The One-Night Wife

by Sandra Marton

  "Lovely night, Mr. O'Connell, isn't it?"

  Sean started. The prince, who'd come up alongside him, inclined his head in apology.

  "Sorry. I didn't mean to take you by surprise."

  "That's okay. I was just—just listening to the sound of the sea. I didn't hear you coming."

  The prince leaned back against the rail as he reached into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket and took out a slim gold cigarette case. He opened it and held it out to Sean, who shook his head.

  "No, thanks,"

  "You don't smoke?" Sighing, the prince put the cigarette in his mouth, flicked the wheel of a small gold lighter and put a flame to the tip. "I've been trying to quit for years." He exhaled a plume of smoke and smiled, "My wife assures me it's a worse affliction than gambling."

  Sean nodded. He wasn't in the mood for conversation.

  "And I assure her that a man must have some vices, or there isn't much point in living." The prince inhaled again. "She's a stunning young woman."

  "I'm sure she is." Sean made a show of checking the luminous dial on his watch. ' 'Would you excuse me, Prince Artois? I want to make a stop in—"

  "I wasn't referring to my wife—though she is, of course, a beautiful woman." The prince blew out a perfect smoke ring. "I was talking about our poker player. Savannah."

  Something in the man's tone made the hair rise on the back of Sean's neck.

  "Yes," he said carefully, "she is."

  "You're fortunate she has such an interest in you."

  "She's interested in winning," Sean said, just as care­fully. "We all are."

  “And yet, you are losing. I doubt if anyone has ever seen you lose this way before."

  "It happens."

  "Indeed." The prince turned to stare out over the sea, the burning tip of his cigarette a tiny beacon in the night. "What I find most amusing is that she's so good that the rest of us would surely lose against her even if she weren't such a distraction, but you—you shouldn't be losing at all. You're not easily diverted, or so I've heard."

  "Diverted?"

  "Come on, O'Connell. You and I both know the lady is doing her best to keep your attention off the game."

  "Perhaps she's succeeding," Sean said, his eyes fixed to the prince's autocratic profile.

  "Perhaps. Or perhaps you're letting her win, for your own reasons."

  Sean straightened up. "I'll see you inside."

  He began walking toward the lighted door, but the prince called after him.

  "You know who she is, of course?"

  A muscle knotted in Sean's jaw. He stopped, but didn't turn around.

  "A woman named Savannah," he said, "from the Amer­ican South."

  "Savannah McRae," Artois said. "That's her full name."

  Slowly, Sean turned and looked at him. "You know her?"

  "We've never been introduced until tonight." He gave Sean a thin smile. "But I know who she is. And what."

  Sean went toward him, his steps deliberate, his eyes never leaving Artois's face.

  "Would you like to explain that?"

  "She plays cards." Artois flicked the glowing cigarette butt over the railing. It flickered like a tiny shooting star as it arced toward the beach. "It's how she earns her keep."

  Her keep. Not her living, which would no longer have surprised Sean, but her keep.

  "Her keep?" he asked softly.

  "Is this really unknown to you, Mr. O'Connell?"

  The muscle in Sean's jaw leaped. "Get to it, Artois," he growled, "and stop screwing around."

  The prince smiled. "She's Alain Beaumont's mistress."

  He didn’t believe it.

  Savannah, Beaumont's mistress? No. It was impossible.

  Sean paced the terrace on the other side of the casino, far from the sound of the surf, the lights, the all-too-vividly remembered taunting smile Artois had shown him.

  Beaumont was slime. His little cruelties to the maids who worked in the elegant houses on these islands and in Europe were whispered about; his perversions were the topic of quiet speculation among those who found him either fasci­nating or revolting.

  Sean had met him at a casino in Monte Carlo. Just watch­ing him fondle the backside of a waitress whose face blazed with shame, hearing his lewd jokes, listening to his boasts about his sexual prowess, had been enough to make him despise Beaumont.

  Somehow, they'd ended up playing at the same baccarat table, the same roulette wheel, the same poker table, where Beaumont lost to Sean. Lost badly.

