The One-Night Wife Read online

  "It'll be lovely."

  The waiter acknowledged the order with a discreet bow, and Sean opened the double glass doors that led onto the terrace.

  "Here you are, sweetheart. The most beautiful night sky of the season, for the most beautiful woman in the Baha­mas."

  He put his hand lightly in the small of her back as they walked to the edge of the terrace. Her dress plunged in a deep vee to the base of her spine and her bare skin was as warm and silky as the tropical breeze drifting in from the sea.

  "Oh," she said in a delicate whisper. "Oh, yes. It's per­fect!"

  "Perfect," he murmured, his eyes not on the softly illu­minated pink sand beach or the star-shot black sky, but on her.

  "It's so quiet."

  "Yeah." A breeze lifted a strand of her golden hair and blew it across her lips. He caught it in his fingers and tucked it behind her ear, letting his touch linger. "Quiet, dark and private."

  Did she stiffen under his caress? No, it was his imagi­nation. He was sure of it when she looked at him, her lips upturned in a Mona Lisa smile.

  "Quiet, dark and private," she said softly. "I like that."

  He felt his body stir. "Me, too," he whispered, and bent his head to hers.

  Her mouth was sweet and soft. One taste, and he knew it wouldn't be enough to satisfy the hunger building inside him. Sean swept his fingers into Savannah's hair and hfted her face to his.

  He sensed this could be dangerous. She wanted something from him and he still didn't know what it was, but kissing her was irresistible. Even as he let himself sink into the kiss, he told himself it was okay, that playing along was the only way to find out what she was up to.

  It was a great plan...except, he had miscalculated. He couldn't think, couldn't find out anything when deepening the kiss almost drove him to his knees.

  God, her mouth! Soft. Honeyed. Hot. And the feel of her hair, sliding like silk over his fingers. The sigh of her breath as it mingled with his.

  Sean forgot everything but the woman pressed against him.

  "Savannah," he murmured, sliding his hands down her throat, her shoulders, lifting her to him, drawing her tightly into his arms.

  She made a little sound. A whisper of surrender. Her lips softened. Parted. She was trembling, as if the world were shifting under her feet just as it was under his, and he gath-ered her against his body until her softness cradled the swift urgency of his erection.

  She stirred in his arms, moved against him, and the blood pounded through his veins. Groaning, he moved his hand over her thigh, swept it under that sexy excuse of a skirt...

  Just that quickly, she went crazy. Gasped against his mouth. Writhed in his arms. Twisted against him.

  Sean thought she'd gone over the edge with desire. Thought it, right until she sank her teeth into his bottom lip.

  "Goddammit," he yelped, and thrust her from him.

  Stunned, tasting his own blood, he grabbed his handker­chief from his pocket and held it to his lip. The snowy-white linen square came away smeared with crimson. He stared at Savannah, his testosterone-fogged brain struggling for sanity. Her eyes were wide and glittering, her face drained of color, and he realized, with dawning amazement, that she hadn't moaned in surrender but in desperation.

  She hadn't been struggling to get closer but to get away.

  "Oh God," she whispered. She took a step toward him, hands raised in supplication. "I'm sorry."

  "What the hell kind of game are you playing, lady?"

  "No game. I didn't—I didn't mean to—to—"

  Her hair was wild, the golden strands tumbling over her breasts. Her mouth was pink and swollen from his. Even now, knowing she was crazy, he couldn't help thinking how beautiful she was—and how crazy he'd be, if he spent a minute more in her company.

  "Sean. I really am terribly sorry."

  "Yeah. Me, too." He held the handkerchief to his lip again. The wound was starting to throb. "It's been inter­esting," he said, brushing past her. "I just hope the next guy you zero in on has better luck."

  "Sean!" Her voice rose as she called after him. "Please. If you'd just give me a minute..."

  He kept walking, but he was tempted. The bite hadn't been passion but what? Anger? Fear? He didn't know and told himself he didn't care. He wasn't a social worker. Whatever this woman's problem was, he wasn't the solu­tion.

