Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights)

by Amie Louellen

  “Now who’s being egotistical, Mr. Douglas?”

  “It’s not my ego that’s telling me I’m being used.”

  She tried her best to look indignant. “You’re accusing me of using you?”

  “Yes. What I’d really like to know is why.”

  She curled her fingers into the thick wheat colored hair that barely brushed the collar of his tuxedo shirt.

  He obliged her charade by hauling her even closer against him. Then he lowered his hands until they no longer rested on her waist but hovered just above her hips. “Careful, sweetheart, you’re playing with the big boys now.”

  Didn’t she know it.

  The music turned soft, and couples were moving nearer to each other, but there was no way she could get any closer to Elliot without being arrested for public indecency.

  The weirdest part of it all was she liked it. She liked the brush of his thighs against hers, the feel of his hands on her, his breath stirring the strands of her hair just above her ear.

  “You said practically engaged.”

  She nodded, hating to break the moment with words. “Malcolm hasn’t officially proposed.”

  “And you’re desperate to have a ring on your finger.”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Did you accuse him of being gay, too?”

  She shook her head, but managed a weak smile. “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m smart. I’m sure I can follow along.”

  He loosened his hold on her enough that she could pull away and look into those whiskey eyes, but they still touched from waist to knee. “My birthday’s coming up.”

  “Happy birthday,” he murmured.

  “My thirtieth birthday.”

  “A milestone, but not the end of the world.”

  “It is when your looks are your world and … ” She took a deep breath hating to say the words aloud. “Without modeling, I have nothing.”

  “So you thought you could use me to help you marry well.” His tone was flat, giving away none of his true feelings.

  “Not money. I have plenty of money. But that’s all.” There. She said it. Without modeling there was nothing left in her life.

  “So his job is to keep you from being alone?”

  “I love Malcolm.” But the words sounded defensive even to her own ears.

  “Do you?”

  He pulled her close again, and their bodies melded together. She could feel the hardness of him, the heat, the raw masculinity. How could she even have imagined this man was gay?

  Because it was easier that way, a tiny little voice in her head whispered. Because otherwise she would have to deal with this crazy attraction. Have to deal with the fact that when he held her like this, she got warm and moist in all the right places.

  “Of—of course I do. I always have,” she finished triumphantly, hating the breathless sound of her voice despite her bravado.

  “Then why are your panties wet right now?”

  “My-my panties aren’t wet. How dare you suggest such a thing!”

  “I dare because we both know it’s true.” He took a lover’s nip out of her earlobe, and she gasped as desire shot through her.

  Then he ran his hands down her hips and over the smooth curve of her buttocks. “I take that back, but I’ll bet you my shiny little car that your panties aren’t wet because you aren’t wearing any.”

  “What do I have to wager?” She shook her head. That wasn’t what she was supposed to say. She should slap him, stomp on his instep, anything but melt a little further into his embrace.

  “Oh, I think you know.”

  She forced herself to wedge some distance between the two of them. Elliot was just too dangerous. She couldn’t be with him and keep part of herself separate. What he took he consumed. Somehow she just knew it. And she wasn’t ready to lose herself in a man she’d just met, and end up just like her mother.

  “No bet,” she said and despite the fact the song they had been dancing to—their third if her memory served her—was only half over, she left him on the dance floor and went in search of her beloved.

  • • •

  He was a bastard.

  He was seven kinds of a bastard—maybe even eight—but he didn’t like being used, and he sure as hell didn’t like not being in control of the situation. It seemed as if this whole thing had been totally out of his control since he picked up her tonight.

  Elliot hated the fact he was attracted to Lila. He hated the fact that it didn’t matter if she was beautiful. He hated that she fancied herself in love with another man. He hated that he wanted her. That was all there was to it.

  Oh, she wanted him. Curling up to him like a kitten, pressing herself against him as they danced. Regardless of what that gorgeous mouth said, she wanted him. Just as badly as he wanted her.

