Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights)

by Amie Louellen

  “God,” she growled between her clenched teeth. “He makes me so mad.”

  “At least you know he’s okay,” Jonas quipped.

  Roxanne pitched his phone back to him and flopped her head back against the floral print sofa. Her eyes were closed, her cheeks flushed with frustration and anger.

  “I guess you know what’s next,” Jonas said.

  Roxanne nodded. “Pierce and Newland. But as long as they’re with the Olsen twins, maybe I could—” Before she could even finish the thought, Newland’s voice carried up to them.

  “Roxanne.” Followed by a plink.

  “Rox-an-ne.” Plink.

  She pushed herself off the sofa and stalked to the large French window across the room, Jonas on her heels.

  Malcolm mentally shrugged and followed the pair. Who knew? This might end up being very entertaining.

  She opened the glass, and Malcolm could see Newland standing in the driveway like some confused Romeo. To make matters even more complicated, Ackerman was pulling up the drive behind him.

  “Roxanne,” Tran called, rearing back and throwing a small stone toward the house. Plink. The pebble hit Lila’s window, upstairs and way to the right.

  “Newland Tran,” Roxanne called. “This house is nearly two hundred years old, would you please stop throwing rocks at it.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Roxanne, I need to talk to you.”

  “Oh, Newland, not now.”

  “Then on the way back to Chicago.”

  Ackerman picked that time to get out of his car.

  “If she goes back with anyone, it will be me.”

  “You had your chance with her, Ackerman. And you blew it.”

  Not good.

  “Why you son of a—”

  Jonas turned to his sister. “If you don’t want to see bloodshed, you’d better get down there.”

  Malcolm could tell by the look on Roxanne’s face that she would have preferred a third choice. With a swing of her ponytail she marched toward the door of the apartment. “I swear,” she gritted between clenched teeth. “I’m going to kill them both.”

  She jerked open the door and without a backward glance, she stormed out of the apartment, her bare feet making almost no noise as she descended the stairs with purposeful strides.

  Malcolm smiled at Jonas and, with a shrug, followed Roxanne. After all, if she was going to add two more counts of murder in the first to her current list of charges, she would definitely need her attorney.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was after four when Roxanne hugged Jonas good-bye and waved as he drove away from Magnolia Acres. He had an hour drive to Memphis ahead of him and then the short flight back to Chicago.

  It had taken most of the afternoon to convince both Pierce and Newland that she would not be going back with either of them. She had to promise she would have dinner with both of them exclusively “the minute” she returned home. How she was going to manage that she wasn’t sure, but she was thinking seriously about pleading insanity and not letting either of them know when she returned. In the end, she had managed to convince both men to get in their separate cars and actually leave Jefferson County.

  Roxanne watched Jonas’s rental until it disappeared onto the main road. She felt a little sad, a little weary, and a little anxious with the departure of her uninvited visitors. Sad to see Jonas go. They just never seemed to have time to spend together anymore. Weary that she had to deal with Pierce and Newland at the same time. One a day was trial enough. And anxious at the thought of spending more time alone with Malcolm.

  At dawn she had ejected herself from his bed, then he had followed her upstairs and kissed her with such longing she knew they would be locked in a lover’s embrace on the floor of Miss Beulah’s apartment right now—Elvis or no Elvis—if Jonas hadn’t interrupted them.

  Not that she was complaining. She had found a peace in Malcolm’s arms she had never found anywhere else. As shameful as it seemed, she could handle a one night stand, but having it carry over to the next day seemed confusing. As if two days constituted more than a simple affair and threw them headlong into a relationship.

  Ridiculous, she told herself and forced her feet to carry her to the house. She climbed the stairs and let herself into the foyer. Then without knocking, she entered Malcolm’s apartment. He was sitting on the sofa, his phone pressed to his ear.

