Savannah was in place, looking fresh and chipper and quick with a greeting as Peter Rothschild breezed through his office door. “Good morning, Mr. Mayor.”
“Miss Beaumont.” He handed over his coat in exchange for a computer printout of his morning schedule. Scanning her instead, he commented, “You look lovely. Quite refreshed.”
“Thank you, sir.” She fought down a blush. No way in hell would she admit to wearing the glow of phenomenal, mind-boggling sex.
“Going to be a long one, with tonight’s fundraiser.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve had Robert rearrange your afternoon meeting with the gentleman from the Parks and Recreations division, giving you time to make the luncheon at Our Lady of Grace as you requested. Robert has your speech prepared and is waiting in your office to tweak the content. I’ll be right in with a tray.”
“Wonderful.”
Savannah rushed to prepare his coffee, adding it and Robert’s preferred tea to a tray of bagels and condiments she’d had sent up from the café downstairs. As soon as Mayor Rothschild and Robert Lafroy, one of his most trusted political advisors, were served and satisfied, she delved into a stack of the mayor’s personal correspondence.
Three letters in, she suddenly realized she’d read and reread the same lines a dozen or so times without comprehending a single sentence. Her brain simply would not engage beyond conjuring images of Trevor Bird. His long, sturdy build. His deep, dark eyes, fixed on hers while their bodies were locked in a heated frenzy.
The steady, deep timbre of his voice soothed and inspired trust. Aroused. The way he’d made love to her, passionately, ravenously, without reserve, leaving her breathless, trembling, helplessly responding with her own outrageous hunger.
God, but the man was amazing.
Her hand was trembling. The paper she held shook, proof that her insides were as jittery as an addict in need of a hit. Disgusted with herself, she shifted her attention to the mayor’s schedule for the rest of the week. There were several unconfirmed appointments to be dealt with.
The morning went quickly once she shoved Trevor from her mind and forced herself to focus on her tasks. She was even quite proud of all she accomplished. The scant hours of sleep she’d gained, thanks to Trevor’s embrace, helped propel her on.
Using her lunch hour, she parked just down the street from the mayor’s office. Then with pen and pad and the local directory, she used her cell and began calling each and every jeweler listed. She’d decided to take the brooch and work backwards, hoping to find someone, anyone, who might remember the piece.
Glibly, she lied, “It was so lovely, but I have no idea where my fiancé purchased it. I’m near frantic to replace it before he realizes it’s missing. Really, price is not an issue.”
She went on to describe the piece from memory.
By the time she reached the M’s, she’d perfected the tale so that it rolled off her tongue as fluidly as her drawl. No luck, however, and she was out of time. She marked the page in the directory and drove back to work, promising herself she’d pick back up tomorrow.
If necessary, Savannah vowed, she’d try her hand at a sketch and go store to store until she jogged someone’s memory.
* * * *
Such a damned waste. Trevor shook his head as the thought tumbled around in his mind. Suicide: The coward’s way out. Now he was stuck facing a grieving sea of family, forced to grapple for an explanation as to why there’d been no other option.
Hell if he knew, but after all his years as a detective, he could take a swift, experienced guess.
Trevor also trusted the ME’s guess and looked to her for the preliminaries.
“Male, Caucasian, best guess anywhere between fifty and sixty years of age.”
Phyllis Walker was one of the best, a fixture that had been around long before Trevor earned his shield. Tall, willow thin, she was a no-nonsense kind of woman with a shock of gray hair, kind brown eyes, and a thinly set mouth. “Single gunshot wound to the right temple. GSR corresponds.” Those were the facts. “I’d say the body’s been here three, maybe four hours.”
“Here” was a downtown parking garage, one of many concrete labyrinths in the area. Nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary about the place, to Trevor’s mind—if you didn’t count the stiff. It was connected to an office building across the street by a walkway that stretched from the fourth floor.
Trevor was talking it out, trying to piece it together. “That would put him pulling in between eight and nine. Parking. And instead of heading into work, he put a bullet in his brain.”
