STEAMY SAVANNAH NIGHTS

by Sheri WhiteFeather

  "I'm sorry," Michael said. "I shouldn't have bothered you."

  "What are friends for?" Clay scrubbed his hand across his jaw. "Besides, it's no big deal for me to meet you here."

  "No, I suppose not." Michael stopped pacing to face his friend. Clay had a loft-style apartment above the club. He lived and worked at Steam. "Is your fiancée still asleep?"

  "No. The phone woke her up, too."

  "She must think I'm a pain in the ass. Calling you at this hour."

  "Naw. She just thinks you're in love."

  Michael scowled. "I suppose that's what you think, too?"

  The other man walked over to a wet bar and removed a carton of orange juice, pouring two glasses. He spiked Michael's with vodka and handed it to him. "You know damn well I do."

  "Well, you're wrong." He accepted the screwdriver and took a long, hard swallow, knowing he needed it.

  "If you say so." Clay settled in with his orange juice, resuming a spot on his mahogany desk.

  Michael refused to entertain thoughts of love, to let his mind take him in that direction. Yet he couldn't keep going on the way he was, holding Lea each night, wanting her, waiting for his heart to explode. "I came up with a plan to trap her."

  "Is that what brought you here at this ungodly hour?"

  "Yes, but I feel like I'm betraying her."

  "Makes a person wonder why."

  "Knock off the love crap. I'm guilty because I'm sleeping with her." And cuddling with her, he thought. And having sex on the kitchen floor.

  Clay shook his head. "I wish you hadn't gotten involved with her."

  Beyond frustrated, Michael poured himself another drink, adding an extra shot of vodka, not giving a damn that he was having alcohol for breakfast. "What if my plan to trap her only makes things worse?"

  "How much worse can it be? You're already an emotional mess. She's already getting to you."

  "I'm going to lose her. Once I turn her in, it's going to be over." Michael blew out a ragged breath, squinting in the dim light. The blinds on the windows were drawn, shutting out the sun, matching his mood. "There's a part of me that wishes I could forget about what she did. Pretend it never happened. Tell Danforth the case is getting cold and probably won't be solved."

  "I'm not going to comment on that. Whatever you decide is up to you."

  "I'm going through with my plan." Because he needed to hear Lea's confession. He needed her to take responsibility for her actions. "I can't obstruct justice."

  "When is this going to happen, Mike?"

  His chest turned tight. "Today. This afternoon. I've already got everything ready to go."

  "Then I'm not going to ask you what the plan is."

  "No, there's no point. I didn't come here to discuss the specifics. I just needed to get it off my chest. To say it out loud." To convince himself to go through with it, he thought. To trap Lea into telling him the truth.

  * * *

  Eight

  « ^ »

  "Why won't you tell me where we're going?" Lea asked.

  Michael checked his rearview mirror. He wasn't sure if he was being a conscientious driver or avoiding his lover's gaze. "You'll see when we get there."

  "You're being so secretive, Michael."

  He merely nodded. Giving her information ahead of time wouldn't work in his favor.

  Silent, he continued driving. Their final destination was located in the vicinity of Savannah State University, and he knew Lea would recognize the side streets once they got closer. But would she say anything? Or would she pretend the area was unfamiliar?

  They stopped at a red light and he could feel her watching him. Wondering, he assumed, what the hell he was up to. He turned toward her and, for a moment, they simply stared at each other. He wanted to reach out, to skim her cheek, but touching her would only make him ache.

  "The light's green."

  "What?"

  "The light."

  "Oh, of course." He engaged the gas pedal and sped across the intersection. He was still a bit hung-over from earlier, from drinking screwdrivers at seven in the morning.

  "I wish you'd tell me where we're going," she said.

  "You'll find out soon enough." He'd never expected a woman to affect him so badly, to make such a mess out of his neat and orderly life.

  By the time they arrived at the Internet café, tension brimmed like steam in a pressure cooker. He suspected Lea had begun to sweat.

