She blinked up at him in disbelief. “You barely looked at me. Hell, you went out of your way to brush me off.”
He just smiled. “It’s damn hard for a man to think when all the blood’s rushed to his cock. Besides, I don’t make a habit of picking up strange women in bars, not even when they look like five-hundred-dollar escorts. The way you had those tits on display, and all that hair loose, taunting a man to grab a handful and just let himself get lost. Jesus, Savannah.”
Her grin took on a wicked slant as she splayed her hand over his chest and smoothed it low to rake tantalizingly over his abs and up again. “I’d dubbed you The Iceberg, with your glacier-like responses. Yet you had me wet the moment I set eyes on you, imagining you naked, aroused. And the real thing is far, far better than even my wildest dreams.”
Sliding his hand along her side, he cupped her breast, swept his finger over a taut, rosy nipple. “Far, far better,” he echoed.
Trevor swallowed hard, hating that he felt needy, not wanting it to come through in his voice how badly he didn’t want to let her go, didn’t want to burst the bubble of this moment. How he could have gone on holding her the rest of the night.
Hell, forever.
But he doubted she was ready for such a revelation. For now, he’d keep it light, play it close to the vest until he could gather enough evidence to figure out if her feelings were at least warming up in the same ballpark.
“Let’s shower and refuel with dinner,” he suggested and rubbed his lips lightly over hers. “Then I have plans to make you dessert.”
Chapter 6
Savannah half expected and wholly wished that the shower would be a repeat of the first they’d shared: Trevor fucking her hard and fast against the tiles. But he was infinitely gentle, soaping her up and washing her back, taking the time to caress every inch of her flesh with his hands and his lips. She returned the gesture, savoring the feel of his muscles under her hands, every ridge, every firm, bronzed line and magnificently sculpted curve.
This somehow felt more intimate than all they’d shared, more intimate than she’d ever been with anyone. It made her nervous in ways she couldn’t describe.
Nothing surprised her more than when he knelt before her and hooked a thigh over his shoulder. While she threaded her fingers through his damp dark locks, he set his mouth to pleasing her.
With gentle licks of his tongue, he traced her slit, parting her softest folds, stirring desire. He placed feather-light kisses along her inner thighs that had her quivering in anticipation. Tenderly probing her drenched pussy with his fingers, Trevor fanned the flames his mouth had sparked. The mildest of tugs, as he nipped at her swollen, aching clit, had a most devastating effect, effortlessly pulling her closer and closer to the edge.
“Trevor,” she whispered, the awe heavily lacing her words so that they sounded oddly hoarse and thick to her own ears.
Torture. The most glorious, exquisite torture rode her body as he gradually, relentlessly tugged every fiber into responding to his slightest touch. He seemed to be savoring the flavors, the textures of her as if she were the most sumptuous delicacy on which he had ever feasted.
When the climax finally claimed her, she was so completely wasted from the slow, steep climb that her knees buckled. The scream caught in her throat and finally escaped in a wave of whimpers as she simply collapsed.
Instinctively, he was there, steadying her. “I’ve got you, baby.”
She was vaguely aware of him shutting off the shower, and then he was wrapping her trembling body in a huge, lush towel. He grabbed another and briskly began drying her hair. Satisfied that he wouldn’t be leaving it to drip, she supposed, he tossed the damp towel and carried her back into the bedroom. With infinite care, he sat her on the edge of the mattress.
From the closet, he chose a thick gray sweatshirt that sported the logo of the Detroit Metro Police Department. “Here, baby. Your sweater’s probably still damp. This should keep you warm.”
“Thanks.”
The sweatshirt fit loosely, the hem falling to brush the top of her knees, and it held his scent: warm, woodsy, male. He stood watching her, staring at her actually, long after she’d fidgeted with the cuffs, rolling them up a couple times, and long after she’d blotted the ends of her hair again.
Perplexed, she asked, “What?”
