Saving Savannah (Siren Publishing Classic)

by Saving Savannah

  With a few clicks, she closed down the program, safely removed the drive, and started shutting down the laptop. Her movements were efficient, precise. The computer, the cords, the bag, they went together like jigsaw pieces, a one-way only fit, into the case, and she could work the puzzle with her eyes closed.

  She encroached on his life, his good graces, and even his morality long enough. Better to distance herself now, while she was slipping further and further under a spell she might not be able to break without losing some very vital pieces of herself.

  Too late, her mind roared.

  * * * *

  She was leaving. It hit him like a ton of bricks.

  But even then, she wouldn’t be letting it go, Trevor realized. She’d tried to absolve him from guilt by telling him she understood the predicament she was putting him in. Without her uttering another syllable, he knew that for her there would be no absolution until she could close her eyes without seeing this missing woman’s face.

  Her demons could only be banished when she’d put Eric Rothschild away. She’d do it with or without his help. There was no mistaking her streak of determination.

  Shit.

  “This isn’t a Nancy Drew mystery, Savannah.” There wasn’t a damn thing he could do to control his chiding tone. “You can’t go off hunting down a murderer on your own.”

  She visibly bristled. Her tone spiked a notch in retaliation. “Because of my mistake, that murderer is running around on Daddy’s dime and, in part, the city’s as well. Playing tennis at the club, golfing with his friends, Eric’s going on with his life as if nothing’s happened while Victoria Tillman’s light has been snuffed out prematurely. Where the hell is the justice in that?”

  Arguing with her logic served no purpose.

  He’d stripped her of her sweater when she’d arrived, haphazardly throwing it over a chair in the entryway. She snatched it up now as she told him, “I have to make this right, Trevor. For Tori.”

  When she started to pull off his sweatshirt, he insisted, “Keep it.”

  She nodded, folding her sweater. “I’ll wash it and get it back.”

  “Keep it,” he repeated.

  She’d unwittingly broken a detective’s cardinal rule when it came to a case—making it personal. Her mistake. Tori deserved justice. It was a conflict of interests that twisted justice into revenge, and that conflict would put Miss Georgia into very dangerous territory. She’d do it without a thought to her own safety, without his help.

  She needed him.

  Not exactly in the way he wanted her to, but any need was better than none.

  The idea tugged heavily at his conscience. She was just stubborn enough to do it without him, but clearly she’d rather do it with him. And damn it, he couldn’t let her get hurt. If Eric or Mayor Rothschild suspected her involvement…No, he couldn’t allow that, either. Trevor Bird was breaking all his own rules.

  Savannah Beaumont was personal.

  Extremely personal.

  “We’ll make it right.” His declaration, literally, stopped her in her tracks. “But you aren’t going anywhere, Georgia, not tonight.”

  Maybe never, if he had his way.

  He grabbed her up against him and took her mouth with desperate abandon as he tossed her damp sweater to the floor. “We’ll make it right,” he echoed, sliding his hands under the sweatshirt and cupping a breast. “But right now, I want dessert.”

  A thin, soft smile pulled at her lips as she threaded her hands into his hair. She nipped at the strong line of his jaw as their bodies rubbed together seductively. “You owe me a handstand.”

  * * * *

  Locked in the long, tanned limbs and sinewy arms of the man who made her weak, Savannah lay awake long into the night, long after they’d had several helpings of the most decadent dessert on the planet. He’d taken his grandmother’s quilt and spread it out in front of the hearth in the den. She’d been too preoccupied to notice the crackling warmth of the fire until then. It lent to the quiet of the moment, the serious turn of his mood and the patience with which he undressed them both.

  Gently, he laid her back on the soft cotton and made love to her with such utter tenderness it left her breathless. She sighed as her body opened for him, whispered his name as he entered her, and wept as he filled her, emptied his passion into her while murmuring her name over and over with the reverence of a litany. Never had she imagined that mating could be so beautiful or touch her so deeply.

  Her body was gloriously exhausted, saturated in the most wonderful sensations. But her mind refused her weary body rest.

