Hot Southern Nights

by Patt Bucheister

  "Yeah. Okay," he said grudgingly. "I'll be right there."

  Sam turned back to the woman who'd been the cause of the latest delay, but she hadn't waited for him to continue yelling at her.

  He caught a glimpse of the sleeve of her red jacket as she closed the door of her car. Feeling ridiculous, he wondered why he was so disappointed that she was leaving. She was out of the way, which was what he'd been harping on for the last five minutes.

  He stared after her car as she expertly maneuvered the small compact out of its parking space and drove away. It was odd how he remembered little details about her he hadn't realized he'd noticed. Like the glint of mischief in her green eyes, the small mole just below the outer corner of her left eye, the way the lights had gleamed in the auburn strands, making them appear like fiery threads of flame woven through her luscious brown hair.

  "Maybe it's something in the water," Darren murmured.

  Sam didn't have to ask what his friend meant. They spoke in the verbal shorthand of old friends who knew each other well.

  "The women around here do seem to have minds of their own, don't they?" Sam said. "Do you suppose that's typical of all southern women, or are we just running into the pick of the litter? First Miss Southern of Maddox Hill Plantation, now Little Red Riding Rude."

  "Beats me," Darren drawled, falling into step beside Sam as he walked back to the camera.

  "I know one particular southern woman," Sam continued, "who is going to put a major crimp in our plans unless we can persuade her to give us permission to use her land. Miss Southern's been a royal pain ever since we first contacted her."

  Darren glanced at his watch. "Which reminds me. Don't forget you have an appointment at her lawyer's office in an hour. It's only about four blocks from here, so we can go ahead with this shot before you have to hustle over there and charm the stubborn woman into signing the releases."

  Sam spoke to the man waiting behind the camera. "Go ahead, Hank. Get the shot of the group in front of the apothecary shop before we have Little Miss Muffet trotting in front of the camera next." Nodding to the cameraman, he said, "Let's do it."

  This time no one interfered. The actors did their parts perfectly on the first take and the sunlight held. The camera scanned the area in front of the shop and the three actors from two different angles. A minute after Sam was satisfied they had caught enough to work with, the clouds blocked out the sun. The timing couldn't have been better.

  Sam's mood had improved vastly by the time he left Darren in charge of the crew packing up the equipment. He would meet them all back at the hotel, hopefully with the news that they had finally gotten the necessary permission to use Maddox Hill Plantation.

  His staff had researched a number of properties in Virginia, but none of them met all the requirements better than Maddox Hill, which had the added bonus of being close to Fredericksburg. They would have to commute longer distances every day if an alternative site had to be used.

  Sam and some of his crew had visited Maddox Hill when they arrived in Virginia, and had taken the guided tour of the home. After seeing the plantation, and after meeting many of the reenactors he would be using, Sam knew the crucial battle scenes and hospital scenes were going to be better than he had hoped.

  The only person standing in the way was the Southern woman.

  Since he had a little time to spare, Sam walked the four blocks to the lawyer's office instead of driving his rental car. He used the opportunity to think about how to approach the woman. Her previous refusals had been blunt and without apology, accompanied by only the simple explanation that she didn't want her land used for commercial purposes. Sam and Darren considered that explanation pure hogwash. After all, she allowed the place to be open to the public for tours. There was even a gift shop on the premises where books, souvenirs, postcards, and an assortment of Civil War paraphernalia were available. That sounded pretty darn commercial to them.

  She didn't seem to be holding out for more money, which was also odd. The number of zeroes behind the dollar sign was usually the deciding factor in changing people's minds, Sam had always reasoned with a fair share of cynicism. After Miss Southern's first refusal, his company had counter-offered with more than the standard leasing fee. Darren had also supplied a detailed summary of how Maddox Hill would be used, which wouldn't require any structural changes to either the mansion itself or any of the surrounding land. Wild Oats Productions would provide more than adequate liability insurance to cover the cast, crew, and property. Miss Southern would benefit financially, without losing anything.

  The only thing they wanted from her was her signature on the lease form. They would take care of everything else. The answer from her was still the same. No.

