STEAMY SAVANNAH NIGHTS Read online

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  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12

  © 2004

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  Prologue

  ^ »

  July 4th

  Savannah, Georgia

  Security consultant Michael Whittaker remained on hawk-eyed alert. The fund-raiser was in full swing, and he'd been hired to protect Abraham Danforth, the man of the hour, the fifty-five-year-old widower running for state senator.

  Michael, once a kid from the wrong side of the tracks, had earned his way to the top. His high-profile clients trusted and respected him.

  In turn, he put his ass on the line to save theirs. But he didn't mind. That was his life's work, his chosen profession.

  Along with hand-selected members of his security team, Michael had been acting as Danforth's personal bodyguard for months, after a female stalker, an unknown assailant Michael was still pursuing, had threatened the older man.

  Assessing the activity in the Twin Oaks Hotel ballroom, he stood fairly close to Danforth. A small group of guests interacted with his client, while others mingled throughout the expansive setting, chatting amicably.

  Michael shifted his attention to the petite brunette near the bar. She'd arrived late, keeping to herself. As far as he could tell, she hadn't spoken to another living soul.

  Why? What was her agenda? Her expression proved difficult to discern, and that unnerved Michael. Normally he could read people. He possessed a sixth sense, a gut instinct that enabled him to see beyond the obvious, to get past the surface.

  But everything about her mystified him: the creamy shade of her skin, the sleek dark hair fashioned in a ladylike twist at the nape of her neck, her exotic-shaped eyes.

  Even her attire, a silky blue dress that flowed to her ankles, baffled him. The color was bold, as vibrant as a cobalt sky, yet she carried herself with understated elegance, with a soft, reserved nature.

  She turned and caught his gaze, and for a moment, for one breathless instant, they looked at each other from across the room.

  And that was when he saw the emotion she'd been masking, the flash of pain. She glanced away quickly, but the damage was already done. Suddenly Michael wanted to protect her, to hold her, to…

  What? Kiss her? Cover her mouth with his?

  Hell and damnation.

  He cursed his hormones, the unwelcome blast of testosterone warming his blood. This wasn't the time to form an attraction, to get knocked off his feet.

  The only female who should be occupying his mind was Danforth's stalker, and the lady in blue, that delicate little brunette, didn't fit the stalker's description.

  As Danforth excused himself from the small circle of partygoers he'd been talking to, he glanced at Michael and motioned to a nearby terrace.

  Apparently Danforth needed a short break. Michael shadowed his client, and together they stepped outside.

  The terrace was empty, aside from a blonde seated on an ornate bench. Although she'd taken up residence in a dimly lit corner, Michael recognized Heather Burroughs—a polite, rather shy girl who worked for Toby Danforth, one of the politician's handsome young nephews, a single father who'd hired her as a nanny.

  Michael knew Heather wasn't a threat to the Danforth clan. He'd checked out everyone employed by the family, including the new nanny. He'd even chatted with Heather earlier that night.

  Respecting her privacy, he turned away and focused on his surroundings instead. The summer air was warm, the evening sky sprinkled with budding stars.

  Just a short while ago, a fireworks display had lit up the night, cracking like thunder. The massive lawn and adjoining terraces, including this one, had been besieged with people. But things were quiet now.

  As Danforth leaned against a columned wall, Michael stood near an empty doorway. And then he looked up and saw her. The brunette he wanted to kiss. The mysterious lady in blue.

  Was it him or the man he'd been hired to protect that drew her near? That motivated her to follow them outside?

  Danforth righted his posture, and Michael realized the brunette and his client were staring at each other. Did Danforth know her? Was she someone Michael should have been briefed about? Or did she have that mind-numbing effect on every man who locked gazes with her?

  The politician snapped out of his trance. "I'm sorry," he said to her. "I didn't mean to be rude, but you bear a striking resemblance to someone I used to know."

  The brunette blinked, and Michael suspected that Danforth's admission wasn't what she had expected to hear.