  "What are we doing here?" she asked.

  He parked the car. "I'm going to interview the manager about Lady Savannah."

  She gazed out the windshield, refusing to look at him, refusing to unbuckle her seat belt. "But you've already done that. He already gave you a description of her."

  "I want to talk to him again."

  She remained motionless. "Then I'll wait here."

  Michael prepared to exit the vehicle, knowing he was doing the right thing and hating himself for it. "You can't. I need your help."

  "That doesn't make sense."

  "Sure it does." He flipped the automatic lock on the trunk and got out of the car. "Come on. I'll show you what I mean."

  Lea finally budged and followed him to the back of the Mercedes. He removed a handled shopping bag and presented it to her.

  She peered inside and saw the auburn-colored wig. Instantly, her skin paled.

  "It's almost identical to the one Lady Savannah wore," he said. "There's a pair of platform shoes in there, too. Oh, and tinted glasses." He reached into the bag and removed the plastic-rimmed specs. "I bought these at an optometrist downtown. They're the same shape as the glasses she had on."

  "You're going to show all of this to the manager?" she asked, her voice barely audible.

  "No." He kept his gaze locked onto hers, pinning her in place. "You're going to dress up as Lady Savannah for me."

  She didn't respond; she didn't utter one quavering word. Silence stretched between them, like a motionless gap in time. When she attempted to return the bag to him, he refused take it. Instead he waited for her to speak, the midafternoon sun beating brutally on his back. But Lea fared much worse. She looked as though she were wilting, fading right before his eyes.

  "I can't do this, Michael."

  He blinked, losing sight of her for a second, wishing he didn't feel like a ruthless bastard, wishing she hadn't put him in this position. "Why not?"

  "I just can't."

  "Why not?" he asked again, his tone harsher this time.

  Her body swayed. "You know why."

  "Do I?"

  "Yes." She dropped the bag and it hit the ground with a clunk, landing on its side, spilling the lid to the shoebox. The wig fell out, too. For an instant, it looked like dried blood on the pavement. "I'm her, Michael. I'm Lady Savannah."

  His heart picked up speed. He'd been waiting to hear her say those words out loud, waiting for the truth. "You sent the virus?" He gestured to the Internet café. "It was you the manager saw that day?"

  "Yes." She glanced at the fallen articles. "I wore a wig like that. And platform shoes and glasses. But I bought everything in California. Before I came to Savannah."

  She teetered on her feet, the way she'd done on the night of the fund-raiser. Michael feared she might faint. The weather was unbearably hot, the air much too sticky.

  "Get back in the car," he told her.

  She didn't argue, but he shadowed her just the same, preparing to catch her if she passed out. When she was secure in her seat, he picked up the fallen bag and climbed behind the wheel. She glanced over at him, and he started the engine, running the air conditioner to cool her off.

  Her hair blew gently around her face, making her look soft and vulnerable. Michael cursed his attraction to her.

  "You're not going to make me go into the café?" she asked.

  He shook his head.

  She blew out a shaky breath. "You don't need the manager to identify me?"

  He let the car idle, choosing to remain where they were. He
wasn't ready to pull into traffic yet. "You already confessed."

  "Will you take me home?" She leaned her head against the seat rest. Her skin was still pale and her hair still fluttered around her face. Even her blouse gave her a lost quality. It was made of crinkled cotton, sheer enough to expose the outline of her bra.

  "I'll take you to my house." He put the car into gear. "You have a lot of explaining to do, Lea."

  "Are you going to turn me in?"

  Michael exited the parking lot. He didn't want to discuss his actions with her. Hell, he didn't even want to look at her. He didn't want to see the fear in her eyes.

  Those beautiful Amerasian eyes, he thought.

  He couldn't allow himself to think of her as a wounded mixed blood. A half-breed. Con lai. He had to think of her as Lady Savannah, the woman who'd threatened Abraham Danforth, the stalker Michael had been tracking.