  Trevor was not happy, that she knew. One look into his eyes, and anyone would have caught the sparks of indignation, the flecks of amber in those coal black centers when they’d spoken of what had to be done.

  He’d rather she go to the Ann Arbor precinct and spill her guts, let them try to protect her. No, he would do that himself, on that she’d stake her nest egg. Clearly, his patience was wearing thin, but he was willing to set aside professional protocol, even shove aside his gut instincts, two things equally ingrained in his makeup, to give her a few days more.

  She wasn’t about to let it be for naught.

  If he told her to eat glass, she’d do it. Whatever it took to put this behind her, Savannah reasoned. Whatever it took to make this right.

  It wasn’t going to be easy, but she’d been prepared for that as well.

  What she hadn’t been prepared for was the breach of Peter Rothschild’s trust. There was no way around it. Having unlimited access to his personal accounts, his life, as well as Eric’s, was part of her job and further proof of the faith Peter Rothschild had placed in her hands. She was going to have to violate that trust in order to put away his son.

  Talk about irony.

  But she needed evidence—correction—they would need good, solid, hard evidence, something to tie Eric and the girl together. They needed proof of a relationship. Lawyers, judges, juries expected the ties of motive, opportunity, and method to tie a nice, neat little bow around the noose before they allowed an innocent man to swing for a crime he might not have committed.

  Was it premeditated or an act of impulse? Savannah wondered. And why?

  What had this poor girl done to spark Eric’s rage?

  What on earth could have cost Tori her life?

  Reflecting on Trevor’s warm, firm, naked body pressing temptingly to hers, jealousy was the answer that came swiftly to Savannah’s mind.

  * * * *

  Three days was an impossibly long, lonely span, Trevor found.

  They’d spent the weekend together, two whole days of being practically inseparable, but reality had hit with the workweek. Both were too wrapped up in work to indulge in another night of fantastic sex, much to Trevor’s chagrin. On Tuesday, he and Audie caught a homicide. The first forty-eight hours were the most crucial to an investigation, and not a second could be spared on personal matters.

  Savannah had been equally bogged down in paperwork, meetings, and the endless run of fundraisers for the mayor. What contact they’d had was brief and through the blessed media of AT&T Wireless.

  Foolishly, Trevor believed the time apart would cool his lusty heels, so to speak, giving him a chance to reevaluate the swift, all-consuming emotions he’d developed for Savannah Beaumont.

  Developed. Laugh, choke, sputter.

  More like been smacked upside the head with, Trevor reviewed.

  Oh, he’d reevaluated all right and come to the same deafening conclusion: he was horny as hell, and he knew deep, deep down, nothing else, no one else on God’s green Earth, could ease the ache but Savannah Beaumont. Worse, he wanted to hold her, to have her in his arms, to just be with her in the aftermath of their mating. He wanted that simple, gentle pleasure almost as much as he wanted to break the chains of control and damn near fuck her to death.

  Consumed. Hell yes, that’s what he was. He was a man consumed by his emotional turmoil. And a man consumed became a man on th
e prowl.

  He had her home address now as well as her home number besides her cell and work numbers, but he didn’t call. Maybe he should have. It was the polite thing to do. Fuck polite, his shitty mood decided for him. It would have given her the opportunity to tell him she was busy, that it was too late, not to come, excuses to keep him at bay. Refusing him was not an option Trevor was willing to give Savannah just now.

  He parked and crossed the street to her apartment building.

  The cop in him debated buzzing the labeled intercom system near the door. S. Beaumont: 8-C. He preferred to prove a point. He waited and not for very long. Five minutes tops and he caught a frazzled couple on their way out. Mom hefted a toddler on her hip while Dad, the happy sap disguised as a pack-mule, lugged a baby bag and enough paraphernalia to have Trevor wondering if they’d left anything at all behind in their apartment.

  “Here, let me get that.” Trevor put on a bright smile and rushed to hold the door while Dad struggled to balance his bounty.

  “Thanks, man. If I had the arms of an octopus, it wouldn’t be enough.” This came from Dad, who was buried somewhere behind a jungle of colorful toys.

