The Temptation of Savannah O’Neill Page 2

“Justice,” he said to the photo, tasting the word, loving how it gave him a purpose. A fire.

  But not a plan.

  “What am I supposed to do with you?” he asked the photo.

  He could knock on the door and…what? He considered Savannah’s smile, the radiance that poured from her eyes. She was like sun off of glass, she just seemed to shimmer.

  Was he going to threaten her? Interrogate her? Tie her up while he waited for her mother to arrive? And then hope that the mother just happened to be traveling with a fortune in stolen gems?

  Had he come to that? Really?

  “Great, Woods,” Matt said, rubbing his hands over his face. “Sherlock Holmes, you are not.”

  Suddenly, he had a memory of sitting outside an Indian reservation casino. He must have been about eight or nine, and his father was going in for one quick game. One hand. Just one.

  He told Matt that his job was to sit in the car and watch for three men. One man with a patch, another with a scar and the final man with a one of those Russian bearskin hats. When Matt saw those three men he needed to run inside the casino and find Joel.

  Clever, Matt realized now, twenty-five years later. Because while men with scars and patches were a possibility in South Carolina, there would be no bearskin hats.

  A goose chase. A fool’s errand, his father was brilliant with them. A master. And Matt had taken his job so seriously he’d sat in that beat-up Chevy with a notebook and pen, drawing pictures and taking notes, a young Sherlock Holmes. Always keen. Always on the lookout for a bearskin hat that would never come.

  All of which was irrelevant. Every moment of the past, every bad decision and terrible accident that led him to this point, was moot.

  The only thing that mattered now was making one thing right, in a life gone horribly wrong. He had to make one damn thing right. Who betrayed Dad? Joel’s partner, Richard Bonavie, or the blonde at the drop-off—Vanessa O’Neill?

  The legal system might have gotten it wrong with Matt, whose hands were bloody right down to the bone, but it wasn’t too late to get justice for his father. That’s why he was here, and the women inside that house were the key to it all.

  He angled the rearview mirror and checked his reflection—a little closer to potential ax murderer than was entirely necessary, but there wasn’t much he could do. He forgot a razor.

  The scruff of his beard rasped under his hands and he thought about all his clients, hiring the cool and slick Matt Woods to design their summer homes, their art galleries and condos.

  That guy doesn’t live here anymore, he thought, unable to recognize himself in the green eyes that stared back.

  Matt threw open the door of his rented car and slammed it behind him. What he lacked in plans he was going to make up for in bravado. Some righteous “where the hell is your mother?”

  Smooth. Oh, so smooth.

  The bayou around him seemed to pulse and breathe. It was warmer than St. Louis, denser, the air thick and somehow both sweet and spicy. Like flowers dipped in cayenne.

  He liked it. It made him hungry for food and a woman at the same time.

  The house, he assessed with an knowledgeable eye, was an aging stunner. It sat alone on the road, about a mile and a half from town, surrounded by a few acres of wilderness. She was a grand dame falling on hard times—the black trim was peeling and a few of the white hurricane shutters were missing slats. But the bones of the house were solid. Elegant. Built to withstand the Southern weather, and to look good doing it.

  He imagined the windows lit with candles and the sound of music and ice in crystal tumblers spilling from the open front door.

  The front door was freshly, brazenly painted scarlet.

  Matt believed doors could be sexy. He believed windows and wood and concrete could be erotic. But nothing he’d ever seen quite matched the sexual statement of that red door.

  It looked like the house of an aging mistress, an expensive woman of slightly ill repute, which would be Margot’s influence. But he didn’t know how Savannah the librarian fit in.

  He stepped up the river-stone path, the rocks sliding under his old work boots. He’d packed work clothes, denim and rawhide, because the expensive suits, silk ties and Italian leather in his closet were beginning to mock him.

  He got one foot onto the wide steps of the sweeping veranda and the scarlet door creaked open.

