Locked in thought, he could do no more than sit and debate it while she strolled out of the bar. As he took another good long pull of his beer, his hand was unwittingly drawn to the spot on his shirt that was still warm from her hand.
“Nachos?” Frank, his co-worker, was asking.
Trevor blinked up in dazed confusion. Frankly, he’d forgotten his drinking buddy the instant the woman entered the picture. “What?”
“Nachos,” Frank repeated. “Are we gonna order nachos?”
Looking down at the narrow strip of paper the sweet Georgia peach had slipped into his pocket, Trevor remarked absently, “Whatever.”
H-E-L-P!
Four letters, one word, one bold point of punctuation that seemed to scream up at him.
Standing, he tossed a few bills on the bar. “I’ll catch you later.”
“What?” Choking on his beer, Frank coughed to clear his throat. “Where the hell are you going? The game’s not even to the half.”
“Something came up.”
“Ah, well, I guess I get that,” Frank chuckled, mumbling something else, but Trevor’s mind was too busy with other matters to discern the words.
He shoved out into the night. The crisp bite of fall nipped at his cheeks and his nose. Gonna be a hell of a winter, he mused. They’d probably see snow before the first of October.
The neon tubing of McGruder’s sign was bracketed by large flashing shamrocks, their bright green fluorescence dominating the glow that lit the parking lot. Like any prudent cop, he’d parked his dark blue Tahoe as near as possible to the lone streetlight.
And there she was.
Miss Georgia herself was pacing near the driver’s side door.
Disappointment struck first, but he shrugged it off as just another bizarre reaction where this woman was concerned. What should it matter that she’d whipped her hair up into a sedate twist or that she had buttoned her blouse and donned the matching jacket?
The vamped up sexy woman on the prowl had transformed into the dignified, modest professional.
Damn. The latter had him hotter than the first.
He imagined letting down her hair, ripping off her blouse, mussing her up, and putting that sexy come-hither look back in her eyes. He’d love to see the sparkling green gems of her eyes go blind with pleasure as he drove his cock into her. And that honeyed voice, how he wanted to hear her screaming his name when he shoved her over the edge of sanity.
Trevor scrubbed a hand over his face. He had to get a grip.
There was a brief moment where he fought and won a vicious battle within himself to alter his position on picking up strangers. The way he was feeling right now, he could go for shoving her up against the door of the truck and fucking her in plain view, but sanity ruled over the wishes of his throbbing cock, and, he told himself, there was the matter of her note to be considered. Though she looked far from helpless, she had sent up a signal. The respectable gentleman in him took control of the reins once again.
* * * *
“Oh, thank God,” she muttered.
Seeing him, Savannah rushed over. He had no idea the effort she’d exerted, just putting one foot in front of the other to leave the bar while feeling as if the ground beneath her had shifted so precariously.
What on Earth had come over her? The way she hadn’t been able to break the contact, the eye-lock with him. Strange didn’t come close to describing it.
“I hated doing that, but I really needed to get your attention, to speak with you. Could we go somewhere more private?”
“Look, Georgia—”
“—Savannah,” she swiftly corrected. “Can we just get in the Tahoe? Or we can go to my car.”
“Wherever. Where’s the fire?”
Baffled, Savannah tried to explain. “I’m not from Savannah, Mr. Bird. As it happens, I was born in Macon. Savannah’s where I was conceived, and for that I can only say, thank God my mother didn’t go with Caprice. Better to be named after a city than the car your mother got knocked up in.” She shook her head at the lunacy of the idea. “Please, I need your help. I know you’re a detective.”
Lifting one dark brow, he responded, “I don’t fix traffic tickets, sweetheart, not even for my grandmother.”
It was the sweetheart that did it. “I swear to God, if one more cocky male calls me sweetheart, I’ll poke his eyeballs out! What is it with you men?”
Trevor chuckled. “The honeyed accent just makes us weak. Of course, the body and the beauty also make us just plain stupid.”
Stunned. She felt slightly stunned. He thought she was a beauty? It shouldn’t matter. It didn’t matter, she mentally corrected. It had no bearing on her being here. Still, Mr. Iceberg had noticed her body. Well, well, wasn’t that interesting? She just might have to think about that. Later.