  To which Trevor remarked in all honesty, “Who knew something so tiny needed so much stuff?”

  The statement elicited a laugh of sympathetic agreement, and the couple moved on while Trevor easily slipped inside the building.

  * * * *

  Savannah was nearly cross-eyed from staring at her computer monitor.

  Three cups of coffee and still she stifled a yawn. She’d just worked the kinks out of her neck and headed to the kitchen for another hit of caffeine when the doorbell startled her. Amy, her closest girlfriend, had called her earlier to say she wouldn’t be back from her business trip to Maine until early next week. She’d left Trevor a voicemail, which he’d then returned with a Tag-You’re-It message since she’d been in the shower.

  At this hour, who could it be?

  A check of the peephole had her breath backing up in her throat.

  She quickly unchained, unbolted, unlocked, and opened the door. Neighborhood aside, a woman living alone could never be too careful. And without preamble, Trevor strolled his lovely sculpted ass right on in.

  “Do you know how obscenely easy it was for me to get in this building, Georgia?” He shrugged out of his coat, tossing it over the back of the couch. His tie followed before he began rolling up the cuffs of his dress shirt. “A smile, a friendly hand, a few clever quips, and people forget that criminals come in all forms.”

  “Hello to you, too, Trevor.” Her voice was dry, disdainfully bland.

  Relaxing his domineering, angry stance, he stared at her. She was suddenly acutely aware that her face was devoid of makeup and that her hair, which she hadn’t bothered to put up, was probably a mess of tangles. Tonight, her PJs consisted of a pair of striped cotton Capri pants. And Trevor’s sweatshirt.

  “Damn,” he muttered. “You have the cutest feet.”

  Silly notion, Savannah mused even as she, too, admired the fresh pedicure and the tropical shade of polish tipping her toenails. Sillier still was the awareness that his observation made her feel as giddy as a giggling teenager.

  A sexy smile spread lazily over his sensual lips. “Hey, baby.”

  “So you charmed your way into my building.” She crossed her arms under her breasts, refusing to be charmed by him while they were debating the issue. “Then you shoved your way into my apartment, Detective. Point made?”

  Damn the man, he had the added audacity to smirk. Seeing those luscious lips curve had her licking her own as if she could already taste him. Her body was already humming with the need to be joined to his.

  “Yeah, but I give you kudos on the locks.” He turned and inspected each for his own satisfaction. The stance was all cop, Savannah noted amusedly. Hands at his hips, face stern, expression unreadable, his feet shoulder-width apart as he assessed the scene for clues. “Of course, the chain does no good. You crack the door, and one swift kick will have it yanked out of the wall or popping the links.”

  “Are you done?” Savannah asked, dryly.

  “Almost.”

  Before she had time to react, his hand snaked out and cupped the nape of her neck the instant before he crushed his mouth to hers.

  The kiss was rough at first, as if he were trying to punish her for some infraction she had no knowledge of. She was smart enough to know it had nothing to do with locks or chains or her safety. Instinct had her hands shoving at his chest, but then he shifted, gentling his assault. Softly, he brushed his lips over hers, running his tongue along the seam until she parted and let him in.

  His tongue enticed hers to dance while his hands cupped her head. Her sigh echoed around them. She felt the shudder of his powerful body as if it were her own, echoing the needs of desire. His hands took their sweet time traveling over her shoulders, down her back.

  “I was going crazy without you,” he admitted.

  She slanted her mouth under his, pulling him back, sinking deeper into the kiss. Nipping at her lower lip, he set off sparks of lust that shimmered on her skin, settled in her belly.

  Firm, warm, exploring, his hands worked their way under the hem of the sweatshirt and up her bare back.

  “Trevor,” she whispered his name on a shuddering sigh. “God, I’ve missed you, too.” It felt like years had passed since he’d touched her. He cupped her breast, working his thumb over the taut nipple. She arched against his palm, arcing into the sweet sensations he stirred as heat pooled between her legs.