Audie Baker, Trevor’s longtime partner, let out a low whistle as he strolled over to the scene. “Lovely. Flip you for it.”
“Hell no.” Trevor shot him a scathing look.
Audie may be in his late fifties, but he didn’t look a day over thirty-five. He ran every morning, scrutinized every morsel that touched his lips, and was determined to outlive his father, a man Trevor knew had died of a heart attack at sixty-two.
Trevor’s money was on Audie.
“You stroll in at the last minute,” like a cock on the prowl, he didn’t snipe, “you get to inform the family.”
“Hey, the guy wasn’t going anywhere.” Audie shrugged his wide shoulders. “I wasn’t going to leave a perfectly good lunch to rush over for a suicide.”
“A perfectly good lunch or a perfectly good woman?”
His smile was wicked. “In this instance, one and the same.” Perks of Audie’s active lifestyle: looking young, feeling young, attracting some very lovely young women. They were drawn to his boyish good looks, wheat-colored hair, and blue eyes. And oh, the charm. Trevor had witnessed many a fall. “You should try it sometime.”
“Don’t start,” Trevor warned. He wasn’t about to fan Audie’s flames with the truth of this morning’s unbelievable events. Of Savannah. Turning his attention to Phyllis, he asked, “Can I pick his pockets now?”
“Sure. I’m done here.” She nodded to her assistant. “Let’s get him out and bagged so the detectives can fish for ID.”
“George Weldon. 1528 Bridge,” Trevor read. He’d retrieved the guy’s wallet from his pant’s back pocket. “Trenton.”
After following Audie to the precinct, they left his Sequoia and Trevor’s Tahoe in the house lot. Trevor then drove them out to the suburbs of Trenton and the Weldon family home in a department-issued cruiser.
It was on the tip of his tongue, sour as lemons, the urge to fill his partner in on the Tillman case, but he kept silent. He’d never worked a case without Audie. He hated that keeping the secret felt like a wall of bricks was slowly being erected between them.
“Female or foul?” Audie asked dryly.
Trevor very nearly answered, both.
“Neither,” he lied.
“Right. So who is she?” That earned him a thin smile from Trevor.
“Sister of an old friend.”
And the Understatement of the Year goes to...
“Ah,” Audie drew out the response. “Off limits? Bet that makes you want her even more.”
Trevor’s lips pulled into a snarl. Having had her made him want her even more than he’d thought humanly possible. “She just needed a favor.”
Chuckling, Audie surmised, “Homely thing, is she?”
He was being baited, and he knew it. “Warts on her nose, missing a few teeth, walks with a limp. She’s a real prize. I could give her your number.”
“Some friend you are, Bird. Shoving off your ugly leftovers on an old man.”
“Old man, my ass.”
They pulled into the drive, sobered by the reality of what lie ahead. Trevor eyed the welcoming white door and the vine wreath with its twining brown twigs and bright red berries. Once that door opened and the woman inside saw their shields, nothing in her life would ever be the same again.
These were the moments Trevor hated most in his chosen profession: Ruining the lives the dead left behind with their selfish acts.
* * * *
Promptly at five-thirty, Savannah knocked on the mayor’s door before peeking her head in. “The car’s waiting downstairs, sir, whenever you’re ready.”
“One quick phone call, then we’ll lock up.”
She nodded and pulled the door shut, leaving him to it. Using her time wisely, she made a pit stop to freshen up in the ladies room down the hall.
Staring at her reflection in the wide glass wall, she couldn’t help but think of Trevor. Not a particularly vain woman by nature, Savannah had never worried overmuch about her looks, but she’d been told it often enough to believe that she was reasonably attractive.
She’d inherited her mother’s delicate features, lush womanly curves, and golden locks and her father’s green eyes and quick smile.
