Award-winning author SANDRA MARTON wrote her first novel while still in school. Her doting parents told her sheâd be a writer someday and Sandra believed them. In high school and college, she wrote dark poetry nobody but her boyfriend understood. As a wife and mother, she devoted the little free time she had to writing murky short stories. Not even her boyfriend-turned-husband understood those. At last Sandra decided she wanted to write about real people. That didnât actually happen, because the heroes she createdâand still createsâare larger than life, but both she and her readers around the world love them exactly that way. When she isnât at her computer, Sandra loves to bird-watch, walk in the woods and the desert, and travel. She can be as happy people-watching from a sidewalk café in Paris as she can be animal-watching in the forest behind her home in northeastern Connecticut. Her love for both worlds, the urban and the natural, is often reflected in her books.
You can write to Sandra Marton at P.O. Box 295, Storrs, Connecticut, U.S.A. (please enclose a self-addressed envelope and postage for reply) or visit her Web site at www.sandramarton.com.
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, chérie. 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.