STEAMY SAVANNAH NIGHTS

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "Then share some of it with me."

  "How?" She seemed lost, like the child she'd once been, a little girl who'd never found her place in society.

  "You can teach me how to make a Vietnamese meal. Tomorrow, after we both get home from work."

  "It's been so long since I've—"

  He placed his finger over her lips. "Don't make excuses. Just say yes."

  When he took his hand away, she didn't say yes. But she didn't say no, either. She simply watched him, and he wondered what she was thinking.

  "Are you going to share your mother's culture with me?" she asked.

  Michael realized he didn't have a choice. He couldn't expect something from her that he wasn't willing to give. "I'll do the best I can."

  She assessed his response. "The best you can?"

  "There are a lot of things I was never taught. My mother gave up her traditions to marry my father, to live his way." He reached for his beer and finished it, combating the dryness in his throat. "Her family was from the Big Cypress Reservation in Florida, but she moved to Atlanta to be with my dad. That's where I was raised."

  "I thought you were from Savannah."

  "No. I moved here later. After I got out of the service, after my mother died."

  "Is your father gone, too?"

  He shrugged. "I have no idea. He split when I was still in high school. He left my mom and me with nothing." Nothing but a roach-infested apartment and a welfare check, he thought. "She cried for him almost every night. She waited for him to come back."

  Lea moved closer. "Why did she love him so much?"

  "It wasn't love. Not in a healthy sense of the word." Michael glanced up the sky, at the stars lighting up the night. "She was fixated on him, on everything he did, and he knew how to charm her, especially after an argument."

  "But he didn't charm you."

  "I'm not a woman. He had a way with women."

  Her voice turned soft. "So do you."

  "Not like him." Michael had the urge to kiss her, to drag her against his body and release the tightness in his chest, the ache of needing her. But he wasn't about to play his father's game.

  He was already guilty of keeping the spark between them alive, of inviting her to his home, of toying with both of their emotions in a dark and dangerous way.

  * * *

  The following evening, after Lea's workday ended, she arrived at Michael's house using the security code he'd given her to open the electronic gate. With her arms full of groceries, she tackled the keyless-entry front door and headed straight for the kitchen. After placing the bags on the counter, she spotted a hand-written note from Michael.

  Don't start the meal without me.

  Fine, she thought. But where was he? And how long would he be gone?

  Unsure of what else to do, she unpacked the groceries and then went upstairs to change, to remove her summer suit, panty hose and heels. Lea worked for CCS Enterprises, a networking and consulting firm that specialized in corporate computer solutions, and her position required professional attire.

  Eager to relax, she slipped on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, then banded her hair into a ponytail. But by the time she descended the stairs, she got an ominous feeling.

  A feeling that she was being watched.

  Did Michael have surveillance cameras hidden throughout his home? Had he left her alone purposely? Was she being filmed?

  She looked around the great room, telling herself to quit being so paranoid. Of course Michael had surveillance cameras in his home, but he probably only used them when he was protecting a client, when he and his security team were inspecting the premises for intruders.

  He wouldn't film a lover.

  Would he?

  The front door opened, and she froze, like a proverbial deer caught in the headlights.

  "Evening." Michael filled the doorway, with his broad shoulders and tall, muscular frame. He wore a black suit, a white shirt and a gray-and-black tie. His hair caught a ray of the setting sun and his jacket was slung over his arm.

  "Hi." She managed a casual greeting, even if her heart was pounding at warp speed. After a moment of awkward silence, her anxiety returned. "Where were you?"

  He closed the door. "At the office."

  "But you left me a note."

  "I wrote that this morning, before I went to work. You were already gone and I didn't get a chance to talk to you."

  "I had an early meeting." She dusted some imaginary lint from her T-shirt. "Are you hungry?"

  "You bet. I need to change, then we can get started on the meal."

  He headed toward the staircase, but she stopped him. "I thought you were working a light schedule."