  At least she had finally agreed to meet with Sam in person, although her lawyer had informed Darren that it was only a courtesy on her part. She wouldn't be changing her mind.

  Arriving at the address he'd been given, Sam thought he was at the wrong place until he saw, to the left of an imposing set of double doors, a discreet brass sign with the attorney's name engraved on it. The building looked like someone's elegant home rather than a place of business. Inside, the foyer had a gray marble floor and a ten-foot-high ceiling. Sam raised a brow when he saw an elaborate crystal chandelier hanging from an embellished plasterwork ceiling. And this was only the entryway, he thought.

  He walked over to a door on his left, which had another brass nameplate announcing the office of Judson Quill, Attorney-at-Law. The door swung open silently to reveal a tightly permed middle-aged woman seated at a demure mahogany Queen Anne writing desk. A modern computer system was sitting on another table to her right, which was the only indication Sam could see that showed the office was aware of the twentieth century.

  The secretary peered at him suspiciously over the top of her half glasses. "May I help you?"

  Sam detected an English accent in her clipped tone and a hint of frost in her eyes. She evidently knew the feelings and prejudices of her employer and his client when they pertained to uppity filmmakers, and in this case, she agreed with them.

  "Sam Horne," he announced. "I have an appointment with Mr. Quill and Miss Southern."

  The woman nodded once, lifted her telephone receiver, and pushed a button on the phone with a forefinger that was tipped with a lethally long polished fingernail. After listening to the party on the other end for a few seconds, she gave Sam's name with all the warmth of an ice-packed refrigerator.

  She hung up and indicated a door with a flourish of her manicured hand. As Sam walked to the door the only sound in the room was the hum of the computer. The deep-pile carpet absorbed his steps, making him think of quicksand sucking at his feet. The silence in the office was oppressive and intimidating, making him feel like a little boy again, when his mother used to take him to the public library and told him to sit still and be quiet. Not an easy task for an active, restless kid. Actually, he thought wryly, he'd have trouble doing that as an adult.

  Sam opened the door, and his gaze went directly to a large slab of a desk and the unsmiling man in his late fifties seated behind it. Having set up enough photographic shots for maximum effect, Sam could only admire the arrangement of the two high-back leather chairs, positioned so that the lawyer would be viewed between them when someone entered his office.

  Mr. Quill reminded Sam of a character straight out of a Charles Dickens novel. Iron-gray hair, golden-rimmed round glasses perched on a bulbous nose, and a generously rounded paunch suppressed by a tailored brown vest under a brown suit jacket. Mr. Pickwick.

  Sam's lawyer in San Francisco usually wore jeans, a blue chambray shirt, occasionally a tie, and a much-worn tan sport coat with suede patches on the elbows. Mr. Quill would undoubtedly have apoplexy if required to meet Carl Trenton across a conference table, Sam thought with amusement.

  He hadn't expected the red-carpet treatment, but a little common courtesy would have been nice, he reflected as he crossed the room. Since he didn't see
any sign of the Southern woman, he wondered if the lady was even going to show. Hopefully, she was just late. He'd had his fill of delays on this project. At this point, he would agree to just about any concession in order to get the use of her property. Within reason, he mentally tacked on, remembering Darren's latest lecture on the financial costs of this venture.

  Stepping between the two chairs, Sam extended his right hand toward the lawyer, who hadn't even had the good manners to stand. He let his hand drop when he caught an intriguing glimpse of a feminine leg crossed over the other at the knee. Something about that leg looked familiar, so he scanned up the leg to the hips, waist, breasts, and finally settled his gaze on the face of the woman who had interfered with his filming earlier.

  He stared at her.

  She stared back.

  "Hello, Red," he finally said with a warmth that he hadn't planned.

  "Hello, Wolf," Brett answered.

  TWO

  As he examined her face Sam realized Brett Southern had known who he was all along. He couldn't detect even a hint of surprise in her stunning green eyes. His gaze narrowed as he remembered the way she'd sauntered across the street in front of his cameras, and he wondered if she'd purposely set out to hinder the progress of his film.