  He shoved his hands in his tuxedo pockets to hide his bulging hard on and watched as Lila threaded her way through the crowd. Undoubtedly toward the poor sucker she wanted to marry.

  But Elliot had one problem—one major problem. He was too competitive, too driven to succeed and right then and there he knew he would have her. He just couldn’t help but wonder what it would cost them both.

  Chapter Eleven

  Roxanne pretended the arm Malcolm had wound around her waist securing her to his side was a figment of her imagination. It wasn’t easy. Okay, she wasn’t succeeding at all in her little fantasy. The worst part was they weren’t touching anywhere else, but she was oh-so aware of him all the same.

  “You don’t have to touch me, you know. A promise is a promise.” She leaned closer to him so only he could hear, fighting the waves of longing that swept over her as she inhaled his citrusy-all-man scent.

  But Malcolm didn’t let her go. Apparently, he wasn’t quite ready to trust her yet. She’d just have to suffer a little while longer. Hopefully, just a little while longer. Much more of this and she might jump his conservative, southern bones right there on the concrete pool patio.

  “Good turn out,” Malcolm commented, ignoring her as his gaze scanned the crowd.

  Truman nodded. “The crab cakes are better this year.”

  “That’ll do it,” Malcolm quipped.

  Since he seemed to be ignoring her completely, Roxanne sidled a little farther away from him, putting as much distance between them as she could and still have his arm around her. Without even looking at her, he pulled her closer still, his hip brushing hers.

  Damn. She should have just stayed still.

  “Nice stitches,” Truman remarked with a small tip of his drink. “They’re a great match for your tux.”

  She wasn’t sure, but she thought Malcolm blushed.

  “I had a little mishap.”

  “So I heard,” Truman returned with a knowing quirk of his lips. “Davidson is here tonight.” He nodded toward a group of tuxedo-clad men all sipping drinks and looking very official. Miles Davidson was among the clustered upper crust of DC elite and the best campaign manager in the country. More than what a state senator would need to be re-elected for a second term.

  “Make sure you talk to him tonight. You want him on your side when the time comes.”

  Malcolm cleared his throat, glancing from her to the crowd of prominent faces. “Maybe later,” he said. He turned to Roxanne. “Would you like a drink? Some champagne? Punch?”

  Before she could answer, he deftly snagged two glasses off the tray of a passing waiter and handed one of them to her. The move was so practiced, so smooth, she knew he’d learned it at a very young age. Like Pierce.

  Not like Pierce, she corrected. But that wasn’t true. Malcolm was just like Pierce. He worked too hard. He was too involved in his career. So involved that nothing else seemed to exist. Not that it mattered to her. He could be Pierce’s frickin’ clone for all she cared, ’cause she was outta here in less than two days.

  The thought made her stomach hitch, so she took a drink of the pale, amber-colored liquid. Like that was going
to help. “Why don’t you go talk to him?”

  Malcolm stared at her as if she’d just declared the South would not rise again.

  “Miles Davidson,” she prodded after he didn’t answer. “Why don’t you go talk to him? I can take care of myself. I saw a chocolate fountain on the way in. Yum.” She wouldn’t dare eat the liquid mess in Miss Gertie’s vintage silk and risk a stain, but she could dream.

  Malcolm seemed about to say something when an enthusiastic “There you are!” brought him up short.

  Although she had only spent one afternoon shopping with her, Roxanne would know that voice anywhere. Lovely Lila McCreedy was on the loose.

  The model sashayed up in her perfect silver shoes and her perfect turquoise dress and slipped her perfect arm through Malcolm’s. “I’ve been waiting for you all night.”

  She pouted in a way that only underwear models can get away with, and Roxanne resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Couldn’t Malcolm see what Lila was doing? Couldn’t he see she wanted nothing less than his ring on her finger and the sooner the better?

  Evidently he couldn’t, for he smiled down at Lila’s sulky, flirtatious lips and just stood there as she plastered herself to his side. If Roxanne didn’t know better, then she’d think he didn’t mind the attention at all.