“You,” he said simply and shook his head. He cupped her face in his hands and lowered his mouth to hers for a long, slow, seductive kiss that left her feeling lightheaded and strangely needy. “Just you,” he murmured against her lips.
She shivered, yet it had nothing to do with the dampness, the chill of the rain-drenched night. It was a heated shiver, a melting response from the blatant hunger that flashed in his eyes, from the way his touch scalded her skin, the way his words seared her soul.
Trying to shake off the wildly tumultuous sensations, Savannah busied herself with dressing. Scouting out her discarded panties and her jeans, she quickly wiggled into them.
Once they had both dressed, she followed Trevor into the kitchen and toward the alluring smells of spices and herbs.
“There’s a bottle of wine in the fridge and glasses there.” He motioned to a cabinet above the microwave. “Do you mind?”
“No, of course not.” Taking out the wine, she smiled. Chardonnay. The man was certainly attentive to the most minute of details, whether it be lovemaking or her preference for the pale, sweet liquid. “Corkscrew?”
“Yeah.” He pulled one from the drawer next to his hip, handed it over, and lifted the lid on a pan to stir the sauce.
Nosy, and without shame, Savannah leaned in for a peek and ended up laughing so hard that tears formed at the corner of her eyes. “Ancient Lakota recipe, my ass. What’d you do, Bird, open a jar of Ragu?”
“No comment.” He had the decency to look sheepish when he chuckled. “However, if you can name every single spice I added, I’ll stand on my head.”
Where had that come from?
“You’re on.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek. “Wait. What if I can’t name them all?”
He arched a brow and plopped a steaming pile of noodles on her plate. “Then you have to stand on your head.” He poured a scoop of sauce over the pile while he added, “Naked.”
Laughing, she shook her head and accepted the plate, taking it to the table while he pulled a loaf of warm bread from the oven. “A naked handstand. Hmm.” She worried her bottom lip, contemplating the skill of her palate.
It had better be damned good because there was no way in hell she was going to stand on her head.
Inspiration struck. “You have to write them down.”
“What?” His voice was pure innocence. “Don’t you trust me?”
With her life? Completely.
“Not on a bet,” she replied rather sweetly. “If you’re anything like Jackson, you’d sell your sweet grandmother’s soul to win a bet with a woman.”
He got up from his chair and dug out a pad and a pen. Efficiently, he made the list then folded it and placed it on the table, tucking it under the edge of the woven breadbasket. “There we go.”
Savannah twirled the pasta and sauce, scanning for flakes of herbs and spices before savoring the bite. It was good. Okay, it was better than good. Better than any jar she’d ever dumped in a pot and heated, Ragu or otherwise. In fact, it was fantastic. The man had serious skills—in and out of the bedroom.
And wasn’t she the luckiest woman alive to be appreciating both at the moment?
“Oregano. Parsley.” When he grinned and kept silent, she went on, licking her lips between bites. “Salt and Pepper are a gimme, of course. Mmm…Thyme. Garlic. Onion.”
“One more,” Trevor coaxed, sipping as his wine and watching her with amusement gleaming in his dark eyes.
Sweet, she decided with the next bite. “Basil.”
His smile broadened. “Give. But I reserve the right to let my food settle before I pay up.”
“Goes without say
ing.” Savannah smiled softly as she eased back and picked up her glass. Not entirely sure this was the best time to ask, she still couldn’t help wondering, “Do you ever miss it? The game?”
Unwittingly, she held her breath. Would he tell her it was none of her damn business? That it was still too painful a scar to scrape the wound, even after all these years?
Would she have to try to respect that he might share his body, but never his soul? And if he wasn’t interested in letting her in, could she live with the ramifications? A tight, uneasy pressure swelled around her heart with each second of silence.
* * * *
“At times,” Trevor finally offered. Maybe it was easier to talk about it with Savannah because she wasn’t wearing that oh-let’s-pity-Trevor look that had haunted him for years after his injuries. Every reporter, every fan seemed to be sporting just that look when they’d recognize him.
