The One-Night Wife
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Sandra Marton
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CHAPTER ONE
HE CAME INTO THE CASINO just before midnight, when the action was getting heavier.
Savannah had been watching for him, keeping her eyes on the arched entry that led from the white marble foyer to the high-stakes gaming room. Sheâd been afraid she might miss him.
What a foolish thought.
OâConnell was impossible to miss. He was, to put it bluntly, gorgeous.
âHow will I recognize him?â sheâd asked Alain.
He told her that OâConnell was tall, dark-haired and good-looking.
âThereâs an aura of money to him,â heâd added. âYou know what I mean, chĂ©rie. Sophistication.â Smiling, heâd patted her cheek. âTrust me, Savannah. Youâll know him right away.â
But when sheâd arrived an hour ago and stepped through the massive doors that led into the casino, sheâd felt her heart sink.
Alainâs description was meaningless. It fit half the men in the room.
The casino was situated on an island of pink sand and private estates in the Bahamas. Its membership was restricted to the wealthiest players in Europe, Asia and the Americas. All the men who frequented its tables were rich and urbane, and lots of them were handsome.
Savannah lifted her champagne flute to her lips and drank. Handsome didnât come close to describing Sean OâConnell.
How many men could raise the temperature just by standing still? This one could. She could almost feel the air begin to sizzle.
His arrival caused a stir. Covert glances directed at him from the men. Assessing ones from the women. Maybe not everybody would pick up signals that subtle, but catching nuances was Savannahâs stock in trade.
Her success at card tables depended on it.
Tonight, so did the course of her life.
No. She didnât want to think about that. Years ago, when she was still fleecing tourists in New Orleans, sheâd learned that the only way to win was to think of nothing but the cards. Empty her mind of everything but the spiel, the sucker and the speed of her hands.
Concentrate on the knowledge that she was the best.
The philosophy still worked. Sheâd gone from dealing three-card monte on street corners to playing baccarat and poker in elegant surroundings, but her approach to winning had not changed.
Concentrate. That was the key. Stay calm and be focused.
Tonight, that state of mind was taking longer to achieve.
Her hand trembled as she lifted her champagne flute to her mouth. The movement was nothing but a tic, a tremor of her little finger, but even that was too much. She wouldnât drink once she sat down at the poker table but if that tic should appear when she picked up her cards, OâConnell would notice. Like her, heâd have trained himself to read an opponentâs body language.
His skills were legendary.
If you were a gambler, he was the man to beat.
If you were a woman, he was the man to bed.
Every woman in the room knew it. Too bad, Savannah thought, and a little smile curved her mouth. Too bad, because on this hot Caribbean night, Sean OâConnell would belong only to her.
Again, she raised her glass. Her hand was steady this time. She took a little swallow of the chilled Cristal, just enough to cool her lips and throat, and went on watching him. There was little danger heâd see her: sheâd chosen her spot carefully. From this alcove, she could observe without being observed.
She wanted the chance to look him over before she made her move.
Evidently, he was doing the same thing before choosing a table. He hadnât stirred; he was still standing in the arch between the foyer and the main room. It was, she thought with grudging admiration, a clever entrance. Heâd stirred interest without doing a thing.
All those assessing glances from men stupidly eager to be his next victim. All those feline smiles from women eager for the same thing, though in a very different way.
Savannah the Gambler understood the men. When a player had a reputation like OâConnellâs, you wanted to sit across the table from him and test yourself. Even if you lost, you could always drop word of the time youâd played him into casual conversation. Oh, you could say, did I ever tell you about the time Sean OâConnell beat me with a pair of deuces even though I had jacks and sevens?
That would get you attention.
But Savannah the Woman didnât understand those feminine smiles at all. Sheâd heard about OâConnellâs reputation. How he went from one conquest to another. How he lost interest and walked away, leaving a trail of broken hearts behind him. Why set yourself up for that? Emotions were dangerous. They were impractical. Still, she had to admit that Sean OâConnell was eye candy.
He was six foot one, maybe two. He wore a black dinner jacket open over a black silk T-shirt and black trousers that emphasized his lean, muscular body. Dark-haired, as Alain had said. The color of midnight was more accurate.
Alain hadnât mentioned his eyes.
What color were they? Blue, she thought. She was too far away to be sure and, for an instant that passed as swiftly as a heartbeat, she let herself wonder what would happen if she crossed the marble floor, stopped right in front of him, looked into those eyes to see if they were the light blue of a tropical sea or the deeper blue of the mid-Pacific.
Savannah frowned and permitted herself another tiny sip of champagne.
She had a task to accomplish. The color of OâConnellâs eyes didnât matter. What counted was what she knew of him, and how she would use that knowledge tonight.
He was considered one of the best gamblers in the world. Cool, unemotional, intelligent. He was also a man who couldnât resist a challenge, whether it was a card game or a beautiful woman.
That was why she was here tonight. Alain had sent her to lure OâConnell into a trap.
Sheâd never deliberately used her looks to entice a man into wanting to win her more than he wanted to win the game, to so bedazzle him that heâd forget the permutations and combinations, the immutable odds of the hand he held so that heâd lose.
