The One-Night Wife

Sean could sense it. Something in the way she lifted her glass to her mouth, in the way she suddenly seemed to draw herself up, gave her away. He wanted to applaud.

About time, babe, he felt like saying. What took you so long?

Of course, he didn't. Why give the game away now? He'd have bet a thousand bucks she had no idea he'd been watch­ing her, no idea he was even aware of her.

He was.

He'd noticed her as soon as he'd entered the casino. Or not entered it, which, he supposed, was a better way of putting it. He'd learned, long ago, that it was better to take his time, scope a place out, get the feel of things instead of walking right into a situation. So he'd been taking his time, standing in the arched entry between the foyer and the high-stakes gaming room, sipping Jack Daniel's on the rocks as he watched.

Watched the tables. The players. The dealers. In a casino as in life, it paid to watch and wait.

That was when he'd noticed the blonde.

She was tall, with a great body and legs that went on forever. Her face might have inspired Botticelli and just the sight of that lion's mane of sun-streaked, silky-looking hair made him want to run his fingers through it.

Sean sipped his bourbon.

Oh, yeah. He'd noticed her, all right.

She was checking things out, too. At least, that was what he'd thought. After a while, he realized he had it wrong.

What she was checking out was him.

She was careful about it. Nothing clumsy or overt. She'd chosen her spot well. The lighting in the little alcove where she stood was dim, probably in deliberate contrast to the bright lights in the gaming area.

But Sean had long ago learned that the devil was in the details. The success of his game depended on it. He saw everything, and saw it without making people aware he was looking. One seemingly casual glance and he could figure out how Lady Luck was treating players just by taking in the expressions on their faces, or even the way they handled their cards.

Besides, a man would have to be blind not to have seen the blonde. She was spectacular.

And she was gearing up for something. Something that involved him. The only question was, what?

He'd thought about walking up to her, looking into those green eyes and saying, Hello, sugar. Why are you watching me?

It wasn't an opening line to use on a woman if she was about to come on to you, but instinct told him the blonde didn't have girl-meets-boy on her mind. No use pretending that wasn't unusual, Sean thought without a trace of ego. He was as lucky with women as he was with cards. That was just the way it was.

So, what was happening? Goldilocks was getting ready for something and it was making her nervous. He'd seen her hand tremble once or twice when she raised her cham­pagne glass to her lips.

Curiosity had almost gotten the better of him when she began to move.

Sean narrowed his eyes as she stepped from the alcove and started toward him. Yes, the face was beautiful. Defi­nitely Botticelli. But the body reminded him of a classical Greek sculpture. High, firm breasts. Slender waist. Those legs.

And a walk that made the most of all her assets.

Spine straight. Shoulders back. Arms swinging as she strutted toward him, crossing one long leg over the other so that she moved more like a tigress than a woman. It was a model's walk. He'd dated a German supermodel last year; Ursula had done The Walk for him in his living room, wear­ing nothing but a sultry pout and a lace teddy.

Goldilocks wasn't wearing a smile and her dress covered more than a teddy, though not much more. It was a scrap of crimson silk. He liked the way it clung to her breasts and hips. She had great hips, curved for the fit of a man's hands...

Hell.

He was getting hard just watching her.

Sean downed the last of his bourbon, told himself to con­centrate on cold showers and on solving the puzzle of why the blonde had been observing him with such caution.

She was only a few feet away now. She hesitated. Then she lifted her chin, tossed back her hair, took a deep breath and smiled.

He felt the wattage straight down to his toes.

"Hi."

The tip of her tongue crept out, slicked across her bottom lip. Sean almost groaned but he managed a smile of his own.

"Hi yourself," he said. "I'd ask where you've been all my life, but you'd probably slug me for using such a trite line."

She laughed. And blushed. Another nice touch. He couldn't recall the last time he'd seen a woman blush, but her smile still glittered.

' 'Not at all. Actually, I was wondering how to tell you I was here alone, and that I've been alone for too long." . Her voice was soft. A liquid purr. It reminded him of honey and warm Southern nights. He moved closer.

