Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights)

by Amie Louellen

  Malcolm removed the cloth from his wound and tilted his head so Roxanne could get a better look at the cut. “Do you really think it needs stitches?”

  She looked up from the emergency room chart and examined Malcolm’s chin. As he spoke, the blood started to seep again from the crescent-shaped slit. Cameron must wear a ring.

  “Yes. About five of them. Maybe six.”

  He winced and placed the rag protectively over his chin once again.

  “Don’t be a baby, Daniels. Just think, it may leave a sexy scar like Harrison Ford’s.”

  “Harrison Ford has a scar on his chin?”

  “Yes.”

  “I never noticed.”

  Roxanne smiled. “Of course you didn’t, but every woman in America knows it’s there.”

  “Sexy, huh?”

  She chose to ignore that.

  “I wonder if it’ll help with my standings.”

  “Last name, Daniels. First name, Malcolm. Middle name … What’s the ‘B’ for?”

  Malcolm leaned his head back against the wall and closed his eyes, the towel still gingerly held under his chin. “Beauregard.”

  Roxanne eyed him sideways, pencil poised above the paper. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  Malcolm shook his head, his eyes still closed.

  “How could people put such a big tag on a little baby?”

  He shrugged, then turned to face her. “Tradition, I guess. It can make you do crazy things. I once read a story about a woman who cut the end off the Thanksgiving ham the first year she and her husband were married. He asked her why, and she answered because her mother did. So they asked the mother and she said because her mother, the grandmother, did. The grandmother cut the end of her hams because her mother did. And to make a long story short—”

  “Too late.”

  “The great-grandmother cut the end off of her hams because they were too big to fit into her pan.”

  “What’s your point?” Roxanne asked with a lift of her brows.

  Malcolm tiredly closed his eyes. “What was the question again?”

  “How your parents could have given you such a long title when you were so small?” She paused for a second. “You were a baby? I mean, you weren’t part of some government experiment to clone future leaders, were you?”

  “I was born like everybody else.”

  “Yeah,” Roxanne said, still grinning. “And you were probably wearing a three-piece suit and a silk tie at the time.”

  He shot her an exasperated look.

  “Malcolm.”

  Both turned as the doctor came striding down the narrow hallway toward them.

  Malcolm stood, and changed the rag from his right to his left hand in order to shake the doctor’s hand. He looked down at the dried blood on his fingers and winced, settling instead for a small nod for a greeting. “Dr. Seager.”

  Dr. Seager looked at Roxanne skeptically over the rim of his thick, Buddy Holly styled glasses, then shook his head. She didn’t care; she had the same doubts about him. Tall and bony, he looked more like a scarecrow than a healer. His disorganization showed from his rumpled and disheveled lab coat to the rumpled and disheveled clothing he wore underneath and in the wild, wiry strands of his graying hair.

  Roxanne leaned in close to Malcolm. “Remind me never to get sick in Jefferson County.”

  “Follow me.” Ignoring Roxanne’s comment, Dr. Seager turned and hurried back down the hall, expecting them to do as he had demanded.

  He led them down the brightly lit corridor, his athletic shoes squeaking obnoxiously against the over-waxed tiles.

  “Here we are,” he said, pushing open a mustard yellow painted door marked with the number twelve. He went inside and swept back the hanging curtain that surrounded the examining table and motioned Malcolm toward it. “Have a seat and remove your shirt.”

  Roxanne’s mouth went a little dry, and she tried to tell herself it was the beer. Truth was, she wanted to see what that starched white cotton had been hiding from view.

  “Miss … ” Dr. Seager started.

  “Ackerman,” she supplied. “Visiting Yankee murderess.”

  “Roxanne.” Malcolm’s voice was low and heavy with warning.

  “Miss Ackerman,” Dr. Seager continued. “I’d like for you to wait outside.”

  Whoa, now there was a dilemma. If she stayed in here she would get a mini version of her Malcolm strip tease fantasy. But leaving the room like the doctor requested posed the sweet opportunity to escape.

