The One-Night Wife

For a heartbeat, the fury inside him subsided. He wanted to go to her, take her in his arms, tell her he wouldn't hurt her, that he'd be gentle, make slow love to her until she was sobbing with pleasure...

"Unlock the door."

The words, almost whispered, brought him back to sanity. He'd almost forgotten how good she was at acting.

"Relax, sugar. I'm just seeing to it we aren't disturbed."

"We made a bet. I'm prepared to go through with it but—"

"But?" he said, cocking his head as if he really gave a damn what she said next.

"But..." She swallowed, caught her lip between her teeth. "But I won't—I won't do anything—anything—"

"Kinky?" He grinned, shrugged off his jacket and tossed it aside. "Oh, I think you will, Just-Savannah. In fact, I'm willing to bet on it."

He watched her breasts rise and fall as she took a deep breath, then exhaled. Color was returning to her face. If he hadn't known better, he'd have sworn she was willing her­self to be strong, but that was crazy.

A woman who slept with Alain Beaumont would sleep with anybody, even a man who won her at a poker table.

"You'd lose that bet, O'Connell."

Sean shrugged his shoulders. "No problem, babe. You give me whatever you give your lover and we'll call it even."

"My lover?"

Oh, she was good! That look, the total innocence in her eyes, even the surprise in her voice... She was better than good. She was great.

Would she be that great in bed? Yes. Oh, yes, she would be. Sean could almost taste her mouth. Her nipples would be honey on his tongue, her belly would have the scent of vanilla when he kissed it. Her golden thighs would carry the clean, erotic scent of a woman aroused as he parted them to reveal the hidden essence of her.

God, he was hard as stone.

"Yeah," he said gruffly as he started toward her. "Your lover. Beaumont. Remember him?''

"I didn't—he isn't—"

Sean reached her. He looped one hand around her throat. She flinched but stood her ground. He could feel the ham­mer of her pulse beneath his fingers. Slowly, he ran his hand over her, lightly cupping her breast, then curving it over her hip.

"Stop lying. You didn't learn to play cards on a riverboat. Alain Beaumont taught you."

"I don't know what you're talking ab—"

She gasped as he put both arms around her and drew her up against him. He knew she could feel his erection. Hell, he'd never been this hard in his life.

"What else did Beaumont teach you, sugar?" The idea of lying flashed through her mind. Sean could almost see her thought process.

"Come on," he growled. "Be honest just once tonight.

Admit he's your lover, that he put you up to this, that you were supposed to take me down and walk away laughing."

She didn't answer. Sean cursed, pulled her to her toes and crushed her mouth beneath his. She gave a sob that pierced his heart before he remembered this was all a game. She was playing a part. Nothing more, nothing less.

"Admit it," he said roughly. "Beaumont put you on to me."

Tears glittered in her eyes. "You stole from him."

"I what?"

"Stole. Cheated him out of a million dollars. In a card game on his yacht."

"That's one terrific story, sugar."

"It's the truth!"

"Let me get this straight. I stole a million bucks from your lover and you decided to steal it back to get even?"

"I wasn't trying to steal your money. I was winning it in a poker game."

"You were winning only because you kept me so busy looking at you that I couldn't think straight."

"That's not true! I'm a good poker player."

"Right. You're so good that you lost your lover's stake and ended with nothing to put on the table but yourself." Sean took a step back. "And now it's time to deliver."

"Sean. Mr. O'Connell..." Savannah heard the sudden desperation in her voice. No. She'd promised she wouldn't let him see her fear or hear her beg... but Lord, how could she do this? Give herself to a man who despised her? Let him touch her, explore her, take the last of her innocence, the only innocence she'd been able to hang on to in her life?

He was leaning against the dresser, arms folded over his chest, feet crossed at the ankles, watching her with no ex­pression at all on his face. He was a thief, yes, but he wasn't unkind. Another man might have laughed and dismissed her when she'd told him that lie about why she wanted to play against him.

He hadn't. He'd listened.

Maybe he'd listen now.

"Mr. O'Connell." Savannah moistened her lips. "There's— there's been a misunderstanding. I—I wasn't thinking straight when I agreed to—"

"Strip."

She blanched. "Please. If you'd just hear me out—"

' 'Are you going to pay me the money that you lost to me tonight?"

"I can't. But—but—"

But what? She owed him a small fortune. She didn't have the money to pay it. She never would. And Alain would never give it to her, either. It was bad enough she'd return to him in defeat. She couldn't return and ask him for money, too.

"Either pay me the money or start getting undressed. Take your time about it. I want to enjoy the show."

Sean waited, hardly breathing. What would she do next? Run for her life, probably. Make a dash for the door, fumble with the lock and, damn it, he'd let her get away. He wanted her, yes. Why lie to himself? He wanted her badly, but not this way.

He couldn't go through with this. Even if she was willing, he'd—he'd—

The slow movement of her arms as she reached behind her stopped his thinking. His heart hammered as she slid down the zipper of the sexy red dress. One strap drooped against her shoulder, then the other. Her head was down

but she must have felt his eyes on her because she lifted her chin and looked at him. What he saw on her face almost killed him. Here I am, she was saying. Do what you will Take what you want. It doesn't matter. I won't feel anything you do to me. But she would. He'd make her feel. He'd make her know it was his hands on her, not Beaumont, that she was in his bed, not anyone else's.

Eyes still on his, she began to ease off one of those in­credible shoes. Sean cleared his throat.

"Leave them on," he said hoarsely. "Take off the dress and leave the rest."

She took a deep breath and the red silk slithered to the carpet. She was wearing a black lace bra that cupped her breasts as lovingly as a man's hands, a black lace thong that covered that part of her that was all female, thigh-high, sheer-as-a-whisper black stockings and those shoes.

She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen and, for tonight, she belonged to him. He'd make her forget ev­erything else.

He walked toward her slowly. The tears trembling on her lashes might have gotten to him if he hadn't reminded him­self that they were about as real as the rest of her act.

"Beaumont is a lucky man," he said. She didn't answer. Sean trailed a finger down her throat, skimmed the curve of her breasts. "You're a feast for the eyes, Savannah. Do you taste as good as you look?"

She was shaking. Hell, he thought coldly, she was in­credibly good at this. He clasped her face, lifted it to him, intending to brand her with his kiss. Instead, he found him­self brushing his lips over hers, gently, softly, groaning at the sweetness of her mouth.

Everything he'd been thinking fled his mind. He drew her close and kissed her, again and again, until she made a sound deep in her throat. Her hands came up, touched his chest, slid up to his shoulders. She was weeping silently now, her tears leaving glittering streaks down her silken cheeks.

It was the tears that did it.

The ice around Sean's heart melted. Savannah was afraid of him. How could this be an act? She was terrified, but she didn't have anything to fear. He wouldn't hurt her. He'd be gentle, stroke her with slow hands, kiss her until she clung to him with desire.

"Savannah," he whispered. "Don't cry. I won't hurt you. Let me show you. Let me."