  "I am. This is light for me. I'm not usually home for dinner." He loosened his tie. "Do I have time for a shower?"

  Lea's mouth went dry. How was she supposed to stay here for the next two weeks, missing him, wishing they were still lovers?

  "Of course you have time for a shower." She proceeded to the kitchen to get a glass of water, to focus on the food, to keep her mind occupied.

  He returned fifteen minutes later, wearing drawstring sweatpants and a tank top. When he moved closer to inspect the ingredients on the counter, she noticed the ends of his hair were damp and he smelled like her favorite soap.

  "So what are we making?" he asked.

  "Chicken with lemongrass and a rice-noodle salad." Recipes she'd chosen just for him. "They're both fairly simple to make."

  "Good." He sent her a boyish grin. "You know I'm not a very creative cook." He picked up a glass bottle. "What's this?"

  "Nuoc main. Fish sauce. It's used as a condiment and a flavoring. The way soy sauce is used in Chinese cooking." She took the chicken out of the refrigerator. "I found the nuoc main at an international market. I bought chopsticks, too."

  "Really?" He gave her another heart-stirring grin. "I'm glad you agreed to do this."

  "So am I." Lea tried to think of something else to say, but she couldn't seem to find her voice. She hadn't expected Michael's interest in her culture to make her want him even more. Still silent, she unwrapped the chopsticks.

  "What are you thinking about?" he asked.

  You, she wanted to say. The nights they used to make love, the sensation of his mouth against her skin, the bedroom murmurs he'd whispered in her ear.

  She glanced down, avoiding his gaze. "I'm thinking about the chopsticks."

  "What about them?"

  "They became a popular eating utensil because they could replace knives at the dinner table."

  "And why was that important?"

  She looked up, meeting the curiosity in his eyes, the electricity between them. "Knives were associated with war and death, but chopsticks were used in pairs, so they represented harmony, prospect and peace."

  "That's nice. Really nice." He reached out to smooth a strand of her hair away from her face. Already pieces were coming loose from her ponytail. "You're going to have to show me the proper way to use them."

  "I will." She just stood there, letting him touch her, letting him make her weak-kneed and girlish. Submissive. "I feel like Miss Saigon." A feeling that troubled her.

  He stepped back. "What do you mean?"

  "Nothing." Uncomfortable, she cut the chicken into small pieces, keeping her hands busy. "You can chop the cabbage for the salad."

  They worked side by side, with Lea instructing him from time to time. While she fried garlic and onions, he leaned against the counter, watching her.

  "Tell me about the man you dated in California."

  She sprinkled ground chilies and minced lemon-grass into the pan. "I already told you about him."

  "What was his name?"

  "Thao."

  "I'm sorry he hurt you."

  "I was naive." She added the chicken, stirring it with a wooden spoon. "I thought living in America would make a difference. But Thao was too traditional to want a wife like me."

  Michael boiled the noodles for the salad
. "Did you date anyone in Vietnam?"

  "No. Never."

  "There weren't any Amerasian boys who asked you out?"

  She shook her head. "I was the only my lai in the village where I lived. Besides, couples in Vietnam don't date the way they do in America. A boy must introduce himself to a girl's family and seek their approval before he can take her out. And even then, it's very proper. They don't kiss or touch or hold hands in public."

  "Are girls supposed to remain virgins until they get married?"

  "Yes. But it doesn't matter that I slept with Thao. It was a long time ago, and I can't keep dwelling on the past."

  "You're an incredible lover, Lea."

  She nearly dropped the spoon. She could feel Michael's body heat, feel his gaze sweeping over her. "Thao was my only lover. Besides you."

  "Then I'm honored." He touched her hair again, tucking a strand behind her ear. "But it isn't right for us to sleep together anymore."

  "Why?" she asked, her voice barely audible, her pulse leaping to her throat.

  "Because I don't want to use you."

  She found the courage to question him further, to say what she was thinking. "What if I decide to use you?"

