STEAMY SAVANNAH NIGHTS

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "Then maybe you should, too."

  "I did when I was a little girl. I waited right along with my mother, thinking he would save us from our persecution." The glass began sweating in her hand. "But he was here, in Savannah, with his wife and other children."

  "He needs you to forgive him."

  And what about what I need? she thought. What about her feelings for Michael? "I don't want to discuss my father with you. Not now."

  He sighed, and they both turned quiet. Shadows still haunted the walls and the microwave clock displayed an after-midnight hour.

  "I still don't understand why you felt like Miss Saigon," he said, breaking the silence.

  "Sometimes you make me weak," she admitted. "Submissive. Not like an American girl."

  "You think American women don't stumble into affairs? Don't get mixed up with the wrong men?"

  Her chest constricted. "Are you the wrong man?"

  "You know damn well I am."

  "Because you're my father's bodyguard?"

  "Yes," he said solemnly.

  "Then why did you keep coming back to my apartment? Why didn't you just leave it as a one-night stand?"

  He thrust his hand through his hair, pushing the errant strands away from his forehead. "I couldn't stay away. I wanted you too much."

  "But you don't want me now?" she challenged.

  His gaze roamed over her, and she realized how she must look, her nightgown clinging to her body, floating around her ankles like mist.

  "I don't want to use you, Lea. I already told you that."

  "And I already told you that I should have the right to use you." She set her glass on the counter and then turned to face him again, letting him see the woman she was. "Why should you call all the shots? Why should you make all the decisions?"

  "You want to talk about decisions?" He cursed and grabbed her wrist, slamming her palm against his chest, forcing her to hit him. "About calling the shots?"

  Lea tried to pull way, but he kept her there, his heart pounding wildly beneath her fingers. "Michael—"

  "This is what you do to me. This is my weakness." His heart thumped even harder. So hard, he fought his next breath. "Do you think it's easy for me to give you up? To keep my hands off you?" He cursed again, a crude word, a sexual word, the act he wanted to commit. "I'm going crazy."

  Lea pulled free of his grasp. "Now you know how I felt, waiting for you night after night. Wondering how long our affair would last."

  "I was wrong. Damn it. I was wrong. But getting too close to you scared me."

  And now they were arguing, she thought. Battling their feelings for each other. "Go back to bed, Michael."

  "What for? I won't be able to sleep." Neither would she, but what else were they supposed to do?

  He reached out to graze her cheek, to touch her as gently as he could, but Lea backed away, her heart lodged in her throat, her emotions spinning out of control.

  Getting close to him scared her, too. Yet she needed him, more than she'd ever needed anyone.

  * * *

  Michael awakened in a fog and glanced at the window, trying to make sense of his drifting-on-a-dream state. It was still dark out; the sheers were shrouded in moonlight.

  He rolled over, his eyelids heavy. But a moment later, a creaking sound caught his attention and he shifted his gaze to the door, where the night-darkened image of a woman stood.

  He blinked, certain he must have conjured her up in his mind. That she was an illusion. That his eyes and his ears were playing tricks on him.

  The illusion moved forward, just a little, like a fragment in time, an all-too-real dream.

  No, not a dream. He was awake. "Lea?"

  "Yes." She responded to him, her voice as smoky as her image.

  He didn't turn on the lamp, afraid she would disappear with the light, afraid he would lose her for good. "Why are you here?"

  "To touch you. To take what I need."

  Heat flooded his body, like wax melting over his skin, seeping into his pores.

  She stepped farther into the room and he knew he should send her away, stop her from seducing him. But he was already aroused, already ignoring the danger of getting caught in her web.

  Deep down, he knew she was Lady Savannah. With each day that passed, the clues got stronger, the truth hovering in the air. But tonight he didn't care. Tonight he wanted her.

  He waited, watching. She paused at the foot of the bed and slipped off her nightgown. He squinted to see her clearer, to force his eyes to adjust, to combat the darkness.