  * * * *

  She’d be wet, ready for him, Trevor knew. No other woman responded to him the way Savannah did, swiftly, eagerly, and without a shred of false, coy pretense. Just the thought of it had him so hard it hurt. One swift move and he could have her shoved against the wall, screaming his name while she wrapped that tight little body around him. His cock jerked at the idea of being buried in her slick heat.

  Because he wanted it more than his next breath, he nearly shoved her away from him.

  The range of emotions that flashed over her features ripped him apart, shock, anger, and, lastly, hurt. The hurt had him bleeding out. And saying the words that seldom, if ever, left his lips over his treatment of a woman.

  “Forgive me.”

  The crack of her palm to his cheek echoed between them like the crack of a whip. He knew there was no disguising the fire that flashed in his eyes, but she gave as good as she got. The haughty lift of her chin, the cut of her glare told him she’d be damned before asking for his forgiveness.

  Her chest was heaving as she accused, “How dare you?”

  “I’m a fool,” he admitted and scooped a hand through his hair. “Want the other cheek?”

  There was a very pregnant pause. She seemed to be weighing the options of such a move. He was bigger, stronger, the match far too unbalanced for her to risk raising the stakes and his anger with another vicious strike. Surely, she didn’t really believe he’d retaliate and hurt her. But then, his actions were speaking louder than his words.

  Jesus, he was sunk.

  Finally, she asked, “If I did?”

  Feeling outrageously ashamed, Trevor stuffed his hands in the pockets of his jeans and turned his face. Instead of the slap he had earned, she cupped his face in her hands and pressed a kiss to the exact spot where his skin still tingled from her palm.

  He really didn’t deserve her. Savannah Beaumont was too good, too kind for the weasel he was turning out to be. Nothing seemed to shake her generous, compassionate nature.

  * * * *

  Remorse tore at Savannah’s conscience. It wasn’t enough to cloud the anger and have her apologizing, but it was there, keen and sharp as a razor’s edge. No matter how badly he’d hurt her heart, Trevor was the one now bearing a mark. Though she kissed the hurt she’d inflicted, his cheek still bore the pale pink imprint of her palm.

  Looking him dead in the eyes, fighting back a wave of stinging tears, she calm
ly pleaded, “Talk to me, Trevor. Tell me where this is coming from.” If they could just talk this out, if she could understand, maybe they still had a chance at something real, something lasting. She wanted that more than she would have thought possible a mere week or so ago.

  “Hell, Savannah, I wish I knew.”

  Sensing the lie, feeling doubly shut out, she felt the slices to her heart. After all they’d shared, she mused, for some reason he was angry and frustrated as hell, taking it out on her, and he couldn’t bring himself to give her the truth.

  Fine.

  Oh, the hell it was, but what could she do? She let him go and walked to the kitchen for the coffee she no longer wanted.

  A woman had to salvage her pride.

  With her steaming mug curled in her grasp, she leaned back against the counter, addressing him as coolly as possible when he appeared in the doorway, “If you don’t mind, Trevor, it’s rather late.”

  He ignored her blatant dismissal. “Have you had any luck with the jewelers?”

  So, the case was to be their neutral ground, Savannah mused. They could share their bodies, but not their feelings, not when the subject was personal.

  Damn him. Any ground she felt she’d gained by his opening up about his old baseball injury, his forced change of careers, and his family had been efficiently and effectively ripped out from under her with the finesse of a magician.

  So now he wanted to play adult and pretend he hadn’t just acted like a damned spoiled child. Very well.

  Act one, Savannah decided. “No, nothing so far. I’ve been working the Internet, researching the design. It’s Celtic in origin, but I’d figured that. And I’m leaning towards the piece being a custom job. My eyes are nearly crossed from looking at photos of everything from heirloom Tangier love knots to pagan symbols.”

  “If it was a custom order, that works in our favor. The jeweler would have a record of it, a name or maybe even a billing address.”

  “If,” she pointed out, “and only if it’s tied to Eric. Anyone could have given it to her. There’s no reason to think it’s significant to the case in any way other than dumb luck the thing came off in Eric’s trunk.”