STEAMY SAVANNAH NIGHTS

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  But he wasn't about to reveal his suspicions to Danforth. Not until he knew the truth.

  The older man shifted his weight. "Why won't Lea give me a chance?"

  "I don't know. She's still hurting, I guess." Michael couldn't speak for Lea, which was exactly why he'd invited her to his home. He needed to spend some time with her, to get to know her on a deeper level. To prove, he hoped, that he wasn't sleeping with the enemy.

  * * *

  Michael lived on a private street. A brick wall and an electronic gate encompassed the perimeter of his property.

  Lea stopped at the intercom and announced her arrival. Once she was permitted onto the grounds, she followed a tree-lined driveway to an impressive two-story home.

  She parked her car and Michael came out of the house wearing jeans and a T-shirt, his hair combed casually away from his face. His feet were bare and instantly she was reminded of her childhood, of the place she'd left behind.

  "Is your luggage in the trunk?" he asked.

  She looked up at him. He stood nearly a foot taller than her, with broad shoulders and long, lean muscles. "Yes, it is."

  "Will you flip the lock?"

  "Of course." She met his gaze, but she couldn't decipher the emotion in his eyes. But she never could, not even when they were in bed.

  He removed her suitcase. He was a passionate man, an erotic lover, but he was complicated, too. Sometimes he smiled and sometimes he seemed stern. She suspected that he kept his true heart hidden. But she did that, too.

  They approached the door and she stalled.

  "What's wrong?" he asked.

  "Nothing." She glanced down, debating what do about her shoes. He watched her, making her self-conscious. She decided to leave things be. She'd worked hard to shed her Vietnamese habits, to become an American woman. And women in the states didn't remove their shoes before entering a home. Instead, she took extra care to wipe her feet on the Welcome mat.

  They entered the great room, where expansive windows offered a tidal marsh view. "Your home is exquisite," she said. The architectural detail included oak cabinetry, stucco walls and a massive skylight.

  "Thank you. It's totally secure, with a state-of-the art security system. The exterior is equipped with intrusion sensors. It was designed with my clients in mind." He gestured broadly. "Sometimes they stay here when they're avoiding the media. Or taking refuge from personal threats."

  "You created a fortress."

  "Whittaker and Associates protects high-profile clients."

  "Like my father."

  He nodded, and they both fell silent.

  She glanced at the fireplace and noticed the stonework was inlayed with chunks of coral. The furnishings were white, with turquoise-colored accents. He'd spared no expense to make his home into a showplace. "Has my father ever stayed here?"

  "No. He's well protected at Crofthaven."

  She knew the name of Danforth's mansion, the place where his other children were raised. Lea could never be like her half siblings. They were blue bloods, born into a prestigious American family. She was my lai, an Amerasian born on the fringes of Vietnamese society.

  "Let me show you to your room." Michael reached for her suitcase. "It's upstairs, just down the hall from the master bedroom."

  They ascended an oak staircase and she followed him into an elegant suite, with wood floors and a four-poster bed. Glass doors led to a balcony overlooking a private dock.

  "This is beautiful." The walk-in closet was far too big for her simple belongings and an adjoining bathroom provided a sunken tub and a separate shower. Lights framed a vanity mirror. "I'm humbled."

  "It's the most feminine suite in the house."

  "It's more than I imagined. Thank you." Would he visit her later? Slip into her room? Stay the night? Although they were lovers, they'd never awakened in each other's arms. Michael always left her apartment before the sun came up. Lea longed to cuddle with him, to bask in the afterglow of their lovemaking, but she wasn't brave enough to tell him that.

  He placed her suitcase on a luggage stand. "Come on. I'll show you the rest of the house."

  He led her down the hall, and his room left her speechless. She wandered around the suite, taking in every piece of furniture, every carefully thought-out detail. Even the bathroom was gorgeous, providing his and her sinks and a cedarwood sauna designed for a couple.

  "Do you plan to get married someday?" she asked.

  "Yes, but I'm not searching for a wife." He shifted his stance. "I'm hoping the right woman will come along."