  She was wearing panties; that much he could tell. He could see them, an iridescent swatch of cotton between her legs. When she removed them, anticipation pounded at every pulse point in his body, making him ache.

  "You shouldn't be doing this," he said.

  She crawled onto the bed and leaned over him, her unbound hair falling like silk, her lotion-scented skin grazing his. "This is my power, Michael. It's the only advantage I have over you."

  He thought about the commitment he'd made to find Lady Savannah, to bring her to justice. "I can't make any promises. I can't give you a future."

  "I'm not asking you to." She rubbed her mouth across his. "I'm doing this for me."

  She kissed him, soft and slow and sweet. She was naked, clinging to his shoulders, making his heart skip erratic beats. She moved down his body, and he sensed her purpose, the erotic act she intended to perform.

  She licked his navel, tracing a path with her tongue, tugging at his shorts, removing them. Michael lifted his hips, eager to surrender, to give her everything she'd come to take.

  Everything and more.

  He threaded his hands through her hair and the dark mass caressed his thighs. The ultimate seduction, he thought. It thrilled him, shamed him, made him curse the ache between his legs. And then she touched him there, a featherlight kiss, a promise of pleasure.

  Michael thought he might die.

  "You're so warm. So hard." She wrapped her hand around him, preparing for her next move.

  "I want to turn on the light. I want to watch." He reached for the lamp, and she took him into her mouth, barely giving him time to think, to react, to do anything but pray for relief. A golden light flooded her image, giving him a dream-enhanced view.

  He opened his legs, accommodating her, allowing her to set a smooth, sensual rhythm. He moved with her, making love to her mouth, caressing her face, losing part of his soul.

  "Lea." He said her name and she looked up at him. Their eyes met and held, creating even more intimacy.

  She took him deeper, so deep he hit the back of her throat. He shivered, wondering if he'd ever been this aroused, this desperate for a woman.

  Before it ended, before he lost control, he pulled her up and ran his hands all over her body, making her sigh.

  "Let me do it to you," he said.

  She smoothed a strand of his hair. "You used to do it all the time."

  "That's right, I did." He skimmed her cheek. "And I know just how you like it."

  She smiled, and he kissed her. Tonight they would do everything, he thought. Every erotic thing they could think of, every position that gave them pleasure.

  Anxious, he lifted her legs onto his shoulders, and she arched against his mouth.

  She was warm and wet, sweet and musky. He filled himself with her flavor, teasing her with his tongue, arousing her the way she'd aroused him.

  She touched herself, heightening the sensation, the need to be naughty, to make the feeling last. He licked between her fingers, and she made throaty little sounds.

  As she fisted his hair, he looked up at her. Everything about her turned him on: the shape of her eyes, the color of her skin, the subtle curve of her hips. She rocked against his mouth, urging him to kiss her in that special place, to make her come.

  And when it happened, he tasted her release, the pleasure convulsing her body.

  Beautiful, dangerous Lea. He should have resisted her, but her magic was too st
rong. Michael lifted his head, and she smiled at him, drugged from her orgasm.

  "I don't want tonight to end," she said.

  "It's not over yet." He reached into the nightstand drawer and fished around for a condom, securing the foil packet.

  They caressed each other, rolling over the bed, tangling the sheets. Her hair fanned across the pillow and over her breasts, making her look even more exotic. He loved her hair, the long flowing length, the silky texture.

  Sensation slid over sensation, the rhythm sleek and inviting. He rode her; she climbed on top of him; he straddled her. They kept switching places, driving each other half mad.

  He withdrew, then entered her again, intensifying the feeling. Their gazes locked and their fingers entwined, completing the symmetry. They were good together, he thought. So damn good. Yet he knew it was wrong.

  She wrapped her legs around him, holding him close, dragging his mouth to hers, kissing him. And then she climaxed in his arms, all warm and soft and beautiful.

  Michael closed his eyes and let himself fall, spilling into her, lost in the feeling of being her lover.

