The One-Night Wife. Sandra Marton

know and told himself he didn’t care. He wasn’t a social worker. Whatever this woman’s problem was, he wasn’t the solution.

      But she’d felt so soft. So vulnerable. When he’d first kissed her, she’d responded. It wasn’t until he’d put his hand under her skirt that she’d panicked, if that was what she’d done, and that didn’t make a whole lot of sense, not when she’d been damned near asking him to screw her for the past hour.

      “Mr. O’Connell! Please!”

      He stopped and swung around. She was running toward him. Mr. O’Connell, huh? Sean narrowed his eyes. Two times now, she’d called him that. Pretty surprising, since they hadn’t introduced themselves with last names.

      So much for walking away.

      Why had she pretended not to know who he was? Why act as if she wanted to sleep with him when she’d gone from soft sweetness to what sure as hell seemed to be terror at the touch of his hand?

      She stopped a few feet away.

      “Please,” she said again, her voice a shaky whisper. “I didn’t meant to—to—” She swallowed dryly. “Your lip is still bleeding.”

      “Yeah?” He forced a thin smile. “What a surprise.”

      She closed the distance between them, that elegant feline walk gone so that she wobbled a little on her sky-high, do-me-baby heels.

      “Let me fix it.”

      “Thanks, but you’ve done enough already.”

      She wasn’t listening. Instead, she was burrowing inside her ridiculously small evening purse. What’d she expect to find? he thought grimly. A bottle of antiseptic and a cotton swab?

      “Here. Just duck your head a little.”

      A froth of white lace. That was what she pulled from the purse. Sean glowered at her. She stared back. He could see her confidence returning, the glitter of defiance starting to replace the fear in her eyes.

      “I’m not going to hurt you, Mr. O’Connell.”

      A muscle jerked in his jaw. “That’s what they all say.”

      That brought a twitch to her lips. Sean told himself he was an idiot, and did as she’d asked.

      Gently, she patted the handkerchief against the wound she’d inflicted, concentrating as if she were performing open-heart surgery. The pink tip of her tongue flicked out and danced along the seam of her mouth, and Sean felt his traitorous body snap to attention.

      “There,” she said briskly. “That should do—”

      He hissed with pain as she pulled the hankie away. A bit of lace had clung to the congealing blood; yanking it free had started a tiny scarlet trickle oozing.

      Savannah raised stricken eyes to his.

      He’d gotten it right the first time. Her eyes really were as green as a spring meadow. And her mouth was pink. Like cotton candy. Maybe that wasn’t very poetic, but he’d always loved the taste of cotton candy.

      “I’m sorry,” she said on a note of despair. “I know I keep saying that but—”

      “You have to moisten it.” His voice rumbled and he cleared his throat. “The handkerchief. If it’s damp, it won’t stick to the cut.”

      “Oh.” She looked around. “You’re right. Just give me a minute to find the ladies’—”

      “Wet it with your tongue,” he said. Hell. Now he sounded as if he’d run his words through a bed of gravel. Her eyes rose to his again. “The hankie. You know. Just—just use your mouth to make it wet.”

      Her face turned the same color as her dress. Time stretched between them, taut as a wire.

      “Sean,” she said quietly, “I didn’t—When you kissed me, I didn’t expect—I didn’t know—”

      “Know what?” he said roughly, moving closer. He reached out, cupped her face.

      “Sir?”

      Sean swung around. The waiter stood a few feet away.

      “Your champagne, sir. Shall I…?”

      “Just—” Sean cleared his throat. “Just put it on that table. No, don’t open it. I’ll do it myself.”

      Saved by the proverbial bell, he thought as the waiter did as he’d asked. Kissing this woman again made about as much sense as raising the ante with a pair of threes in your hand.

      He waited until they were alone again, taking the time to get himself back under control. Then he looked at Savannah.

      “Champagne,” he said briskly.

      “For what?” She’d pulled herself together, too. Her voice was strong, her color normal.

      “It’s just what we need. For the cut on my lip.”

      “Oh. Oh, of course. Will you—”

      “Sure.”

      Sean did the honors, twisting the wire muzzle from the neck of the bottle, then popping the cork. The wine sparkled with bubbles as he poured some on the hankie she held out.

      “It’ll probably sting,” she said, and before he could reply, she moved in and dabbed the cut with the cold, wine-soaked lace.

      An understatement, Savannah thought, as Sean O’Connell rocked back on his heels.

      “Sorry,” she said politely. The hell she was, she thought.

      She’d made a damned fool of herself. Worse, she’d probably blown her chance at setting him up for the kill, but it was his fault.

      Why did he have to ruin things by kissing her? If he hadn’t, everything would still be fine. She hadn’t meant for him to kiss her; she was supposed to be the one setting the boundaries for this little escapade, not him.

      “Hey! Take it easy with that stuff.”

      “Sorry,” she said again, and went right on cleaning the cut with as little delicacy as she could manage.

      Some seductress she was. The mark made a move she hadn’t anticipated, gave her one simple kiss, and…

      Except, it hadn’t been a simple kiss. It had been as complex as the night sky. She’d trembled under it. The texture of his mouth. The whisper of his breath. The silken glide of his tongue against hers.

      And then—then, it had all changed. His hand on her thigh. The quick bloom of heat between her legs. The pressure of his hard, aroused male flesh, the message implicit in its power.

      All at once, the terrace had become the yacht. She’d remembered the way Alain’s friends had taken to looking at her and the way Alain talked to them right in front of her, his voice pitched so low she couldn’t hear his words.

      She didn’t have to.

      She had only to see their hot eyes, see the little smiles they exchanged, feel the way a beefy hand would brush against her breast, her thigh, always accidentally…

      “Are you trying to fillet my lip or leave it steak tartare?”

      Savannah blinked. O’Connell, arms folded over his chest, was eyeing her narrowly, his face expressionless.

      “I, uh, I just wanted to make sure I disinfected the cut properly.” She dropped her hand to her side, peered at his lip as if she knew what she was doing and flashed what she hoped was a brilliant smile. “It looks fine.”

      “Does it,” he said coldly.

      Oh, this wasn’t any good! She’d had him right where she wanted him, and now she’d lost him. He was furious and she couldn’t blame him.

      Well, that would have to change if she was going to get anywhere tonight.