  He raised his brows at her, shifted his feet, frowned and then ended up with a half-cocked smile on his face. "Do I look like a helpless male to you? A guy who could get used?"

  "No. But men like sex." She lifted her chin. "You like sex. And that gives me power."

  "Spoken like a true woman." He came up behind her, bringing her closer to the stove, crowding her, making her much too aware of him. "Don't burn the chicken."

  "I'm not." Flustered, she pushed him back, nudging his chest with her shoulder. He'd taken the power away from her. He'd made her weak-kneed again.

  And Lea tried so hard to be strong, to fight the chains, the emotional turmoil, that bound her.

  * * *

  Four

  « ^ »

  Michael and Lea decided to eat on the patio, at a glass-topped table, decorated with citronella candles. The dancing flames and fragrant smoke presented a compelling atmosphere. And so did a distant view of the marsh.

  It almost seemed like a date. Almost, Michael thought. But not quite. His relationship with Lea grew more complicated by the minute. He missed their affair, the midnight rendezvous and secret passion.

  "It's beautiful here." She sipped her tea. "I like being outside."

  "Me, too." He studied the teapot and the tiny cups she'd purchased at the international market. They looked so domestic, so feminine. Just like her.

  No wonder she turned him on. Lea was everything he'd always wanted, everything he used to hope for. She was strong yet gentle. Understated yet elegant. When he climbed into bed at night, he longed to feel her body next to his.

  "Sometimes I wonder if I'm fooling myself," he said.

  "About what?"

  "The white-picket-fence thing. A wife, kids, a friendly pooch in the yard."

  "Why? Because your life is more of an electronic-gate, guard-dog-type thing?"

  "Exactly." His career took precedence over everything, especially the relationships in his life. "You're an observant lady, Lea."

  "I try."

  No, he thought. She did more than try. She made decisions with her heart and analyzed them with her head. And she was too smart not to worry about her situation, to not wonder if he considered her a suspect.

  He adjusted his chopsticks, handling them fairly well for a beginner. But Michael did everything fairly well. He took pride in being competent. "Tell me about your job."

  "What's to tell? You already know what I do. You have a file on me."

  "That isn't the same as hearing you talk about yourself. I want to get to know the real you." The woman who might be Lady Savannah, he thought.

  She tasted her chicken, utilizing her chopsticks as easily as she wielded a fork. "I'm a computer systems analyst. I improve existing computer systems, as well as develop new systems."

  "So you write programs?"

  "Sometimes. CSS, the company I work for, specializes in corporate solutions. We tailor computer systems to fit our customers' needs."

  "What about viruses?"

  She stopped breathing. "What about them?"

  "I was just wondering if you've had any significant experience in that realm. If you've ever designed security software."

  "No, I haven't. But isn't my job history tucked away in that file?" She blew out the breath she'd been holding. "I don't understand why you're asking me about things you already know."

  He sat back in his chair, luring her into his trap, loving his job, hating it, wishing he didn't have feelings for her. "You're getting defensive."

  She reached for her tea, cradling the cup, grasping the tiny blue flowers painted on the porcelain. "That file bothers me."

  He remained where he was, his posture easy, his mind sharp. "As it should. I wouldn't want someone investigating me just because I was a politician's illegitimate daughter."

  "You're not anyone's daughter, Michael. You're a man." That said, she resumed eating, putting him in his place.

  Just as she lifted a glob of rice to her mouth, he came forward in his chair. "I think you should help me with my case."

  The rice nearly fell onto her plate. "What case?"

  "The one I'm working on for your dad. I could really use a woman's perspective."

  "I'm not a detective."

  "But you harbor resentment toward your father. And so does the suspect in my case. You might be able to help me figure her out."

  She jammed the rice into her mouth, but she didn't go after another bite. The chopsticks landed on the table, untouched. So much for harmony, prospect and peace, he thought.

  "Figure whom out?" she finally asked. "Who is she?"

  "A woman who's been stalking your dad."