Feeling her anger melt, a genuine, soft laugh bubbled up. “Sorry. You’d think I would be used to it by now. I’ve spent most my life being called sugar and honey, sweetheart or darlin’. Southern habits die hard. My nerves just have me on edge. Hell, I’d have rather had a shot of whiskey than that damned glass of wine.”
She suddenly realized she was shaking and that it had nothing to do with the chilling night winds.
“Tell me what has you so worked up,” Trevor suggested, “and I’ll see what I can do.”
“Not here.” She was instantly relieved, but one could never be too careful. She couldn’t let her guard down. Her gaze darted all around them to see who might be watching, and then she looked up at him. “Please.”
Trevor punched the keypad and waited for the two quick beeps that signaled he’d unlocked the SUV. Then taking her elbow, he escorted her to the passenger side. She slid up onto the seat. Once he was behind the wheel, he locked them in, cranked up the engine, and turned off the radio. Then he set the heat to the lowest level, chasing the chill that had followed them in.
“Thank you,” she said.
Now that she had his undivided attention and the safety and silence of the vehicle, Savannah was at a loss as to where she should begin. It may seem foolish to him, but it felt vitally important to set her record straight before getting to the heart of why she’d tracked him down. “First, I’d like to, ah, that is it may seem insignificant, but I’d like for you to know that I don’t normally do this.”
“What? You don’t normally stalk your friendly neighborhood detectives?” His sensual lips tugged into an oh-so-sexy smirk. “That’s good to know.”
“No. Yes.” Flustered, she wrung her hands and explained, “I mean, no I don’t. I’m not a stalker, nor do I try to pick up strange men in bars or flaunt myself like some five-dollar hooker.” On that thought, she huffed out a breath. “And yes, it’s good that you know.”
Trevor’s smirk slid into a wide, wicked grin. “Honey, forgive me, Miss Georgia, but no one in their right mind would believe you’re a five-dollar hooker. Maybe a five-hundred-dollar a night escort.”
Uncertain as to whether she should be flattered, insulted, or, better yet, if she should sock him between the eyes, she decided to ignore the remark altogether. “Anyway, given that you know my brother, well, it wouldn’t do to have you think I’m some floozy, so I’m glad we got that settled.”
“Your brother?”
“Oh, yes. Jackson. Jackson Beaumont. And yes, he also bears the burden of our mother’s curse. He was conceived in Jackson, Mississippi, and, again, thank the heavens she didn’t go with Nova.”
Laughing heartily, Trevor hooked a wrist over the steering wheel. “Good ole Jack. I now officially know more than I’d ever hoped about the sonofabitch. Bless your mother’s heart. She’s sentimental, I’ll give her that.”
Her eye roll had him laughing again. “Lacking in imagination, I always accuse, and, my God, you’d think she and Daddy didn’t own a bed, but that’s neither here nor there. I need your help, and Jackson said if anything ever came up—”
“Absolutely. He’s good, I suppose? Haven’t heard from him in a while.�
�
The memory of her handsome, tow-headed sibling made her smile wistfully. “He’s great. Actually, he stays so busy during training and all the games, traveling, and endorsements, we rarely get to see one another. The schedule is grueling, but he loves it. He speaks very highly of you.”
She left it at that, feeling that anything more might be inappropriate, like rubbing salt in Trevor’s wounds.
* * * *
The pain, the loss of a career, a dream crushed.
How quickly one span of time, something as swift as a batted eye, or more precisely a wrong, twisting move, Trevor reflected, and everything could change. Everything could be lost.
“God, at times I miss the game so much it hurts.” Phantom pain had him rubbing his shoulder. Surgeries, therapy, nothing had been able to give him back the range of motion necessary to save his pitching career. “Other times, well, it is what it is, and I’m a damn good detective.”
“Jackson’s words verbatim,” Savannah said, beaming, “which is exactly why I’m trusting you.” She pulled a plastic baggie from her purse. “This belongs to the missing local woman they’ve been discussing all over the TV for the past couple of weeks. Victoria Tillman. She was wearing it the night she disappeared.”