It wasnât cheating. Not really. It was just a variation of the skill sheâd developed back when sheâd dealt three-card monte. Keep the sucker so fascinated by your patter and your fast-moving hands that he never noticed youâd palmed the queen and slipped in another king.
Tonight was different.
Tonight, she wanted the mark watching her, not her hands or the cards. If the cards came the right way, she would win. If they didnât and she had to resort to showing a little more cleavage, so be it.
Sheâd do what she had to do.
The goal was to win. Win, completely. To defeat Sean OâConnell. Humiliate him with people watching. After she did that, sheâd be free.
Free, Savannah thought, and felt her heart lift.
She could do it. She had to do it.
And she wanted to get started. All this waiting and watching was making her edgy. Do something, she thought. Come on, OâConnell. Pick your table and letâs start the dance.
Well, she could always make the first moveâŠNo. Bad idea. He had to make it. She had to wait until he was ready.
He was still standing in the entryway. A waiter brought him a drink in a crystal glass. Bourbon, probably. Tennessee whiskey. It was all he drank, when he drank at all. Alain had given her that information, too. Her target was as American as she was, though he looked as if heâd been born into this sophisticated international setting.
He lifted the glass. Sipped at it as she had sipped at the champagne. He looked relaxed. Nerves? No. Not him. He was nerveless, or so they said, but surely his pulse was climbing as he came alive to the sights and sounds around him.
No one approached him. Alain had told her to expect that. Theyâd give him his space.
âPeople know not to push him,â Alain had said. âHe likes to think of himself as a lone wolf.â
Wrong. OâConnell wasnât a wolf at all. He was a panther, dark and dangerous. Very dangerous, Savannah thought, and a frisson of excitement skipped through her blood.
Sheâd never seduced a panther until tonight. Even thinking about all that would entail, the danger of it, gave her a rush. It would be dangerous; even Alain had admitted that.
âBut you can do it, chĂ©rie,â heâd told her. âHave I ever misled you?â
He hadnât, not since the day theyâd met. Lately, though, his attitude toward her had changed. He looked at her differently, touched her hand differentlyâŠ
No. She wouldnât think about that now. She had a task to perform and sheâd do it.
She would play poker with Sean OâConnell and make the game a dance of seduction instead of a game of luck, skill and bluff. Sheâd see to it he lost every dollar he had. That he lost it publicly, so that his humiliation would be complete.
âI want Sean OâConnell to lose as he never imagined,â Alain had said in a whisper that chilled her to the bone. âTo lose everything, not just his money but his composure. His pride. His arrogance. You are to leave him with only the clothes on his back.â Heâd smiled then, a twist of the mouth that had made her throat constrict. âAnd Iâll give you a bonus, darling. You can keep whatever you win. Wonât that be nice?â
Yes. Oh, yes, it would, because once she had that moneyâŠOnce she had it, sheâd be free.
Until a little while ago, she hadnât let herself dwell on that for fear Alain would somehow read her mind. Now, it was all she could think about. Sheâd let Alain believe she was doing this for him, but she was doing it for herself.
Herself and Missy.
When this night ended, sheâd have the money she needed to get away and to take care of her sister. Theyâd be free of Alain, of what sheâd finally realized he wasâŠOf what she feared he might want of her next.
If it took Sean OâConnellâs humiliation, downfall and destruction to accomplish, so be it. She wouldnât, couldnât, concern herself about it. Why would she? OâConnell was a stranger.
He was also a thief.
Heâd stolen a million dollars from Alain in a nonstop, three-day game of poker on Alainâs yacht in the Mediterranean one year ago. She hadnât been thereâit had been the first of the month and sheâd been at the clinic in Geneva, visiting Missyâbut Alain had filled her in on the details. How the game had started like any other, how heâd only realized OâConnell had cheated after the yacht docked at Cannes and OâConnell was gone.
Alain had spent an entire year plotting to get even.
The money wasnât the issue. What was a million dollars when youâd been born to billions? It was the principle of the thing, Alain said.
Savannah understood.
There were only three kinds of gamblers. The smart ones, the stupid ones and the cheats. The smart ones made the game exciting. Winning against someone as skilled as you was a dizzying high. The stupid ones could be fun, at first, but after a while there was no kick in taking their money.
The cheats were different. They were scum who made a mockery of talent. Cheat, get found out, and you got locked out of the casinos. Or got your hands broken, if youâd played with the wrong people.
Nobody called in the law.
Alain wanted to do something different. OâConnell had wounded him, but in a private setting. He would return the favor, but as publicly as possible. Heâd finally come up with a scheme though he hadnât told her anything about his plan or the incident leading up to it until last week, right after sheâd visited her sister.
Heâd slipped his arm around her shoulders, told her what had happened a year ago and what he wanted her to do. When sheâd objected, heâd smiled that smile sheâd never really noticed until a few months ago, the one that made her skin prickle.
