The One-Night Wife

Except, there were moments she really did seem sweet, soft and innocent. Moments like the ones last night, when he'd taken her into his arms to prove a point, when she'd trembled at his touch before losing herself in his kisses.

Sean's jaw tightened.

An act. All of it. How come he kept forgetting that her talent for make-believe was the reason he'd thought of using her in the first place? The lady was good. Really good. Any­body seeing what had happened would have thought she meant it, that she'd really wanted him.

That he'd really wanted her.

Okay. He had. Damned right, he had. Kissing her, ca­ressing her, had nothing to do with proving things. He kept telling himself that because it made him feel like less of a sleaze.

What kind of man lusted after a woman who made her living doing God knew what for a creep like Alain Beau­mont?

Sean downed the last of the coffee. It was bitter and cold, but maybe the last jolt of caffeine would kick-start his brain. He needed to begin thinking straight. Make sense of things, starting with who and what Savannah McRae really was.

That conversation he'd walked in on when he'd boarded Beaumont's yacht. The key might be there. Beaumont had been talking about some sort of deal. She'd turned it down. No. "Turned it down" was the wrong way to phrase it. She'd been frantic. Hysterical.

Terrified.

In his anger, he'd thought she and Beaumont were just arguing over money. Truth was, they'd been fighting over more than that. Beaumont wanted her to do something. She didn't want to do it. Why hadn't she just walked out on the man? Told him what he could do with his plans, whatever they were, his yacht, his wealth?

Why was she willing to stay with such a pig?

A simple question, with a simple answer. She stayed for the life and the money. What else could it be?

Sean reached for the coffee, shuddered and pushed it aside. He'd lived among the rich and famous a good part of his life, first growing up in Vegas, then as a gambler. Some were okay people. Some weren't.

And some—only a few and almost always male—were downright monsters, certain that their wealth entitled them to live by codes of their own devising. They surrounded themselves with people who accepted that conviction. He'd seen servants who might as well have been slaves, business associates who turned a blind eye to stuff that was immoral if not downright illegal, wives willing to pretend they didn't see infidelities that were right under their noses.

He'd seen the mistresses of such men tolerate treatment that made his stomach turn.

Did that explain Savannah? He'd been sure it did, except the more he saw of her, the more he had this funny feeling that he was only seeing the surface.

And how come she was in his head all the time? How come—be honest now, O'Connell—he'd sought her out for this bit of subterfuge?

Forget the stuff about her acting talent. She was good, yeah, but how tough would this performance be? One night, pretending she was his wife? With a little effort, he could come up with half a dozen women who could have carried it off and who'd have found it a lark. No metaphorical arm-twisting needed.

The truth was, he wanted her playing the part, not some other woman. There was something about her that got to him and not just sexually, although yeah, she got to him that way, too.

It was why he hadn't slept last night. The intensity of the kiss had stunned him. Those things he'd said about kissing her just to see if they'd be able to make the relationship look real was bull. The truth was, he'd let go of her because the need he'd felt to take her shocked him.

He'd never felt such hunger before.

Not that he'd solved the problem by saying something he regretted and walking away. Hell, those moments he'd had her in his arms had played in his head all night, like a loop of tape. He'd tossed and turned for hours, sweaty as a schoolboy, imagining what would have happened if he hadn't come to his senses. He thought about how it would have been to undress her.. Bare her to his hands and mouth. See if all of her tasted as sweet as her high, perfect breasts.

Finally, he'd leaped from the damned sofa and stalked out to the terrace. He had a bad case of ZTS, was all. Zipper Think Syndrome, the name he and his brothers had jokingly given to the way men were led around by their anatomy.

It hadn't helped.

What he needed was either a shrink or a cold shower, but both were out of the question. You didn't go to a shrink just because you wanted a woman you shouldn't want. To get to the shower, he'd have to go through his bedroom, assum­ing she hadn't turned the lock. Not that it mattered. He wouldn't do it.

Even the thought of it—his bedroom, his bed, Savannah lying in it asleep, warm and sweet-smelling—was a mistake.

Or maybe the mistake had been not taking what he'd wanted, what they'd both wanted, last night...

"If you want to get into your bedroom, it's all yours."