  “She stays.” Malcolm’s courtroom tone brooked no argument.

  Roxanne’s mouth grew even drier as Malcolm tossed the ruined bar rag into the small steel trashcan, then gingerly hoisted himself onto the table. He eased his suspenders down one at a time much as he had in her earlier fantasy. Then he pulled his tie free of the button-down collar and slowly undid each of the mother of pearl buttons. He eased it off one sleeve at a time, and Roxanne couldn’t help but think that she must be losing her mind. Yea, that was it. Loco-itis. That was why she was so enjoying an injured man disrobing for an examination by a medical doctor. Certifiable.

  Malcolm pulled the snowy cotton t-shirt over his head to reveal…not the fleshy, pasty-white torso of a desk jockey, but a broad, muscular chest lightly sprinkled with sun-earned freckles and fine, rusty hair. What was it about this man that had her infuriated one minute, then all hot and bothered the next? Hormones. Her hormones must be all jacked. Yeah, that was an even better excuse than simple lunacy.

  With a slight wince, Malcolm tossed the shirt aside. A large purple bruise was making itself known along his right side.

  She tore her eyes away from him and his unnerving physique and looked to the doctor for confirmation. What she saw instead was Malcolm’s cause of distress and lack of speed. The doctor turned away from the medical cabinet, an alcohol-saturated pad in one hand and a syringe in the other.

  Malcolm inhaled sharply and braced himself against the table. The muscles of his arms bulged and twisted taut as the doctor approached.

  “You’re not afraid, are you?” she asked, hoping to take his mind off what was about to happen.

  “No,” Malcolm replied, his gaze never leaving the syringe. “I just don’t like needles.”

  “Never has,” Dr. Seager confirmed. “But I’ve never seen you act like this.” He stopped and looked from his nervous patient to Roxanne.

  “Miss … ”

  “Ackerman,” Roxanne supplied again with a forced smile.

  “I really must insist on you waiting outside. You could go to my office, if you’d like. You’ll be more comfortable there, and I dare say—” he glanced to Malcolm's tense features—“my patient will be more at ease as well. Finish up what you know of that admittance form. We may be awhile. I think we should take some X-rays of those ribs after we get this chin back together.”

  Roxanne looked to Malcolm who nodded, his attention miraculously diverted from the needle the doctor held.

  “Yell if you need any help,” she told Malcolm, nodding in the doctor's direction.

  “Between the two of us, I think we could take him.”

  Malcolm even managed a smile, and his chin started bleeding again as Roxanne turned to leave the room.

  “Roxanne?”

  She stopped. Deep down she knew it wasn’t going to be that easy to get away from her attorney and prove Truman Silverstone had killed Jamie Valentine, but it would have been nice all the same.

  “When you get to Dr. Seager’s office, I want you to leave both doors open.”

  “Check,” she said, still not turning around to face him. If she did, he might see the triumphant smile working its way across her face. She would be more than happy to leave the doors open. Of course she wasn’t going to be inside, but the doors would be open.

  She started her exodus once again.

  “And Roxanne?”

  She stopped.

  “When you get to Dr. Seager’s office, I want you to sing.” />
  “What?” She whirled around. Surely she hadn’t heard him right.

  “You know, la la la la.”

  “But—but I can’t sing.”

  “I don’t care. Sing.”

  “I can’t—”

  “Sing.” He repeated with that no-argument tone in his voice. Man, but this guy ought to be tough in court. She sure hoped so, because at the rate her newly hatched investigation plan was panning out, she was going to need a good trial lawyer.

  “Fine.” She stomped from the room, her soles squeaking against the hospital tile despite her efforts.

  Dr. Seager’s office wasn’t hard to find. It was at the end of the hall as he had said, and the door proclaimed his name in three-inch brass letters.

  “I can’t hear you.” Malcolm’s voice carried down the corridor to the office.

