The Temptation of Savannah O’Neill Read online

  “My mom left us. Here. When my two brothers and I were just kids.”

  “That’s—”

  “A terrible story, I know. I lived it. I haven’t seen her or heard from her in twenty years.”

  “Not a word?”

  “No cards, no letters, no phone calls. Nothing.”

  Matt watched her, his eyes bright, focused. “You know she’s alive?”

  “As far as I know.” The old bitterness welled up in her, coloring everything in bleak shades of gray and black. She put her hand to her chest, feeling the pounding of her heart.

  “You have no idea where she is?” he asked and she shook her head.

  As if he could read her, as if he knew her, he began the first part of “Für Elise,” the music a balm, the notes winding around them, rebuilding their cocoon against the world. Thicker. Denser.

  The music went on until it was just them, just this moment. She didn’t want it to end.

  She shifted, her robe sliding open across her legs, which gleamed white in the dim room. His fingers fumbled, hit a discordant note and the music jangled to an end.

  Quickly, afire with something hot and wicked, she closed her robe, tucked her legs under her. She could feel him watching her, like sun on her skin, and she was thrilled and slightly unnerved by his attraction.

  “Where’s your father?” she asked, filling the silence with the first thing she thought of.

  He said nothing, so she leaned around the edge of the chair to better see him, only to find him staring at her. Staring at her so hard it was as if he were trying to absorb her.

  His eyes glittered in the darkness, touched with something wild. Something feral that called out to the buried wildness in her.

  She couldn’t breathe. Didn’t want to if it would shatter this moment.

  The longer he watched her, the hotter the fire building in the room became until she couldn’t look away. She couldn’t look away when he stood and walked to her chair as though he owned the room. The world. Never in her life had she seen someone so masculine he practically prowled. It made her feel small and feminine.

  Womanly and damp.

  He crossed the room, stepping through bars of shadow and moonlight, and she couldn’t move. Couldn’t say anything. Transfixed by the hard hot look in his eyes, her mind shut off.

  He stopped in front of the chair, his pant leg brushing the edge of her robe. She should say something, ask him what he was doing. Be outraged or something. But she knew what he was doing and she wanted it.

  A kiss. His lips against hers. His breath on her skin.

  Bracing his hands against the back of her chair, he leaned over her. He smelled of cigars and whiskey and she wanted to eat the air around him he smelled so good.

  “Jail,” he said, his voice a purr. “My father is in jail.”

  She could barely follow his words, drunk as she was on the heat pouring from his skin.

  “For…for what?”

  “Theft.” He leaned in closer, his eyes boring into hers. “He stole jewels seven years ago from a casino in Las Vegas.”

  He seemed to want a reaction from her and she couldn’t begin to understand what that was. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “Are you?” he asked, his eyes narrowed and she blinked, stunned, some of the hazy fog of lust lifting from her brain.

  “Of course,” she said. “That’s terrible.”

  He stared at her a while longer then smiled, but she didn’t believe it. There was something dark happening in Matt and, like the glasses, it made him that much more attractive to her.

  “It is terrible,” he agreed, his eyes roving over her face and hair. The silence stretched out between them until she thought she might snap from the tension.

  Kiss me, she thought. Kiss me. Kiss me. Kiss me.

  “I should go,” he whispered, pushing himself away from her. She nearly fell over, that’s how far she’d been leaning toward him. Chills, hot and cold, crawled over her flesh.

  Embarrassment made her sick to her stomach.

  “Right,” she said. “Me, too.” Unable to look at him, fearing that he would see all those things she couldn’t control, she stood and inched her way around him. Tightening the cinch on her robe, she contemplated the long cool hallway in front of her. Her cold and empty bed.

  But then—gentle, barely there—he touched her elbow, her hair, his thumb against the corner of her lips.

  She gasped with pleasure so acute, so sudden and sharp, she felt it like lightning through her body.

  “You are so beautiful,” he whispered.

  Then he was gone. Out the door without a sound.