  Beaumont's eyes had burned with fury but his voice had been unctuous as he invited Sean to give him the chance to win back his money. Sean had wanted only to see the last of him, but honor meant accepting the challenge.

  "Deal the cards," Sean had snapped.

  But Beaumont refused. He wanted Sean to play on his yacht, anchored in the harbor. And because Sean wanted nothing more than to see the man lose again, he'd agreed.

  They'd taken Beaumont's tender to the yacht, just the two of them, and played through the night and the morning, Beaumont's line of oily chatter gradually giving way to tight-lipped rage as the pile of chips in front of Sean grew.

  By noon the next day, he'd won a million dollars. Beau­mont slammed his hand on the table, called Sean a cheat. Sean grabbed him by his lapels, hauled him to his feet, demanded an apology or he'd beat him to a pulp.

  He'd almost hoped Beaumont wouldn't oblige. Beating him insensible held enormous appeal.

  But Beaumont conceded, making up for not giving Sean the chance to beat him by wetting his trousers. Sean had laughed in scorn, scooped up his money and left. Once on shore, he walked into the first charity office he found and gave his winnings to a shocked and delighted little old lady seated behind a battered desk.

  He had not seen Beaumont since.

  Sean reached the end of the terrace and came to a dead stop.

  Savannah, Beaumont's mistress? That greasy pig, taking her into his bed? His thick lips sucking at hers? His hands on her breasts, his thigh parting hers, his...

  Sean balled his hands into fists, threw his head back and glared up at the stars as if they were to blame for what had happened. God knew, the fault was his own. He'd been fooled by Alain Beaumont. Now, he'd been fooled by Beau­mont's mistress.

  Obviously, Savannah was supposed to win back the mil­lion Beaumont had lost.

  Sean narrowed his eyes.

  Beaumont wanted to play? Sean would oblige him, only this time, he'd lose more than his money.

  He took a steadying breath, thrust his hands into his hair and smoothed it down. Then he strolled back into the casino.

  Savannah was in her alcove again. Her back was to him; she had one hand to her ear. She was talking to someone on a cell phone.

  Another deep breath, this time to keep himself from giv­ing the game away. He approached her quietly, from behind.

  "I understand," she was saying, her voice low-pitched. "Alain, yes, you've told me that already..."

  Alain. Alain. Sean felt his stomach roil, again saw Sa­vannah in the pig's arms.

  ' 'I will. Of course, I will. I just wanted you to know that it might not go as we'd— Because he's clever, that's why. There are moments I think he's on to me, and..." Her shoulders bowed. Her head drooped. "No," she whispered. "Alain, please, just give me a little more time."

  Sean stared at Savannah's dejected posture. Heard the desperation in her voice. For one wild minute, he saw that white horse again, saw himself in silver armor, galloping toward her.

  "Yes, Alain. You know I do. Do you need me to say it? You mean—you mean everything to me."

  Sean's gut knotted. He thought about going to her, spin­ning her around, slapping her face even though he'd never laid a finger on a woman in his life. Instead, he swallowed past the bitter taste in his throat. "Savannah?" he said casually.

  She spun around, her face turning white when she saw him.

  "There you are," he said, and forced his lips to curve in a smile. "Where've y
ou been, sugar? We said fifteen minutes, remember?"

  She stared at him blankly. "Sean?"

  He mounted the two steps that led into the alcove. "Who are you talking to, sugar?'' Still smiling, he held out his hand. "The folks back home, I bet. Are you telling them how you're playing and winning?"

  Slowly, she took the tiny phone from her ear and looked at it as if she'd never seen it before. Then she hit the button to end the call, opened her evening purse and dropped the phone inside.

  "Yes," she said. Her smile was shaky but he had to give her credit for managing to smile at all. "That's exactly what I was doing. They're all green with envy."

  "I bet." Sean waggled his hand. She took it, and he drew her into the curve of his body. "Well, come on, sweetheart. Let's see how well you do now that I've had some time to get myself together."

