Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights)

by Amie Louellen

  “Sex.” Roxanne immediately wished she could take it back.

  “I beg your pardon?” He picked that precise moment to meet her gaze.

  “You can forget how to ride a bike, but you’ll never … I mean … most people have—” She faltered, the heat from her cheeks mixing with the too-warm Tennessee night to make her light-headed. She couldn’t finish the thought with those knowing brown eyes trained on her. Instead, she focused on the tiny black sutures adorning his strong chin.

  “Are you trying to say that sex is unforgettable?” The corners of his mouth twitched.

  “Uh … something like that,” she mumbled, hoping the slurred words passed for a real answer. Here she was again trying to make coherent thoughts when her mind was filled with images of … well, sex. And Malcolm. And sex with Malcolm. She didn’t know for a fact if sex itself had ever proven to be unforgettable, but she was certain that sex with Malcolm would be.

  She stiffened in his arms, trying to put an end to these crazy thoughts. She had to get over this obsession she was having with him. He was her attorney, for pity’s sake! And here she was dancing with him having all sorts of erotic fantasies. She crashed into him again.

  “Relax.” He pulled her close and whispered into her hair.

  “W-what?”

  “Relax.” Warm, capable hands slid up her back. The action seemed so honest, so natural she didn’t think to protest. “It’s just a dance.”

  Those simple words coupled with his soothing hands, and Roxanne felt the tension leave her body. It was just a dance. This party was just like a thousand other ones she had attended.

  She closed her eyes and, against her better judgment, she leaned into Malcolm.

  Every now and again she caught a whiff of an expensive cigar. The smell only served to bring to mind a better time. Before everything, before reality happened.

  Suddenly she wanted to be closer to Malcolm, closer than dancing on a moonlit night, covered in a blanket of stars and surrounded by nearly three hundred of the country’s most elite and influential. She wanted him to pull her closer and closer still, until she couldn’t tell where she stopped and he began. She wanted to keep dancing with him forever. And for once, after all these years, she wanted to share her pain.

  Just the thought was like a bucket of ice water doused over her head. What was she thinking? Better than that—what was she doing?

  The music had turned soft and slow, a song meant for lovers, and she was draped around Malcolm.

  He held her so tightly there wasn’t room for a whisper between them. Her fingers were entwined in his auburn hair, and she could feel every fiber of his being—including his desire. There were at least twenty states where dancing this close was considered foreplay.

  Not good.

  Great.

  Fabulous.

  Dangerous.

  She wrenched herself from his embrace. “I have to go to the little girls’ room.”

  A flicker of confusion passed over Malcolm’s face as she took two steps backward. Then before he could do or say anything to stop her, she turned on her heel and fled.

  • • •

  She was losing her mind. What in heaven and earth possessed her to plaster herself to him that way?

  It had to be the heat, she told herself as she stared at her reflection in the antique mirror in one of the many bathrooms in the White House. It had taken her three attempts before she found an unoccupied bathroom, downstairs and off from the kitchen as if it had been intended for use by the household staff.

  Yeah, it was the heat, she reaffirmed. Not the heat Malcolm seemed to be able to ignite in her, but the heat of the sultry southern night, of vintage silk. After all, they knew how to make clothes back then. The garment was fully lined and warm. Very, very warm.

  Roxanne turned the tap to cold and splashed the water gently onto her face. She needed to cool herself, but she didn’t want to do it at the expense of her mascara. She gave her face another cooling splash, then held her dripping hands over the sink.

  “Great,” she muttered to the empty brass ring where a guest towel should have been. She looked around and spied a linen cabinet behind her in the mirror. Careful to protect the aged silk, she held her hands out in front of her as she turned.

  The top cabinet didn’t reveal much. A few cleaning products, rose-scented room air deodorizer, and a half-empty bottle of vodka. Takes all kinds, Roxanne thought as she shut the door and opened the one below. Perhaps one of the staff had a little drinking problem. Or maybe it belonged to another member of the household.