  Truth be known, she didn’t know better. Just because she’d shared one earth-shattering kiss with Malcolm B. Daniels IV didn’t mean she had any insight into his psyche. Roxanne had crashed into Malcolm’s world, and come Monday morning, she’d crash right back out of it. In the meantime, she was stuck here, but that didn’t mean jack. Not even when a mind-altering kiss was involved.

  She thrust her chin into the air and put on her best bored-to-tears look. It had been years—three of them to be exact—since she’d had the opportunity to use that expression, but it sure came in handy when she needed it most. Like now.

  “Where’s Elliot?”

  “Miss Gertie’s great-nephew from Hattiesburg?” Lila gave a negligent rise and fall of one shoulder.

  “Isn’t he your date?” Roxanne asked, shocking herself with the cattiness of her tone. “You were dancing pretty close to him earlier.” How unfair for Lila to command the attention of all the eligible men at the party—okay, not all of them, but these two—including the one whose attention Roxanne wanted for herself. Even if it was a bad idea.

  “Dancing with Miss Gertie, of course,” Lila somehow managed to purr with that all-too-obvious pout still on her passion-pink lips. “I love this song. Dance with me.”

  Malcolm glanced from Lila to Roxanne and back again. Roxanne had never felt lower. It was so very clear that he was comparing the two of them, the sophisticated model and the tabloid reporter in the borrowed dress. A frown puckered his brow and Roxanne knew she had come up lacking. She knew because she had seen that look of cultured disapproval on her father’s face more times than she could count.

  “I’ll keep up with your Yankee. You dance with Lila,” Truman said, taking Malcolm’s untouched champagne flute and urging the tall couple toward the other dancers.

  It was all Roxanne could do to keep the same “whatever” look pasted over her real expression as she watched Malcolm escort Lila to the dance “floor.” It helped a little that Malcolm’s arm was no longer around her. She could breathe a little easier, but somehow the places he’d touched seemed cold without him there.

  “He’s quite a boy.”

  Roxanne turned, for a moment forgetting she had a chaperone. “Boy?” she asked with a raised brow. The man out there on the dance floor was just that: a man.

  Truman smiled a wistful little smile. “He’ll always be a boy to me. Standing in the foyer all toughness and vulnerability the way only an eight-year-old can be. His suitcases at his feet and a frown of uncertainty on his face. He was so afraid.”

  Roxanne turned back to look at him as Malcolm danced with Lila. It was hard to imagine Malcolm B. Daniels IV as afraid or uncertain, or even vulnerable for that matter.

  “He’s still as serious as ever,” Truman continued.

  “And that’s bad?” Serious might not make it in her world, but it was damned near a requirement for politics.

  Truman shrugged, an elegant lift and drop of one shoulder. He looked from her to his ward and took a sip of his drink. “He could stand to loosen up a bit.”

  “He is very focused,” Roxanne replied diplomatically.

  “At the rate he’s going, he’ll make it to the White House younger than JFK.”

  “The White House?”

  “He has it all planned out. It’s probably in his iPhone. Two terms as a state senator. Two more terms in the US Senate, then he plans to make a bid for the White House. The real one … in DC.”

  Roxanne was nearly speechless. “I had no idea.”

  “He thinks that’s what his father would have wanted.”

  “Is it?”

  “Back then Beau and I always joked that one day Malcolm would be president. It’s one of the few things he remembers about his father. But it was just parents being boastful.” He rubbed his hand across his chin, a thoughtful gesture. “I do know Beau would have wanted Malcolm happy.”

  “I think that’s what every parent wants.”

  “Hear, hear.” He raised his glass and clicked it against hers in toast.

  “But you’re like a father to him,” Roxanne pointed out. “What do you want for him?”

  “I want him to enjoy life.”

  Roxanne let her gaze drift back to the dance floor where Malcolm held Lila loosely in his embrace. He seemed content enough holding the tall blonde as they danced. “You don’t think he does that?”

  “He has a wedding date planned.”

  Why did those words send a pang of jealousy through Roxanne’s heart? “Most people plan their wedding date.”