  "I didn't disrupt your filming on purpose earlier today," she said. "Although I will understand if you don't believe me."

  "Do you read minds too?" he asked.

  She shrugged. "I would have thought the same thing if I were in your shoes."

  Turning his back to the lawyer, Sam half sat on the edge of the desk. He crossed his arms over his chest and studied the woman who was obviously destined to be a thorn in his side one way or the other. She had discarded the red hooded jacket and replaced the torn parity hose, he noticed as his gaze roamed over her with a thoroughness he usually reserved for his work.

  She was definitely not pregnant, he ascertained as he took in her flat stomach under a slim Wedgwood-blue skirt. Her heels and suit jacket matched her skirt, more additions he noticed since their previous meeting. Her shapely legs and teasing smile were the same as before.

  She'd disciplined her auburn hair by clasping the lustrous mass at the nape of her slender neck. Her hair should be free to blow in the breeze, he thought. And be stroked by a man's hand.

  Her eyes met his easily, no coy glances or blatantly sensual looks.

  "Miss Brett Southern, I presume?"

  She nodded, lifting her right hand.

  He took it within his own, but neither shook it nor released it. "Pregnant, unmarried, and a pain in the butt. You've got a lot going for you, Red."

  Mr. Quill made a sound of indignation as he scraped his chair back. "You can't talk to my client in such a rude manner, young man. I won't have it." He came around the desk and stood like an indignant penguin on the other side of Brett's chair. "If you have anything to say to Miss Southern, I suggest you address all your comments to me, Mr. Horne."

  Sam's thumb stroked over the back of Brett's smaller hand. Soft, he thought absently. Like warm silk.

  Keeping his gaze on her, he said, "I don't think that will be necessary, Mr. Quill. We know each other very well."

  Mr. Quill blinked rapidly as he glanced from Sam to Brett, then back again to the man half sitting on his desk. "You know each other? I don't understand. How is that possible?"

  "We go way back, don't we, Red?" Sam said.

  "Heavens, yes," she drawled. "It must be all of an hour now. In Mr. Horne's business, that probably constitutes a lifetime commitment, Judson."

  Sam didn't like her implication, but he let it go, giving her one point for a quick retort. "So you see how ridiculous it would be to chat through a third person when we can just as easily talk to each other."

  Straightening to his full height, Mr. Quill wrapped his dignity around himself like a comforting cloak. "If you are so well acquainted with Miss Southern, you would know that she is not in the family way. She also does not like tasteless expressions such as a pain in the…"

  When the lawyer couldn't bring himself to end Sam's earlier phrase, Brett did so in a dry voice. "I believe Mr. Horne called me a pain in the butt, Judson. To be fair, that's probably an adequate description of how he considers my part in the delay of his documentary. Could I have my hand back, Mr. Horne? Even though I have another one, I've grown rather fond of this one and might need it later."

  Sam was amazed at the reluctance he felt when he relaxed his grip on her hand. He'd originally retained his hold only to make a point of being the one in control. He hadn't expected to like the feel of her skin. Or to wonder what the rest of her felt like underneath the clothes she wore.

  "If you aren't with child," he said, "why were you carrying all that baby stuff in the basket?"

  "It's my business."

  "Come on, Red," he said coaxingly. "Don't get all standoffish on me. Not now that we've become so close. It's a perfectly normal question under the circumstances."

  She gave him a half smile. "You misunderstood. Gift baskets are my business. I own Southern Touch, a store that designs and sells candies and cakes in specialty baskets for a variety of occasions. I was delivering a friend's order for a baby-shower gift when I accidentally trespassed across the street you were filming."

  "Accidentally?" he asked softly.

  "At first," she admitted. "Then when I realized who you were and why you were in Fredericks-burg, I decided it might be fun to take my time strolling across the street. I admit it was childish, but I thoroughly enjoyed the experience. Except for the tumble."