  But she'd felt so soft. So vulnerable. When he'd first kissed her, she'd responded. It wasn't until he'd put his hand under her skirt that she'd panicked, if that was what she'd done, and that didn't make a whole lot of sense, not when she'd been damned near asking him to screw her for the past hour.

  "Mr. O'Connell! Please!"

  He stopped and swung around. She was running toward him. Mr. O'Connell, huh? Sean narrowed his eyes. Two times now, she'd called him that. Pretty surprising, since they hadn't introduced themselves with last names.

  So much for walking away.

  Why had she pretended not to know who he was? Why act as if she wanted to sleep with him when she'd gone from soft sweetness to what sure as hell seemed to be terror at the touch of his hand?

  She stopped a few feet away.

  "Please," she said again, her voice a shaky whisper. "I didn't meant to—to—" She swallowed dryly. "Your lip is still bleeding."

  "Yeah?" He forced a thin smile. "What a surprise."

  She closed the distance between them, that elegant feline walk gone so that she wobbled a little on her sky-high, do­me-baby heels.

  "Let me fix it."

  "Thanks, but you've done enough already."

  She wasn't listening. Instead, she was burrowing inside her ridiculously small evening purse. What'd she expect to find? he thought grimly. A bottle of antiseptic and a cot­ton swab?

  "Here. Just duck your head a little."

  A froth of white lace. That was what she pulled from the purse. Sean glowered at her. She stared back. He could see her confidence returning, the glitter of defiance starting to replace the fear in her eyes.

  "I'm not going to hurt you, Mr. O'Connell."

  A muscle jerked in his jaw. "That's what they all say."

  That brought a twitch to her lips. Sean told himself he was an idiot, and did as she'd asked.

  Gently, she patted the handkerchief against the wound she'd inflicted, concentrating as if she were performing open-heart surgery. The pink tip of her tongue flicked out and danced along the seam of her mouth, and Sean felt his traitorous body snap to attention.

  "There," she said briskly. "That should do—"

  He hissed with pain as she pulled the hankie away. A bit of lace had clung to the congealing blood; yanking it free had started a tiny scarlet trickle oozing.

  Savannah raised stricken eyes to his.

  He'd gotten it right the first time. Her eyes really were as green as a spring meadow. And her mouth was pink. Like cotton candy. Maybe that wasn't very poetic, but he'd al­ways loved the taste of cotton candy.

  "I'm sorry," she said on a note of despair. "I know I keep saying that but—''

  "You have to moisten it." His voice rumbled and he cleared his throat. "The handkerchief. If it's damp, it won't stick to the cut."

  "Oh." She looked around. "You're right. Just give me a minute to find the ladies'—"

  "Wet it with your tongue," he said. Hell. Now he sounded as if he'd run his words through a bed of gravel.

  Her eyes rose to his again. "The hankie. You know. Just— just use your mouth to make it wet."

  Her face turned the same color as her dress. Time stretched between them, taut as a wire.

  "Sean," she said quietly, "I didn't— When you kissed me, I didn't expect—I didn't know—"

  "Know what?" he said roughly, moving closer. He reached out, cupped her face.

  "Sir?"

  Sean swung around. The waiter stood a few feet away.

  "Your champagne, sir. Shall I...?"

  "Just—" Sean cleared his throat. "Just put it on that table. No, don't open it.
I'll do it myself."

  Saved by the proverbial bell, he thought as the waiter did as he'd asked. Kissing this woman again made about as much sense as raising the ante with a pair of threes in your hand.

  He waited until they were alone again, taking the time to get himself back under control. Then he looked at Savannah.

  "Champagne," he said briskly.

  "For what?" She'd pulled herself together, too. Her voice was strong, her color normal.

  "It's just what we need. For the cut on my lip."

  "Oh. Oh, of course. Will you—"

  "Sure."

  Sean did the honors, twisting the wire muzzle from the neck of the bottle, then popping the cork. The wine sparkled with bubbles as he poured some on the hankie she held out.

  "It'll probably sting," she said, and before he could re­ply, she moved in and dabbed the cut with the cold, wine-soaked lace.