Her concern seemed genuine. She wasn’t asking for the sake of asking or in hopes of securing some exclusive interview.
Pushing his plate away, he reached for the bottle, refilled their glasses, and shrugged. “What kid doesn’t grow up wanting to be a star? Major league baseball is, well, major. I was luckier than most, making it as far as I did with the Braves. Befriending Jackson.” At the moment, omitting that fact from his life was unfathomable. No Jackson, no Savannah. The trade off suddenly seemed balanced in his favor, for a change. “And luckier than most to have found contentment with another career when that dream tanked. Neither profession saves the world, but I like to think I affect people’s lives. Sometimes for the better.”
Sometimes, not. He thought of the wife he’d had to face in Trenton. “Those times, though few and far between, make all the other days bearable.”
She stood and started to clear the table, making herself at home, opening the dishwasher.
They worked together in harmony, rinsing and stacking dishes, putting away leftovers, washing up the pots and pans. He’d never enjoyed KP, and usually avoided the mess and effort that came with cooking for one, but with Savannah, the chore was another pleasant experience, another example of how fluidly they meshed, in and out of the bedroom.
Leaning back against the counter, Trevor flung a dishrag over his shoulder and toyed with a silky golden lock. “So how did such a sweet Georgia peach end up in Michigan?”
“A scholarship and the blessing of my mother’s sister, Aunt Pam,” she informed. “Rather than pay room and board for college, I lived with her while working on my degree in business administration. I worked several odd jobs, secretarial to cleaning services, before a dear friend of mine needed to find a suitable replacement for her upcoming maternity leave.
“She was Peter Rothschild’s office manager, back when he and his brother were still running their construction company. As I said, he’s always treated me more like family. His wife, Constance, she’s really a lovely lady, nothing like their lazy, arrogant son. When he ran for mayor and won, he asked me to stay on as his personal assistant-slash-secretary, and, of course, I was thrilled. The pay raise, the social step up.” She snagged the rag from his shoulder and dried her hands.
“You seem close to your grandmother,” she commented and reached for her glass of wine, “but you haven’t mentioned your parents.”
“Too much cold around here for their retired bones. They moved to south Florida a few years back. We’ve always been very close knit. We keep in touch with a few phone calls a month and emails since I sent mom a laptop last Christmas.”
“And the farm? I wouldn’t have pegged it for a cop’s M.O.”
“I grew up here, remodeled the house some after my parents left. You know, the usual updates—appliances, color schemes, hardwoods over carpeting. It’s like an outlet for me, a place far removed from the crime and bustle of the inner city. Well worth the extra drive time to have a little slice of peace.”
“Any brothers or sisters?”
He nodded. “Just one sister. Raine, she lives in Cincinnati. Her husband’s a doctor. They have a couple of great kids, another on the way.”
“Wow. I’ve always thought it would be great to spoil a few nephews and nieces. Sort of like practicing for the real thing. But Jackson’s not in any hurry that I know of, though, he and Claire have been dating close to four years now.”
“Practice,” he murmured, toying with one of the tiny silver hoops in her ear, smiling at the idea of making love with her until practice became the perfection of seeing her beautiful body swell with his child.
Snagged, he thought without an ounce of the apprehension he’d expected to feel. Hook. Line. And sinker.
“So you want the real thing?”
She paused in mid-sip. “Eventually. I’ve always wanted several, actually,” she admitted. “You?”
“I don’t think I ever realized just how much.” Until now. Needing to touch, to taste, to reaffirm the connection, he leaned in and brushed his lips over hers.
“I should, ah, get the laptop set up,” she stammered while easing away.
“I’ll get it.” Trevor retrieved her case from the entryway and brought it to the table.
She unpacked the computer, plugged it in, booted it up, and waited. When the sign-in screen finally popped up, she typed in her password and let the system pull up her settings. Then she connected the thumb drive into one of the USB ports.