  What the hell was going on?

  "Was her name Lan Nguyen?" she finally asked.

  "Yes. Yes, it was," the older man responded, a perplexed line creasing his brow. "How did you know?"

  "Because I'm her daughter, Lea. Your daughter, Mr. Danforth, the child you abandoned in Vietnam."

  Good God.

  The father in question, the former Navy SEAL, couldn't seem to find his voice.

  Concerned about a security leak, Michael moved forward and glanced in Heather's direction, motioning for her to keep quiet. She met his gaze and nodded, letting him know she hadn't intended to eavesdrop.

  He acknowledged her compliance, then called his second-in-command, alerting his team to keep anyone else from coming onto the terrace.

  Most likely, Heather could be trusted, but the last thing Danforth needed was a gossip-bound partygoer walking headfirst into this conversation. Or, heaven forbid, a reporter.

  The Vietnam veteran hadn't denied the possibility that this mixed-blood beauty could be his daughter. Which meant what? That her claim could be true?

  "Lan … survived?" The older man cleared his throat, the roughness breaking his voice. "She survived the attack on her village? I thought she was dead. I—"

  "My mother is dead now," Lea interrupted, then teetered, swaying on her feet.

  Worried she might faint, Michael reached for her shoulders, steadying her. He could feel her limbs vibrating, feel her weaving in his arms. "Hold on. Don't pass out."

  "Take her home, Michael. Please, take her home." The request came from Danforth, who seemed genuinely concerned. "Stay with her until I contact you. Until we can sort this out."

  Then to Lea, he said. "You can trust him. He won't hurt you."

  She didn't argue, and neither did Michael. Much to his credit, Danforth did a damn good job of steeling his emotions. He returned to the fund-raiser under the careful watch of the security team, while Michael kept a trembling Lea by his side. He stopped briefly to speak with Heather, who made a solemn vow she would keep quiet. He thanked her, then escorted Lea to an inconspicuous exit.

  Once they were in the limo, her tears began to fall. Without thinking, he covered her hand with his, promising everything would be okay.

  But by the time he secured her address and got her home, he wasn't quite sure how to make everything okay. They entered her apartment, and she nearly collapsed, crying in earnest.

  He reached for her, hugging her in the folds of his jacket, holding her against his heart.

  "I thought it would be different," she whispered against his shirt, staining the starched white cotton with streaks of mascara. "I thought telling my father…" Her sentence trailed, drifting into nothingness.

  She seemed so small, so fragile. Michael didn't know much about the post-war children who grew up as Amerasians in Vietnam, but he'd been called a half-breed for most of his life. And the derogatory connotation still twisted his gut.

  She stopped crying, but he didn't let go. For nearly an hour, he rocked her, offering comfort.

  Then something changed, and they became aware of each other's bodies, of his fly pres
sing her stomach, of being strangers locked in an intimate embrace.

  She lifted her head and looked into his eyes. "I noticed you," she said.

  He knew she was referring to the fund-raiser, to that instant in time, to the moment she'd revealed the ache in her soul.

  He dried the moisture on her cheeks, tempted to taste the saltiness, to absorb her pain, to turn it into pleasure. "I noticed you, too."

  "The way you're noticing me now?"

  "Yes." He'd wanted to kiss her then, and he wanted to kiss her now. Desperately, he thought. More than words could describe.

  * * *

  One

  « ^ »

  On Saturday afternoon, Lea answered her door, then stared at the man on the other side.

  Michael never visited her at this hour. He never arrived at her apartment during the day, yet the Savannah sun blazed bright and hot, framing him in a warm glow.

  He looked incredible, with his dark hair and dark eyes, his square-cut jaw and stunning cheekbones. His shirtsleeves, she noticed, were rolled up to his elbows, but his trousers were pressed to perfection. Michael Whittaker, the CEO of Whittaker and Associates, possessed a conflicting charm: rough yet polished, right down to the slow, Southern drawl.