Trevor had called her beautiful, perfect, not words to persuade, as she’d already been half naked and pliant in his arms, a very sure bet, but words of praise. Those words had affected her far more deeply than she’d been prepared for. Even now, the memory of the way he’d looked at her sent ripples of delight over her skin, as did the memory of those deep, feral growls he unleashed when he came apart in her arms. The feel of his thick, throbbing cock driving into her, driving her into sweet oblivion…
Jesus!
She nearly groaned as her nipples hardened and her center went to liquid heat, dripping between her thighs. Her pussy ached, clutching, yearning, haunted by the memory of having him buried deep. She desperately wanted him again. Now.
Never had she felt this way, never had she wanted anything, anyone, so badly. The man had gotten under her skin, in her blood, like a fever.
Only Trevor.
“Jesus, Savannah. Snap a rein on it!”
Taking a deep breath, she stepped out of the restroom and back into the office just as the mayor was stepping out of his.
In the elevator, she briefed him on the names of the staff he’d be dealing with. They’d gone over it several times, but the press would be buzzing around the event, and it would be vital to appear as if he were on familiar terms with his constituents. Reelection was a mere twelve months away, and the campaigning started well in advance. His record would murmur to the few, but handshakes, personal appearances, and speaking one on one with voters shouted to the masses.
“I want to be out of there in under two hours.”
“I’ll do my best, sir. You’ll be speaking first, then the dinner will follow, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”
Of course it wasn’t. Savannah was a professional at handling needling press correspondents and over-eager voters. While he chatted and schmoozed, she ordered the car to be brought around to the back entrance and ushered Mr. Rothschild out in time to be home before the evening news.
Success!
And by ten, she was toeing off her heels and stepping into a frothy, hot tub of scented bubbles. Sliding in, settling back, the stress of the day melted off her shoulders like ice cream in a heat wave. In deference to the hard liquor she’d consumed the evening before, she was allowing herself one scant glass of white wine.
Cool, sweet, relaxing.
Longing for Trevor’s skillful hands, aching for him to fill her, Savannah thought of sliding her own clever fingers below the water, of rubbing her clit, diving into her pussy, and giving herself the pleasure of an orgasm. Just to take the edge off. Instead, she closed her eyes in agony, knowing nothing would ever come close to replicating the bliss she’d found in his arms.
Sadly, she knew it’d be a cold day in hell before she’d ever sleep peacefully without him.
Chapter 5
Savannah slept fitfully, as expected, just as she had the past two nights. Leaving her bed way before dawn, it was not nightmares of Victoria Tillman and the bloody brooch or of being trapped in a damn sweltering trunk that had her mind too keyed up to rest. Her demon of late had taken the form of one hunky, Native American detective.
And she was finally, finally, seeing him tonight.
In less than an hour.
Better shake a tail feather!
Their first official date, she mused, while scanning her closet. An odd twist, given the fact that they’d already fucked each other senseless, more than once. Fast and loose was SO not her usual style when it came to men.
Hadn’t she told him so?
Then she’d gone and proven herself a liar.
What must he think of her?
She hated that it mattered, but it did. It had nothing to do with being Jackson’s little sister, although she had no wish to taint Jackson’s reputation where Trevor was concerned. She certainly didn’t expect Trevor to tout his manly conquests to her big brother.
No, what was between them was between them.
Savannah desperately wanted what was between them to involve respect. Secretly, she worried he’d had time, too much time, to reflect over the hasty leap they’d made, rushing headlong into sex.
It was just sex, she reminded herself. It didn’t have to be so complicated.
Liar!
They were two consenting adults, who, in a twisted sort of Kevin Bacon and six degrees of separation kind of way, weren’t entirely strangers before they’d actually met. It wasn’t so odd that they’d leapt before looking, right?
They’d known enough about one another, known of each other and their respective backgrounds, with Jackson as a common denominator, for years. It was long enough, apparently, to trust their instincts and trust one another. They’d enjoyed each other, immensely.
Sex was a normal, healthy, physical response to attraction, to desire, she reasoned. It was completely normal, unlike the rhythm of her pulse at this precise moment.