  She remained where she was, alone and trying to breathe, trying to calm this sudden storm. But it didn’t work and suddenly that side of her, the side she tried so hard to bury and ignore and pretend was not a part of her DNA, chimed in.

  Go to him, the O’Neill in her whispered. Just go to him. See if it’s as good as you think it would be.

  She shook her head, as if trying to dislodge the curiosity, but rooted, it grew.

  A kiss. Just a kiss. He’s clearly inclined, would have probably done it himself if you weren’t such a nun. A cold fish—

  Her feet moved. They took her out of the room, down the hallway, shutting up the voice before it got really mean. Her instincts drove her, compelled her, and she was at the door to the sleeping porch in seconds.

  The doors, warped by years of humidity, didn’t shut and she barely had to press on the etched glass to open them.

  He stood with his back to her in a shaft of moonlight so dense it was if he stood in water up to his elbows. He ripped off his shirt, the movements violent, barely controlled. He was muttering something, swearing, but she didn’t try to hear, distracted as she was by the dip in his spine, the flare of his back, the upper curve of his ass in loose, low-riding khakis. He was like a statue, strong and perfect, and she wanted to press herself against all that warm living flesh. The smooth skin and hard muscle.

  He turned and rifled the shirt into the corner, the muscles in his abdomen shifting, flexing.

  He stopped. Stopped moving, swearing, even breathing.

  “Savannah?” he whispered, stepping through the moonlight to the darkness on her side. “You okay?”

  Okay? she thought. Hardly. She was dying.

  Her mouth opened as if to say, just making sure you had enough blankets or some nonsense, but she stopped herself. Her better sense, running the show for way too long, stepped aside and let the O’Neill take over.

  She took a step toward him, glanced in his eyes to see if he shared this madness and saw the desire flare in their green depths. But he held up his hand as if to contradict all the heat between them and she didn’t want that. Couldn’t have it.

  “Savannah, I’m not wh—”

  She kissed him.

  She kissed him to shut him up. To shut herself up. To feed the growing ache in her body.

  It was awkward, off-kilter, her lips lopsided against his. She was actually kissing a good portion of his cheek.

  Mortified but committed, she stood poised ready for rejection.

  But it didn’t come. His low growl fanned her flames and his arms curled low around her back and she was surrounded by his strength. His heat.

  His lips, thick and full, were slightly chapped against hers, and the kiss was featherlight, a breath of sensation that roared through her like a flood on dry land.

  It was chaste, innocent, but with a delicious promise of more.

  He pulled her closer until she felt his heartbeat against her chest, his erection hard against her belly.

  His tongue tasted the corner of her lips, fleeting and careful, as if beseeching entrance and she opened her mouth, letting him in.

  It was so sweet, the slide of lips, the wet lick of tongues. His breath warmed her cheek.

  Suddenly, it was more. The kiss grew rougher, his hands bolder. Her fingers pushed into his hair and held on to the coarse silk for dea
r life.

  Her breasts rested against his hard chest and she arched, torturing herself with pressure. Nothing but silk between them and it was somehow hotter than if they’d been naked.

  His hands roamed her back, sliding over silk to find the nape of her neck and he held her, owned her.

  Savannah wanted to laugh. She wanted climb into his skin. She wanted this kiss to never ever end. Heat pooled between her legs and her breasts were so hot. So heavy. She ached without his touch there.

  They kissed and kissed. A thousand kisses. Hotter and faster. Harder. His teeth raked her tongue and she slid her hands all over his bare skin, memorizing the muscles, flirting with the back waist of his pants.

  And she could have done it forever, stayed locked in his arms for the rest of her life, but she could only go so far.

  The past created a line in the sand and she would not cross it again, not with a man she didn’t know very well, no matter what the moonlight did to them.

  She pulled away. A kiss was as far as she could go, and as if they’d agreed on the boundaries Matt eased off, his fingers dragging over her hips slowly, milking the moment for all he could until they were no longer touching.