  A voice that sent naked shivers down her spine.

  Nervous, she smoothed her blouse and wondered what had prompted him to stop by. Did he want sex? Would he sweep her into the bedroom? Run those skilled lover's hands all over her body?

  "Afternoon," he said.

  "Hello." She looked past him and saw a shiny black Mercedes parked on the street. Was that his car?

  Lea had been sleeping with Michael for the past month, yet she didn't know what kind of vehicle he drove. Somehow that made her feel cheap, like a bar girl in Vietnam.

  Would he discard her after their secret liaison ended? Forget she existed?

  She shifted her gaze from the car to the man and then considered touching him, wanting to smooth the lock of hair that slipped onto his forehead. The midday light cast a slight auburn sheen to the dark-brown strands, something she hadn't been aware of before.

  But why would she? This was the first time she'd seen him standing in the sun.

  "Aren't you going to invite me in?" he asked.

  She blinked and nodded. He wasn't a vampire, although up until now, that was how she thought of him: her midnight fantasy, her forbidden lover, the tall, dark shadow who took her breath away.

  On the night of the fund-raiser, she and Michael had ended up in bed, touching and kissing and making emotion-drenched love. Much to her surprise, he'd returned the following evening for more, until a month of hot, lust-driven nights went by.

  And now, here he was in broad daylight—

  "Lea?"

  "What? Oh, yes." She stepped back, realizing she'd been blocking his entrance.

  He strode to the center of her living room, his hands tucked in his pockets. She couldn't read his body language. Michael wasn't the sort of man a woman could predict.

  Should she offer him a drink? Lea honestly didn't know what to do, how to react to his presence. When he arrived at night, the scenario played out like a naughty dream. She would open the door, and he would take control. Without words, without false pretenses, he would start the fantasy, thrilling her with his imagination.

  Sometimes he led her to the bedroom. And sometimes he stripped her where she stood and dropped to his knees.

  "Lea?" He said her name again, and her face went hot.

  Was she blushing?

  "Are you all right?" he asked in that spine-tingling drawl.

  "Yes, I'm fine."

  "I saw the paternity test results."

  He met her gaze, and her heartbeat staggered. She shouldn't be having an affair with her father's bodyguard, with the security consultant hired to protect him. "Then you know for certain that Abraham Danforth is my father."

  He cocked his head. "Yes."

  "Is that why you're here? To convince me to speak with him?" After the fund-raiser, she'd agreed to take the paternity test Danforth's attorneys insisted upon. But even so, she refused to form an alliance with the former Navy SEAL who'd sired her. Of course, she couldn't explain why, especially to Michael.

  "I'm not here on Danforth's behalf." He reached for the oversize seashell on her glass-topped coffee table, studied it and set it back down. Next, he assessed the drawings she collected, the sketches from sidewalk artists on River Street

  . She kept her bungalow-style apartment furnished with items that reflected the local culture, with no reminders of home, no painful memories of Vietnam.

  "Will you stay with me, Lea?"

  Her pulse jumped. "Stay with you?"

  "For a few weeks. At my house."

  "Why?" was all she could think to say. "Why are you inviting me to your home?"

  "So we can get to know each other better." He moved a little closer, but he didn't touch her. "So we can spend more time together."

  It was a compelling offer. Mystifying. Exciting. But Lea knew she should refuse.

  She toyed with the barrette confining her hair. "I have to work. I'm not on a holiday."

  "Neither am I. But that doesn't mean we can't have an adventure. Visit some clubs, go out to dinner, walk along the shore. Get to be friends."

  Her reserve wavered. She wanted Michael's respect, his friendship. But did she deserve it?

  "Well?" he asked, a smile playing on his lips and crinkling the corners of his eyes.

  "Yes," she finally said, anxious to be near him. "I'll stay with you for a few weeks."

  "Good." He smiled again, then gave her directions to his house and told her to meet him there at five o'clock.