  She rolled her eyes. Leave it to Malcolm to think of everything. Singing. She had thought this was going to be easy. Like taking candy from a baby. Instead it was more like trying to take candy from a two-year-old.

  “Any requests?” she called back.

  “Yeah. Start.”

  She began the annoying chore, realizing after the first few bars that she had subconsciously picked a very appropriate Elvis tune.

  Roxanne turned on the light in the tiny office, not really surprised at what she found. The doctor was apparently as messy as he was disheveled. Bulging folders filled with patients’ files were piled at least six inches thick all across the top of his desk. The trash can was filled to overflowing with wadded up balls of paper and who knew what else. Several bottles of soda in varying stages of emptiness were scattered throughout the room. Even the diplomas hanging on the walls were crooked.

  Roxanne shook her head and, after removing a stack of files from the visitor’s chair, she sat down. As messy as the office was, Loyal Seager could most likely lay his hand on any given paper as readily as if it had been filed in proper order.

  She leaned down and read the identification tab of the file that sat on the top of the stack at her feet.

  Ol’ Doc Seager probably knew without a doubt that Della Silverstone’s file was on the top of the pile he had left in—

  Della Silverstone.

  Her reporter’s insatiable curiosity shifted into high gear. Admittance form forgotten, Roxanne picked up the file and started to read.

  And the most interesting tidbit was right on top. Della Silverstone was pregnant.

  Chapter Six

  Malcolm eased off the hard X-ray table and carefully reached for his shirt. His ribs, though probably not broken, were bruised and sore. His chin was still numb from the local anesthetic the doctor had administered and yet it felt as if it had been sewn to his chest. Neither sensation could compare to the way Roxanne made him feel.

  He could still hear her singing—thank God—from down the hall. She hadn’t lied; she couldn’t carry a tune if it had a handle on it. She had finished “Jail House Rock” and was now butchering “I Fought the Law and the Law Won.” Malcolm couldn’t help but smile. The quirk he managed pulled at the seven sutures that now crossed his chin, below and a little to the left of his lower lip. Singing had seemed liked the perfect plan to keep Roxanne in the hospital. As much as he hadn’t wanted her in the exam room with him, he knew that given half a chance she’d be out the door trying to find Jamie Valentine’s killer. Lord, but she was sassy. Out to prove her innocence and find the real murderer. He was going to have to stay on his toes to keep up with her.

  Despite Roxanne’s doubts, he had faith in the system. He knew that Monday was a mere formality. Harlow wanted someone to blame for muddying up the small town’s reputation, and Roxanne had been convenient and a Yankee. But Malcolm knew the reality, and the reality was that after the charges against Roxanne Ackerman were dropped, they would probably never find out who’d killed the drifter. There would be no one who cared enough to look into it. Sad, but true.

  Gingerly, Malcolm slipped his arms into the sleeves of his ruined shirt remembering the look in Roxanne’s eyes as he had slipped it off. Those cool blue orbs had turned electric in their intensity. Her dark brows had risen in interest, the sooty lashes widening in appreciation. He had reveled in that attention, basked in it, slowing his movements to prolong the experience even though they were in the Jefferson County Memorial Hospital and a doctor stood less than four feet away. None of that had seemed to matter then, just the feel of her eyes against him. Now, he realized how ridiculous this attraction was. Not only was Roxanne Ackerman a reporter who could take away all that he had worked so hard for, she was a virtual stranger, an accused felon, and … and most probably a Republican. His career was going too well to let animal attraction bring it all down now. He had plans. Career goals. He was going to the US Senate next year and after two terms there he was making his bid for the presidency. He had to remember those goals, keep them close, and not forget them every time the sassy reporter started to make his blood heat.

  “Let’s go into my office,” Dr. Seager said, interrupting Malcolm’s thoughts. “I have the X-rays, and we can discuss your injuries.”

  Malcolm followed the doctor out of the room and down the hallway, his oxblood wing tips snapping in time with the squeak of the doctor’s sneakers. Some sneakers, Malcolm thought, grimacing at the noise the shoes made. Malcolm was certain the entire hospital could monitor their journey by the sound of Loyal Seager’s shoes.

