his sec­ond bad idea of the morning. He could damn near feel the caffeine hightailing it through his system.

  As if his nerves weren't jangling enough already.

  He'd had a miserable night. The living-room sofa was
too short, too soft, too everything but comfortable. He'd slept in his jeans and T-shirt, and he normally slept in his skin. Not that he'd actually slept.

  How could he, considering the mess he'd created? Man, he wanted out! First the stupid pledge to Mary Elizabeth, then the even stupider determination to make good on it, and now this—this thing with Savannah...

  "Hell," he muttered, running his hands through his hair.

  Why had he ever imagined that he could take a stranger and pass her off as his wife? That he could make a woman like Savannah seem sweet, soft .and innocent?

  Except, there were moments she really did seem sweet, soft and innocent. Moments like the ones last night, when he'd taken her into his arms to prove a point, when she'd trembled at his touch before losing herself in his kisses.

  Sean's jaw tightened.

  An act. All of it. How come he kept forgetting that her talent for make-believe was the reason he'd thought of using her in the first place? The lady was good. Really good. Any­body seeing what had happened would have thought she meant it, that she'd really wanted him.

  That he'd really wanted her.

  Okay. He had. Damned right, he had. Kissing her, ca­ressing her, had nothing to do with proving things. He kept telling himself that because it made him feel like less of a sleaze.

  What kind of man lusted after a woman who made her living doing God knew what for a creep like Alain Beau­mont?

  Sean downed the last of the coffee. It was bitter and cold, but maybe the last jolt of caffeine would kick-start his brain. He needed to begin thinking straight. Make sense of things, starting with who and what Savannah McRae really was.

  That conversation he'd walked in on when he'd boarded Beaumont's yacht. The key might be there. Beaumont had been talking about some sort of deal. She'd turned it down. No. "Turned it down" was the wrong way to phrase it. She'd been frantic. Hysterical.

  Terrified.

  In his anger, he'd thought she and Beaumont were just arguing over money. Truth was, they'd been fighting over more than that. Beaumont wanted her to do something. She didn't want to do it. Why hadn't she just walked out on the man? Told him what he could do with his plans, whatever they were, his yacht, his wealth?

  Why was she willing to stay with such a pig?

  A simple question, with a simple answer. She stayed for the life and the money. What else could it be?

  Sean reached for the coffee, shuddered and pushed it aside. He'd lived among the rich and famous a good part of his life, first growing up in Vegas, then as a gambler. Some were okay people. Some weren't.

  And some—only a few and almost always male—were downright monsters, certain that their wealth entitled them to live by codes of their own devising. They surrounded themselves with people who accepted that conviction. He'd seen servants who might as well have been slaves, business associates who turned a blind eye to stuff that was immoral if not downright illegal, wives willing to pretend they didn't see infidelities that were right under their noses.

  He'd seen the mistresses of such men tolerate treatment that made his stomach turn.

  Did that explain Savannah? He'd been sure it did, except the more he saw of her, the more he had this funny feeling that he was only seeing the surface.

  And how come she was in his head all the time? How come—be honest now, O'Connell—he'd sought her out for this bit of subterfuge?

  Forget the stuff about her acting talent. She was good, yeah, but how tough would this performance be? One night, pretending she was his wife? With a little effort, he could come up with half a dozen women who could have carried it off and who'd have found it a lark. No metaphorical arm-twisting needed.

  The truth was, he wanted her playing the part, not some other woman. There was something about her that got to him and not just sexually, although yeah, she got to him that way, too.

  It was why he hadn't slept last night. The intensity of the kiss had stunned him. Those things he'd said about kissing her just to see if they'd be able to make the relationship look real was bull. The truth was, he'd let go of her because the need he'd felt to take her shocked him.

  He'd never felt such hunger before.

  Not that he'd solved the problem by saying something he regretted and walking away. Hell, those moments he'd had her in his arms had played in his head all night, like a loop of tape. He'd tossed and turned for hours, sweaty as a schoolboy, imagining what would have happened if he hadn't come to his senses. He thought about how it would have been to undress her.. Bare her to his hands and mouth. See if all of her tasted as sweet as her high, perfect breasts.

  Finally, he'd leaped from the damned sofa and stalked out to the terrace. He had a bad case of ZTS, was all. Zipper Think Syndrome, the name he and his brothers had jokingly given to the way men were led around by their anatomy.

  It hadn't helped.

  What he needed was either a shrink or a cold shower, but both were out of the question. You didn't go to a shrink just because you wanted a woman you shouldn't want. To get to the shower, he'd have to go through his bedroom, assum­ing she hadn't turned the lock. Not that it mattered. He wouldn't do it.