  An understatement, Savannah thought, as Sean O'Connell rocked back on his heels.

  "Sorry," she said politely. The hell she was, she thought.

  She'd made a damned fool of herself. Worse, she'd prob­ably blown her chance at setting him up for the kill, but it was his fault.

  Why did he have to ruin things by kissing her? If he hadn't, everything would still be fine. She hadn't meant for him to kiss her; she was supposed to be the one setting the boundaries for this little escapade, not him.

  "Hey! Take it easy with that stuff."

  "Sorry," she said again, and went right on cleaning the cut with as little delicacy as she could manage.

  Some seductress she was. The mark made a move she hadn't anticipated, gave her one simple kiss, and...

  Except, it hadn't been a simple kiss. It had been as com­plex as the night sky. She'd trembled under it. The texture of his mouth. The whisper of his breath. The silken glide of his tongue against hers.

  And then—then, it had all changed. His hand on her thigh. The quick bloom of heat between her legs. The pres­sure of his hard, aroused male flesh, the message implicit in its power.

  All at once, the terrace had become the yacht. She'd re­membered the way Alain's friends had taken to looking at her and the way Alain talked to them right in front of her, his voice pitched so low she couldn't hear his words.

  She didn't have to.

  She had only to see their hot eyes, see the little smiles they exchanged, feel the way a beefy hand would brush against her breast, her thigh, always accidentally...

  "Are you trying to fillet my lip or leave it steak tartar-e?"

  Savannah blinked. O'Connell, arms folded over his chest, was eyeing her narrowly, his face expressionless.

  "I, uh, I just wanted to make sure I disinfected the cut properly." She dropped her hand to her side, peered at his lip as if she knew what she was doing and flashed what she hoped was a brilliant smile. "It looks fine."

  "Does it," he said coldly.

  Oh, this wasn't any good! She'd had him right where she wanted him, and now she'd lost him. He was furious and she couldn't blame him.

  Well, that would have to change if she was going to get anywhere tonight.

  "Yes," she said, with a little smile. "I'm happy to tell you, you won't need stitches. No rabies shots, either."

  He didn't smile back. All right. One more try.

  "I suppose I owe you an apology," she said, looking at him from under her lashes.

  Sean almost laughed. The cute smile. The tease. And, when those failed, the demure look coupled with an apol­ogy. All designed to tap into his masculine instincts. He was supposed to say "no, it's okay," because that was what a gentleman would do.

  Unfortunately for Just-Savannah, he was no gentleman.

  "No."

  "No?"

  "I don't want an apology."

  She almost sighed with relief. He waited a beat.

  "I want an explanation."

  She blinked. Clearly, she hadn't expected that. Now she was mentally scrambling for a response.

  "An explanation," she parroted. "And—and you're en­titled to one. I, uh, I think it's just that you—you caught me by surprise."

  "You've been coming on to me all evening."

  "Well—well, I told you, you're an attractive—"

  She gasped as he caught hold of her wrists.

  "And yet, the first move I make, you react as if I dragged you into an alley."

  "That's not—"

  "Game's over, sweetheart."

  "I have no idea what you're talking about."

  "Nobody plays me for a fool." Sean held her tighter, applying just enough pressure to let her know he was taking charge. "I want answers."

  "To what? Honestly, Mr. O'Connell..."

  "Let's start with the 'Mr. O'Connell' routine. I was Just-Sean. You were Just-Savannah. How come it turns out you know my last name?''

  Savannah swallowed past the lump in her throat. His face was like a thundercloud; his hands were locked around hers like manacles. Missy, she thought, oh, Missy, I'm so sorry.

  "I told you," she said in a low voice. "I saw you and I found you very—"

  "Forget that crap." His mouth thinned; he tugged on her wrists and she had no choice but to stumble forward until they were only a breath apart. "I knew something was up, but you were determined to keep trying the same con so I decided to go along. You've been scamming me, sugar, and I've had enough. You tell me what's going on or I'll drag you to the manager's office and see to it you're barred from ever entering this place again."