  She panted, her lips cold, but she was grateful for his sensitivity.

  His smile was wicked and sweet and she wanted to fall right back into him. But if she did, she knew down to her bones they would not stop. Not until her robe was gone and he was deep inside her.

  His eyes flared, his hands fisted as if he knew it too.

  “Good night, Matt,” she said, her heart afloat in her chest. Her feet, as she went to her bedroom, hardly touched the ground.

  HE HAD TO GO.

  He watched her walk away, the most elegant, sensual woman he’d ever kissed and realized that leaving was his only option.

  Too many lies. Too many secrets. There was no way he could explain himself, not after what had happened tonight. It would all seem like a lie. He’d come here trying to make one thing right and he’d only wreaked more havoc. Brought more pain.

  He was a curse, a blight, and they were better off without him.

  He pulled on his shirt, ripping the neck in his frustration. Why had she followed him? It had taken every ounce of will to leave her in the library, but he’d done it because he knew it was right.

  He was lying to her, for crying out loud. Using her for information, like a key to a lock, and as much as he’d wanted to kiss her in the library, he couldn’t do it. Not after all the things she’d told him. The way she’d opened up, dropping all that chilly distance she’d been keeping between them.

  But then she’d appeared in his doorway, practically trembling and he could no sooner turn her away than he could rip off his skin.

  And God! That kiss.

  So sweet and awkward. Innocent, practically.

  Regret filled him with dirt and sand, weighing him down.

  He tore at his hair and growled. What was he thinking, telling her about Jack? About his mom? He’d blame the piano for that.

  Matt felt sick again. He would leave, and send them money. Not that it would repair what he’d done. Sending the girlfriend money wasn’t going to change her lover’s death, but he’d done that anyway.

  It made him feel better. As though he was doing something. Fixing something. Anything.

  He stepped toward the corner where he’d hidden his wallet and the files. All his truth, right there, steps away from where they’d kissed.

  He wondered what it had cost her to come in here. How much of that formidable pride she’d had to swallow. To risk rejection. To press her perfect body against his and lay herself bare.

  He picked up his wallet and the files, heavy in his hands as if the information were weighted. Cannon balls he’d been using against the O’Neills.

  What would she think if he vanished? He couldn’t even stand to contemplate the baffled hurt in those blue eyes. It would be the ultimate rejection.

  He sighed and stared at the moonlight through the glass roof.

  He was a coward, a miserable liar, but he couldn’t do that to her. He simply couldn’t.

  That left him with two options—more lies or the truth.

  He took a deep breath and knew he couldn’t tell any more lies.

  He hated the person he was turning into, the man he was becoming.

  He could fix this. Make it right.

  Just the thought had him putting the files back under the pot.

  Tomorrow, he told himself, he’d tell her the truth.

  THE NEXT MORNING, Savannah wasn’t fooling around. She perched on the counter and made herself a breakfast of hot coffee and cold sugar pie.

  She’d barely slept last night, her body running hot and her mind concocting fabulous fantasies about Matt. Finally, she gave up the fight and decided to have some breakfast before the whole house woke up.

  The early-morning sun was already hot, brightness shining in the window and C.J., uninhibited, rolled onto her back on the counter next to Savannah. Feeling benevolent, Savannah gave the old girl a good tummy rub.

  She couldn’t stop smiling.

  Could not stop replaying that kiss in her mind. Her lips still felt his. Her body was still warm as if from his touch.

  It was hard actually, not to giggle. Not to wrap her arms around herself and laugh. She had a crush. An honest-to-God, real-life crush, and it was so much fun.

  Exhilarating, to be honest, imagining what she would do when she saw him next. What he would say.

  When they might kiss again.

  Soon, she hoped. Very, very soon.

  Good God, that man is something, she thought, scarfing down a big spoonful of pie right from the pan. Strong, generous, funny. Maybe she should give him a raise.

  She laughed at the notion. Savannah O’Neill, Sugar Mama.