  Margot O’Neill, he knew from the surveillance photo in the car. She stood in the doorway, the black of the hall behind her making her fair beauty more pronounced. More breathtaking, despite her years.

  She was medium height and trim, with posture like a steel beam. She wore bright blue and the fabric looked rich and thin—like liquid had been poured over her.

  It was no wonder men paid to have her. She was that beautiful. That rare.

  And then she smiled, like she knew it.

  “You’re coming about the ad?” she asked, her voice rich with years of the South.

  Ad? Damn not having a plan. She tilted her head, her blue eyes losing some of their hospitality, and he knew he was moments from being kicked off the property.

  “Yes,” he finally said, taking yet another leap into the unknown. “I am. I’m here about the ad.”

  Good God, he hoped he wasn’t about to be Margot’s boy toy. Though there could be worse things, he speculated, catching the gleam in her eye.

  “Margot, are you—” The door opened farther and a blonde goddess stood in the dark hallway. Matt’s heart stopped dead in his chest.

  It was Savannah, from the photograph.

  Sort of.

  The beauty was there, the perfect skin, bright blue eyes and shiny sweep of hair. But that was where the similarities ended. The real-life Savannah was somehow sharper, her radiance hard and refined to an edge. Her cheekbones alone could cut through tin.

  She was razor wire next to Margot’s magnolia.

  There was no sunny warmth. No shimmer. This woman was a stranger to him. He knew this was ridiculous—picture or no, she was still a stranger to him. But the loss was there nonetheless. He didn’t realize how much he was looking forward to basking in that warm glow—until that glow was buried under ice.

  She was, however, painfully sexy in a long straight gray skirt and a white shirt that couldn’t quite diminish the curves she clearly was trying to hide. The whole look gave her the appearance of a prison warden on lockdown.

  In a porno.

  And, he realized, aside from sexy she was also a dead ringer for the surveillance picture he had of Vanessa in New Orleans. Right down to the eyes, which were guarded. Wary. Hiding something.

  He lost his companion, that fantasy woman, but he gained something else. Something better. Something righteous.

  In a stunning moment of clarity, he knew that coming here, believing these women somehow had the answers he needed, had not been wrong.

  It occurred to him that the missing gems, the Pacific Diamond and Ruby—the million-dollar reasons his father sat alone in a jail cell while his accomplices and turncoats lived in freedom—could be right here.

  Hidden and guarded by Savannah O’Neill.

  Out of the corner of his eye he took in the crumbling house, the faded paint, the sagging porch. That the gems were here now, or ever had been, seemed like a long shot.

  “Oh, sorry,” she said, looking at Matt with plain distaste. “Who are you?”

  “He’s here about the ad,” Margot said, standing aside and smiling at Matt. “Please come in.”

  His lip curled, satisfaction rippling through him. Savannah must have sensed it, because her own lips tightened, her eyes narrowed.

  He hitched the loose waist of his worn khakis and climbed the steps, feeling the heat of the South mesh with the sudden warmth in his flesh. His eyes stayed glued to Savannah’s as something primal swept through him.

  You, he thought, have a secret. And I will find out what it is.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “MARGOT,” SAVANNAH MUTTERED as the st
range man climbed the stairs, like some kind of predatory cat, all muscle and intention. His shaggy brown hair gleamed like polished wood and his green eyes radiated something hot and awful that she felt in the core of her body—a trembling where there hadn’t been one in years. Hot sweat ran between her breasts under her white cotton shirt. “This is not a good idea.”

  “Please, Savannah,” Margot all but purred, her eyes hovering over the man like a honeybee. “Look at him. It’s a fabulous idea.”

  Savannah’s hand tightened on the door as if her muscles were about to override her system and slam the door in his handsome, chiseled face.

  But then he was there, big and masculine on the tattered welcome mat. C.J., the little tart, stepped out of the sleeping porch to curl around his dusty boots.

  Seriously, that cat gave all of them a bad name.

