STEAMY SAVANNAH NIGHTS

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "And wait for her to come clean?" Michael blew a rough breath. "It's a dangerous game."

  "Yes, it is. But at least you're giving her a chance."

  Michael nodded, and Clay drummed his fingers on his desk. The window in his office sent a stream of light across his face. His features were hard and angular, reflecting his heritage. Michael supposed he bore a similar look. "Lea had a difficult life. In her country, she was a half-breed, like us."

  "Technically I'm a quarter-breed, and having a difficult life is no excuse for what she did."

  "I know. And that's the part that's twisting my gut. How am I supposed to forgive her? Hell, I don't even know if I'm part of her scheme, if she's playing me for a fool. Her vulnerability could be a ruse."

  "Great sex messes with a guy's brain."

  "That it does." Yet he couldn't wait to make love with Lea again, to taste all that warm scented skin, to kiss her, to hold her. "I could get addicted to being with her."

  Clay frowned. "I think you already are."

  "Maybe she isn't the stalker. Maybe—"

  "Maybe what?"

  "Nothing. I know she's Lady Savannah." He cursed his hunger for her, the obsession weaving its way into his bloodstream. "I can feel it."

  "Yeah, but you don't have enough evidence to rat on her."

  "Rat on her? It's my job. It's what I do."

  "Sorry. Poor choice of words."

  Michael shrugged. "I'm already bending the law. I shouldn't be sleeping with her."

  "You're a private investigator. It's not as risky for you to bend the law, not like a cop. But when push comes to shove, you'll do the right thing."

  "I'll turn her in," Michael said.

  "Yes," Clay agreed. "You will."

  * * *

  At noon, Michael decided to stop by Lea's job, to pay her an unexpected visit.

  CSS Enterprises was located in the financial district, with offices that consisted of gray cubicles and an array of employees, each assigned to his or her mousetrap-type space. Michael had always pitied people who worked in crowded, colorless environments, probably because it reminded him of being poor—an unimportant speck on the wall of society. Of course, Lea made a fairly decent wage, with medical benefits stirred into the mix. CSS wasn't a sweatshop.

  He asked for directions to her cubicle and found her hunched over her keyboard, typing at a rapid speed. She didn't notice him, so he took a moment to study her.

  She wore a lavender-colored blouse and a matching skirt, but he'd seen her get dressed this morning. He shifted his stance, recalling what she had going on under her clothes. Her front-closure bra was beige and her panties were the thong variety, with a hint of ladylike lace.

  She glanced up and saw him. "Michael? What are you doing here?"

  He stepped into her cubicle. "I was thinking about your underwear."

  "What?" She looked around for eavesdroppers. "Is this a joke?"

  "No. I came by to ask if you could get away for lunch, but then I started thinking about your panties and bra."

  Lea dragged him farther into the confined space, offering him a chair that was crammed against a makeshift wall. He sat, tempted to pull her onto his lap, to shock the nerdiness out of her computer-geek co-workers.

  She leaned against her desk, too pretty for her own good. "I read somewhere that men think about sex every six seconds."

  "That's got to be an exaggeration. I've only thought about it twice today." He grinned at her. "After we did it."

  She returned his smile, and he wished that he could trust her, that she wasn't Lady Savannah.

  "So can you take time off for lunch?" he asked.

  "It's a little early, but I suppose I could."

  He motioned to her computer. "What were you working on?"

  "I'm writing a manual for a system I designed."

  "You don't look like a computer nerd."

  She rolled her eyes. "That's such a cliché, Michael."

  Oh, yeah? he thought. What about the Poindexter types he'd seen boxed up in their cubbyholes? "There's a sandwich shop nearby. Is that okay with you?"

  "Sure." She reached for her purse and slipped the strap over her shoulder. "I go there all the time."

  Once they were outside, the sun glinted off Lea's hair. She'd styled it long and loose, but Michael hadn't given her much time to fuss with it this morning. His sexual appetite had gotten in the way.