  “Not as part of their career goals.” A moment of silence fell between them, then he continued. “He bought Lila a ring six months ago.”

  Of course he did. They were perfect together. Roxanne shouldn’t be surprised, and she wasn’t. She definitely shouldn’t be hurt, but there was this part of her …

  “There’s nothing wrong with planning for the future.” She could hardly believe she was defending Malcolm. It wasn’t bad to have plans. She’d had plans once, and they had fallen apart like a sand castle in a hurricane. No, making plans wasn’t a bad thing, but it just hurt so much when they couldn’t be realized.

  “‘Life is something that happens to us while we are making other plans.’”

  “John Lennon,” Roxanne finished.

  “Sometimes life throws a curve ball, and what you thought you wanted—you needed—isn’t right for you after all.”

  “What is it that you think Malcolm needs?” Roxanne asked.

  Truman smiled. “Someone like you.”

  Roxanne almost laughed. “Did Miss Gertie put you up to this?”

  Truman shook his head. “You’d have to be blind not to see the sparks flying between the two of you.”

  “That’s anger,” Roxanne corrected.

  Truman smiled knowingly. “Sweetheart, I may be an old man, but I sure as hell know the difference between temper and sexual chemistry.”

  Roxanne stopped. “I’m not sure I’m comfortable with this conversation.”

  He threw back his head and laughed, the deep rich sound of a man who enjoyed his life to the fullest. “You are exactly what Malcolm needs.”

  “He needs the perfect politician’s wife,” she said, gazing out over the dancers until she spied Malcolm and Lila, Perfect Politician’s Wife in Training.

  “He’s already had the perfect politician’s wife.”

  She swung her attention back to the man at her side. “Malcolm’s been married before?” A thousand questions rattled around in her brain each one needing to be asked first.

  Truman shook his head. “If you want to know about Amanda, you’ll have to ask Malcolm yourself.” He stood. “Now put away your reporter�
��s curiosity and come dance with me.”

  Roxanne pushed the questions aside and put her hand into his. “I’d be delighted,” she said as Truman Silverstone swept her onto the dance floor.

  • • •

  “Malcolm? Are you listening to me? Malcolm?”

  “Of course I am,” he said, smiling at the beautiful Lila McCreedy. He hated lying to her, but normally he would have been listening to her. Normally he wouldn’t have a sassy Yankee tabloid reporter holding his every thought hostage. Normally he would have enjoyed dancing with his almost-fiancée. But somehow now—tonight—instead of feeling perfect, it felt more like boredom. More like duty instead of pleasure. Lila deserved more than that. He deserved more than that, but …

  But a lot of things.

  He had his career to think about, and he was letting this crazy attraction to Roxanne get out of hand. Sure she was like a strong-minded spring breeze blowing in from the north and changing everything in its path. Or was that a tornado? At any rate it didn’t matter, because in just two short days she would be out of his life forever. But right now, he wished he could at least see her. Lila was damned near six foot when she was barefooted, add three inches of heels, and they were close to nose to nose as they danced, blocking his view of anything else going on at the party.

  It wasn’t that he didn’t trust Roxanne. She’d made a promise, and strangely enough, he believed her. He just wanted to see her—literally see her. He had been dancing with Lila for less than five minutes and for some insane reason, he already missed Roxanne. Crazy. Sheer lunacy.

  “You’re doing it again,” she chided.

  Malcolm dragged his thoughts back to the woman he held in his arms. “No, I’m listening.”

  Lila smiled at him smugly. “Oh, yeah? Then what did I just say?”

  “You said … uh, okay, you got me.”

  “I swear you’ve been a million miles away all night.”

  “I have a lot on my mind.”

  “So much that you can’t give a little of your attention to your favorite girl?”

  Malcolm smiled, but his lips felt stiff and uncooperative. “Never.”

  “Did you get to meet Miss Gertie’s nephew, Elliot?” Lila slid her arms from around his neck to straighten his lapels—a sure sign that she had something on her mind. She always got antsy when something was bothering her.