Trevor took the bagged item, which appeared to be jewelry, and studied the intricacies of the circular design, the delicate loops of gold.
The crimson smears. Dried blood?
“Shit. Do you need a lawyer? Where did you get this?”
“You think I…that I had...” Closing her eyes, she snatched the clip from her hair. “Whatever happened to that poor girl, I had nothing to do with it, but I’m afraid I know who did. Very afraid.”
Every fiber in his body was teasing him to reach out and slide his hands into her hair, to tangle his fingers in the silky mass of it. Watching it cascade down, he had to stifle a groan. “This is out of my hands, out of my jurisdiction with Detroit Metro until they rule it homicide. My lieutenant can call Ann Arbor, talk to the unit in charge of missing persons and—”
“No!” She took in a deep breath then let it out slowly. “No, please. You don’t understand. You’re the only one I can trust with this. Why do you think I tracked you down the way I did? I can’t have anyone putting us together as anything other than a coincidence. If he finds out that I even suspect, that I’ve gone to a detective, I’m afraid my life would be in grave danger.”
“Protection is our specialty, Georgia. Whoever he is, we won’t let him get to you.”
She gnawed at her lower lip. “If only it were that simple, but this is bigger than you realize, Mr. Bird. Mayor Rothschild is my boss.” She paused, possibly to allow the gravity of that statement to sink in for a moment before hitting him with the rest of it. “I found the brooch in the trunk of his son, Eric’s, car, in the wheel well where the spare tire is stored.”
“Shit.” Trevor scooped a hand through his hair. “We’re definitely gonna need that whiskey. We can come back later for your car, or you can follow me home.”
She hesitated, biting the side of her lip once again. “I’ll follow you.”
He waited while she settled in behind the wheel of her car, buckled up, and locked the doors. Their gazes met through the tempered glass, and she nodded. Trevor climbed back in the Tahoe and pulled out of the parking lot ahead of her.
Heading south, they passed familiar stores, the high school, miles of roads he could travel with his eyes closed, but he kept both eyes open and the champagne-colored compact car in his peripheral vision at all times using the side and rear view mirrors.
Hitting the blinker, he gave her plenty of time to prepare for the turn, then continued on, further out from the heart of downtown Detroit. It was darker here, less populated, with no streetlights to illuminate the winding roads.
* * * *
Where on Earth was he taking her?
Savannah began to worry. Home, he’d said. She hadn’t even bothered to care or to ask just where Trevor Bird made his home. Jackson trusted this man, she recalled for the sake of her waning sanity. Hadn’t he assured his baby sister, whom he would protect with his own life, that she could do the same? However, despite Jackson’s best intentions, she was beginning to have her doubts.
Dear God, she didn’t even think of the possibility of Trevor’s connections within the department or politically.
What if he knew the Rothschilds? Eric?
Out of sheer panic, she called her apartment and left a message on her machine saying where she was, to the best of her knowledge, and whom she was following. If Trevor Bird tried anything, or entertained ideas of getting rid of her, she’d have the last word.
A clue.
A shiver ran over her spine at the thought.
Had Victoria Tillman done the same? Was the brooch her way of reaching out in a fated last moment? Savannah wanted to weep at the horrid notion.
She barely knew the woman, and yet Savannah thought she could understand a measure of the panic, sympathize with the fear in the way Victoria must have felt when being shoved into the trunk of Eric’s Volvo. Savannah shivered again. If Victoria had been capable of feeling, of grasping the reality of where she was and what was being done to her.
Had she even been alive? Where was she now?
These were the same questions that had been swimming around in Savannah’s head since the day she’d found the brooch. These were the same questions and thoughts that had her waking in the middle of the night shaky and drenched in sweat borne of terror.
They’d gone the last stretch without Savannah being consciously aware of the journey. Like a sheep to the slaughter, she’d blindly followed.
Stop it!