  "You can't do that! I have as much right to be here as you do."

  "Maybe you're a working girl."

  "A working..." She began to tremble. "That's a lie."

  "Is it? Once I describe your behavior, who's going to argue with me?''

  "You can't do that!"

  His grin was all teeth. "Try me."

  Savannah opened her mouth, then shut it. For all she knew, he could do anything. He was known here. She wasn't. Everything was coming apart. She'd have to go back to Alain and tell him she'd failed, that his year of planning had led to nothing.

  "Well? I'm waiting for that explanation. And I'll tell you right now, sugar, it damned well better be good."

  Desperate, she searched for anything that might get her out of this mess. What could she possibly say that would change things? O'Connell was right. He wasn't about to believe she was interested in him, not after she'd almost bitten his face off when he touched her.

  She wouldn't react that way if he did it again.

  The realization shocked her. It was true, though. Now that she knew what to expect, if it happened again—which it wouldn't—but if it did, if she ever felt all that heat, saw the hunger in his eyes, she might just—she might just—

  "Okay, that's it."

  Sean started walking toward the door, dragging her with him. Think, she told herself desperately, think, think!

  "All right," she gasped. "I'll tell you the truth."

  He swung toward her, towering over her in the moonlight. He said nothing. Clearly, the next move was hers. Savannah took a steadying breath and played for time to work out a story. Something he would buy so she wouldn't have to return to Alain in failure and see that cool smile, hear him say, Ah, cherie, that's too bad. I hate to think of your dear little sister in one of those state institutions.

  She took a steadying breath. "I owe you an apology, Mr. O'Connell."

  "You already said that."

  "Not for biting you. For—what did you call it? For scam­ming you."

  It was a start. At least she'd caught his attention.

  "I didn't mean to. Not exactly. I just—"

  "You didn't mean to. Not exactly." Sean raised an eye­brow. "That's your explanation?"

  "No! There's more."

  "Damned right, there's more. Why don't you start by telling me why you pretended not to know who I was?"

  How much of the truth could she tell, without giving ev­erything away?

  "I'm waiting."

  "Yes. I k
now." She looked down at their hands, still joined, then up at his face. "It's true. I did know who you were. Well, I knew your name but then, everyone knows your name."

  She fell silent. Sean let go of her wrists and tucked his hands into his pockets. He'd long ago learned the art of keeping quiet. Do it right and the other person felt com­pelled to babble.

  "Everyone knows you're the world's best poker player."

  He wasn't, though he was close to it. Still, he said noth­ing. She didn't, either, but he knew his silence was getting to her. She was chewing lightly on her lip. If she wasn't careful, she'd leave a little wound to match his.

  A wound he could easily soothe with a flick of his tongue. Damn, where had that thought come from?

  "And all this is leading where?" he said gruffly.

  "To—to the reason I came over and spoke to you."

  "Sugar," he said, smiling tightly, "you didn't speak to me, you hit on me. Understand, I've no objection to a beau­tiful woman showing her interest." His smile faded. "I just don't like being played for a sucker."

  "I didn't—"

  "Yeah, you did. Or you would have, if you could have gotten away with it." He pulled his hand from his pocket and checked his watch. ' 'I have other things to do tonight. You have two minutes to answer my questions—or we can take that walk to the office."

  Savannah knotted her fingers together. She was going to do the very thing Alain had warned her against, but what other choice did she have?

  "I play poker, too, Sean."

  "How nice." His teeth showed in a chilly smile. "We're back to first names."

  "Did you hear what I—"

  "You said you play poker. What's that got to do with anything?''

  She hesitated. What could she safely tell him? Surely not that the man he'd cheated out of a million dollars had sent her, or that she was going to wipe him out because she was as good a player as he'd ever met.

  She certainly couldn't tell him the rest of it, that she'd planned to work him into such a sexual haze that by the time they sat down to play, he'd be so busy drooling over her that he wouldn't be able to concentrate on his cards.

  But she could tell him part of it, fancy things up to appeal to his ego. She'd blown her cover as a femme fatale. Could she pass herself off as an overeager tourist?