  * * *

  Five

  « ^ »

  Dawn streamed through the window sheers, awakening Lea in a morning-after haze. She rolled over and landed against warm, solid flesh.

  Michael.

  She'd stayed in his room; she'd slept in his bed. Rising onto her elbows, she leaned over him, peering down at his face.

  His eyes were closed, his hair mussed, his jaw peppered with beard stubble. He looked gloriously rumpled, a man who'd made hot, hard-driving love last night.

  Lea glanced lower, at his chest and stomach. The sheet was draped low on his hips, exposing the shadow of hair that led to his—

  "What are you looking at?"

  She jumped back. "I thought you were asleep."

  "You were checking out my—"

  "I was not." Her cheeks flamed. She could feel them turning a thousand shades of pink. He was half-aroused. She could see the masculine shape through the sheet, tenting the fabric between his legs.

  He mocked her with his brows, raising them in smart-aleck amusement, and she realized she was naked too, completely exposed to his high-and-mighty gaze. Self-conscious, she searched around for her nightgown and found it at the foot of the bed, along with her discarded panties.

  "You're not so brave in the daylight," he said.

  She put on her clothes, then reached for her pillow and smacked him with it. She hated the way he made her feel. The nervousness he never failed to evoke.

  Stunned, he merely stared at her. "What the hell was that for?"

  "You're supposed to cuddle with me, not complain about being seduced."

  "You want to cuddle?" He lunged, grabbed her, pinned her to the bed. And then he tickled her, his hands rough yet gentle. Big and strong and boyish.

  She laughed; she squirmed; she melted like a pot of honey-flavored butter. She'd never interacted this way with anyone before. Her life had been filled with serious issues.

  "You have no shame." She tried to swat his bare butt, but he kept eluding her. "You're getting turned on by this."

  He secured her wrists, holding them above her head. "I knew you were looking down there."

  "I can feel it, Michael."

  "'Cause it's so big."

  She bit her lip to keep from laughing. He was poking her stomach, trying to make his overinflated, male ego point. "It's not that big."

  "Says the woman who can't wait to touch it again."

  "That's not what I meant by cuddling." She broke free, and they grinned like a couple of foolhardy kids. But when he moved a strand of hair away from her cheek, tucking it gently behind her ear, they stopped smiling and gazed at each other, silent in the morning light.

  "We shouldn't be getting this close," he said.

  "I know." But how was she supposed to stop herself from falling in love with him? How was she supposed to pretend it wasn't happening? "I'll only be here for two weeks. We're not talking about an eternity."

  He was still poised above her, his naked body brushing her nightgown, leaving shivers along her skin.

  "I wish it could be different, Lea."

  "Me, too." But deep down she knew he was suspicious of her. He hadn't come right out and accused her of stalking Abraham Danforth, but she could see it in his eyes, drifting between them like a bad dream.

  She skimmed his jaw, wishing she wasn't the woman he was investigating, the lady who'd plotted her childhood revenge, who'd destroyed the only chance she'd ever had at happiness.

  "Do you want to get ready in here?" he asked.

  She nodded. She had to get dressed for work and so, she assumed, did he. "I need to get my toiletries first."

  "That's fine." He waited for her in the master bathroom, the place designed for a married couple, with his and her sinks.

  When she returned, he was in the process of shaving. She went about her daily routine, as well.

  After she removed her nightgown in front of a mirrored wall beside the tub, he came up behind her, slipping his arms around her waist.

  "Do you want to take a bath with me?" she asked.

  "Not yet." He slid his hand down the front of her panties, rubbing her, making her wet.

  "Michael." She whispered his name, the sound soft and sensual, even to her own ears.

  He met her gaze in the mirror, and she knew he wanted her to watch. So she did. She watched everything he did.

  After he pushed her panties halfway down her legs, he thumbed her nipples, leaving her warm and wanton. Lea took a deep breath, letting him seduce her, letting him make her heart beat much too fast.