  They walked to the eatery and ordered chicken salad sandwiches and two tall plastic cups of lemonade. The young man working the counter gave Lea a special smile, and Michael felt a pang of possessiveness.

  Not a good sign, he told himself.

  They sat across from each other at a small white table. The sandwich shop offered a floor-to-ceiling view of Johnson Square

  , where financial advisers and bankers spent their workday.

  Lea opened her potato chips and when she offered him one, feeding it to him, he started thinking about sex again, wondering if every six seconds wasn't too far off the mark.

  The guy behind the counter looked disappointed, realizing, it seemed, that Lea and Michael were a couple, not co-workers.

  Tough luck, Michael thought.

  She sipped her lemonade and started in on her sandwich. He ate, too, considering she only had thirty minutes for lunch. He knew her daily schedule. He'd investigated every aspect of her professional life.

  "This is good," she said. "I was hungrier than I thought."

  "We missed breakfast."

  "Yes, we did." She moistened her lips. "We were too busy to eat."

  The every-six-seconds curse returned. "You're driving me crazy, Lea. Being with you is all I think about."

  "Me, too."

  Their gazes locked, and he knew he was in trouble. He'd never been this attracted to anyone before. Most of his relationships were over before they even started. Yet here he was, losing his common sense, getting sidetracked by a female who'd committed a psychological crime.

  She smiled at him. "I'm glad you invited me to lunch. It was a nice surprise. Sort of romantic."

  His heart clenched. He hadn't asked her to lunch to romance her. This was part of his job. "Actually, I was wondering if you'd like to help me with my case tonight." He paused, steeling the emotions she kept tying into knots. "There's no reason for us to wait until Saturday."

  She broke eye contact. "Are you sure you need me to do this? I don't think I'm going to be much help."

  "Sure you will," he said, hating this twisted game. "I already told you, I could really use a woman's perspective."

  The beautiful, seductive woman who'd become his obsession, he thought. The lady leading him straight to hell.

  * * *

  Six

  « ^ »

  Lea hadn't expected Michael to make their stalker investigation session so cozy. He'd placed a platter of fruit and cheese on the coffee table and encouraged her to have a glass of wine with him. So she sipped chardonnay and nibbled on apples and Brie, pretending she wasn't a nervous wreck.

  "I guess I better start at the beginning." Michael plucked a grape and popped it into his mouth. "The first e-mail your father received was in February. It said, 'I've been watching you.' The second one that arrived said, 'You will suffer' and the third said, 'I'm still watching you.' All three were signed Lady Savannah."

  When he searched her gaze, she forced herself to remain calm, to keep her hands steady. "Did anything happen after that?"

  Michael nodded. "In March, Lady Savannah sent him a virus that crashed his computer."

  "How did you know it was from the same person? Was there a message attached?" she asked, hoping her questions sounded believable.

  "Yes." He moved a little closer. They sat side by side on his sofa, the skylight above their heads reflecting a star-speckled evening. "The note said, 'Expect the unexpected. This isn't over.' That was her most cryptic message. Coupled with the virus, we knew she was serious." He paused. "What do you think 'This isn't over,' means, Lea?"<
br />
  "I don't know." The wine hit her stomach like liquid fire. Could he tell she was lying? Was he assessing her body language? The way she shifted on the couch? "What do you think it means?"

  "That she had something significant in store for Danforth, something that hasn't come to fruition yet."

  She took another burning sip of the chardonnay. "Like what?"

  "I haven't figured that out yet. But it's rather puzzling why so much time has passed without her contacting Danforth again." He ate another grape, contemplating the case. "It's got to be one of two things. She's waiting for the perfect opportunity to make her next move, or she changed her mind for some reason."

  Yes, Lea thought. She changed her mind; she couldn't go through with it. "What do you know about Lady Savannah? What sort of details do you have?"

  "I've worked out a profile on her." He reached for a file he'd left on the end table. "First of all, there are three types of stalkers. Low-threat, medium-threat and high-threat." He opened the folder and shuffled through the papers. "Lady Savannah is a medium-threat stalker. This type of stalker usually knows the principal, the person they're stalking."