Savannah stood in the bedroom doorway wearing her jeans and sweatshirt. Idly, he wondered if she'd slept in her clothes, same as him.

From the look on her face, Sean knew they were still at war. Maybe it was time to declare a truce. How else were they going to get through the next two weeks?

"Thanks," he said, trying for a neutral tone.

"There's nothing to thank me for." She strode past him. "I'll see you around."

She'd see him around? Anger shot through him and he moved past her and blocked the door.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I'm leaving. It's what I should have done last night."

"You can't leave. We have an arrangement."

"Not anymore. I thought things through, O'Connell. I can't do this."

"Maybe you didn't understand me. I said, we have a deal." • Savannah's eyes flashed. "Get out of my way."

"You owe me money. Is this how you repay your debts?"

"I don't owe you anything."

"Sure you do. Two weeks ago you laid it on the line... and lost."

Her face colored. "I tried to keep my end of that wager, O'Connell. You sent me away."

She was right, but what did being right have to do with anything? They had a deal.

"How about Beaumont?"

' 'What about him?'' she said, but the color began drain­ing from her cheeks.

"Give me a break, okay? I don't know exactly what I walked in on the other night, but I suspect he's not gonna be happy to see you."

Not happy to see her? The depth of Sean's understatement almost made her laugh. She still wasn't sure how she'd han­dle Alain; all she could hope was that he'd calmed down. Surely, he didn't really want to use her as a—a prize in a tournament.

He'd be past such craziness by now. He'd agree to let her play cards to win back the money, to let Missy stay in Swit­zerland, to remember that once he'd treated her with cour­tesy and kindness.

Right. And polar ice caps floated in the Caribbean.

"Well?" Sean folded his arms. "I don't hear you telling me Beaumont will greet you with open arms."

"That's not your problem." She jerked her chin at the door. "Please step aside."

Sean hesitated. Stop her, a voice inside him said. What for? another voice replied. So what if she left? The entire plan was a bad idea.

He shrugged and did as she'd asked. "Go on. Just be sure and tell your boyfriend he still owes me."

Savannah swung toward him, her face livid. "He's not my boyfriend."

"Whatever you

say, sugar."

"He's not!"

"Yeah, whatever. Just tell him I expect my money within 24 hours, now that you've reneged on the deal he and I made."

"Damn you," she said, her voice so low he had to strain to hear it. "Damn you to hell, Sean O'Connell! Do you hear yourself? Do you hear what you're saying?" Sean jerked back in surprise as she jabbed her finger into the center of his chest. "The deal you and he made. The deal you and Alain made!" Another jab, followed by a flat hand slam­ming against him. "How dare you, you—you no-good son of a bitch? How dare you think you can treat me like—like a streetwalker?''

"Hey. Wait just a minute. I didn't—"

"Yeah, you did." She slammed him with her fist this time, and she wasn't gentle about it. "Buying me!"

"Whoa," Sean said, holding up a hand. "I did not buy you."

"You want to get technical about it? No. You didn't. You—you made a deal with Alain."

"No way," he said, with all the self-righteous indignation of a man who knows he's wrong. "Your boyfriend—"

Without warning, her fist slammed into his belly with enough force to make the air whoosh from his lungs.

"He—is—not—my—boyfriend! He's a monster. How can you even suggest such a thing? I loathe him. Loathe him, loathe...."

Tears poured down her cheeks. Sean cursed and pulled her into his arms. She was crying as if the world were about to end and it damn neared killed him. He'd been fooling himself, trying to pretend all he wanted was to make love to her when the truth was, he wanted to protect her from whatever demons stalked her.

Gently, he lifted her face to his and kissed her. She shook her head wildly but he ignored it and kissed her again, hold­ing her as if she were precious because she was, and he was done with trying to figure out why he should feel that way about her.

He kept kissing her, stroking his hand down her spine.

When she sighed and leaned into him, he felt as if he'd beat back those demons, at least for the moment.

The kiss deepened. Her mouth clung to his. Her hands slipped up his chest; her fingers curled in the soft cotton of his shirt and Sean knew there was no sense in kidding him­self.

He'd started this to comfort Savannah but comfort was the last thought in his head right now. She tasted like honey, smelled as sweet as summer, and they fit one against the other like matching pieces of a jigsaw puzzle just begun.