  She froze. She literally didn't move, and he realized his words had stunned her. If she were Lady Savannah, she hadn't thought of herself as "a stalker." But most stalkers didn't. They justified their behavior on their own terms.

  "We can get into the specifics later," he said. "When we have time to go over my notes. Maybe Saturday."

  "That's five days away."

  "There's no hurry." He wanted her to fret about it, to wake up every morning and wonder what he had up his sleeve.

  "I'd rather discuss it now."

  "I'd prefer to wait. I don't want to spoil this beautiful evening talking about another woman." He scooped up some of the salad, looked directly in her eyes. "Not while I'm dining with you."

  * * *

  Lea turned on the bedside lamp, flooding her room with light. She couldn't sleep; all she could think about was the case Michael had mentioned. Was he being sincere in asking for her help? Or was this his way of trapping her?

  Much too warm, she pushed away the covers. After she went into the bathroom to rinse her face, to wash away the anxiety, shame coiled in her belly like a snake.

  He'd called her a stalker. For some naive reason, Lea had never associated that word with the things she'd done. But apparently that was what Michael had termed Lady Savannah. That was her criminal calling card.

  She leaned against the sink, holding her stomach, trying to keep the snake from striking, even though she knew she deserved to get bitten.

  When her mouth turned dry, she crept downstairs for a glass of ice water, for something to temper the discomfort.

  An amber night-light cast a ghostly glow in the kitchen, creating odd-shaped shadows on the walls. On silent feet, she opened a cabinet, grateful the hinges didn't creak. As she placed her glass beneath the ice dispenser, the frozen cubes made a crashing sound, jarring the stillness, making her heart jump out of her chest.

  Feeling foolish, she added the water and took a sip, cooling her fears, quenching her thirst. And then Michael's voice came out of nowhere.

  "Are you all right?"

  She spun around to see him standing in the doorway, wearing a pair of loose
-fitting shorts and little else. His chest was bare and his straight dark hair was tousled, falling across his forehead rebelliously.

  She glanced at his stomach and noticed how low his shorts rode on his hips. What would he do if she seduced him? If she whispered something erotic in his ear? Lea wanted to make love with him again, to pretend their relationship was real. "I'm fine."

  "You don't look fine. You look pale."

  "Do I?" He looked like a bronzed statue, strong and solid, with chiseled features. He moved closer and she wondered if his skin was cool to the touch. "I couldn't sleep. I was hot."

  "I can turn up the air conditioner."

  "That's okay. There's a fan above my bed."

  "You just said you were hot."

  "I am. I was." She sipped her water again. "I'm better now."

  He came over to her, pressing his hand against her forehead. Her bones almost melted, and she cursed his proximity.

  "You don't feel feverish."

  "Because I'm not. I told you I'm fine."

  He trapped her gaze. "Do you ever sleep?"

  His eyes were magnetic, his irises flecked with light. Suddenly she feared he would hypnotize her, trick her into admitting her crimes.

  "Do you?" she asked.

  "Do I what?"

  "Ever sleep?"

  "Not much. Not lately." He dropped his hand and stepped back. "What did you mean earlier when you said you felt like Miss Saigon?"

  Her pulse pounded at her neck. "I didn't mean anything."

  "You wouldn't have said it if meant nothing."

  "Miss Saigon is a play," she told him.

  "I know. I've heard of it." He shifted his weight. "What's it about?"

  "The heroine has an affair with an American soldier. And after he leaves, she gives birth to his son." She paused. "A child like me."

  Michael frowned, and Lea feared she might be falling in love with him. That somewhere deep down, she was losing her soul. Why else would she want to sleep him with him again? Crave to be in his arms?

  "That sounds more like Lan's story than yours," he said.

  She nodded, her emotions too close to the surface. "My mother waited for my father to come back for her. To bring us to America." Tears burned her eyes, but she wouldn't let them fall. "She always said good things about him. She believed in his honor."