  “My name is Matt Howe,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Margot shook it, clasping Matt’s big paw in her lily-white one. “I’m Margot O’Neill,” she said. “Welcome to my home.”

  Then it was Savannah’s turn.

  Her turn to touch his flesh to hers. Her turn to stand under his neon gaze.

  Just a man, she told herself. Tell yourself he’s a client. He wants research on minor battles in the Pacific during World War Two or about the migratory patterns of long-tailed swallows.

  Her hand slid into his and receptors, long buried, long ignored, shook themselves awake, sighing with a sudden pleasure.

  “Savannah O’Neill,” she said, her voice a brusque rattle.

  “A pleasure, Savannah,” Matt said, bowing slightly over her hand.

  Pretend, she told herself, yanking her hand free from his callused, strong grip, that he’s gay.

  But the way his eyes climbed quickly over her body belied that particular fantasy.

  Pretend you are gay, she told herself. But the heat in her belly ruined her pretense.

  “Your ad was a little vague,” he said, stammering slightly on the words. “I was hoping for some more information about what you’re looking for?”

  Savannah cast a quick, dubious look at Margot. What about Handyman/gardener needed was vague? Despite the sharpness in his eyes, the guy clearly wasn’t all that bright.

  “Margot,” she said, grabbing her grandmother’s elbow. “Perhaps we—”

  “Should show him the courtyard,” Margot said, smiling at Matt and shaking off Savannah’s hand. “So he can see the scope of the work.”

  Margot was determined—more determined now that a man was here, handsome and virile, stepping into the Manor—than she’d been in front of the greenhouse two days ago, cradling her dead orchids.

  Savannah began to sense that this was wrong in more ways than they could possibly fathom.

  Men in general were a danger to the O’Neill women; it had been proven time and time again men brought out the worst in them. The most notorious aspects of their already inappropriate characters.

  Even her.

  Especially her.

  But handsome strangers? They were catnip to a certain kind of woman—and Margot was one of those women.

  Right, she nearly laughed aloud at her own blindness, and you’re so immune.

  It had been years since her heart had thundered in her chest like this—and that had not ended all that well.

  “I’ve lived in this house my whole life,” Margot was saying, her hand cradled in Matt’s elbow as she led them through the shabby manor as if it was still the best property in the area. “And my mother did the same before me.”

  “It’s a beautiful house,” Matt said, glancing up at the high ceilings, all of which needed spackle and paint. The mahogany floors beneath their feet were beginning to buckle and sag in places and she watched as Margot led him around the worst patches, as though they were avoiding puddles in the rain. “Did your family build it?” He asked.

  Savannah laughed and Margot tossed her a wicked look over her shoulder. “Yes,” Margot said. “My great-great-grandfather built this house.”

  As a saloon and whorehouse.

  She noticed Margot wasn’t advertising that fact.

  The devil in Savannah wanted to point out the origins of the house, just to watch Margot’s skin get splotchy and Matt get flustered, but Savannah spent so much time pretending not to be born from a long line of gamblers and whores that she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

  No matter its comedic value.

  They stepped from the dark hall, with its offshoots of parlor, dining room and library, through the glass doors into the middle courtyard.

  “Beautiful,” Matt said, and Savannah wondered if he really meant it. He seemed to. All that predatory intensity was dialed down for a moment as his eyes swept over the hedges and lilies she kept in order.

  “Yes,” Margot agreed, with a sideways look at Savannah. “The middle courtyard is not the problem.”

  The phone rang inside the house and Margot cast Savannah a pleading look, which Savannah scowled at.

  Right. She was going to leave this strange man alone with her aging grandmother. Particularly when said aging grandmother insisted on wearing the only real jewelry they had left that was worth anything. The diamonds that were, according to Margot, a thank-you gift from a certain president of Irish heritage. Please.

  “I’ll be right back,” Margot said, giving Matt’s arm a squeeze. “My granddaughter will show you the rest of the way.”

  Margot left, blue silk fluttering behind her.

  “Grandmother?” he said. “She looks like she could be your mother.”

