The One-Night Wife

Where was the girl who'd worn clothes salvaged from thrift shop donation bins? The supposed sophisticate whose clothes were chosen by Alain? What had become of the con artist dressed in red silk?

Sean was turning her into someone she'd never been. Or maybe someone she'd always wanted to be.

Yes, she wanted to say, oh, yes, I like it. I like it a lot.

But she didn't because this wasn't real and he didn't ac­tually care if she liked something or not. He was just getting tired or maybe bored. Maybe both. So she shrugged her shoulders and said yes, sure, the outfit was okay.

"We'll take it," Sean would say.

By then, the clerk had lost her laid-back facade. She looked like someone who'd won the lottery. Even her French accent started slipping, and when Sean approved a long column of white silk that had to cost the earth, moon and stars, the accent disappeared altogether in a rush of pure New York.

"Doesn't the lady look gawjiss?" the clerk babbled. A rush of bright pink flooded her face. "I mean—I mean, ma-dame is so chic!"

Savannah laughed. It was an unlikely thing to do, con­sidering the circumstances and her state of mind, and she buried the burst of laughter in a cough. She fooled the clerk but one look in the mirror and she knew she hadn't fooled Sean. He was grinning like the Cheshire cat. Without think­ing, she grinned back.

What a great smile he had. Lazy. Open. And yes, sexy enough to make her breath catch. Had he done this before? Taken a woman on a shopping spree? Bought her things that made her feel beautiful. Looked at her as if—as if—

Savannah tore her gaze from his. What did it matter? Sean was a smart, hard-as-nails gambler. His charm, when he chose to use it, was as much a lie as the easy smile.

How could she have come so close to forgetting that?

This wasn't a shopping spree, it was a step in some com­plex game he'd devised. He was remaking her. Did he have a thing about only bedding women whose appearance was genteel? Maybe that was why he'd sent her packing the night he'd won her. Maybe the red dress, the heels, had backfired, turning him off as much as they'd turned him on.

A wave of exhaustion shot through her, so intense and unexpected it rocked her back on her heels. She swayed and would have fallen if Sean hadn't already been at her side, enfolding her in his arms.

"Savannah?"

He turned her to him, said her name again. She wanted to tell him to let her go but she didn't. Just for this moment, she let herself lean against him and take strength from the feel of his body.

"What's wrong?"

She licked her dry lips. "Nothing."

"Try another answer." He cupped her chin in one hand and raised her face to his. "Are you ill?"

She shook her head. "I told you, I'm okay."

"Savannah." He bent his knees and peered into her face. "Hell," he said roughly, "you're white as a sheet."

His eyes were the palest blue she'd ever seen, and they weren't cold with anger or mockery as they had been that first time in his hotel room. He had a small scar on the bridge of his nose, another that feathered out delicately from his eyebrow, and she wondered how he'd gotten them, if they'd hurt, if anyone had soothed them with a touch.

"Savannah? What's the matter?"

She shook her head. His voice was soft. For some reason, the sound of it made her throat tighten. He was right, some­thing was the matter, but how could she give him an answer when she didn't know it herself?

"I'm just—I'm tired," she said, "that's all."

His eyes narrowed. She expected them to flash with those familiar angry sparks but before she could read anything in their depths, he swept her up into his arms.

"Pack up everything and send it to me at the hotel Petite Fleur first thing in the morning," he told the astonished clerk.

"Everything, monsieur?"

"You heard me. Toss in whatever else my—my fiancee might need. Lingerie, purses, shoes... You figure it out."

Sean let the woman dance ahead of him to open the door. He stepped out into the dark night, bon soirs and mercis flying after him like a flock of nightingales.

"Really, O'Connell," Savannah said. "I can walk."

Her breath was warm against his throat. Her hair tickled his cheek. Holding her like this, he became aware of her scent, something that reminded him of summer flowers and misting rain.

"O'Connell..."

"I'll put you down as soon as we get to the... Here we are." He let her down gently, held her close against him while he opened the door to his car. Her hair brushed lightly against his face again as he eased her inside. He shut his eyes and concentrated on the silky glide of it against his skin. She turned her face; for an instant, their lips were a sigh apart and then she jerked back and he straightened so quickly he slammed his head on the roof. "Damn," he said, hissing with pain.

Savannah made a little move, as if she were going to touch him. Obviously, he was mistaken because when she spoke, her voice was cool.

"Sorry," she said, without sounding sorry at all. "You should have let me walk."

He'd tried to do something decent and what did he get for it? A contemptuous retort and a rap on the skull. So much for being a nice guy. Still, part of him knew he was overreacting. Not that it stopped him.

