Saving Savannah (Siren Publishing Classic)

by Saving Savannah

  SAVING SAVANNAH

  Raven Fyre

  EROTIC ROMANCE

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Erotic Romance

  SAVING SAVANNAH

  Copyright © 2010 by Raven Fyre

  E-book ISBN: 1-60601-275-4

  First E-book Publication: July 2010

  Cover design by Jinger Heaston

  All cover art and logo copyright © 2010 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of Saving Savannah by Raven Fyre from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

  Regarding E-book Piracy

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  The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment.

  This is Raven Fyre’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Fyre’s right to earn a living from her work.

  Amanda Hilton, Publisher

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  www.BookStrand.com

  DEDICATION

  For my wonderful family, as always, for their unwavering support. And to T, all my love—forever.

  SAVING SAVANNAH

  RAVEN FYRE

  Copyright © 2010

  Chapter 1

  Snagging the delicate silver clip from her hair, Savannah Beaumont loosed the heavy golden waves, letting them fall to sweep the middle of her back. Then sifting her fingers into the mass, she gave it a good shake, hoping for a sexy, tousled look.

  Please, God, let this go well.

  She opened the first three buttons of her silky, peach blouse and decided she’d never be able to stand it. For Savannah, it was a matter of morality, really, more than modesty, having been raised by a woman whom she loved dearly yet determining not to be quite as free-spirited, perhaps, as her mother would have preferred. So she buttoned the lowest one back up. Her next move left her chanting a supplication of thanks that her mother could not see what she was up to, shifting and shoving her boobs around in her bra, plumping them a bit to enhance her God-given full C’s like a damn floozy.

  She wanted them front and center, peeking out of the blouse, here we are! Look at us!

  If this worked, it would be worth it, worth the humiliation and the five-hour soak she was going to need to wash off the film of beer and smoke that would undoubtedly permeate her skin, her hair, her clothing.

  Note to self, this suit is going to need the dry cleaner’s magical touch.

  Deep breath in, she mentally cheered, and out. and another.

  Her nerves were working overtime toward a frazzled end. She certainly wasn’t a prude, but, God help her, she’d never in her life tried to flaunt her wares like a Jezebel. Even as the thought struck, she fished out a tube of lipstick, wishing for a shade to rival the most luscious cherries but going with all she had: Copper Sands and a coat of clear gloss. For good measure, she tipped off the ends of her lashes with another coat of sable mascara and decided enough was enough.

  Time, Savannah, honey, to sink or swim.

  The hair, the makeup, the high swells of perky boobs visible between the parted silk of her blouse, the skirt that could not be altered but was straight and falling to just above her knees, a plus that she’d worn her favorite high heels—it was as good as a gal could do on the spur of the moment.

  Sure, there were probably easier ways to get a man’s attention, easier, less humiliating ways. But she’d tracked him down—oh, so simple, thankfully, since her job put the city’s resources at her fingertips—and followed him here all cloak-and-dagger style, and if her impatient nature had to wait another minute to get the ball rolling, she just might scream. Or she’d chew her nails to bits. Neither option was terribly appealing.

  Who knew how long he and his buddy would be, knocking back beers and relaxing from a hard day’s work?

  She did know exactly how long she’d been wrestling with her conscience, debating the best route to take. Help was called for, but it had to be done discreetly. She’d lost far too much sleep and suffered way too much anxiety over this already.

  What if her indecision and her wavering had already cost precious time? No, she couldn’t think of that now. She was here. She was taking the risk. She could do this, she told herself.

  Back straight, shoulders squared for battle, the newly vamped Georgia peach shoved out of her compact car and sauntered toward the door of the pub. The spikes of her heels sank in the shallow layer of gravel, crunching along as she made her way. Mentally, she just kept chanting incantations of the children’s story about the little engine that could.

  I think I can.

  I think I can.

  I think I might be sick.

  Remembering the bigger picture, the reason for this damn charade in the first place, gave her the added courage to take the fear nipping at her heels and kick it to the curb like the ravenous beast it was. She even imagined the shriek of surprise and the whimper of victory as it slammed into the ground. In fact, envisioning it curved her lips into a smirk that was still riding her features as she sauntered through the front door.

  McGruder’s Pub was nothing like what she’d expected. Leave it to the Irish, Savannah mused. Here, a family would have been as cozy and as welcomed as the town drunk. There were booths, small round tables, and corner ceiling-mounted TVs broadcasting a local station or an all-news network.