  Even the thought of it—his bedroom, his bed, Savannah lying in it asleep, warm and sweet-smelling—was a mistake.

  Or maybe the mistake had been not taking what he'd wanted, what they'd both wanted, last night...

  "If you want to get into your bedroom, it's all yours."

  Savannah stood in the bedroom doorway wearing her jeans and sweatshirt. Idly, he wondered if she'd slept in her clothes, same as him.

  From the look on her face, Sean knew they were still at war. Maybe it was time to declare a truce. How else were they going to get through the next two weeks?

  "Thanks," he said, trying for a neutral tone.

  "There's nothing to thank me for." She strode past him. "I'll see you around."

  She'd see him around? Anger shot through him and he moved past her and blocked the door.

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "It means I'm leaving. It's what I should have done last night."

  "You can't leave. We have an arrangement."

  "Not anymore. I thought things through, O'Connell. I can't do this."

  "Maybe you didn't understand me. I said, we have a deal." • Savannah's eyes flashed. "Get out of my way."

  "You owe me money. Is this how you repay your debts?"

  "I don't owe you anything."

  "Sure you do. Two weeks ago you laid it on the line... and lost."

  Her face colored. "I tried to keep my end of that wager, O'Connell. You sent me away."

  She was right, but what did being right have to do with anything? They had a deal.

  "How about Beaumont?"

  ' 'What about him?'' she said, but the color began drain­ing from her cheeks.

  "Give me a break, okay? I don't know exactly what I walked in on the other night, but I suspect he's not gonna be happy to see you."

  Not happy to see her? The depth of Sean's understatement almost made her laugh. She still wasn't sure how she'd han­dle Alain; all she could hope was that he'd calmed down. Surely, he didn't really want to use her as a—a prize in a tournament.

  He'd be past such craziness by now. He'd agree to let her play cards to win back the money, to let Missy stay in Swit­zerland, to remember that once he'd treated her with cour­tesy and kindness.

  Right. And polar ice caps floated in the Caribbean.

  "Well?" Sean folded his arms. "I don't hear you telling me Beaumont will greet you with open arms."

  "That's not your problem." She jerked her chin at the door. "Please step aside."

  Sean hesitated. Stop her, a voice inside him said. What for? another voice replied. So what if she left? The entire plan was a bad idea.

  He shrugged and did as she'd asked. "Go on. Just be sure and tell your boyfriend he still owes me."

  Savannah swung toward him, her face livid. "He's not my boyfriend."

  "Whatever you
say, sugar."

  "He's not!"

  "Yeah, whatever. Just tell him I expect my money within 24 hours, now that you've reneged on the deal he and I made."

  "Damn you," she said, her voice so low he had to strain to hear it. "Damn you to hell, Sean O'Connell! Do you hear yourself? Do you hear what you're saying?" Sean jerked back in surprise as she jabbed her finger into the center of his chest. "The deal you and he made. The deal you and Alain made!" Another jab, followed by a flat hand slam­ming against him. "How dare you, you—you no-good son of a bitch? How dare you think you can treat me like—like a streetwalker?''

  "Hey. Wait just a minute. I didn't—"

  "Yeah, you did." She slammed him with her fist this time, and she wasn't gentle about it. "Buying me!"

  "Whoa," Sean said, holding up a hand. "I did not buy you."

  "You want to get technical about it? No. You didn't. You—you made a deal with Alain."

  "No way," he said, with all the self-righteous indignation of a man who knows he's wrong. "Your boyfriend—"

  Without warning, her fist slammed into his belly with enough force to make the air whoosh from his lungs.

  "He—is—not—my—boyfriend! He's a monster. How can you even suggest such a thing? I loathe him. Loathe him, loathe...."

  Tears poured down her cheeks. Sean cursed and pulled her into his arms. She was crying as if the world were about to end and it damn neared killed him. He'd been fooling himself, trying to pretend all he wanted was to make love to her when the truth was, he wanted to protect her from whatever demons stalked her.

  Gently, he lifted her face to his and kissed her. She shook her head wildly but he ignored it and kissed her again, hold­ing her as if she were precious because she was, and he was done with trying to figure out why he should feel that way about her.

  He kept kissing her, stroking his hand down her spine.

  When she sighed and leaned into him, he felt as if he'd beat back those demons, at least for the moment.

  The kiss deepened. Her mouth clung to his. Her hands slipped up his chest; her fingers curled in the soft cotton of his shirt and Sean knew there was no sense in kidding him­self.

  He'd started this to comfort Savannah but comfort was the last thought in his head right now. She tasted like honey, smelled as sweet as summer, and they fit one against the other like matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle just begun.