  “She’s not,” Savannah said. The subject of daughters and mothers was not discussed at the Manor. And fathers? Well, it simply never came up.

  “Is your mother here?” he asked, and Savannah stared hard at Matt, as if to see past his green eyes and strong arms to the heart beating under that lean chest.

  He stared right back at her, his eyes wide open as if he had nothing to hide.

  Of course, that had to be a lie. Everyone had something to hide. Everyone.

  “No,” she said. “She isn’t. I’ll show you the back courtyard.”

  She led him through a second set of glass doors into a brighter hall leading left to the kitchens and cellars and right to the upstairs bedrooms.

  “So why don’t you call her grandmother?” Matt asked and Savannah rolled her eyes.

  “Does she look like a grandmother?”

  Matt smiled. “Good point. Does anyone else live here?”

  Her eyes bored right through him. “That doesn’t have anything to do with our garden,” she said. “Yes, but—”

  She pushed open the old oak doors to the bright sunlight and overgrown majesty of her secret garden.

  “Holy—” he breathed, stepping up beside her.

  “The greenhouse needs to be repaired, and the trees, bushes, flowers and weeds all need to be dealt with.” She pointed to the worst of them, along the west wall. “There—” she indicated the center cluster of kudzu under the cypress “—is a bird feeder and bench under that mess that we’d like to see again. The back wall—” she swept her arm over to where the graffiti had been cleaned “—needs to be fixed and we think we need some security cameras—”

  “Security? Why?”

  “High school students like to break in, cause some trouble.” She shrugged, trying to be nonchalant. But she could tell he was reading the words they couldn’t quite get off the back wall.

  Her whole body burned with embarrassment.

  “High school students did that?” he asked, pointing to the wrecked greenhouse, and she nodded. “Seems like a matter for the police.”

  “We’ve tried that,” she said. And that was all she said. She wasn’t giving this man more than what he absolutely needed.

  His eyes scanned the property as if he were putting price tags on everything.

  And she didn’t like that one bit.

  He was probably wondering what could be stolen, despite the tour he’
d had through the shabby manor, stripped of its antique furniture and silver. Those diamonds Margot sported and Savannah’s own small fortune in computer equipment were the only things of value left. But Matt didn’t know that.

  “Looks like a reasonable job,” Matt said, staring at the mess. “I’ll take it.”

  Incredulous, she swiveled on her heel to gape at him. “Really?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest. “Don’t you want to know more about the money? The living situation?”

  His cheeks turned red and he nodded. “Of course.”

  “First,” she said. “I have a few questions of my own.”

  “Fire away.” He held his arms out the sides, his gray T-shirt hugging the lean muscles in his stomach.

  “Where are you from?”

  “St. Louis. I’ve been…working with an architecture firm there for the last few years.”

  “What are you doing here?” she asked, trying to ignore a bead of sweat trickling down the side of Matt’s strong, bronzed neck.

  “I heard there was a lot of work in Louisiana.”

  She couldn’t argue with that—it seemed the state needed to be rebuilt top to bottom.

  “You’re, what? Thirtysomething?”

  “Thirty-four.”

  “And you can just up and leave St. Louis? You have no responsibilities?”

  “None that won’t keep for a while.”

  “Are you on the run?”

  “From the law?” His lip curled as if he was laughing at her and her head snapped back at the insult. The man had no reason to laugh. Not here, not now. He quickly shook his head, his smile gone. “I’m not running from the law.”

  “My best friend is police chief in town, she can find out if you’re lying.”

  “She’s welcome to,” he said, his dark eyes guileless. “I haven’t broken any laws.”

  “A woman? A family? Have you left behind some kids?” She nearly spat the words.

  “No,” he said quickly, sounding horrified. “No, of course not. I know you don’t know me, but I wouldn’t do that.”

  She had no reason to trust him, but in this area she did. For some reason the earnest horror in his eyes seemed sincere.

  He wouldn’t leave behind kids.