  Michael drove Lea to his house, and she went straight to the refrigerator and poured a glass of orange juice, hoping to stabilize her blood sugar. She hadn't expected him to trap her into a confession, to leave her weak-limbed and shaky.

  "You okay?" he asked.

  She sipped the juice and nodded. He was being attentive, but not in a warm, caring way. The man watching her was cool and cautious. But she could hardly blame him. Why should he trust her?

  "Can we go to the game room?" she asked.

  He raised his eyebrows. "Why? Do you want to challenge me to a game of pool? Wager on whether or not I'll turn you in?"

  Her chest constricted. "No. I want to play some music on the jukebox." Something to calm her nerves, something soft and familiar.

  "Be my guest." He gestured, indicating for her to lead the way.

  Once they were in the game room, she scanned the jukebox, making her selections, choosing classic love songs.

  Michael didn't comment. He got himself a bottled soda and settled onto a bar stool. He looked tired, she thought. Hard-edged and exhausted.

  "I never meant to hurt you," she said. To drag him into her sordid existence.

  "But you meant to hurt your dad." He removed the cap on his cola and tossed it into a trash can beside the bar. "You meant to threaten him."

  "Yes, but it took years for my hatred to build, years of hoping and praying that he would return to Vietnam someday, that he hadn't forgotten about my mother." She sat on a futon couch near the window. The room was decorated with casual furnishings, offering seating arrangements around the pool table and air hockey game table. "When I was in the refugee camp in the Philippines, I struggled with my hatred. The camp was filled with other Amerasians and most of them still had hope of finding their fathers and being accepted into their lives. And deep down, I wanted to feel that way, too."

  "So when did you start hating Danforth enough to threaten him?"

  "After I came to America and discovered that he'd been married when he slept with my mother, that he had other children." She sipped her juice, combating the dryness in her mouth. "My mother told me that he was injured when they'd met, that he was struggling with his memory. But she never entertained the possibility that he could have been married."

  Michael leaned forward. "Why not?"

  "Because she said he wasn't the kind of man who would forget that he had a wife. No matter how injured he was."

  "Amnesia doesn't work that way."

  "It can. Some people have selective amnesia. Besides, he told my mother his first name." She glanced out the window, tears fogging her eyes. "That much Abraham knew about himself."

  "Maybe so, but he didn't remember that he was married. It wasn't his fault."

  "It felt like his fault to me. He seemed like a liar and a cheat."

  Michael turned quiet, and Lea took a ragged breath. When another song began to play, the lyrics drifted like childhood ghosts, floating between them, making her eyes water even more. But even so, she knew there was nothing left to say in her defense. Threatening her father was wrong.

  "What did the note with the virus mean?" Michael asked.

  Shame coiled around her heart. "Expect the unexpected? This isn't over?"

  "Exactly. Explain that to me."

  "It meant what you assumed it did. That Lady Savannah had something specific in mind for Abraham Danforth."

  "Which was?"

  "Destroying his political career at a public event, announcing to the world that Honest Abe had cheated on his wife, that he'd abandoned a child in Vietnam."

  Michael frowned. "And that public event turned out to be the July Fourth fund-raiser?"

  "Yes. I attended the fund-raiser with a synchronized plan. First, I would confront Abraham and tell him who I was. Then, while his head was still reeling from the news, I would make the same announcement at the podium, letting everyone know that he was a liar and a cheat."

  "But you never approached the podium." He glanced up and snared her gaze. "You started shaking instead."

  "Because Abraham didn't react the way I'd expected. He didn't deny that I could be his daughter. He didn't even try to defend himself. And I could tell he wasn't lying when he said that he thought my mother had died when her village was destroyed." Lea held Michael's gaze, even though it was difficult to look at him, to know he was judging her. "At that point, it was all I could do to remain standing, to stop myself from falling apart."

  He closed his eyes, and she sensed he was thinking about the way she'd cried in his arms that night, the way they'd touched and kissed and made sweet, desperate love.

  "Are you sorry for what you did?" he asked.