"You're right," he said as he went around the car and slipped behind the wheel, "but for a couple of minutes there, you looked as if you were going to collapse." He checked for traffic, found none, and shot away from the curb. "I can't afford to let my investment get damaged."

"No. Certainly not." There was a beat of silence. "Do you think you could let me know what's going on anytime soon?"

"When I'm good and ready."

"No problem. Have it your way."

Sean glanced at her. Her hands were locked together in her lap, her profile was stony and her words had been tossed off with a lack of care, but she didn't fool him. She was nervous. Well, why wouldn't she be? Whatever he thought of her morals or her lack of them, not knowing what she was getting into had to be disturbing.

He checked the mirror and stepped down on the gas pedal. The car gave a throaty roar and sped up the narrow coast road.

"I need you to put on a performance."

"I'm not stupid, O'Connell."

"Sean," he said through his teeth.

"All those clothes... The question is, who am I perform­ing for? What role am I expected to play? And why? Unless you're one of those men who needs a fantasy to get it on."

Her voice quavered on the last few words, but the disdain was still there. He thought about jamming on the brakes, pulling her into his arms and showing her how little he needed fantasy or anything else as a turn-on, but he wasn't stupid, either.

The unvarnished truth was, she excited him.

It was one of the reasons he'd forgotten the lateness of the hour or that he hadn't so much as bought either of them a cup of coffee. At first, he'd told himself he just wanted to get this whole thing going before he came to his senses and asked himself what, exactly, he thought he was doing.

Halfway into the fashion parade, he'd known it was be­cause he was too busy looking at Savannah to want to do anything else.

It wasn't the clothes. She looked beautiful in everything the clerk brought out, but he'd seen a lot of beautiful women in a lot of beautiful stuff over the years. He was beyond that as a turn-on.

What he'd gotten caught up in was watching her face in the mirror, how she'd gone from wariness to acceptance to surprised joy. It made him remember the time he'd sat in on a fashion shoot of his sister, Fallon. Her expression had gone through similar changes and she'd explained that it was part of the feature they were shooting.

I'm supposed to be a plain Jane, she'd told him, trans­formed into a ravishing beauty by this designer's things.

His sister was one fine model and the camera had cap­tured her pleasure at the transformation but then, the mag­azine had been paying her something like ten thousand bucks for the morning's work.

He wasn'

t naive. Savannah was getting paid, too. Fifty times his sister's fee, but she hadn't looked half as happy when he'd offered her the money as she had the last couple of hours, just staring into the mirror. Something was hap­pening within her. She was coming out of her chrysalis, watching herself change, and she liked what she saw. So did he.

Then, minutes ago, she'd giggled. Giggled, as if she and the world were both innocent. And when he smiled at her in the mirror, she'd smiled back. Really smiled, the way a woman would smile at a man who was making her happy.

Sean's mouth turned down.

Damned right, he was making her happy. He'd promised her a half-million dollar payoff and now he was buying her more clothes than she'd ever need for what would ultimately be a couple of days' charade. What she'd been looking at, in that mirror, was one extremely fortunate female. "Well?"

He looked across the console. Savannah was looking at him, her chin up, her arms folded over her seat belt. She was waiting for an answer and no matter what he thought of her, he figured it was time she got one.

"I come from a very close-knit family."

Her lips turned up at the corners. "How nice for you."

Sean gritted his teeth. Her tone made it clear she didn't give a damn if he came from a close family or from a den of serpents, but he couldn't see any sense in giving her less of an answer than she'd need to understand the part he ex­pected her to play.

"I have two brothers and three sisters."

She yawned. "I'm thrilled."

"Two of my sisters are married. So are my two brothers."

"Listen, O'Conn... Listen, Sean, this is all very interest­ing if you're into family, but I'm not. How about getting to the bottom line?"

"My mother had a stroke a couple of weeks ago."

"Oh." Savannah swung toward him. "Did she...? I'm sorry."

Maybe she was. She sounded it. Not that he gave a damn. An actress didn't have to believe in a role, she just had to play it.

"She came though it with flying colors." He grinned; he couldn't help it. Just thinking about his mother's feistiness made him smile. Mary Elizabeth would like Savannah, he thought suddenly. She'd admire her toughness. Her resil­iency... and what in hell did that have to do with anything?

He frowned and cleared his throat. "But for a while there, we thought she wasn't going to make it. And afterward— afterward, I asked her what she wanted for her birthday." He gave a little laugh. "I said I'd give it to her, no matter what it was."

"That was nice."

Savannah's voice was low. He glanced at her. She sounded as if she might be smiling, but it was too dark to see her face.

"Yeah. I mean, it was supposed to be, but she caught me by surprise when she told me what it was."