  She tried to picture his future bride. A tall, slim blonde, she decided. A lady who wore fashionable clothes and hosted Southern parties, making use of his extraordinary home. "Do you want children?"

  He nodded. "Do you?"

  She glanced away, wishing she hadn't started this conversation.

  "Lea?" He pressed.

  She adjusted her purse strap, pushing it farther down her shoulder, keeping it from rubbing against her neck like a hangman's noose. She was having an affair with Michael because she needed the closeness his body provided, the comfort of his touch. Dreaming beyond that was dangerous. But she dreamed just the same. "Yes, I want children. And a husband who loves me." A husband who wouldn't judge her, a husband she could tell her secrets to.

  "I want that, too. With a wife, I mean. I want the kind of marriage my parents didn't have."

  "They were unhappy?"

  The muscles in his face tightened. "All they did was fight. Scream and curse at each other."

  "I'm sorry." She'd assumed he'd been reared in a respectable environment. "Children should be nurtured. They shouldn't be subjected to anger."

  "Or pain," he said, smoothing a lock of her hair, leaving a lump in her throat.

  After an awkward beat of silence, he escorted her from his room. They went downstairs and he gave her a tour of the ground floor. An eight-hundred-square-foot gym led to a landscaped yard and a gazebo-framed hot tub. The game room was equipped with a pool table, air hockey and a jukebox. A wet bar offered sodas and spirits.

  "You live well," she said.

  "It keeps my clients entertained."

  What about his lovers? she wondered. How many other women had he invited to his home?

  "What's in here?" she asked, as they passed a closed door.

  "Surveillance monitors. It's a security office."

  She nodded and moved on, not wanting to steer the conversation in that direction.

  Michael offered her a casual meal, and they spent the rest of the evening eating sandwiches and talking about inconsequential things. At bedtime, he walked her to her room.

  They stood in the doorway, gazing at each other. She couldn't think of anything to say. She could smell the faded scent of his cologne, a woodsy fragrance that made the moment even more intimate.

  He touched her cheek, and her knees went weak. She tried to keep her breathing steady. She didn't want him to know how nervous she was.

  He caressed her face with the back of his hand, and her heart pounded much too hard. He didn't kiss her, but she didn't expect him to. He would come back later, she thought. When her room was dark, when moonlight dappled the bed.

  He dropped his hand, but his eyes were still locked onto hers. "Good night, Lea."

  "Good night, Michael."

  Tall, dark Michael. She watched him head toward the master bedroom. He still wore jeans and a T-shirt, and his feet were still bare.

  She closed her door and suddenly she panicked. She didn't want to need him this badly. She didn't want to lie in bed and wait for him. But by the time she bathed and climbed into bed, the sheets enveloped her in anticipation.

  Had Michael bathed, too? Would his hair be freshly washed? Would the damp strands trail water over her breasts? She could almost feel him leaning over her, lowering his mouth.

  Lea glanced at the clock, anxious for her lover. But as the night wore on, as the moon slipped behind the trees and disappeared into a void of darkn
ess, she found herself alone, waiting for a man who never came.

  * * *

  Two

  « ^ »

  Lea entered the kitchen the following morning, trying to keep her emotions under control. Michael was at the stove, scrambling eggs. He looked up from the pan, and she couldn't seem to find her voice to greet him in a casual way.

  He spoke first. "I gave my housekeeper a few weeks off. I thought it would be easier for us to be alone."

  Why? she wondered. Why did it matter if they were alone? If he didn't intend to be with her, to treat her like a lover, there was no reason to hide their relationship.

  "Did you get a good night's rest?" he asked.

  Lea merely stared at him. She hadn't fallen asleep until dawn, and the sun was too bright on the window shades, too cheerful for a woman whose vampire never appeared. "I was restless."

  "Me, too. Maybe we'll sleep better tonight." He turned off the flame and steered the conversation in another direction. "I hope you can stand my cooking. Madeline usually fixes meals for my guests."