  When he turned and headed for the door, he left her in a daze.

  She watched him walk to the shiny black Mercedes, flick the electronic lock, get behind the wheel and drive away.

  At least she knew what kind of car he drove, she told herself, as she rummaged through her clothes and fretted about what to pack.

  * * *

  Michael left Lea's house and proceeded to Crofthaven, the impressive mansion and estate her father owned.

  He took the paved drive to the gate, the path flanked by magnificent moss-draped trees. Southern beauty at its finest, he thought, cursing to himself.

  He was deceiving Lea, and now he was about to deceive Danforth, as well.

  But what choice did he have?

  Michael arrived at the columned mansion, a historical landmark built over a century before. Crofthaven boasted prestige and charm, as well as its own tragic ghost.

  A member of the household staff ushered him into the sprawling entryway, where he opted to wait for his high-profile client.

  Moments later, Abraham Danforth descended a spiral staircase. He was new to politics, but he had the kind of charisma that bolstered his squeaky-clean image. So much so, the media had dubbed him Honest Abe II.

  Danforth decided to conduct their meeting in the garden, a location that provided plenty of privacy. They took up residence on a marble bench, summer blooms flourishing around them. Beyond the garden, a peach orchard scented the air. But the peaceful surroundings didn't pacify Michael's nerves, didn't make this meeting any less stressful.

  "What's on your mind?" Danforth asked. In spite of the temperature, he looked cool and composed in pale gray trousers and a short-sleeve designer pullover.

  Michael wasn't faring quite so well. A line of sweat trailed down his back. The hot August day would develop into a hot August night. And heated nights had become his obsession. As well as his downfall.

  Because of Lea.

  "There's something I have to explain." Feeling like a traitor, he met the older man's gaze. No matter how he tried to justify his behavior, bedding Danforth's daughter wasn't a gentlemanly thing to do. "Lea and I are—"

  "Are what?" the politician prodded.

  "Involved."

  One eyebrow lifted. "How involved?"

  "We're lovers," he
responded, as honestly as he could. "And she's going to stay with me for a few weeks. So I'll be working a light schedule. My security team will continue to provide protection for you, but I probably won't be available."

  Danforth squinted in the sun. "When did all of this occur?"

  Michael knew he meant the affair. "It started that first night. I didn't intend to be with her, not like that. But we were attracted to each other, and…" He let his words trail. He wasn't about to admit that sex was all he and Lea had in common.

  For the past month, they barely talked, barely communicated beyond a primal level, beyond late-night hours of passion.

  "That first night?" Danforth stared him down. "I asked you to take her home and you slept with her? I entrusted you with her safety."

  "I know. I'm sorry." He paused, keeping his emotions in check, the tightness in his stomach, the confusion Lea stirred. "But she needed me. And I needed her. Sometimes these things just happen."

  "Yes, I suppose they do," Danforth responded, his tone quiet.

  Michael nodded, realizing the other man wasn't going to press the issue any further. But why would he? The widower was burdened with his own brand of guilt. He'd been married when he'd made love with Lea's mother. An affair that resulted from a war-related injury and a bout of amnesia, but an affair just the same.

  Although the media hadn't caught wind of it, Danforth wanted to come clean, to schedule a press conference and introduce Lea to the world, but she refused to have anything to do with him.

  "I wish things would have turned out differently," Danforth said. "I never meant to leave Lan behind."

  "I know." But Lea's mother was dead now, Michael thought. It was too late for Danforth to apologize to her.

  Honest Abe's honesty only took him so far.

  As the politician lapsed into silence, Michael pondered his recent suspicion, his belief that Lea might be the stalker he'd been tracking.

  Yes, Lea. The woman he seduced almost every night.

  She didn't fit the stalker's description, but she could have altered her appearance. And she was a computer analyst, more than capable of sending threatening e-mails and writing the virus that had crashed her father's computer several months before.