"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.