  Roxanne pulled those thoughts to a quick halt. She didn’t come here to dig into the secrets of the domestics or anyone else for that matter. She had come in here to catch her breath. To put some distance between her and her stunning escort. To collect her composure before she made a complete fool of herself in front of three hundred people.

  “Don’t these people believe in towels?” She squatted down to reach in the very back of the cabinet, past the other cleaning supplies and the yellow mop bucket to a stack of towels. She grabbed a couple off the top, intending to leave them on the counter for any other unsuspecting guest with wet hands. But as she brought them out, a legal-sized manila envelope fell from between the folds of Egyptian cotton.

  Roxanne’s reporter’s instincts went off, or perhaps it was just basic human curiosity. She quickly dried her hands, then opened the envelope. Inside were pictures of lovers. Explicit pictures. The kind that a PI takes, grainy and from a distance. Pictures of Della Silverstone and Jamie Valentine.

  Her hands started to shake as joy surged through her. This was it! The proof she needed! These pictures validated her theory about the baby Della was carrying. Malcolm would have to believe her now.

  Malcolm.

  How was she going to explain this to him? He would never believe she just found them.

  She bit her lip and inwardly struggled with what to do. She couldn’t put the pictures back. Someone else might find them. And she needed them. Truman Silverstone might not be her prime suspect any longer, but the pictures made it even clearer there was more to Jamie Valentine’s murder than her handsome attorney wanted to admit.

  Then there was the morality issue. She knew how much Truman and Malcolm meant to each other. She herself had fallen almost instantly in love with the older man. She hated to see him hurt, but at the same time, he seemed so decent and caring that he deserved to know his wife had been playing him for a fool. Roxanne wouldn’t be the one to break the news to him, but Malcolm could. Monday. After she had left. And if Malcolm was going to open a can of worms that squirmy, he was going to need proof. Tangible proof.

  She had to take the pictures. She had to do it for Truman. For Malcolm. For herself.

  Roxanne took a deep breath and tucked the pictures down the front of her dress. After all, she couldn’t just waltz out there carrying them cradled in the crook of her arm.

  Roxanne smoothed her hands over the now even tighter fitting bodice of Miss Gertie’s dress. She was taking a chance, but it was necessary. Imperative even. She would figure out a way to explain how she came upon the pictures to Malcolm later.

  • • •

  Malcolm stared at the glass in front of him. He hadn’t meant to drink as much as he had tonight. He had a strict two-Scotch-a-party limit. Though he was far from intoxicated, the evening was still young, and his second whiskey was already half empty. The twelve-year-old single malt had served to calm him, bring him back to center, and dull the edge of desire that Roxanne stirred in him.

  The feelings he had for her were a fluke, he told himself. After the Clinton scandals, taking a mistress was the very last thing Malcolm could afford to do. It all boiled down to the matter of basic human nature: when you deny yourself something, you want it all the more. Before Lila the women he customarily chose to scratch those particular itches with were discreet and sophisticated, but there was no room for them on the campaign trail. He was going up against an in
cumbent Republican for the Senate seat, and he had to make certain his record was impeccably clean. There was no place for indiscretions of any kind, and certainly not those involving a Yankee tabloid reporter. His encounter with Eric Cameron would mark his record enough.

  Give Lila the ring, and everyone will forget about that.

  He pushed the thought away and took a slow sip of his drink not even pretending to listen to the conversation floating around him. He only had another day and a half with the spunky brunette. He could resist Roxanne Ackerman for that long.

  Or at least he thought he could. Everything he’d felt for her returned full force as he watched her glide across the lawn toward him. She smiled prettily to this guest and that and held her head high, her corkscrew ponytail blowing around her head like a quirky halo.

  He smiled like an idiot as she approached, feeling as foolish as a teenage boy. Until he saw her heading his way again, he hadn’t realized he had been afraid she wouldn’t finish the evening at his side.