  He'd thought as much, but liked having it confirmed. "What exactly are your objections to the documentary we're making about the battle of Fredericksburg, Red? If we were filming an X-rated movie or doing a sleazy expose, I could understand your opposition. Considering the films I make are fairly respectable, I'm puzzled why you want to halt production."

  She stood, which, to Sam's delight, brought her closer to him. "I don't have a problem with the subject of your documentary, Mr. Horne. I just don't want Maddox Hill featured in it at this time."

  Mr. Quill spoke then, obviously feeling the need to earn his retainer. "Miss Southern is not required to supply a reason for her decision, Mr. Horne. It is her property to do with as she wishes, and she does not want to have strangers invading her family home."

  Sam spoke directly to Brett as though the lawyer wasn't even there. "You can't deny that the plantation is part of history. Your father even wrote a book about Maddox Hill's past. People visit the plantation because of its historical significance and the fact that it's been kept basically the way it was since before the Civil War. You allow visitors to take photographs and tramp through the place. The gift shop sells videocassette tours along with postcards and framed prints of the mansion and the grounds. Why forbid my cameras when you permit tourists to use theirs?"

  "Visitors snap photos to show their friends and family back home. Then the pictures are stuck into albums and put away. Your film will be shown to millions of television viewers."

  "So your complaint is that the film will attract more visitors to the house?"

  She shook her head. "The revenue from admission fees helps to pay for the maintenance on the house and property. More attendance would make my accountant happy."

  Mr. Quill again contributed his two cents' worth, which, Sam thought, would net him quite a bit more in his fee. "I repeat, Mr. Horne, Miss Southern is not obligated to explain why she is rejecting your offer. She is an extremely private person who does not want her family home invaded by hordes of people who care little for tradition."

  Sam turned his head slowly to pin the attorney with a cold stare. "You don't know what the hell you're talking about, Quill, so butt out until you can contribute something helpful."

  The attorney made a stuttering sound, obviously angered. "Well, I never!"

  "Well, you should," Sam said, before bringing his gaze back to Brett. "Do you agree with him? Is it my style of directing that'
s the problem?"

  "Of course not. Your work is brilliant, and I'll be tuned in to the program like everyone else when it's on."

  "If it isn't that, then what is it?"

  Brett walked around the chair and placed her hands on the top of its back as she faced him again. "Since neither you nor your partner have accepted my refusal on paper or over the phone, I asked Judson to arrange this meeting so I could tell you face-to-face that I won't allow Maddox Hill to be part of your documentary. I'm not holding out for more money or trying to be difficult just for the hell of it. I have my reasons, and they are private. Please accept this as my final word on the matter."

  Sam watched her as she nodded curtly to her lawyer and walked to the door. She had a way of moving that was so smooth and graceful, she made his mouth water.

  For a few seconds he debated going after her, but he decided to bide his time and find out more about the current owner of Maddox Hill Plantation. He suddenly had a craving to know everything the flame-haired woman thought, did, and wanted. And it had absolutely nothing to do with his work.

  In Brett's mind, the situation with Wild Oats Productions and Sam Horne was concluded. During the next couple of days, she went ahead with business as usual without thinking about the documentary or its director.

  At least that's what she had intended to do. Thoughts of Sam Horne intruded at the oddest, and not always convenient, times.

  Stopped on the street by an acquaintance with a new puppy, Brett was chatting away quite normally when she abruptly thought how the little dog's fur was almost a perfect match to the color of Sam Horne's eyes. As she stopped midsentence and stared at the dog, the puppy's owner gave her a puzzled look and sidled away. Several other times Brett found herself drifting off into some sort of dream state, staring into space while images of Sam Horne danced in her head.

  On Wednesday afternoon, two days after she'd seen Sam in Judson's office, Brett gave a slide presentation about cakes and candies to a local woman's group. She was almost through when she felt the strangest tingling down her spine. It was similar to the feeling she'd experienced in the past, when she walked alone down a dark street and heard the sound of footsteps behind her. Considering she was with a group of highly respectable matronly women, sitting in a darkened private room in the city library, she couldn't understand why she was suddenly feeling so apprehensive.