  The wall behind the bar was mirrored and lined with sparkling glass shelves and pretty labeled bottles of varying shapes and sizes, each touting a distinct brand of liquor. The TV there was tuned to Monday night football: the Packers and the Redskins. The Packers were up by a touchdown, and the play clock was counting down for the extra point of a
perfectly sliced field goal kick.

  The cheer that went up around her said the attempt was good.

  The bar itself was well worn but well tended, shiny and polished so that the golden oak shimmered as beautifully as the surface of a lake in the moonlight.

  Spotting her target, Savannah strolled over to the curving bar and perched on one of the high stools.

  And so it begins…

  * * * *

  Trevor Bird knew the instant the woman entered the bar. He’d been minding his own business, relaxing and tossing back a beer with a fellow detective, Frank Bishop, when the air around him seemed to crackle as if struck with a bolt of lightning. The hairs on the back of his neck abruptly stood at attention, however, he never blinked, never even so much as inclined his head a sliver of an inch.

  But he felt her walk in, felt her gaze survey the room, felt her drawing closer, walking toward him.

  He’d never doubted his instincts as a cop. As a detective, he was one of the best, rising in his field further and faster than anyone his age, but Trevor’s gut had shifted into some strange, super-heightened alert mode that made him aware of this woman’s every breath. He wanted to laugh at his own streak of lunacy as he imagined flashing red lights and sirens whirling and screaming inside him.

  Then, to top it all off, the smell of her hit him an instant before she settled in on the high stool: Sexy, alluring, something soft and overtly feminine, with undertones of money. Whatever the scent, it had been pricey. He’d stake next week’s paycheck on it. Hell, it probably cost more per ounce than he made in a day.

  If one could bottle the essence of an unbelievably sexy woman, Trevor mused, this was it.

  The fragrance, a mixture of lilacs and soft, seductive rain, slithered into his belly and crooked its sexy little finger, tugging at the silky ribbons of arousal that had been lying dormant for longer than Trevor cared to admit.

  He was only human. Hell, he was only a man, a man with needs that hadn’t been met in far too long. And it was just too damn bad they weren’t going to be met tonight. It wasn’t his style—cop or not—to pick up strange women in bars. Only in the rarest of circumstances, like maybe a drunken, blurred weekend during college, had he engaged in a one-night stand.

  Now that he’d matured, a casual fling between two consenting adults that came on the heels of a few shared meals and mutual respect? Sign him up!

  The problem was his career was a killer.

  Too many late hours, too many cancelled dates, calls that came in the middle of dinners. Crime danced at all hours. It was never tired and never needed to catch a second wind or take the time for a drink to regroup. Work had slaughtered every decent relationship he’d ever tried to cultivate.

  No woman wanted to play second fiddle to murder and mayhem, and Trevor couldn’t blame them really, nor would he blame the job or himself. He had accepted it long ago. It came with the territory, and this was his territory.

  “What can I get you, sweetheart?” the bartender asked.

  The woman sweetly replied, “A glass of chardonnay, please.”

  “Coming up.” The burly bartender slung a rag over his boxy shoulder and turned to fill her request.

  It was the voice that did it, Trevor decided. The soft, Southern lilt conjured visions of magnolias and moonlight, of humid summer days lying on a beach as white and as soft as sugar while turquoise waters lapped at the edges. At the forefront of Trevor’s mind were plump, juicy peaches just dripping their ripest nectar. It was as if each word, each syllable, deserved to be savored. Nothing about her speech or her mannerism was rushed. Thick, divine, her tone was as seductively sweet as warmed honey.

  Uh glass of shar-done-nay.

  Trevor slowly raised his head, catching her reflection in the glass behind the bar, and very nearly swallowed his tongue. Miles of thick golden tresses fell over her shoulders. Big green eyes layered with a forest of dark lashes dominated her arresting heart-shaped face.

  Her tight little body was prettily packaged in peach silk and a narrow black skirt. There was no missing the display of creamy flesh, the high mounds of her firm tits, visible where the front of the blouse had been left to gape open.

  Must have been a misprint on the package’s bar code, Trevor mused, ’cause Fed Ex dropped this sweet Georgia peach in the wrong zip code. Damn.

  The bulge in his jeans was rock hard. Thank God the bar covered a multitude of sins.

  * * * *

  Mr. Burly with Tattoos was back with her drink. “Here you go.”

  It had been on the tip of her tongue earlier to snap that she was not his sweetheart, but the retort had fizzled when she’d focused in on the large muscular arms, the tats, and the brick-like bulges that formed the walls of his chest. His features were dark, harsh, and dangerous.

  “Thanks,” Savannah replied.