  She seemed shaky as she neared, the smile on her face a little too bright, as if she were hiding something. Like wishing she were somewhere else? And not charged with murder?

  It was a mistake bringing her here. Not that he could have left her at Magnolia Acres, but it was time to call it a night. He should have realized that coming to a party would be hard on her. She had been through a lot in the last few days. Getting lost, being charged with murder. Not your average weekend. It was time to go home. He had put in his appearance. Truman would understand if they left early.

  “Gentlemen.” Malcolm nodded to the men at the table as a whole, fully intending to hightail it home.

  “Aren’t you going to introduce us?” Bill Winters asked. He was a reporter for a major network and though not politically connected like the majority of the guests, he had somehow found favor with the Silverstones.

  Rather than risk appearing as if he had something to hide, Malcolm made the proper introductions all around.

  “Roxanne Ackerman,” Bill Winters mused. “Ackerman? Say, are you any kin to—”

  “Not anymore.” The smile died on her lips and suddenly she seemed in a hurry to get away.

  “What—” Winters started again, but Roxanne interrupted.

  “Dance with me, Malcolm,” she practically begged, pulling on his arm. “They’re playing our song.”

  “Really?” another guest asked, Malcolm wasn’t sure who. He was still too busy trying to figure out when he and the sexy Yankee reporter had gotten themselves a song. Roxanne had been pretty upset when she had run off toward the house, but now she was acting downright loony.

  “So you two have been to Paris together?”

  “Huh?” She stopped trying to physically pull away and instead seemed to focus her attention on the tune the band played. “I Love Paris.” A version to rival that of Ella Fitzgerald.

  “Yes,” she answered quickly.

  “No,” Malcolm said at the same time.

  She glared at him. “Dance with me anyway,” she gritted between her teeth and practically dragged him toward the helicopter pad.

  Still reeling from this change in Roxanne, Malcolm obligingly reached out to take her into his arms, thoughts of going home taking a backseat to the chance to hold her close just one more time, but his hands met with only air, as she walked away.

  In two strides of his own, Malcolm caught her by the elbow. “I thought you wanted to dance.”

  She shook her head, but didn’t meet his gaze. “Not really.”

  She was hiding something. He hadn’t practiced law for ten years without learning how to read the signs. “Change your mind?”

  She mumbled half a sentence that he couldn’t make out.

  “Too bad.” He wasn’t sure what devil possessed him, but he lost it. Lost that part of his makeup that kept him on the straight and narrow. Hand still firmly around her arm, he steered her back toward the other dancers. With practiced ease, he gathered her into his arms and gently moved into the familiar steps of the dance.

  Malcolm would dance with her just this once, and then they would go home. She would go up to Miss Beulah’s apartment, and he to his own. Tomorrow, he would hammer out the finer details of her case. Not that they needed much work. But at least he would have something to keep his mind occupied. That would leave less time for wondering how bland his world was going to be Monday afternoon when Roxanne drove out of it without a second glance.

  The thought of her leaving saddened him, which in itself was ludicrous. He barely knew her. Maybe that was the problem. He wanted to know her. Wanted at least the chance to get to know her. But even as the thought crossed his mind, he pushed it away. Aside from the obvious fact that it was her job to report any crack in the armor of men like him, he had an election to win. Which meant grueling work, long days, and traveling the back roads of the great state of Tennessee. It wouldn’t be long before someone in Idaho had a demon-possessed toaster that the world needed to know about and off Roxanne would go. It would never work between them. But if he had his way he would hold her just a little longer. Dance a couple of more dances.

  As if by reflex, he pulled her closer to him, and she … crinkled.

  He faltered, his feet not receiving any message from his brain as he tried to discern what he had just heard. Had she really crinkled?

  No, surely not. Brain waves continued. Feet resumed dancing. He was mistaken. It must have been some random noise floating to him on the breeze.