  Lea couldn't help but wonder why he hadn't slept well. "Madeline is your housekeeper?"

  "Yes. She and her family live nearby. She's been a trusted employee for years."

  "I don't mind cooking. I took culinary classes in college." And she knew how to make all sorts of American dishes.

  "Good." He reached into a cabinet and removed two plates. "I'll hold you to that. But for now, we'll have to survive on my efforts."

  She moved forward to take the china. She assumed they would eat breakfast in the morning room, a cozy enclave located off the kitchen.

  His hand touched hers in the exchange. "You look pretty, Lea."

  "Do I?" She'd brushed her hair until it shone, allowing it to fall freely to her waist. Her flower-printed dress was made of summer cotton, with thin straps and a simple bodice. She'd chosen sandals for her feet.

  "You always look pretty." Although his expression gave nothing away, his words remained kind. "Sometimes I think about the fund-raiser. About how easy it was to notice you."

  She clutched the plates to her chest. She could almost hear her heart pounding against them, making a clanking sound. "I noticed you, too."

  "Of course you did. I was your father's bodyguard."

  "You still are."

  "Not for these next few weeks. I told him I was working a light schedule. That my staff would be providing protection for him."

  "Why? So you could spend more time with me?"

  He snared her gaze. "Yes. That's exactly why."

  She wished she could admit that she'd waited for him last night, but she wouldn't dare. She wasn't about to embarrass herself.

  Five minutes later, they sat across from each other at a wrought-iron table, the sun filtering through the blinds. Besides the eggs, he'd fried a platter of ham and toasted wheat bread. The coffee was bitter and dark, but Lea preferred tea.

  "I forgot the orange juice." Michael went back into the kitchen and returned with a plastic carton. He poured the juice into Lea's glass. "I can tell you don't like the coffee."

  She looked up. "I'm sorry. I don't drink much coffee."

  He smiled a little. "I'll have to make a note of that in your file." He moved his fingers in the air, typing on an imaginary keyboard. "Lea doesn't drink much coffee."

  He didn't really have a file on her, did he? She glanced at his mouth, at the slight tilt of his lips. He must be teasing her. "You sound like a cop."

  "I was an MP." He scooped a second helping of eggs onto his plate. He'd scrambled enough to feed an army. "Military police."

  "I assumed that's what you meant."

  "I've always been a law-and-order type of guy." He leaned forward, his smile gone, his gaze much too intense. "Being a security specialist suits me."

  She tasted the ham, chewing carefully, trying to appear more relaxed than she felt. Whenever his features turned hard, whenever his eyes went dark, he seemed ruthless. Maybe he did keep a file on her, notes about the anxious woman who'd waited for him last night.

  "I'm an investigator, too," he said. "I'm investigating a case for your father."

  Lea's pulse skyrocketed, hammering horribly at her throat, throbbing at her temples. Had Michael been hired to find the woman who'd threatened Abraham Danforth? To bring her to justice? "I don't want to talk about my father."

  "Why not?"

  She gripped her fork a little harder, hoping her hand didn't tremble. "He abandoned me and my mother."

  Michael's voice gentled. "He didn't mean to. He thought Lan was dead."

  "I know. He told me that on the night of the fund-raiser."

  "Then why won't you give him a chance?"

  Because her guilt wouldn't permit it, she thought. Because it was safer to stay away from Abraham and his family.

  She looked across the table at Michael. Did he suspect her? Had he invited her to his home to keep an eye on her?

  No, she thought. No. She'd been cautious, covering her tracks. The evidence wasn't supposed to lead in her direction.

  "You have no right to do this," she said.

  "Do what? Convince you that your dad is a decent guy?"

  Lea didn't respond, so she and Michael finished their breakfast without finishing their conversation. She helped him clear the table and load the dishwasher. When he glanced at her, his expression grim, she struggled with her conscience. At one time, she'd believed that her vengeance was just, that she had a right to hate her father. But now she wasn't so sure.

  "I have to unpack," she said, finding an excuse to retreat to her room, to hide from the shame of threatening Abraham Danforth, of deceiving his bodyguard, of wishing that Michael would wrap her in his arms and wash her sins away.