  "Lean forward," he said.

  She pressed her hands against the glass, her heart pounding even harder. "Like this?"

  "Yes." He rubbed the front of his body against the back of hers, sending a trail of heat along her spine.

  He was going to make love to her in this position, she thought. He was already hard, already nuzzling her neck.

  When he showed her the condom in his hand, she marveled at how effortlessly he'd acquired the foil packet from a bathroom drawer. "Do you keep those everywhere?"

  "A guy needs to be prepared." He sheathed himself, then angled her hips to accept his penetration.

  He entered her slowly, sensuously, intensifying the moment. Lea focused on the mirror, not wanting to miss their naked reflections, the image of their joining.

  He kept moving inside her, taking what he wanted. The motion was warm and compelling, a rhythm that flowed through her veins, making her dizzy. She could feel him thrusting deeper, stroking her womb.

  She twisted her head to kiss him, to slip her tongue into his mouth. He tasted like spearmint, like the flavor of spring. She inhaled his aftershave, an icy-blue sensation filling her senses.

  He pressed against her, pushing her forward, flattening her breasts against the mirror. The glass was smooth and cool, but her nipples were hard, stimulated from the pressure.

  "Lea." He bit the back of her neck, like a stallion, a feral animal on the verge of climaxing.

  She closed her eyes and let it happen to her, the rough, carnal feeling sweeping her away.

  * * *

  A few hours later, Michael sat across from Clayton Crawford in the other man's office. Clay owned Steam, a trendy club and restaurant downtown. Michael had provided the initial security for Steam, and within no time, their association had developed into a strong and loyal friendship. They were both Indian mixed bloods who'd battled their way to success. Clay had grown up poor, too. Not poverty-stricken like Michael, but poor enough to be considered from the wrong side of the tracks.

  "So you think she's the stalker," Clay said, pondering their conversation.

  Michael nodded. He'd confided in his friend about Lea. At this point, he needed to talk to someone and Clay was the logical choice. Michael wasn't ready to go to Danforth to spill his suspicions.

  "And you're sleeping with
her?" the other man asked.

  "Best damn sex I've ever had."

  That got a smile out of Clay. "Then screw the stalking thing. Who the hell cares?"

  They looked at each other and laughed. There was no way Michael could ignore the stalking issue, but Clay's twisted humor helped him relax. "I feel like such a bastard. Like I'm using her."

  "Reality check, buddy. She came to your room last night."

  "And I kept going to her apartment before that."

  "You didn't suspect her then."

  "Well, I do now."

  Clay picked up a paperweight from his desk. The glass object was shaped like a dolphin, reminding Michael of Danforth's seaside mansion. "Her father is going to be furious."

  "That you're banging her?"

  "That she's the one who threatened him. He already knows we're sleeping together." He gave Clay a harsh look. "And I'm not banging her. It's more than that."

  The club owner raised his brows. "Good God, Mike, listen to yourself. You're falling for her. You're getting emotionally attached."

  "And you're less than three weeks away from the altar." He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I don't see where that gives you room to talk."

  "I'm not in love with a stalker."

  "Did I say I was in love? It's just an affair."

  "But not a banging-her-type affair." Clay put down the paperweight. "Makes me wonder what kind of affair it is."

  "One that's driving me nuts."

  "So what are you going to do?"

  "I don't know." He finished his coffee, pushing the cup away. He'd already juiced his veins with caffeine earlier. Pretty soon he'd be bouncing off the walls. "Got any suggestions?"

  Clay leaned back, looking like the lord of the hotspot manor. His club reigned over Savannah society, giving him the respect he'd always craved.

  "Well?" Michael said, prodding him for a response.

  "Do you think she feels bad about what she did?" his friend asked.

  "I don't know. I hope so."

  "Maybe you should bank on that for a while."

  "You mean try to guilt-trip her into a confession? I already asked her to help me with the investigation."

  "Then keep going in that direction. Immerse her in the stalking thing."