  Roxanne sat in the visitor’s chair looking innocent—too innocent, Malcolm thought—as she intently filled out the remainder of his hospital admittance form. For the life of him, Malcolm couldn’t figure out what she had used to fill the empty spaces. They had only met this morning.

  She looked up at him and smiled. This morning? Good God, in less than twelve hours this blue-eyed reporter from Chicago had annihilated his calm existence. His life was well-planned and orderly. Normally things went smoothly for him because that was how he organized it. Since meeting Roxanne Ackerman, he had bailed her out of jail, yelled at her, dragged her forcefully from a funeral home, and fought another man over her honor. And he was stuck with her until Monday.

  “There doesn’t appear to be any breakage in the area of the rib cage,” the doctor said, plowing through Malcolm’s thoughts with a voice as annoying as the squeak of his shoes. “You’ll be sore for a few days. Your chin, too. You’ll need to call on Monday and make an appointment to get those sutures removed.” Dr. Seager reached into the pocket of his rumpled lab coat and pulled out two small packets. “These are for tonight, to help you sleep. All in all, if I were you, I’d consider myself lucky. I’ve patched up more than a few men after a couple of rounds with Eric Cameron, and you’ve come out on top by far.”

  Lucky? The word echoed inside Malcolm’s head. He looked over to Roxanne again. He had three more days with her, and he had barely survived this one. It seemed like he had been putting up with her smart mouth and big city ways for an eternity. The same eternity that he had been lost in her smile and wanting to pull her into his arms and …

  Malcolm watched as if in a dream as Roxanne stood and thanked the doctor. She stretched across the mountains of medical files and handed him the almost blank admittance form. What had she been writing?

  Dr. Seager assured her that he would get the other information from Malcolm’s existing file and that the paper was a mere formality, but Malcolm hardly listened. He was too busy watching the small ballet of Roxanne’s movements. The curve of her backside exposed by her short shorts as she leaned over the desk. The long, strong length of her arms and her legs. The rise of her breasts as she laughed at something the doctor said.

  Malcolm sucked in his breath—not a smart move considering the damage Cameron had done to his ribs. It was a good thing Dr. Seager had given him those pills, Malcolm thought as Roxanne straightened and stole from view the cause of his fantasies. They were the only way that he would be getting any sleep tonight.

  • • •

  Roxanne followed M
alcolm out of the hospital and across the shadow-filled parking lot. His strides were long and seemingly painful and although he looked as if each step took more effort than the last, he appeared in a hurry.

  “Daniels,” she started, adjusting her own stride so she could keep up. “Where are we going now?”

  He walked stiffly to the passenger’s side of the Mercedes and unlocked the door. Roxanne opened it but waited beside the car until she received an answer. It didn’t come until he had his own door open. “Home,” he said sharply.

  “Home? I can’t go home with you,” she blurted. “It … uh, it isn’t proper.” Lord, she sounded like one of those Regency romances Newland’s secretary liked to read, but she had to come up with some excuse not to go home with him. That sounded … intimate. And the attraction was just too great. Now was not the time to get involved with someone, especially not some conservative southern politician. A sudden heat filled her at the thought of going home with Malcolm. She had to get those thoughts under control—and fast.

  “I can’t go home with you,” she repeated. “I won’t go home with you.”

  “I don’t want you to,” he returned.

  “Fine,” she said, wondering why his words stung.

  “But you don’t have a choice.”

  “Wrong, Daniels. This is America and—”

  Malcolm closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I swear to God, if you start reciting the Bill of Rights, I’ll take you to Lester’s right now.”

  “What about my clothes and stuff?”

  “I got your bag out of your car this afternoon before we left the jail.”

  Then she really didn’t any other choice, did she? “Doesn’t this town have a hotel or a B&B?”

  “Sure. We even have running water.”