  * * *

  Michael checked his watch. How many hours was Lea going to avoid him? It was noon and she still hadn't emerged.

  He sat in his home office, sorting through his notes about Lady Savannah, the woman who'd been threatening Danforth.

  Troubled, he leaned back in his chair. Did Lea fit Lady Savannah's profile?

  Yes, he thought. She did. But he couldn't condemn her without proof. What if he was wrong? What if Lea wasn't the stalker? What if she hadn't sent those cryptic e-mails? Or crashed her dad's computer? Or given herself the name Lady Savannah?

  He put the file away and went upstairs to knock on her door. She answered, seeming lost, vulnerable—much too fragile, with her delicate bone structure and slim curves. He wanted to hold her, but touching her would only complicate his dilemma, making it worse.

  The four-poster bed caught his attention, and he frowned at the mahogany posts and peach-colored duvet cover. He'd had every intention of stealing into her room last night, of making love to her, but he'd paced his quarters instead, fighting the urge.

  How could he continue to sleep with her? With a woman he suspected of a crime? How could he use her for his own pleasure, then cast her aside if she were Lady Savannah?

  "I'm sorry I upset you at breakfast," he said, moving farther into her room.

  "I'm sorry, too." She sat on the edge of the bed and smoothed the front of her dress. The feminine fabric fit her graceful style and so did the backdrop of pillows, the romantic display of ribbon and lace. "I overreacted. I blamed you for being loyal to my father. But that isn't fair. You wouldn't work for a man you didn't trust."

  "No, I wouldn't. But that doesn't mean Danforth is a saint. From what I understand, he was an absent father to the rest of his children, too. After his wife died, he pawned them off on other people. Relatives, nannies, au pairs, whoever was available. And then there were the boarding schools."

  She seemed surprised. "I assumed he was close to his other children."

  "I think he's trying to make amends with them now that they're grown."

  "He's running for state senator. Maybe he's worried about his image." Thoughtful, she paused. "Maybe that's why he's taken an interest in his family. Why he's willing to accept me."

>   "That's possible, I suppose. But I think it's more than that."

  "How can you be sure?"

  "I've got a knack for figuring people out." But not Lea, he thought. She baffled him. When she bent her head, the gesture made her seem younger than her twenty-seven years.

  Finally, she looked up and their eyes met. She had beautiful eyes, exotically shaped, with a sweep of thick, dark lashes. He wanted to cup her face, to kiss her, to forget that she was a suspect. But he knew he couldn't.

  "Do you really have a file on me, Michael?"

  "Yes, but I was just kidding about the coffee earlier." He sat next to her. "The day after the fundraiser, I started a background check on you." Something he refused to apologize for. "I had to. It's part of my job."

  "Because you slept with me?"

  "Because you claimed to be Danforth's daughter, and he's my client." He'd given Danforth information about her, facts he'd uncovered. Of course, Michael hadn't suspected her of being Lady Savannah then. Now he analyzed those facts in a different light. "Your file is mostly government documents. Your immigration papers, things like that. I'll show it to you if you'd like." But he wouldn't show her Lady Savannah's file. Not yet.

  "Is there a copy of the paternity test in my file?"

  "Yes. But Danforth gave it to me. It was sent to him, just as it was mailed to you."

  For a long, drawn-out moment, they didn't say anything else, making his investigation seem like a sham. But deep down, he knew it wasn't. His suspicions were valid.

  "Tell me about your childhood," he said. "About growing up in Vietnam."

  "What good will that do?"

  "How else am I going to get to know you?" He tried to picture her, a little girl living in a war-ravaged country. "To understand what you've been through?"

  She reached for a pillow and hugged it. "My past isn't important."

  "You were born after the fall of Saigon, after the U.S. withdrew." He rose from the bed, putting a physical distance between them, stopping himself from touching her, from feeling too much. Already he wanted to hold her, to give comfort. "You were a child of the enemy. That couldn't have been easy."