While they waited for it to load, Trevor pulled his chair closer and turned it so that he could sit straddling the seat with his arms resting along the top of the back. Their thighs were pressed together and he had a front row seat for the action unfolding on the screen.
“Okay.” She pointed to the index of thumbnails and explained, “This is everything I downloaded from my cell phone. Now, the quality isn’t as good as a standard digital camera, but I’m sure you know that.”
Not exactly. His techno-expertise ran to Plasma TVs and stereo components—watching and listening, but not necessarily hooking them up. Still, he got her drift. And, yeah, he’d seen enough crime scene photos to compare these grainy images and condemn them as inferior, though he was smart enough not to say so out loud.
He watched, fascinated by the expertise in her delicate hands, as she played with some sort of software program, tweaking the color, sharpening the images, zooming in and out. There were twenty-two in all, he noted.
“Too bad I’m not clairvoyant. If I’d known the brooch was going to be there, I’d have taken pictures of the trunk before I tore it apart to get to the spare tire.” She sat back from the screen, looking deflated. “Or warned Tori.”
“Look. I’m not gonna bullshit you, Georgia.” Needing to touch, always needing to touch, he shifted in the chair and tucked a strand of spun gold behind her ear then, lazily, he brushed a thumb over the smooth, delicate line of her cheek. “This would’ve been better all around if you’d just called the police when you had the flat, but what’s done is done. Victoria Tillman is dead, if we both admit what our guts are telling us, and there’s not a damn thing you could have done differently to change that fact.”
* * * *
The warmth of his lips, skimming lightly over the knuckles of the hand he held, was heavenly in contrast to the cold she’d experienced at the reality of his statement. He was right, though she hated to dwell on it. Tori, in all likelihood, was gone.
“So you aren’t some psychic freak, thank God,” he said. “But you’re trying to do the right thing now by helping find her killer.”
“Well, we aren’t getting anything from these photos.” She minimized the folder, sick to her stomach of looking at the trunk and imagining it holding the crumpled, bloody body of the attractive brunette.
Remembering her dream, she had to fight off another shudder of revulsion. She focused instead on the forward momentum of her lunch-hour scavenger hunts. There was so little she could do that felt like putting forth a positive effort under such dire circumstances. Each tiny step in the right direction felt akin to leaping mountains at this point
.
“I’ve been trying to track the brooch through local jewelers. No luck so far, though, unfortunately. You’re the detective, Bird. Tell me, what do we need? What would give you solid evidence to arrest Eric Rothschild?”
“A body, for starters. Evidence that comes bagged and processed through the state’s crime lab.” He got up to pace. “I have to be honest with you, Georgia, there’s not much I can do without going to my chief, and leaving my partner out of the loop is fucking awkward. We’re a team. Not discussing it feels as lousy as cheating on a spouse.”
She respected him for his honesty and admired the notion that he’d make some auspicious woman a wonderfully devoted husband. But she was adamant. “The Rothschilds have too many connections. I’m not implying that your chief or the one in Ann Arbor are in any way corrupt, just that the possibility is there for favors and innocent passing of information among friends in high places. The risk is too great that my name could be leaked to the wrong source.”
“There has to be a way to keep you out of it.”
“Would you have suspected Eric Rothschild without the brooch?”
“No, of course not. And neither would you. But then, I’m not in the loop on the case,” Trevor added. “I have no idea what the Ann Arbor police suspect or what information they’re working from, and I won’t unless I speak directly with the detectives in charge of the case, which there’s no way to do without raising suspicion.”
It was all one big freaking loop.
He really was such a good man, deep down where it counted the most, heart and soul, and Savannah was wedging him into a painful corner he didn’t deserve to endure. Guilt weighed heavily on her heart. He didn’t deserve any of this, yet here he was, and all because of her. “I’m sorry, Trevor. I’ve laid this at your door and put you in a terribly awkward place between friendship with Jackson and career.”
Saving Savannah (Siren Publishing Classic) Page 8