STEAMY SAVANNAH NIGHTS

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "Some of the women who had babies like me threw them away." She cradled the pillow as though it were an infant. "But my mother tried to protect me."

  "She loved you."

  "And I loved her. But it wasn't enough."

  He thought about his family, about the shame of being gossiped about, of watching neighbors turn away in disgust. "Were people cruel to you?"

  She went still, the ceiling fan above her head stirring her hair, feathering the long, loose strands around her face.

  He remained near the window, watching her, studying her features, the ethnicity she couldn't deny.

  "Other children used to throw rocks at me," she finally said. "Taunting me with an ugly my lai rhyme. But their parents didn't care. No one reprimanded them. It was like that from the beginning, from my earliest memory." She paused to take an audible breath. "My mother was treated badly, too. Like a whore. I was glad to leave Vietnam."

  "And now you're in the land of the free." But was she any happier? Had she moved on with her life? Or was she still trapped within her grief, blaming Danforth for her pain?

  Michael knew Lea had come to America through the Amerasian Homecoming Act, an act that allowed Vietnamese Amerasians and specified members of their families to enter the U.S. as immigrants. "I obtained copies of your records from the Philippine Refugee Processing Center." The refugee camp where she'd lived, he thought. Where the government had sent her before she'd come to America.

  She cradled the pillow again. "It would have been easier if I wasn't alone. If my mother had been with me."

  Michael nodded. Lan had died soon after Lea's eighteenth birthday, the year her application had been processed.

  "I worked hard in the PRPC classes," she said. "I wanted to learn English, to speak like an American."

  "And you do."

  "Like someone who was born here?"

  "Yes. Very much so." And that had been her intention, he realized. Once she'd arrived in the States, she must have spent years perfecting the language the PRPC had taught her, losing the Asian inflection in her voice, listening to Americans, mimicking their gestures and casual phrases.

  She looked up at him. "I wish I could talk like you."

  He couldn't help but smile. "You lived in California. I was born and bred in Georgia."

  "I could practice." She imitated his drawl and made him laugh.

  "I don't sound like that." He trapped her gaze, teasing her, exaggerating his accent. "Do I?"

  She shook her head and the moment turned gentle, warm and inviting. Too warm, he thought, as his heart stirred. Too inviting.

  He blew out a rough breath, breaking the spell. "I told Danforth about our affair."

  Her skin paled. "You told my father? Why?"

  "I work for him. I wanted him to know the truth."

  The ceiling fan whirred, the blades cutting through the air like knives, feathering her hair again. "Are you really interested in being my friend?"

  If she were innocent, he thought. If his investigation cleared her name. "Of course I am. In fact, I think we should go out tonight."

  "Where?"

  "To an art show."

  Her eyes lit up. "At the new gallery downtown? I've heard about it."

  Michael jammed his hands in his pockets. He didn't want Lea to be the stalker. He didn't want to look into those beautiful eyes and see the vicious things Lady Savannah had done. "My assistant told me about it. Cindy always knows what's going on."

  "I don't socialize very much." Distracted, she glanced at a crystal trinket box on the nightstand. "But it took me a while to find a job and get used to this area. I was nervous about moving here, about approaching my father. I've only been in Savannah for eight months." She sighed. "But you must know that already."

  Yes, he knew. But he also knew that Lady Savannah had begun to threaten Danforth in February, a month after Lea, his prime suspect, settled in Savannah.

  * * *

  The gallery was located in a three-story historic building, each floor presenting a theme. The garden level was just that, a garden of artistic expression that led to outdoor sculptures and carefully tended foliage.

  Lea walked beside Michael, awed by the moment, by the floral fragrance and haunting displays. They stopped in front of a ghostlike statue, a chalk-white female figure with gems in her eyes.

  "She looks like she's watching us," Michael said. "But it's just an illusion."

  Lea turned to face her companion, wondering if their affair was an illusion. If he would ever return to her bed.

  They proceeded to the next sculpture, a male angel with his arms raised to the sky. He was strong and powerful, his armor painted an iridescent shade of blue.