Allowing her hormones to get the better of her when it came to getting naked and horizontal with a gorgeous, intelligent guy was completely natural, Savannah reasoned. She was blowing this all out of proportion. Silly of her, really, and so out of character for the practical Miss Beaumont.
Still, the flutter of nerves stirring in her belly was impossible to ignore, as was the tug of her heart.
There was still the matter of the case, Tori’s disappearance. They had to work together, no matter how they ended up feeling about one another. Figuring out the next move, finding the pieces to the puzzle of this mystery, should be their focus.
Priorities, she reminded herself.
Should she pull her hair up or let it fall loose and free? She went with free.
A sexy dress or jeans, which to wear for a casual dinner at home?
His home.
Get a grip on it, honey.
She had to remember that no matter what she might be feeling for Trevor, there was no way to be sure of his feelings for her. And, really, who had time for anything serious? Not her, not just now.
If she had to guess, she’d add, not him, not just now.
She tucked her toothbrush into the little travel case and dropped it in her purse just in case. Sex did not instantly equate to serious commitment, and neither did sleeping over. Besides, she’d made a conscious decision to put career first.
Any attempt at a serious relationship would only suffer because of it.
Case in point: the fundraiser. While pleasant enough on the one hand, that particular little meet-and-greet session had required her to work well beyond the proverbial hours of nine to five. If her personal life suffered, then there could be no bitterness as it was her choice.
She was a young woman, twenty-eight and healthy, vital, full of life. There was plenty of time for settling down, starting a family. Really, she figured she was luckier than most women her age.
Her job was fulfilling, the pay even better. It allowed her to live in a nice, safe area of town and to afford a great apartment, a decent car, nice clothes, nicer things, creature comforts. More than she’d had growing up. And bless her big brother’s heart, Jackson insisted on sending her a generous check twice a year. The birthdays and Christmases he inevitably missed while traveling or training. They never spoke of it, but she imagined he did t
he same for their parents.
Yes, there were perks to having a famous sibling. Unfortunately, she’d learned the hard way that there were pitfalls as well. More than one man had come onto her, hoping to get close to her brother by dating her. Autographed photos and uniquely personal memorabilia from the great Jackson Beaumont, the hottest and highest-paid shortstop in the history of the Atlanta Braves, were hot commodities.
Savannah had no trouble setting them all straight—and quickly. At least with Trevor, if he wanted something from her brother, he had only to pick up the phone or shoot off an email and ask for himself. He had no need to use her as a pawn.
And no need to obsess over the ridiculous, Savannah Beaumont!
She slipped on a pair of faded jeans, layered a lightweight blue sweater over a cotton cami, as the weather had taken a severe dip mid-afternoon. Hair loose, tiny silver hoops dangling at her ears, she decided both would do. Last but not least came a quick shot of perfume here and there to cling and tempt.
She’d bundled her laptop into a carrying case earlier and now stuffed in the power cord and a small black zippered bag that held her thumb drives. The portable storage devices held the downloaded images from her cell phone, snapshots of the Volvo’s trunk and wheel well.
Punctuality was a matter of manners for Savannah as well as a habit born of necessity with her position. In order to keep things running smoothly and to ensure that the mayor was on time, it was imperative that she do the same. In that vein, she pulled into Trevor’s driveway at ten minutes to the hour.
Around seven, he’d said, so she was not too early and not too late. It wouldn’t do for her to appear overly eager. Though she could think of nothing but being with him again, it wouldn’t do for him to know it, to have that power over her.
Especially if he’d decided it was best to step back.
She guessed they’d cross that bridge soon enough—most likely right after dinner. Which meant she’d have to force herself to eat and probably wouldn’t taste a blessed bite.
Good thing her nerves were squelching her appetite anyway.
A light rain had begun to fall, and she judged the distance to the porch with respect to the fact that she’d left her umbrella in the trunk. If she ran around to retrieve it, she’d be as wet as making the dash without it so she made the dash.
Saving Savannah (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 6