  "Yes," she said. "Let's."

  She laughed up into his face but he could feel a tremor run through her.

  Hours later, he could actually see her shaking. He wasn't surprised. He'd played without mercy. The others had long ago folded. They were watching what was happening with the fascination of rabbits watching a weasel in they hutch.

  Sean had won or intimidated them all. There were half a million dollars worth of chips piled in the middle of the table. He'd just added the hundred thousand that had brought the chips to that amount.

  His cards were good. Savannah's were, too. He could tell by the way she ran her fingers over them.

  Now she had two choices. Meet his bet and call, or fold.

  He knew, with every instinct he possessed, she couldn't afford to fold. He also knew she didn't have any more money.

  She had something else, though. And he was going to force her to risk it.

  "Well?" He smiled at her. "What's it going to be, sugar?"

  She looked at the chips, then at him. They'd gathered a crowd by now. Even high-stakes players had never seen a game quite like this.

  "I don't—" She cleared her throat. "I don't have..." She looked around her, as if money might drop from the sky. "I'll give the casino a chit."

  Sean's teeth showed in a hungry smile. "No chits here. Check, if you like, but those are the house rules."

  "Then—then surely you'll take my personal note, Mr. O'Connell."

  "My, oh my, just listen to that. We're back to the 'Mr. O'Connell' thing again." Sean leaned forward. "Sorry, Just-Savannah. I don't take personal notes." "I told you, I don't have—" "But you do," he said softly.

  "I do?" Her gaze flickered to her wrist and the diamond watch linked around it. "My watch," she said breathlessly. "It's worth—"

  "It's worth zero. What would I do with that watch?" Sean let his eyes slip over her, doing it slowly, from her face to her breasts and then back. She was pale and for one second, he felt sorry for her.

  Then he remembered why she was here and who had sent her, who owned her, and his heart turned to ice. "Make it something worth my while." "I told you, I don't have—"

  "Yeah," he said, and he could hear the anger, the hunger, damn it, in his voice. "One night." "What?"

  "I said, if you can't come up with the money, I'll take a night with you in its place."

  The crowd stirred, a whisper of shock and delight rushing through it like the wind through a stand of trees. ' 'You mean—you mean—''

  "I mean," Sean said coldly, "you win, the money's yours." He paused, drawing it out for all it was worth, try­ing not to listen to the blood thundering in his ears. "You lose, you come with me." She didn't answer. Anger and his hot, unwanted desire for her drove him on. "You sleep with me, babe. You got that, or you want me to be more direct?"

  He could tell that she was holding her breath. Hell, the whole world was holding its breath.

  He didn't know what he'd expected from her in response. Fury? Disbelief? She didn't show either. Nothing changed in her expression and when she spoke, it was slowly, with dignity.

  "I understand."

  It was Sean's turn to hold his breath. "And?"

  "And," she said, "I'll see your cards."

  She fanned her cards out. Some of the pink had come back to her face; when he didn't say anything, she even smiled. She had reason to smile. She'd been holding a straight flush. The three, four, five, six and seven of hearts were spots of bright color against the green baize.

  "Your turn, Mr. O'Connell."

  Sean pursed his lips. "You've got one fine hand there, sugar. An excellent hand. No wonder you were willing to make that bet."

  The crowd sighed. So did Savannah. Her smile became real as she leaned across the table and began reaching for the chips.

  Sean put his hand over hers. "Not so fast," he said softly.

  Her eyes met his. Smiling, never looking away from her, he turned over his cards.

  The crowd gasped. So did Savannah. Not Sean. He'd known how this would end. He had the ace, king, queen, jack and ten of spades. A royal flush.

  Emotion flashed through him, so swift and fierce he knew he'd never felt anything even remotely like it before. He kicked back his chair, ignored the stack of chips and the crowd. He went around the table to Savannah and held out his hand.

  An eternity passed. Then she stood up, ignored his out­stretched hand and began walking. He moved alongside her, wrapped his arm tightly around her waist and led her into the night.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Savannah wanted to die.