  "How well do they know them?"

  "More often than not, the stalker has a disgruntled association with them, like an ex-lover, a former friend, an ex-business partner."

  Or an abandoned child, she thought. A my lai who'd been left in Vietnam. "Are medium-threat stalkers dangerous?"

  "They can be. The biggest danger is that they usually know a lot about the principal. They're not like a low-threat stalker who's just trying to get close to the principal, hoping to attract his attention, like an adoring fan. Medium-threat stalkers have a stronger agenda and are more suspect in their motives."

  Guilty, Lea took a deep breath. She'd threatened her father to get back at him, to make him pay for her pain. "What about high-threat stalkers?"

  "They're severely dangerous, but Lady Savannah doesn't fit that profile. High-threat stalkers are delusional, men and women living in a fantasy world. They usually have a history of mental illness and are obsessed with the principal. They don't have any regard for the law, and they don't care about the consequences."

  "But Lady Savannah does?"

  "Yes." He tasted the Brie. "She was cautious in her approach. I think she lives and works in the mainstream world and doesn't want her life ruined by a police inquiry or a restraining order. She cares if she gets caught."

  "Are the police involved in this investigation?" she asked, her heart pounding against her breast.

  "Damn straight they are. Danforth is running for state senator. He isn't leaving anything to chance, which is why he brought me in on the stalking case."

  Lea fell silent, wondering what Michael would say if she told him the truth, if she admitted why she'd sent the virus and what "This isn't over" meant. Would he forgive her? Or would he look upon her with disdain?

  Anxious, she glanced up to find him watching her. "Do the police have a description of Lady Savannah? Has anyone seen her?"

  "Yes." He broke eye contact and paged through the file again. "Her e-mail messages were traced to public computers. First a local library, then two different copy centers and finally an Internet café. where the virus was sent."

  "And the employees at these places remember her?"

  "The manager at the Internet café does." He handed Lea a sketch of Lady Savannah. "It's a crude likeness, but it's all we have."

  She studied the drawing, grateful it didn't resemble her. "Mid- to late-twenties, with auburn hair and tinted glasses."

  "Exactly. But I've come to the conclusion that her hair was a wig, and that the glasses played a bigger part in her disguise than the police realized."

  Lea wasn't about to ask him to expound on why Lady Savannah needed to mask her eyes.

  "I think her height was altered, too," he went on to say. "That she was wearing platform shoes, but the hem of her pants was too long for the manager to notice. He said she was tall and slim, like a model, but I don't think that's correct."

  "You think she's short and plump?"

  He raised his eyebrows at that. "I think the shoes gave her the illusion of being model-like. She's obviously lean enough to be considered slim and the extra height made her look even thinner."

  Lea recalled the manager at the Internet café, recalling the way he'd checked her out. "Do you think he likes tall, thin girls? Do you think that's why he remembers her?"

  "Yes, that's exactly what I think. He gave us a better description of her body than her face."

  "So she could be anyone? Anyone who's had an association with my father?"

  "Anyone with cause to threaten him," Michael corrected.

  "Yes, of course." She returned the sketch, wanting him to bury it in the file, to hide it from view.

  But he didn't. He kept the drawing in his hand. "I think she's computer savvy. That she wrote the virus herself."

  "If she's so computer savvy, why did she use public computers?"

  "Because she wanted the e-mails to get traced. And she wanted to be seen. She was trying to create a false description of Lady Savannah."

  Her palms began to sweat. "Maybe you're wrong, Michael. Maybe she really is a tall, slim redhead."

  He shook his head. "It was just a clever disguise."

  Maybe so, Lea thought. But Lady Savannah was a coward, unable to admit the truth, to let her lover turn her over to the police.

  "I've investigated every angle of this case," he said. "In the beginning, I even suspected John Van Gelder, your father's opponent. I thought maybe Van Gelder hired the stalker as a ruse to scare Danforth into withdrawing from the race." He glanced at the sketch. "But this isn't about dirty politics."