  She had no mind for his conversation, only to watch him and soak in the essence that was Malcolm. The way he turned his head when he talked. The low, sexy timbre of his voice. The brown of his eyes, so smooth and pure, like rich, dark chocolate. The smart man glasses that couldn’t hide the masculinity behind them. And the dimples that peeked out every so often, adding a boyish charm to his handsome face.

  He ended the call, then took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I’m trying to get a hold of the judge so you can leave town today and go see your father, but can’t get him to answer. I don’t know if he’s just out of area or if he has his cell turned off.”

  Roxanne nodded.

  “Are you okay with staying another night in Jefferson County?”

  “As long as you don’t make me stay in Lester’s basement.”

  “Seriously, Roxanne.”

  “Sorry.” She nodded. “If Joseph can piss me off in ten seconds flat, over the telephone, and long distance, then Jonas is right; he’s not in any danger. I’ll stay.”

  His eyes darkened with an unspoken passion her words evoked. Neither one of them had planned for a morning after—or day after—with all of its awkwardness and where-do-we-go-from-here kind of questions. They only had one place to go—Monday. But Monday wasn’t really a place. Yet it was their destination, their salvation. Once it was Monday, then she would be on her way home, and she wouldn’t be plagued with all of these questions like What do we do now? And where am I going to sleep tonight? Can we add another night to our one night stand because one just wasn’t enough? And what does that mean for the two of us?

  Roxanne could see the questions brewing in his eyes as well. But she also knew from the confused pucker on his freckled brow that he had no more answers than she.

  “Truman called,” he said, his voice vibrating with a need neither of them could explain. It should have been satisfied by now and yet here they were, saying things they didn’t mean in order to get through.

  “Did you tell him about the pictures?” She hadn’t wanted to bring them up, but there was no escaping it.

  He swallowed hard and shook his head. “I—not yet.”

  She understood. For the first time in her career, she regretted finding hard evidence to back up her theory. Especially when it hurt someone she cared about like Truman. Like Malcom.

  “He invited us to the White House for drinks and supper.” Which translated into, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. While his eyes told her just how much he wanted her. “I would appreciate you not saying anything about the pictures. I’ll take care of it.

  She nodded. “When’s supper?” Do we have time for a quickie before we go?

  “As soon as we can get there.” No, and we shouldn’t be even thinking about it.

  “I’ll get my purse.” You’re right and yet … She stood.

  He followed suit. “You do that.”

  But she made no move to leave his apartment. Instead, her traitorous feet took the necessary steps to take her close to him, where she really wanted to be.

  He stood in front of her, vibrating with a passion so magnetic it seemed to pull her to him.

  She stood on her tiptoes and tugged his mouth to hers. She felt validated by the groan that rumbled out of his chest as he wrapped his arms around her and hauled her to his chest.

  It was a good long hour before they finally managed to get in his car and head over to the White House.

  • • •

  “Sorry we’re late,” Malcolm said as the ever-polished Della stepped aside for them to enter. “We got … caught up.” With this cr
azy passion.

  He didn’t need to say the latter; it was pretty obvious what they had been doing. Despite Roxanne’s attempts to recover, the evidence of their wild lovemaking was all around them. Her quirky hair was mussed, her T-shirt wrinkled in horizontal rows from being shoved under her armpits so he could kiss her breasts. And somehow in their amorous afternoon, he’d left a small mark on the side of her neck. A hickey. Lord above, he felt like a teenager again.

  Della’s hazel gaze dragged over them, and Malcolm was pretty sure he was in no better shape than Roxanne.

  So much for being discreet.

  “Come on into the den. Truman is waiting for you.” She turned on the heel of her expensive pump and left the two of them standing just inside the house.

  Malcolm glanced sideways at Roxanne, then motioned for her to follow the willowy blonde through the house he’d grown up in. He closed the door behind them and took off after the mismatched pair.

  Was it his imagination, or did Della seem a little aloof? Was that censure in her perusal or his own conscience kicking it up a notch? He had to admit even to himself that he’d never had a weekend quite like this one before. Probably never would again.

