The One-Night Wife

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.