  But he liked the idea of holding Roxanne a bit closer, so he tried again to eliminate the distance separating them.

  Unmistakable this time came the sound like thick paper being wadded into a ball.

  As much as he craved a different direction, he held her away from him, just slightly. Just enough that he could see her eyes. Read her expression.

  She looked like a kid with her hand caught in the cookie jar: confident in her choice, but remorseful that she had been busted.

  He stared at her for a moment, somehow knowing the small noise that came from her dress was about to change everything.

  Roxanne smiled at him, a forced smile that was purely intended to keep his mind on how damned cute she was instead of what she had gotten into this time.

  “You have something you want to tell me about?”

  She shook her head. “Not particularly.”

  “All right.” He nodded, his lips pressed firmly together. “If that’s the way you want it. What’s in your dress, Roxanne?”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “My—my dress? I’m not sure I understand what you’re talk—”

  “Don’t give me a load of crap, Roxanne. There’s something in your dress.”

  Roxanne nervously wet her lips. She had known this moment was inevitable. Or rather, she had known there was an inevitable moment in the future when she would have to tell Malcolm about the pictures she’d found. She had just imagined it playing out a little differently. “Perhaps you’re mista—”

  “Try again, sweetheart. You were climbing into my skin earlier, and you didn’t make any noises then. At least not crinkly ones.”

  “Climbing into—” Roxanne sputtered, using her genuine embarrassment at the truth to stall him. Yes, indeedy, she had been practically inside the designer tux with him. But she no more wanted to talk about that than she did the pictures of Della and Jamie.

  “All right then.” He nodded, his lips pressed into a thin line. “We’ll do it the hard way.”

  Until that moment when he stopped their dance, Roxanne had been unaware they were still moving to the sultry music.

  “Malcolm,” she started, totally unsure of what she was going to say next but needing to say something just the same.

  “Don’t.” The smell of the liquor he’d drunk earlier wafted between them, but he was anything but intoxicated.

  He didn’t bother with any niceties as he steered her toward the edge of the helicopter pad, down a small incline to the bank of trees about ten fee
t away. Heck, he didn’t even bother to take his hands from her waist or his lips from her ear.

  “Do you know what this looks like?” she hissed. Just the thought made her tingle.

  “Why, darlin’, it looks like two young lovers who can’t wait until they can find a room.” All too soon she and Malcolm were alone, surrounded only by shadows.

  “What about Lila? What will she think?”

  “She’ll understand,” he said coldly. “After all, look at everything Hillary put up with.”

  “This isn’t going to be good for your career.” It was lame she knew, but Malcolm, Mr. All-I-Can-Think-About-Is-Public-Image should have taken the bait.

  “Roxanne, everything that’s happened to me since you arrived in this town has been bad for my career.” One arm still anchored around her, Malcolm fished his way into the bodice of her gown and dragged out the envelope. He couldn’t retain his hold and open the package, so he released her, breaking the spell that his nearness cast.

  Roxanne took a step away from him. She had to get as much distance between them as she could. One step, two steps, and she found her back pressed tightly against the bark of one of the many trees. She held on fast to the rough exterior, as if by touching it she could somehow tap its strength.

  Even in the shadows of the mighty oaks, Roxanne could see the red flush start in Malcolm’s neck and work its way up to his hairline. Even his freckles seemed to glow in the dark. His hands shook, as he carefully examined each picture, then very calmly placed them back inside the envelope.

  “Malcolm, I—” Roxanne didn’t really know what to say. But it was of no consequence for he interrupted her.

  “Go home, Roxanne. Back to Magnolia Acres. Now.” His words held no emotion, no hint of the anger and hurt she knew he must be feeling.

  “But—”

  “Now.”

  “I—how—”

  He turned his back to her, his shoulders tense, unyielding, like solid rock. His words were the same, voiced from between clenched teeth. “Get Miss Gertie to take you. Or Lila. Walk, for all I care. Just get out of my sight.”