âHowâs Missy?â heâd said softly. âIs she truly happy in that place, chĂ©rie? Is she making progress? Perhaps itâs time for me to consider making some changes.â
What had those words meant? Taken at face value they were benign, but something in his tone, his smile, his eyes gave a very different message. Savannah had stared at him, trying to figure out how to respond. After a few seconds, heâd laughed and pressed a kiss to her temple.
âItâll be fun for you, chĂ©rie. The coming-out party for your twenty-first birthday, so to speak.â
What he meant was, sheâd take OâConnell by surprise. She had yet to play in a casino; thus far, Alain had only let her sit in on private games.
Sheâd come to him at sixteen, straight off the streets of New Orleans where sheâd kept herself and Missy alive scamming the tourists at games like three-card monte. She was good but her winnings were meager. You could only play for so long before the cops moved you on.
Alain had appeared one evening on the edge of the little crowd collected around her. Heâd watched while she took some jerks whoâd left their brains in their hotel rooms along with their baggage.
During a lull, heâd stepped in close.
âYouâre good, chĂ©rie,â heâd said with a little smile. He sounded French, but with a hint of New Orleans patois.
Savannah had looked him straight in the eye.
âThe best,â sheâd said with the assurance of the streets.
Alain had smiled again and reached for her cards.
âHey,â she said, âleave those alone. Theyâre mine.â
He ignored her, moved the cards around, then stopped and looked at her. âWhereâs the queen?â
Savannah rolled her eyes and pointed. Alain grinned and moved the cards again. This time, his hands were a blur.
âWhere is she now, chĂ©rie?â
Savannah gave him a piteous look and pointed again. Alain turned the card over.
No queen.
âWatch again,â he said.
She watched again. And again. Five minutes later, she shook her head in amazement.
âHow do you do that?â
He tossed down the cards and jerked his head toward the big black limo that had suddenly appeared at the curb.
âCome with me and Iâll show you. Youâre good, chĂ©rie, but Iâll teach you to use your mind as well as your hands. We can make a fortune together.â
âLooks like you already got a fortune, mister.â
That made Alain laugh. âI do, but thereâs always more. Besides, you intrigue me. Youâre dirty. Smelly.â
âHey!â
âBut itâs true, cheĂ©rie. You look like an urchin and you sound like one, too, but thereâs a je ne sais quoi to you that intrigues me. Youâre a challenge. Youâll be Eliza to my Professor Higgins.â
âI donât know any Eliza or Professor Higgins,â Savannah replied sourly.
âAll you need to know is that I can change your life.â
Did he take her for a fool? Four years in foster homes, one on the streets, and Savannah knew better than to get into a car with a stranger.
She also knew better than to let something good get away.
Sheâd looked at the limo, at the man, at his suit that undoubtedly cost more than she could hope to make in another five years of hustling. Then she looked at Missy, sitting placidly beside her on the pavement, humming a tune only she could hear.
Alain looked at Missy, too, as if heâd only just noticed her.
âWho is that?â
âMy sister,â Savannah replied, chin elevated, eyes glinting with defiance.
âWhatâs wrong with her?â
âSheâs autistic.â
âMeaning?â
âMeaning she canât talk.â
âCanât or wonât?â
It seemed a fine distinction no social worker had ever made.
âI donât know,â Savannah admitted. âShe just doesnât.â
âThere are doctors who can help her. I can help her. Itâs up to you.â
Savannah had stared at him. Then sheâd thought about the long, thin knife taped to the underside of her arm.
âYou try anything funny,â sheâd said, her voice cold, her heart thumping with terror, âyouâll regret it.â
Alain had nodded and held out his hand. Sheâd ignored it, gently urged Missy to her feet and walked them both into a new life. Warm baths, clean clothes, nourishing food, a room all her own and a wonderful residential school for Missy.
And he had kept his word. Heâd taught her everything he knew until she knew the odds of winning with any combination of cards in any game of poker, blackjack or chemin de fer.
He hadnât touched her, either.
Until recently.
Until heâd started looking at her through eyes that glittered, that lingered on her body like an unwelcome caress and made the hair rise on the back of her neck. Until heâd taken to pressing moist kisses into the palm of her hand and, worse still, calling her from her room in his chateau or her cabin on his yacht whenever he had visitors, showing her off to men whose eyes glittered as his did, who stroked their fingers over her cheekbones, her shoulders.
Which was why sheâd agreed to take Sean OâConnell to the cleaners.
It was the best possible deal. Alain would get what he wanted. So would she. By the nightâs end, sheâd have enough money to leave Alain and take care of Missy without his help. To run, if she had toâthough surely she wouldnât have to run from Alain.
Heâd let her go.
Of course he would.
Savannah raised the champagne flute to her lips. It was empty. Just as well. She never drank when she played. Tonight, though, sheâd asked for the Cristal at the bar, felt the need of its effervescence in her blood.
Not anymore.
She put her empty glass on a table and smoothed down the shockingly short skirt of the red silk slip dress Alain had selected. It wasnât her style, but then the life she was living wasnât her style, either.
Savannah took a deep breath and emptied her mind of everything but the game. She shook back her long golden hair and stepped out of the shadows.
Ready or not, Sean OâConnell, here I come.