  Truman rose as they entered the cozy den—as if an eight hundred square foot room could be considered cozy—but it had always been a favorite room of Malcolm’s. This was Truman’s room, a man’s room. Leather furniture, a big rock fireplace, various rifles and other hunting equipment mixed together to create an atmosphere so masculine the walls dripped with testosterone. It was the one room in the house where Della had no say about the décor.

  “Malcolm. Roxanne.” Truman’s welcome was genuine and happy. “You’re late. We were beginning to get worried about you two.”

  “Sorry. We lost track of the time.”

  “Working on the case?” Truman asked, stepping forward and capturing one of her hands for a kiss of greeting.

  “It’s pretty much cut and dry at this point. Roxanne has tangible proof that she was nowhere near Jefferson County at the coroner’s estimated time of death. Now all we have to do is present the judge with the evidence, and she should be on her way by tomorrow afternoon at the latest.” Why did those words send a pang of something he couldn’t name straight through him?

  “Well, that’s good news, now isn’t it?” Della said brightly. “But if you don’t mind, our supper is slowly being reduced to ashes. Can we take this conversation to the table?”

  “Of course, my dear,” Truman said, and everyone agreed.

  Della seemed pleased as Truman led them out of the den and down the hall.

  Malcolm watched them walk in front of him, Truman’s hand at the small of Della’s back. His father was happy and he hated that soon he would have to ruin that happiness. But for now, he would just enjoy the day. Trouble would come soon enough.

  A mouthwatering aroma greeted them as they entered the dining room. The table had been set with Della’s best china and silverware. Large warming dishes filled with the perfect Sunday supper were placed in the center of the creamy white linen tablecloth. Truman might be a man of great means, but he liked his food simple and traditional. Roast beef, mashed potatoes, and mushroom gravy, corn on the cob and biscuits. The staples of southern living.

  Truman took his place at the head of the table.

  Della stood at the opposite end and pointed to the chair at Truman’s left. “Malcolm, you sit there. Roxanne, sit here.”

  Everyone settled themselves, and Della said a gracious blessing. They served their plates and started to eat.

  Malcolm had taken only two bites of Della’s roast, when something bumped his leg. Malcolm jerked his gaze to Roxanne.

  Mouth full, she gave him an innocent, closed lip smile that spelled “who me?” in big enough letters to ensure her guilt. Then her bare toes slid under his pant leg and found skin.

  Electric shock waves ran up his shin and straight to his crotch. Damn it, how could such a small caress from her toes have such a gigantic effect on his libido?

  “How do you think the Titans will do this year?” Truman asked.

  “Uhum … ” Malcolm stuttered, scrambling to shift his attention from his hard-on to the man who had raised him. Titans. Football. Preseason.

  Get it together, Daniels.

  He wanted to move his leg out of Roxanne’s reach. Having her not touch him would do wonders for his mental capacity, but he couldn’t make himself lose the small amount of warmth from her skin. He had to do something to regain his focus. Maybe he should recite prominent court cases in his head.

  Gideon v. Wainwright: A defendant has the right to counsel at each “critical” stage of criminal proceedings.

  “Hard to say,” he finally managed to reply to Truman’s question. “It’s still early.”

  Truman nodded. “No organization really applies themselves in the pre-season. It just gives them an opportunity to see how the others are playing and how well they can play as a team.”

  “Absolutely.” Malcolm agreed with a nod, though at this point he would have agreed if Truman had said the Titans were going to win the World Series.

  With great effort, Malcolm pulled his leg away from Roxanne’s bare foot. Where the hell were her combat boots, anyway?

  Pretending as if nothing was amiss, he took a big bite of mashed potatoes. “This is a fine meal, Della.”

  Della smiled at the praise. “It was my mother’s recipe.” Though Truman had enough money to hire a full-time cook in addition to a full-time housekeeper, Della refused, saying that cooking was a womanly art and was her job as Truman’s wife. The helper they had cooked breakfast and lunch and left the suppers and weekends to the mistress of the house.