  Tilting her head toward the sun, she hummed her favorite Van Morrison tune and wondered if fate or karma had brought Matt to her.

  She was not in love—it took a lot more than music and a kiss to bring down the walls she’d put up—but, with a man like Matt, she knew she could be.

  She laughed at the crazy thought, but it was undeniable. He was a good man, a valuable man of worth and honor.

  Not at all like Eric.

  It had been such a gamble sitting in that room with him last night, and that gamble had paid off in spades.

  She felt light this morning. Full of hope.

  See? she thought, chasing a rogue raisin around the pie dish. Indulging that O’Neill side of her, those…wilder instincts, didn’t mean the end of the world. It didn’t mean disaster. It could just be fun. She thought of her brother Tyler, who had wholly embraced all things O’Neill.

  He had always been fun. The life of the party.

  And for too long she’d thought fun was bad, because when it was over—and it was always over—it left her alone. Her brother had left. Eric had left. Though he hadn’t quite left her alone.

  Enough, she thought, sick of being her own killjoy.

  She’d kissed a man in the moonlight. Nothing bad was going to happen. No sky was going to fall down around her.

  Maybe, she thought with a small smile, she could sneak into the sleeping porch and—

  “You’re an idiot.”

  Jumping at Juliette’s voice, she whirled, pushing blond hair out of her way to find her best friend standing in the kitchen doorway.

  “Juliette? What—”

  “Tyler gave me a key a million years ago,” she said, striding into the kitchen looking way too police chiefy for such an early-morning visit.

  “It’s not even 8:00 a.m.,” Savannah said. “What are you doing here.”

  “Trying to prevent you from doing something stupid, but I think I’m too late.”

  Something cold, something awful slid into Savannah’s joy.

  She resisted it as hard as she could, threw up all kinds of walls and doors and locks. Please, she thought, trying to hug the memory of the night to herself. Just let me
have this.

  “Look at you,” Juliette said, flinging a hand out at her. “Singing Van Morrison, looking like a cat that’s found the cream and…Christ, that’s sugar pie, isn’t it?”

  Savannah dropped the dish on the counter. “What’s your point?” she asked, tugging the neckline of her robe higher.

  “You slept with him, didn’t you?”

  “No, I did not.” Savannah blinked, though somehow what had happened last night felt more intimate than sex. “And even if I did, I’m a grown woman, Juliette. I appreciate your concern, but I don’t need it. It’s okay.” She smiled, trying hard to hold on to her morning-after glow. It had been eight years—couldn’t a woman kiss a handsome man without causing an uproar?

  “It’s okay?” Juliette asked, her hazel eyes wide. She shook her head. “Savannah, I hate to tell you this, but I got an e-mail from the FBI office in Baton Rouge, and that man—the man you clearly did something with, the man living here—is lying to you.”

  An icy shower of dread ran over her and the joy couldn’t hold out. This was all too familiar. Why, she wondered distantly, the sugar pie turning sour in her stomach, did she have to make the same mistake twice?

  “What are you saying?” she asked, as the cold seeped past her muscles and into her bones.

  “Whoever that man is, he isn’t Matt Howe. There is no Matt Howe.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “WHAT?” SHE ASKED, pushing herself down onto her feet, stumbling slightly because everything was suddenly numb. Cold.

  Juliette reached out to grab her elbow but Savannah jerked away. She didn’t want to be touched. Not now.

  “What are you saying?”

  “There are no Matt Howes who look like him who live in St. Louis. No birth certificates. No driver’s licenses. No school records, hospital records. Nothing. That man is not Matt Howe.”

  But he was. She’d kissed him last night. She’d laughed with him. She put her head in her hands, reaching deep for a little strength. She’d told him her secrets.

  “You’re sure?” she asked.

  “As sure as the FBI can be, and that’s pretty damn sure.”

  Right. Okay. She licked her lips, struggling to figure out what to do right now. Offer Juliette coffee? Pretend like nothing happened? Pretend like her stomach hadn’t been ripped right out of her?