  People were staring, whispering behind their hands. Every eye was on her as Sean laced a hard, proprietorial arm around her waist and led her through the casino. The whis­pers that had started back at the poker table must have spread like wildfire.

  Even in this place, where money and excess were as com­mon as grains of sand on the beach, winning a woman on the turn of a card was big news.

  She couldn't blame anyone but herself. What a fool she'd been! Sean had toyed with her, letting her win hand after hand. Had she ever been in control of the game, or had he only let her think she was?

  She'd gambled for the highest stakes and lost. Lost her sister's future, her future...

  Lost to a man in whose bed she would spend the night.

  The realization sent a ribbon of terror whipping through her blood. Savannah stumbled and would have fallen if Sean hadn't had his arm around her. His grasp tightened, his hand spread even more possessively over her hip.

  "What's the matter, sugar? You having trouble keeping up with me?"

  His words were soft; he dipped his head toward hers and she knew those watching would think he was whispering something low and sexy into her ear. But she heard the hard edge in his voice and when she tilted her face up, she saw his eyes glittering like sea-ice.

  "No," he said, his smile slow and cruel, "we both know that's not the problem. You can more than keep up. Fact is, you've been ahead of me from the start."

  He'd gone from lust to rage in a heartbeat. Why? Did he know something? He couldn't. Alain had planned things so carefully.

  Alain.

  Her throat constricted as she imagined his reaction when he heard what had happened. Losing to Sean O'Connell hadn't been an option. Alain had made that clear. Right before the tender took her to shore, he'd cupped her chin and lifted her face until their eyes met. He'd smiled, almost the way he used to when he'd first taken her from New Orleans. For the first time in months, the light kiss he dropped on her mouth had not made her shudder.

  "A kiss for good luck, cherie."

  "I'll do my best, Alain."

  "Oui. I am certain you will." Another smile, but this one so cold it chilled her to the bone. "And if you need more than a good-luck kiss for a talisman, think of your dear sister as you play. That should cheer you on."

  The warning had not been subtle. Remembering it, know­ing how she'd failed, Savannah stumbled again.

  Sean hauled her against his side. "You want me to pick you up and carry you out of here?"

  He'd do it, too. It would add to her humiliation and he'd like that, though s
he didn't know why. And wasn't that funny? It was supposed to have gone the other way around. She was to have humiliated him.

  Savannah reached deep inside herself and summoned up what remained of her pride. She'd be damned if she'd let him know the true depth of her despair.

  "Don't push your luck, O'Connell," she snapped. "You won the bet. You didn't win the right to parade me around like a trophy."

  "But that's what you are, sugar." A tight smile flashed across his face. "It's what you were meant to be. A prize I'd want so badly I'd think with my hormones instead of my head."

  A cold hand seemed to close around her heart. Was that the explanation for his change in attitude? Was what she'd done so obvious?

  "Surprised I figured it out?"

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "No. Of course you don't. You need an explanation, I'll give it to you when we get to my hotel room. For now, just keep moving."

  That was all right with her. The sooner they left this place, the better. Anything to get away from the stares and smirks, the soft trills of laughter. The tragic part was that there was nothing funny in what was happening.

  Alain's plan had failed. O'Connell hadn't been fooled by her brazen display of sexuality. It hadn't been her fault but Alain wouldn't see it that way. He'd lay the blame on her.

  Yes, she'd changed things by telling Sean she wanted to play against him, but she hadn't had much choice. It hadn't bothered him. If anything, he'd seemed amused by her ad­mission.

  It had all gone so smoothly at first. She'd played as well as she ever had, better, really, because she knew how high the stakes were. And Alain's predictions had been correct. O'Connell was too busy watching her to pay attention to the game. She'd won and won and won—well, except for that time his interest seemed to be waning. She'd folded early and let him win.

  Things had been going just fine... Until that break.

  All the others at the table had wanted to take a breather. She had to give in. What else could she have done? The last thing she'd wanted was to call attention to herself.