  "He's a warring angel." Michael gestured to the slain demons at the celestial being's feet.

  "Good versus evil." Lea noticed a row of white flowers circling the display. "Good triumphs."

  "So it seems." He tilted his head. "Sometimes it's hard to tell who's good and who's evil."

  A lump formed in her throat. Maybe he did suspect her. Maybe he was playing a game of cat and mouse. "Good people are capable of doing bad things."

  "Is that a confession?"

  "For what?" she asked, testing him, waiting for him to accuse her.

  He touched her cheek instead. He looked familiar in the moonlight, her dark-skinned vampire come to life.

  "You're so warm," he said.

  "The air is warm." She wanted to kiss him, but that would only allow him to taste her anxiety, the fear that he might be investigating her.

  "We should go inside." He escorted her to the main entrance on the parlor floor. They took a set of concrete stairs, chipped and faded from wear.

  Then suddenly the tone of the gallery changed. Other patrons gathered in the reception area, around a buffet table laden with catered appetizers and multicolored napkins. The lights were bright, the wood floors polished to a high sheen. A cut-glass chandelier cast a glow over a temporary bar, where plastic cups beckoned for tips.

  "There's Cindy," Michael said. "My assistant."

  Lea watched a tall, stunning blonde approach them. With her strappy heels and trim white suit, she received a slew of admiring glances, turning heads along the way. Her throat was bare, Lea noticed, except for a hint of lace beneath her jacket.

  "Michael." The blonde leaned forward to give him a quick peck on the cheek. "You brought a companion."

  He introduced the women, and Cindy extended her hand. She was Lea's idea of Savannah chic, with a gilded voice and a blooming smile. Somehow she managed to blend Southern grace with an uptown attitude, a lady who always kept her cell phone charged.

  "Well, now." Cindy measured Lea's petite frame and waist-length hair. "Where has my boss been keeping you?"

  "In my dungeon," Michael interjected.

  "I'll bet. She's beautiful."

  Next to Cindy, Lea didn't feel beautiful. She felt small and insignificant in her two-piece silk garment. A my lai who'd been pelted with rocks.

  "I hope you're both enjoying the show." The blonde clutched a jeweled handbag. On her wrist, she wore a diamond tennis bracelet.

  "It's lovely." Lea managed to speak up, wishing she'd chosen an outfit that didn't resemble Ao Dai. She tried so hard to be an American, yet here she was, dressed in mock-Vietnamese attire, a long flowing smock and baggy trousers, created by a crafty U.S. designer.

  Cindy chatted with Michael, then excused herself, gesturing with her diamond-draped arm. "I'm going to mingle for a while." She turned to Lea. "It was nice meeting you." That said, she departed, leaving Michael and Lea alone.

  Silent, they remained near the buffet table, their gazes locked. Cindy's perfume, an orchid mist, still lingered.

  "Would you like a drink?" he asked.

  "No, thank you." Lea waited a beat. She was curious about Cindy, but she hated to bombard him with questions so quickly. "Are you going to have one?"

  "Maybe later."

  She thought about the angel in the
garden, about good and evil. "How long has Cindy worked for you?"

  "About three years."

  "Is she your personal assistant?"

  "She's my administrative assistant." He smoothed the front of his hair. It was straight and dark, but the auburn highlights had emerged, a reflection from a nearby lamp. "Cindy's very efficient."

  "She's stunning."

  "Yes, she is." He moved closer. "But she wears too much perfume."

  "Is that your only complaint?"

  "I'm not a complainer." He moved even closer, his loafers tapping the wood floor. One, two three … and he was there, just inches from her. "I like being around beautiful women."

  Lea's heartbeat staggered. She wanted to latch on to his shoulders, to absorb the power of his body, but she wanted to push him away, too. "Have you ever been lovers?"

  "Who? Me and Cindy?" His expression turned hard, making his face more angular, his cheekbones more prominent. "That's a hell of a question. But no, we've never been together. She isn't my type."