"Isn't it fortunate that I finally got here?" he said softly. "What's your name, sugar?"

"Savannah."

"Ah."

"Ah?"

"The name suits you. You have moonlight and magnolias in that sexy drawl. You're a Georgia girl."

Another rush of pink to her cheeks. Interesting, that she'd blush and still be so direct in coming on to him.

"Savannah what?"

She touched her tongue to her lips again. Did she know what that was doing to him? The tip of that pink tongue sweeping moistly across her rosebud mouth? He thought she did but when he looked into her eyes, he wasn't so sure. They were a clear green, but there seemed to be a darkness hidden in their depths.

"Just Savannah." She closed the little distance that re­mained between them. He could smell her scent, a seduc­tively innocent blend of vanilla and woman. ' 'No last names tonight. Is that okay?''

"It's fine." Sean cleared his throat. "I'm a sucker for a good mystery, Just-Savannah."

"Just...?" Her eyebrows rose. Then she smiled. "I like that. 'Just-Savannah.'"

"Good. That gives us two things in common. Honesty and anonymity. That's a fascinating combination, don't you think?"

"Yes. I do. What shall I call you?"

"Sean."

Something flickered in those incredible eyes. Relief? No. It couldn't have been that. Why would a simple exchange of names inspire relief?

"Just-Sean," she said, smiling.

"Just-Sean, and Just-Savannah. Two people without last names who meet and set out to discover what the rest of the night holds in store."

"I like that." She reached out and laid her hand lightly against his chest. "What game will you play tonight, Sean?"

He felt his body clench like a fist. "It depends on who I'm playing it with," he said hoarsely. "What did you have in mind?"

She laughed. Her teeth were small, even, very white against the golden tan of her skin.

"I'm not sure." Her eyes met his, then dropped away. "I'm new at this."

It was a great line, designed to set a man's hormones pumping. All of it was designed for that: the face, the body, the scrap of red silk and the sexy, let's-get-it-on banter.. .and yet, the only part of it he bought into was her being new at this. Somehow, that rang with truth.

The lady wasn't a pro.

Like moths to the proverbial flame, high-priced working girls were drawn to places where big money and big players congregated, but no matter how elegantly dressed and groomed they were, Sean could spot them at a hundred paces. Besides, a call girl would never get past the door of a private casino like L'Emeraude.

No, Savannah wasn't a pro. She had the looks and the lines, but her delivery was off. It was like listening to an actress who was still learning her part. And there were those moments he'd seen her hand tremble...as the one she'd put against his chest was doing now.

She was working at turning him on and she was suc­ceeding, but she wasn't lying. She was, he was sure, a nov­ice at this game. As flattering as it was to think she'd turned into a lust-crazed creature at the sight of him, he didn't buy it. There was the way she'd been watching him. Besides, he was too much of a realist to believe in bolts of lightning that struck with no warning.

&nbs

p; Something else was going on here. He didn't know what, but he was damned well going to find out.

"Sean?"

He focused his gaze on the blonde's upturned face. The smile was still there but the pretty flush in her cheeks was back. Was she flustered? Embarrassed? Or was it part of the act?

"Sean. Have I been too... I mean, I'm sorry if—"

"Savannah." He smiled and covered her hand with his. Her skin was icy. Instinctively, he closed his fingers around hers. "A beautiful woman should never apologize for any­thing." Sean raised her hand to his mouth and pressed his lips to her knuckles. "Let's make a pact."

"A pact?"

"You won't say you're sorry again, and I'll buy you a glass of champagne. Okay?''

She took a long time before she answered. Then, just when he'd decided she was going to turn him down, she nodded.

"That would be lovely."

"Good." Sean's hand tightened on hers. "You have any thoughts on how to seal our agreement?''

Another rush of color swept into her face. “What do you mean?''

"It's simple. We have a contract." Sean lowered his voice to a husky whisper. "Now we need some way to guarantee it." He looked at her slightly parted lips, then into her eyes. "You know. Sign in blood. Swear before witnesses; Cross your heart and hope to die." He flashed a quick smile. "Something to make it official."