When she pulled in behind Trevor’s SUV, she quickly surveyed her surroundings. Split rail fencing lined a pasture to her left where a barn loomed like a cloaked figure in the distance. The house was a sprawling ranch-style structure that had been painted white and accented with dark trim and dark narrow shutters, blue or gray perhaps. There simply wasn’t enough moonlight, she noted, to be sure of the shade. Beyond the home and outer building, the land stretched and dipped and stretched again. Desolate was the word that came to mind.
Would anyone be able to hear her if she screamed?
Ramping down the absurd workings of her mind, she stepped out of the car and into the drive. Thin beams of moonlight filtered through the trees, dappling the crushed shale path. A single light glowed warm and golden from the porch, a welcoming beacon to her troubled soul.
Just setting eyes on Trevor again vanished her malaise. Ridiculous perhaps, but being near him, looking at him, nothing inside her could believe he’d do her harm.
“Home sweet home,” Trevor remarked dryly, while unlocking the door. He stepped into the narrow entryway and hit a series of switches, lighting a path towards the heart of the house.
Savannah followed, mutely, into the kitchen. She’d expected a cramped, sparsely furnished apartment with dirty clothes tossed about and dishes piled in the sink. What she found was a lovely, decorated home. Tidy, organized, and, okay, one bowl in the sink—a pretty earthenware bowl in layered shades of blue leading into gray—along with one spoon and a mug that matched the bowl.
Evidence that the man had indeed eaten breakfast.
Murderers eat breakfast.
God, she had to stop this!
He was sworn to protect and serve. He was her brother’s friend, and, most importantly, being with him, she felt she could trust him. Chucking the crazy meandering of her mind, Savannah determined that she was going with her woman’s intuition on this.
From a cabinet, Trevor took down two short clear glasses and a half empty bottle of Kentucky Bourbon. He brought them both to the table and offered her a seat by way of a casual motion. She took it, gladly.
* * * *
Witnessing Savannah’s vulnerability, her silence and the sense of apprehension and fear that seemed to radiate around her, left Trevor feeling utterly defenseless. And he ha
ted it.
Fucking. Hated. It.
Her identity, however, no longer gave him pause. So she wasn’t a gorgeous, sicko stalker. It would’ve just been his luck, but no, she was Jackson Beaumont’s little sister.
Okay, so not so little. Not anymore. The lovely woman was up to her mesmerizing emerald green eyeballs in a heap of shit.
“The brooch,” he coaxed. “You said it was in the wheel well. How did you find it?”
Her gaze focused on a spot beyond him, on the darkness beyond the glass of the widow over the sink. “Part of my job as the mayor’s personal assistant, is to handle the maintenance on his family’s vehicles. Scheduled oil changes, engine tune-ups, routine care, you get it. So, anyway, I was on my way to the dealership to drop off Eric’s Volvo, but there was dry cleaning to be picked up first, so I ran by the one-hour place over on Lexington. I forget the name.” She waved a dismissive hand.
Then, finally, she looked at him, really looked at him, and visibly relaxed in her seat. This is good, Trevor thought. She even returned his slow, easy smile, causing hope to unfurl in his chest.
“The car had a flat,” she explained, and Trevor was also happy to note she’d lost some of the detached, dull intonation with which she’d begun. “Now, they don’t call us Southern belles steel magnolias for nothing, ‘cause I know damn well how to change a flat tire. Thanks to my dear sweet daddy and Jackson. So, of course, I removed the jack and the spare. That’s when I found it.”
Accepting the glass with three fingers of amber liquid he’d poured, Savannah muttered her thanks and downed half of it without so much as a blink. She unwittingly earned a notch of respect from the seasoned detective. Trevor watched her savor it, knew the heat that burned over the length of her throat to settle in her belly, forming a warming pool of liquid courage for her to draw from. He downed his own as she went on.
“I’ve seen CSI and those other crime shows, and believe me, I thought of calling the police right then and there. Don’t ask my why I didn’t. In fact, calling you crossed my mind before anything else, but I was too shocked and confused to start dialing up 411 and hunting you down. I grabbed my cell phone and took pictures of everything, filled the memory chip to capacity. I found the baggie in the glove box.”
Saving Savannah (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 2