  Liar, she thought. Cindy was nearly every man's type. "Does she have someone in her life?"

  "She did. They split up a few months ago. It was his choice. She didn't take it well."

  Suddenly Lea felt bad for the other woman. "She loved him?"

  Michael shrugged. "I suppose, but she's getting over him now. She has her sights set on someone else."

  "Who?"

  "I don't know. She hasn't told me his name. But I have a feeling he's a colleague of mine. She's been asking me for advice. Asking me how to get this mystery man to notice her." He laughed at that. "Women can be so dramatic."

  "It wouldn't take much to notice her. He must be preoccupied." She glanced around, looking for Cindy, but the blonde had vanished. "I wonder who he is."

  "Someone with money. I'll bet. Her last boyfriend was loaded."

  Lea recalled the wealthy man she'd dated in Little Saigon, the man who'd destroyed her innocence. "Sometimes rich men use women."

  "Cindy's too shrewd to get used."

  But I'm not, she thought, as Michael's gaze swept over her. I'm not.

  * * *

  Three

  « ^ »

  Michael and Lea wandered around the gallery and Lea stopped at an unusual display.

  "This is my favorite artist." She moved closer to the three-dimensional wall hanging, a larger-than-life piece comprised of discarded objects. "They say he turns trash into treasure. He finds things in junk-yards and Dumpsters and makes something important out of them."

  Michael didn't respond. He just looked at Lea, at her long, flowing hair and delicate profile. He wanted to tell her that she wasn't an unwanted object. That she was strong and beautiful.

  But then he thought about Lady Savannah and the tenderness in his heart twisted like vines, leaving him in a state of confusion.

  Stalking was a serious crime, a dangerous crime. Michael had spent countless hours holed up in his office, poring over Danforth's case, trying to piece together the puzzle. And the clues kept leading to Lea.

  To the woman he wanted to hold at night.

  "I'm ready for that drink," he said, anxious to dull his senses. "What about you?"

  "No, thank you. I'd like to stay here."

  With the trash that had been turned into treasure, he thought. With old rakes and paintbrushes and books with torn covers. With greeting cards not good enough to save, with letters someone had thrown away.

  "Why don't I bring you a drink?" he said. She couldn't seem to take her eyes off the display and he imagined her disappearing into it, slipping into scenery that made her feel safe.

  "Maybe some cranberry juice." She remained where she was, her gaze fixed on the wall hanging. "With a little ice."

  He went downstairs, wondering if he should have offered her a plate of food, too. The parlor floor was still busy, still bustling with art patrons enjoying the festivities.

  He ordered a beer for himself and juice for Lea. He spotted Cindy with a group of Savannah socialites, but luckily she didn't see him. He didn't want her accompanying him upstairs and intruding on Lea's solitude. It didn't take a genius to figure out that Cindy intimidated Lea, that the dark-haired beauty didn't feel comfortable around the statuesque blonde.

  He returned to Lea, only to find her in the same frame of mind, lost in a world of throwaway art. He handed her the cranberry juice.

  "Thank you."

  "You're welcome." He had the notion to run his hand along her cheek, but his fingers were cold from carrying the drinks.

  Did she know how much alike they were? he wondered. That somewhere deep down, they were connected?

  "How do you say half-breed in your language?" he asked.

  Her skin paled. "Why?"

  "Because I want to know."

  She didn't answer.

  "Tell me, Lea. Tell me what it is."

  She took a step back, moving away from him, making him feel like a monster. He couldn't imagine how he was going to feel if she were guilty, if he had to turn her over to the authorities.

  "Just say it," he persisted, pushing her for a response.

  "Con lai," she snapped.

  "Did people call you that?"

  "Yes." Her pretty features distorted, signifying her pain.

  Michael reached out to skim her cheek, giving in to the need to touch her. "People used to call me a half-breed when I was growing up."

  "Because you're part American Indian?"

  He nodded and took his hand away, knowing he'd left her chilled. His hands were still cold. "Even my dad called me that. He was white. My mother was from the Seminole Nation."