  "For threatening my father?" She crossed her arms, hugging herself, wishing Michael would hold her instead. "I'm extremely sorry. If I could take it back, I would."

  He shifted in his seat. "Did you honestly think that you'd get away with it? That someone wouldn't connect Lady Savannah to you?"

  "I didn't leave any evidence, so what proof would there be? I thought I was safe."

  "And you were." He paused to finish his drink, to push away the bottle, to leave streaks across the lacquered bar top. "Until you started sleeping with me."

  Yes, she thought. She'd gotten too close to her father's bodyguard, too close to the man investigating the case. "I don't regret being with you."

  "Even now? After I trapped you?"

  "That doesn't change how I feel." She couldn't make herself stop loving him. She couldn't turn off her emotions. "This is part of your job."

  "And now here we are. The stalker and the detective." When the music stopped, he glanced at the jukebox. "We never really got the chance to enjoy each other's company. Not the way a regular couple would."

  She understood what he meant, but they couldn't change the nature of their relationship, not after what she'd done. "Are you going to turn me in?"

  "Yes," he responded. "But not to the police. I've decided to leave that up to your father."

  She reached for a decorative pillow and held it against her heart, against the thundering beats. "Do you think he'll press charges?"

  "I have no idea."

  "What are you going to say to him?"

  "I'm going to tell him the truth."

  "When?" she asked, her heart still pounding.

  "Today. Right now." Michael rose from his chair. "And you're coming with me."

  * * *

  Lea changed her clothes four times, which made no sense. It was too late to make an impression on her father, yet she was determined to look nice.

  Michael probably thought she was crazy.

  And what would Abraham Danforth think? she wondered. What would he think once he learned the truth? That Lea Nguyen was Lady Savannah?

  "I don't want to do this," she said, wishing she could bolt, but knowing there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. "I don't want to face him."

  "You don't have a choice." Michael steered the car toward Crofthaven, a magnificent Georgian-style mansion just outside Savannah. Along the way, oaks festooned with Spanish moss made a glorious presentation.


  When the white-columned house came into view, Lea's anxiety worsened. She didn't want to feel like a frightened little girl with rock welts on her body, but how could she feel strong and secure? Worthy of being Abraham Danforth's daughter after what she'd done?

  "Bui doi," she said.

  Michael turned to look at her. "What?"

  "Bui doi. It means dust of life. The poorest of the poor."

  His expression softened. "Is that what you were in Vietnam?"

  "No. But many my lai children were. They lived on the streets. They committed crimes. They took drugs. They became prostitutes. They were the underbelly of society." She smoothed her skirt, fidgeting with the carefully ironed fabric. "My mother did everything she could to stop that from happening to me."

  "Lan must have been an exceptional woman."

  "Yes. But now I've shamed her. I've dishonored her memory."

  He parked in an exquisite driveway. "Because you committed a crime?"

  Lea nodded. "Against my father, no less."

  He frowned at her. "That doesn't make you the dust of life."

  "Then what does it make me?" she asked, gazing into his eyes and watching the afternoon light shift in their depths.

  When he didn't respond, her heart turned sad. She wasn't the poorest of the poor, living in the bowels of society, yet she'd behaved as though she were.

  "Let's go," he said. "I called ahead. Danforth is expecting us."

  She stood on the massive porch with Michael, the mansion looming over her. "Did you warn him what this meeting was about?"

  "No. I just said it was important."

  She took a deep breath. Flowers bloomed, scenting the air with sweet, sunlit fragrances.

  A housekeeper opened the front door and a few minutes later, Lea and Michael waited in a sitting room rife with antiques, two glasses of freshly squeezed lemonade at their disposal.

  To Lea, Abraham's home was a Southern castle, with crystal and china and a collection of what she assumed were real Fabergé eggs displayed on a glass shelf.

  As a child, she'd assumed all Americans were rich, but her young my lai view of rich couldn't compare to the trappings of a place like Crofthaven.