  Roxanne’s toes found their target once again.

  Malcolm took another large bite and smiled his appreciation. It tasted like sawdust. He was sure that earlier it had been a fine meal, but once Roxanne had started her little two-step across his leg, his senses could only register her, and his mind could only calculate how long it would be before he could pull her underneath him once again.

  Heath v. Alabama: trying a defendant for the same crime in two different states does not constitute double jeopardy.

  He pulled his leg in and away from her searching toes. In the process he bumped his knee on the underneath edge of the table. The motion shook their tea glasses and water goblets, rattled the plates and flatware. Damn.

  “Sorry.” Double damn. Normally the Silverstones didn’t serve wine with their meals, but he needed a drink. He needed to get Roxanne to stop this madness. Her foot slid to his knee. Malcolm inhaled sharply nearly choking on the bite of corn he had in his mouth.

  Rutledge v. United States: there may not be two punishments for two offenses if one of the included offenses is a lesser charge.

  At the rate they were going, he’d be dead by dessert. He looked up, hoping to catch Roxanne’s eye. Fun was fun, but enough was enough. Essentially, they were at his parents’ house.

  Their eyes met and sexual chemistry so strong coursed between them. In that one look Malcolm discovered that Roxanne’s play had affected her as much as it had him. Electricity crackled between them, and Malcolm was certain everyone in the room could feel the sparks. Hell, it was enough voltage to light half of Jefferson County.

  Lockhart v. Fretwell … uhum … awh, hell.

  Truman looked up and caught the look, a knowing light in his dark blue eyes. Malcolm knew that it was apparent what had happened between him and Roxanne. Their passion burned so hot that Malcolm felt branded for the whole world to see—which was patently ridiculous, but he could only imagine what Truman was thinking. Probably the same thing he was—how unfair life was. He would probably never find the same passion he shared with Roxanne ever again, and she was as wrong for him as one woman could get. She was a tabloid reporter. And he had his career to think about.

  He dragged his gaze from hers and tried to concentrate on his meal. Thankfully, she dropped her foot from his lap,
and his thoughts began to clear. Well, sort of.

  “Did you play football, Malcolm?”

  He jerked his head back to attention, aware only then that the three people at the table with him had been having a conversation.

  “What was that?”

  “Football,” Roxanne repeated. “Did you play football?”

  “No, I was a brainiac.”

  “Surprise me,” she replied dryly. “But seriously what did you do for exercise? Jonas was a brainiac, and he ran track.”

  “I ran for class president.”

  “Very funny.”

  “Who’s Jonas?” Truman asked genuine interest shining in his eyes.

  “My brother.”

  “Her twin,” Malcolm clarified.

  “Isn’t that something, dear?” Truman said, his comment directed to Della.

  “Indeed,” she agreed.

  “All right, smarty pants,” Malcolm said to Roxanne. “What extracurricular activity did you participate in?”

  “I excelled greatly in driving my father out of his mind. Or so he said.”

  “Seriously,” Malcolm clarified.

  “I was in the writing club.”

  “Like horses?” Della asked. “Oh, I love horses.”

  “No, writing. Poetry, short stories. I always said I was going to write a children’s book when I grew up.”

  “And did you?” Truman asked.

  Roxanne shot him a cheeky smile. “I haven’t grown up yet.”

  “Here, here.” Truman raised his tea glass in a salute to her. “All this reminiscing has got me longing for the old days. Do you want to see some pictures?”

  “Of Malcolm? When he was little?” She shot him a mischievous look.

  “Truman, no,” Malcolm protested.

  “But we haven’t had dessert yet,” Della said.

  “I’d love to,” Roxanne replied.

  “Tru-man.” Malcolm used his voice as a warning, but the older man wasn’t paying him any mind.

  “Della, dear, why don’t you get the dessert and bring it to the library. Then we can have our cake and look at pictures too.”