  Her voice quavered. "Your father was cruel to you?"

  "Not with his fists, but with his words." He glanced at the artwork consuming the gallery wall. "Every time he put me down, I was determined to make something of myself. To prove that I was better than him."

  "And what about your mother? What kind of relationship did you have with her?"

  "It was strained. She was obsessed with my dad, with the affairs he was having. Whenever she suspected him of cheating, she went ballistic, clawing and scratching at him, screaming so everyone in the neighborhood knew what was going on."

  "He had no right to cheat on her." Lea clutched her cup, holding it to her chest. "She was his wife. She deserved better."

  "I know. But the way she carried on just made things worse. Sometimes she used to throw his clothes onto the lawn, right in front of our apartment building." Michael could still recall the shame, the embarrassment that overwhelmed him. "People thought she was crazy. That screwy Seminole, they used to say. That schizoid squaw." He paused, took a breath. "I hated people calling her that."

  "Schizoid?"

  "Squaw."

  "Is that a dirty word?"

  "Some say it translates to the totality of being female, which is a good thing. But others think it's slanderous and offensive. That it refers to a woman's private parts."

  "Your neighbors didn't mean it in a good way when they said it about your mother."

  "No, they didn't." He turned, looking for an escape route. "I need some air. Do you want to join me?"

  She nodded and they proceeded outside, where a third-story balcony overlooked a collection of historic buildings.

  The summer air proved muggy, but Michael was grateful for the Southern sky. He leaned against the wrought-iron rail and drank his beer.

  Lea stood beside him. She'd barely touched her drink, the ice in her cup melting into the bloodred liquid, thinning the contents.

  "My dad had a thing for blondes," he said. "I have no idea why he married a Seminole."

  "He cheated with women like Cindy?"

  "I never said anything about Cindy. You can't lump all blondes together."

  Her chin shot up. "I wasn't."

  "Weren't you?" he accused. "Cindy isn't a bad person. She's just tough. She grew up the way I did. Poor, determined to climb her way to the top."

  "She doesn't seem
sincere."

  "Do I?" he asked.

  Lea didn't respond. She sipped her watered-down juice instead.

  "I don't, do I?" Because he wasn't, he thought. Because he suspected her of a crime. "I like you, Lea. I swear, that's the truth. I feel something for you."

  Her eyes locked onto his. "Something?"

  He set his cup on a nearby ledge. "Kinship. Lust. Confusion. I'm not sure if I can explain what I feel."

  "You just did." She gave him a shaky smile. "I feel those things, too."

  "Why haven't we ever talked before now?" He dragged his hand through his hair. "We slept together for a month and we barely communicated. I've never been that callous with a woman before."

  "Are you apologizing to me, Michael?"

  "Yes." God help him, he was. But that wouldn't stop him from investigating her.

  "I'm not very good at relationships." She tilted her head and moonlight framed her face, casting a silvery glow over her skin. "There was a man in California, in Little Saigon. I thought I loved him. I thought he loved me."

  "What happened?"

  "I slept with him." She sipped her drink, the ice still melting. "I wanted to wait until we were married, but he said I didn't need to remain a virgin."

  Michael studied her posture, the tension in her shoulders. "He took advantage of you."

  "I was young. Only nineteen. He was older than me, close to thirty. A wealthy Vietnamese businessman, very traditional. I should have known better. He had no intention of marrying me. It didn't matter if we were in America. I was still con lai to him." She set her cup next to Michael's. "He bought me pretty things, but I didn't know I was his whore. Not until he told me he was marrying someone else, a girl his family approved of."

  "And what did you do, Lea?"

  "I worked hard to better myself, to get a college education, to stop being con lai."

  "There's nothing wrong with being a half-breed. It's who we are. It makes us special."

  "It doesn't make me feel special."

  "I know. I've been fighting that feeling all my life." He looked into her eyes and saw a reflection of himself. "Are you ashamed of your mother's culture? Of the things she taught you?"

  "Sometimes. But I don't want to be."