  She took a sip of the cool, sweet liquid then another, drawing courage for the next step in her plan. Unless she’d missed her mark, she had gained the detective’s attention, though he sat as rigid as a block of ice. Savannah decided it was high time to spare a direct glance instead of avoiding glimpses of skewed reflections in the mirror behind the bar.

  With her legs crossed at the knees and her skirt tugged up so as to reveal a naughty portion of one toned bare thigh, Savannah swiveled the stool in his direction. She slid a hand into her hair, cupping the side of her neck as she rested her elbow on the bar and tilted her face to study him.

  God, but he was gorgeous!

  “Hey there, handsome.” She might be struck dead by lightning for dressing like a woman of the night, but Savannah Beaumont was in no danger of being called to Hell for lying.

  The man was a study in male perfection that had her blood simmering under the flames of sexual awareness.

  He had the darkest eyes, Savannah noted, and thick, dark hair he wore a bit on the shaggy side and richly bronzed skin—all proof of his Native American heritage. The stature and essence of a warrior, she decided, with no small measure of purely female appreciation for an attractive, powerful male. Without the benefit of seeing him unfold his long, sturdy frame, she’d peg him at a solid six foot three or perhaps an inch or so more. It was well above her five foot nine that dropped to a borderline five foot six after shucking her fuck-me stilettos.

  Drag me off to the teepee, she wanted to beg.

  The photos she’d seen of him simply did not do him justice. In fact, her entire system was nearly screaming it, and her imagination went wild just thinking of him naked and at her mercy. She fought the urge to squirm as the V of silk between her thighs grew damp, slick, hot, and ready for action.

  Damn.

  He finally cocked his head in her direction. “Ma’am.”

  She probably knew more personal data on Trevor Bird than some of the men she’d dated, and still this was so damned awkward.

  “Let me buy you another beer.”

  “No, ma’am. One’s my limit when I’m driving. But thanks just the same.”

  Rejection. The taste was bitter on her tongue, but it was ridiculous, childish even, to let it get to her when this was all just an act, when what she needed was his help. Having him want her as a woman wasn’t a blip on the radar before laying eyes on him. Now, well, she was a woman, and rejection was rejection.

  Dammit.

  Every womanly fiber in her body was tempted to break through that glacial yet gorgeous exterior with a sledgehammer.

  How many whacks to get to the center of the gooey man beneath the steely reserve? she wondered.

  “Suit yourself,” she remarked more glibly than she felt.

  From her purse she pulled out a bill, dropped it on the counter, and nodded politely to Mr. Burly. Then, very purposefully, she pivoted towards Trevor as she stood, making sure to brush against him. Her nipples went hard as stone as the side of her breast pressed seductively to his upper arm.

  One painted, manicured nail skimmed along his bicep—misdirection tipped in Mango Magic—while sliding a
thin slip of paper into the breast pocket of his crisp cotton dress shirt. No one else saw it, she was certain.

  Her pulse tripped as her heart skipped a beat then both rushed on, pounding frantically, racing like a storm through her system.

  Or was it, perhaps, her pulse and his heart?

  The beating beneath her palm was surprisingly as erratic as her own.

  Surely, she was mistaken.

  * * * *

  Trevor felt it, clear down to his toes. He felt her hand press lightly over his heart as she met his gaze full on.

  The force of those lovely green eyes, the intensity of them, unnerved Trevor more than he cared to admit, and dammit, his grandmother’s words, her insistence that half of Trevor’s soul, that ancient warrior half, would know when it had met its mate, came flooding back to him. Two precious pieces created by the Great Spirit and sent down to roam the Earth, she liked to say. He could hear her calm, slowly articulated speech, her Lakota tongue, telling him how the two would never be content, never know the depth of true love till one found the other. Then they’d be sewn together by love to form a single beating heart.

  Trevor loved his grandmother dearly and appreciated the beliefs of his people, but, deep down, he doubted the wisdom of such mystical nonsense.

  From the end of the bar a shout went up as Green Bay made an interception. Neither of them moved an inch. Nothing registered for Trevor above the drumming beat of his heart. Time was suspended. Minutes seemed to stretch into what might’ve been hours. Then finally the clink of glasses snapped him back to the present.

  “Have a nice evening,” she was saying while blinking rapidly as if to clear her vision, breaking the spell that seemed to be keeping their gazes locked.

  Trevor sat stunned and silent. There was no denying it. The woman was unsettling, an invisible storm to cloud his senses. There’d been blatant interest in her eyes and a mixture of confusion, but there’d also been more.

  A flash of panic?

  No, that seemed as ridiculous as the legends of his Lakota heritage. His wires were tangled up for some strange reason, throwing off his usually spot-on instincts.