The One-Night Wife

"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.