  She didn't respond. Because, like Michael, she knew John Van Gelder didn't have anything to do with her father's stalker. Lea Nguyen was Lady Savannah.

  * * *

  John Van Gelder gazed out the window, peering at the moonlit walkway and grassy perimeter of the yard. The boxy little house belonged to Hayden Murphy, a member of his advisory team.

  Hayden was a kid, as far as John was concerned. Twenty-three, the same age as John's daughter.

  Releasing an exhausted sigh, he turned away from the window and found Hayden watching him. The kid was on a low rung on the political ladder, but he wasn't as opinionated as the seasoned members of the team. He did as he was told.

  "You look troubled," Hayden said.

  "Gee, I wonder why."

  "I'm digging as deep as I can, sir."

  "Well, dig deeper. Find some dirt on Danforth." John intended to win the senatorial race, even if it meant slinging a crap-load of mud. "Find something to tarnish that Honest Abe image of his. Something tabloid-worthy."

  "I will. I promise I will."

  John squinted at Hayden. With his blond hair and fraternity-boy features, he looked more like a university student than an adviser, reminding John that his daughter had completed her European college studies this year.

  John was a widower, and Selene was his only child. Would he be so damn driven to win this race if he'd had a son?

  Not a son like Hayden, he thought. So far, the ambitious young yes-man hadn't uncovered one shred of scandalous information. John really needed something to discredit his opponent. He'd spent most of his life believing that he was the second choice to Abraham Danforth and he wasn't about to come in second this time.

  Frustrated, he turned his attention back to Hayden. "Maybe you're not ready for a job of this caliber."

  The younger man squared his shoulders. "That isn't true. I'll get what you're looking for."

  "You better." John threatened. "Because if you don't, I'll find someone who will."

  * * *

  Lea cleared the half-eaten fruit and cheese platter and Michael gathered the empty wine glasses. They went into the kitchen together, but their conversation was stilted, the Lady Savannah session leaving them tense.

  He set their glasses in the sink, and she
studied apple slices that had already begun to brown. The grapes were salvageable, but that was the least of Michael's concerns. Lea certainly seemed preoccupied with the task, making more of her kitchen duty than necessary.

  "Don't worry about that," he said.

  She looked up. "I don't believe in wasting food."

  Because she knew what it was like to go hungry, he thought. "Fine. Whatever. Save it all if you want to." He'd been hoping for a confession from her, yet here she was, fussing over their wilted snack, giving a few measly apple slices her undivided attention.

  He glanced at the clock, noting it was bedtime. "You seem uptight."

  She bagged the fruit, her movements a bit too jittery. "It's been a long day. Maybe I just need to relax." She opened the fridge and ducked her head. "Maybe I just need you to hold me."

  To alleviate her guilt? he wondered. Or to work up the courage to tell him the truth? "You should move into my room."

  "Are you sure?" She closed the fridge and turned to face him, her eyes full of hope. "If you'd rather keep your privacy."

  "It doesn't make sense for us to have separate rooms." And being affectionate with her would help his cause, wouldn't it? "We're already involved."

  She gave him a shaky smile. "Yes, we are."

  He helped her transfer her clothes into his closet, and he realized this was the first time he'd come close to having a live-in lover. Two weeks wasn't much, but considering the circumstances, it felt like a monumental commitment.

  Side by side, they got ready for bed, brushing their teeth and changing into sleeping attire. He chose a pair of drawstring shorts, and she put on a virginal-looking nightgown.

  They climbed into bed, and he turned out the light. The room wasn't overly dark. A low-hung moon cast a romantic glow over the sheets.

  Lea moved closer, and he slipped his arms around her. She rested her head on his shoulder, her hair tickling his chin.

  "Thank you, Michael."

  "For what?"

  "For holding me."

  "Sure." He told himself he didn't have a choice. Being near her was his only option. She sighed, and he knew she wasn't going to confess her sin, at least not tonight.