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The Temptation of Savannah O'Neill
Molly O'Keefe
A family's bad reputation is tough to shake off. Just ask Savannah O'Neill. Despite her straitlaced job as a librarian, despite her living a private life, the O'Neill family wildness still sparks town gossip. And the arrival of Matt Woods–sexy handyman and complete stranger–isn't helping.Watching him work makes Savannah long to take a trip into indulgence. That's so not a good idea–she's been there before and still hears the rumors. But Matt is much too delicious for this O'Neill to resist. It's a shame there's more to Matt than being good with his hands. Because when his true reasons for seeking her out are revealed, he could become another affair Savannah lives to regret.
Savannah tried not to look
But Matt was a magnet. The gray T-shirt clinging to his back was nearly black with sweat. His dark brown hair was wet and thick against his strong neck. Through her open window it seemed the wind carried his scent to her.
The urge to close her eyes and inhale, to stick out her tongue just a little bit and taste the air that had touched him, was nearly stronger than her. For so long she’d been in control of these sudden cravings. And now they threatened to take over.
Which added a spice to Matt that was infinitely appealing. At least to Savannah.
This was worse than inappropriate. These ridiculous feelings she had for him were flat-out wrong. Wrong because he worked for her and wrong because he was a stranger and wrong because…well, just wrong.
Dear Reader,
I have wished, more times than I can count, that I was Southern. Not just so I could have an heirloom pecan pie recipe, though that would be fantastic. And not just so I could say “bless your heart” and have it mean the many nice and not so nice things it seems to mean when Southern women say it. But so I could have serious skeletons in my closet. And I could walk around in a slip like Elizabeth Taylor in Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and not catch pneumonia.
But I am not Southern. I am from the Midwest and I moved to Canada. But my Deep South fantasies are now being played out on the page in this very fun new series—THE NOTORIOUS O’NEILLS—about a Louisiana family plagued by family secrets, stolen gems and broken hearts.
I am often asked what inspires me about a certain idea, and I usually say something lame, such as love is always inspiring. But here is the truth: I love the heroes. I love torturing them, redeeming them; I love taking their shirts off. Heroes are why I adore romance novels. As I started Savannah’s book, I swore this book was going to be about her. And how could it not? A betrayed woman, locked up in a prison of her own making, she was a heroine I could sink my teeth into. But then onto the page walked Matt Woods. And I was totally intrigued by the question, what makes a good guy go bad?
I hope you enjoy the first book in this series. Please drop me a line at www.molly-okeefe.com. I love to hear from readers!
Happy reading,
Molly O’Keefe
The Temptation of Savannah O’Neill
Molly O’Keefe
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
In her fantasy life Molly O’Keefe gets pedicures every week while a team of manly maids cleans her house. Dinner gets made every night by someone else and it never includes a meatball or macaroni. She lives on a beach. Oh! In Hawaii. In real life, she’s married to a great guy with two lovely children and lives in Toronto, Canada. Where she never finds the time to get pedicures.
I met my best friend in kindergarten almost thirty years ago. She inspires me every day with her strength, commitment and capacity for junk food. This book is for Allycia.
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
“KATIE,” SAVANNAH O’Neill sang. “Come out, come out wherever you are.”
She snuck up to the mountainous rosebush, searching through the wild abundance of pink tea roses for a glimpse of red curly hair, a freckled cheek or bright blue eyes.
“Gotcha!” she cried, pushing apart the thorny branches only to find C.J., the orange tabby, sleeping beneath its leaves.
No Katie.
This is getting ridiculous, she thought.
A quick Saturday morning game of hide-and-seek with her eight-year-old was beginning to take all day. Savannah pushed through the kudzu vines, ivy and weeping willow branches that dominated the back courtyard, but Katie wasn’t in any of her usual spots.
She’d upped her game.
Savannah tripped over a broken cobblestone, catching herself against a thick blanket of kudzu vines that had eaten up the fountain and obliterated the bird feeder.
It was getting very third world back here. Soon enough, these games with Katie would require a machete.
That would add a whole new dimension to kamikaze hide-and-seek.
“I told you,” she called out. “You can run but you can’t hide.”
The branches of the cypress rustled over her head and Savannah smiled, backtracking to the trunk of the old tree.
It was only a matter of time, Savannah thought, before Katie worked up the courage to climb the tree. The hundred-year-old cypress was a beauty—bigger than the two-story house in front of it, and its roots were pushing through the cobblestones, breaking up the courtyard like some kind of underground monster.
As if it had been yesterday, Savannah’s foot found the small lee in the trunk, her hands found the knobs on the lower branches and within seconds she was halfway up into the leaves. She was careful to look for snakes, and hoped her daughter had done the same.
What, she wondered, would her clients say if they could see their staid researcher now? The kids at the library, who made faces at her behind her back, would fall over their stolen library books if they saw mean old Ms. O’Neill climbing trees.
Savannah found her daughter lying across one of the thick branches directly over the decrepit greenhouse and back stone wall of the property. The girl had only been up two hours and the new red silk pajamas Margot had brought back from her cruise in the Far East were covered in dirt and leaves.
“Found you!” Savannah cried. “You’re doing dishes.”
“Shh!” Katie hissed, not turning away from whatever scene she was spying on.
“What’s up?” Savannah whispered, climbing a parallel branch, shimmying out over the courtyard on her belly.
“Margot,” Katie whispered. Savannah watched her daughter push the red tangle of curls behind her ear, revealing her freckled face, her wide lips and long nose. Not pretty, her little girl—even through her mother’s eyes, Savannah could see that. But Katie was so much more than pretty. She was tough. Independent. Beautiful in her own wild way. Pure at heart.
Everything, Savannah thought, I am not.
“I think she’s crying,” Katie said.
Savannah tore her eyes from her daughter and sought out Margot’s thin and elegant form amongst the weeds and broken buildings beneath them.
“Back wall,” Katie said. “Someone wrote something on the stones.”
Not again, Savannah thought. She saw Margot, wearing her white linen, pumps and no doubt “the” diamonds scrubbing at the back wall. The letters—O’NEILL SLU—
“I can hear you girls up there!” Margot yelled without turning around.
“What are you doing, Margot?” Savannah called.
“Contemplating bear traps,” she said and threw the thick yellow sponge into the bucket of water at her feet. Margot turned and faced Savannah in the heat of the morning. Her long white hair was perfect, her face as stunning as the diamonds at her wrists and ears. You would never guess she was pushing eighty.
But right now Margot was one pissed-off matriarch. And when Margot got mad, things got organized. And cleaned. And worst of all, changed.
Savannah’s heart leaped into her throat.
Change was the devil. Change had to be avoided at all costs.
Savannah went into instant damage-control mode.
“Every year,” Savannah yelled, shimmying back down the tree, shamed by her grandmother’s elegance into at least acting like an adult. “You know this happens every year. As soon as school gets out for summer, we get every teenager trying to prove to their friends how cool they are.”
Why vandalizing their home was considered cool was one of the great mysteries of local teenage life.
She swung down from the lowest branch and landed on the broken cobblestone. Looking up she found Katie carefully scrambling down after her.
“Careful,” Savannah said. When Katie got within reach Savannah lifted her daughter down, holding her close for just a second, smelling the sunshine and rose smell of her skin.
The pajamas were toast.
“What does that mean?” Katie asked, pointing to the letters on the stone walls. Savannah shot Margot an arch look—slut was a stretch, but Margot was the closest thing they had.
“Like you have no secrets?” Margot asked, defensive.
“Officially, I’m not an O’Neill.”
“Honey, an O’Neill by any other name is still an O’Neill.”
The truth was, every O’Neill female was born with secrets, and through their own legendarily bad decision-making, each of them had her own sins. Not that the men had it any better—her brothers had their own crimes and mysteries.
Secrets upon secrets, that was the O’Neill legacy.
And, she had to believe, even if her mother had taken Richard Bonavie’s name, the curse would have lingered.
“What does it mean?” Katie asked again.
“It’s just a bad word,” Savannah said. “Kids think it’s funny to write bad words on our back wall.” O’Neill Sluts.
O’Neill Devils.
O’Neill Thieves.
“Was this here while I was gone?” Margot asked, having gotten back a week and half ago from her cruise.
“No!” Savannah denied, though she wasn’t totally sure. She loved her jungle, wild and unmaintained, but it obstructed her view of much of the yard. “It’s new.”
“It’d never been this bad before,” Margot said. “Come look at this.”
Katie and Savannah headed around the tree and through the kudzu to the greenhouse and back wall. Now that Savannah was closer she saw that Margot was actually very upset. Her fine elegant hands were shaking.
“Look,” Margot whispered, pointing to the greenhouse.
Every pane of glass had been shattered and all of Margot’s orchids were destroyed. The unearthed roots like veins, strewn across tabletops and the floor. Dirt like blood, everywhere.
“Oh, my lord, Margot.” She raised astonished eyes to her grandmother. Occasionally the woman went to New Orleans and played poker, or took a cruise with an “admirer” and gambled across the seven seas, and she used to keep her winnings back here buried in pots because she didn’t trust banks. She’d done it for years before Savannah found out and made her stop. “Are you hiding money back here again?”
“No.” Margot pulled a face. “I lost on this last one, I told you that.”
“Then why would anyone do this?”
“Because it was here. I don’t know.” She looked around the wreckage, her face drawn. “I understand you hate the idea. But I think it’s time.”
