She ignored the last comment, opting instead for charm to help her get her way. “Can I please stay in the hotel?”
“Not a chance, sweetheart.”
“But—” Roxanne hesitated a second, then snapped her mouth shut and got into the car. She slammed the door, almost wishing Malcolm had left her to her fate in Lester’s basement. It would have been much simpler for them both. She would at least know what to expect from Lester and his chainsaw. It would have been easier on her by far if Malcolm B. Daniels IV had been a hundred years old like she’d first imagined.
Malcolm folded himself into the driver’s seat, and Roxanne chanced a look in his direction out of the corner of her eye. His face was an unreadable contortion hidden by shadows. His movements were stiff as he started the car, jerked it into gear, and headed it back through town. For a while Roxanne was certain that he was taking her back to jail, but he turned off of Main Street and into one of the older neighborhoods of the antiquated town.
Several minutes of strained silence followed as Malcolm drove, turning left, then right, then left again until Roxanne was sure there was no way on earth she could find her way back to Main Street Jefferson County.
Maybe that’s what he has in mind. To get her out and away from town then dump her on the side of the road so he could be rid of her and her trouble-causing ways. Her father had always told her she was more trouble than she was worth. Suddenly Roxanne felt as unwanted as a mangy puppy.
She turned to Malcolm to apologize, to say anything to him to make him change his mind and not leave her stranded, when he turned off the road and cut the engine. Roxanne faced front and drew in a breath at the sight that met her eyes. Malcolm had pulled up in front of Tara.
The structure was beyond large with floodlights placed strategically on the perfectly manicured lawn. The building was a white jewel upon the velvet green grass, an enormous gateway to the past with great white columns and wrought iron lamps that lit the sprawling front porch.
Feeling as if she had somehow stumbled onto the set of Gone with the Wind, Roxanne got out of the car. That was when she noticed the sign. Beautifully hand-painted in flowing green letters, it proclaimed the property to be Magnolia Acres, aptly named for the beautiful flowering trees that accented the grounds.
“This is where you live?” Nothing in her northern upbringing had prepared her for the sight of this … this … house.
Malcolm nodded and retrieved her bags from the trunk. “This is home.”
Roxanne looked from him to the house and back to him again. “You mean you own this? The whole house? I didn’t realize that being the state senator from District Twenty-Seven paid so well.”
Malcolm laughed, then winced as the movement pulled at the stitches in his chin. “Old money and all that, remember?”
Roxanne looked back to the house and whistled through her teeth. “That’s ancient money.”
Ignoring her vow not to stay the night with Malcolm, she followed him up the wide steps. Surely it would be all right to stay with him in a house this size. Surely surrounded by a host of the inevitable servants she could manage to keep her hands off him. Surely …
And maybe in a house this size, she could sneak away and figure out who killed Jamie Valentine.
“Don’t be too impressed,” Malcolm said as he took out a key and opened the door. “As far as plantations go, this one’s fairly small.”
Roxanne couldn’t help the small chuckle that escaped her. He’d actually said small and plantation in the same sentence. “Small” to Malcolm seemed to be a structure of at least thirty-five thousand square feet. She would be safe here. She would be able to stay away from him. She wouldn’t have to worry about close proximity. Wouldn’t have to worry about the enticing masculine smell, the chocolate brown eyes that seemed to do strange things to her resolve. Wouldn’t have to worry about jumping into Malcolm’s bed and refusing to leave until he made love to her.
“The fella I bought this beauty from did a number on her before selling her to me,” Malcolm continued. Roxanne tapped down the heat that had risen in her face and tried to concentrate on what he was saying. Talking about his “house” was surely safer than thinking about going to bed with him.
The door swung open and revealed a beautiful if not sparsely decorated foyer complete with a grand sweeping staircase. Hardwood floors gleamed in the soft yellow glow of the lamps. Fresh cut lilies beckoned from a crystal vase on top of an antique occasional table. A gilded-framed mirror sat behind the flowers and reflected their beauty back to the world again. Great velvet portieres in two-toned shades of grape and lavender hung on either side of the massive doorway. Their astonishing beauty made Roxanne fully realize how Scarlet came to envision them as a dress. Just being in the house made Roxanne—in her baseball jersey and favorite pair of cut-offs—long to wear petticoats and hoops, make love to her man, and stay in the south forever. She shook those thoughts away. The humidity must be getting to her. She was a city girl, northern born and raised. She liked her carefree life. It was just the way she planned it, every day by the seat of her pants. She made a mental note to call her gynecologist when she got back to the Windy City. Her hormones must be all screwed up.
“This is the only part of the house left intact from the earlier days before the war,” Malcolm was saying. “The Carmichaels owned the house then. They managed to hold onto it through the turn of the century, but they fell onto some hard times during the Depression and sold it to a Yankee developer. He’s responsible for its present state.”
“What state is that?” Roxanne asked.
Before Malcolm could answer, a fragile voice called down from the second story landing. “Malcolm, is that you?” A blue-rinsed head appeared, followed by bespectacled eyes that barely reached the top of the railing. Through the balusters, Roxanne could see the tiny woman was seated in what looked to be a custom wheelchair. A black Chihuahua lounged in her lap, as if that were the place he was born to occupy.
Malcolm turned to Roxanne and put one finger over her lips, then called out, “Yes, Miss Gertie. It’s me. What are you doing on the second floor?”
“Pablo and I came up to watch a movie with Miss Lila. Since Miss Beulah’s gone and you weren’t here, we didn’t have enough to play Canasta. Want to join us?”
Roxanne squelched a smile at the mental image of Malcolm seated at a table playing cards with three elderly women. Sure the picture was amusing, but mainly it gave her something else to think about besides the warmth that his finger left across her sensitive lips.
“Maybe some other time,” Malcolm said to Miss Gertie, his tone sincerely apologetic. Then he said softly to Roxanne, “Ever since I had that elevator installed, I can’t keep her on the ground floor.”
“I take it you don’t live alone,” Roxanne said, wondering just who Miss Gertie, Miss Beulah, and Miss Lila were. And if Malcolm didn’t want Miss Gertie on the second floor, why did he have an elevator installed in the first place?
“Shhh,” Malcolm shushed Roxanne and inched them closer to the door on the left.
“Do you have company, Malcolm?” Miss Gertie asked. She raised herself up in her wheelchair to get a better look into the foyer. Her movements disturbed the tiny little dog, who whined in protest. “Who is it?”
Malcolm winced. “No one you know, Miss Gertie. She’s a client of mine. A reporter from Chicago.”
“Ooooh, a Yankee.” Miss Gertie all but squealed. “Bring her up here where I can see her.”
Malcolm plucked at his blood-stained shirt. “Maybe in the morning. We’re going to turn in now.” He grabbed Roxanne’s arm as if to steer her into his apartment.
A horrified gasp floated down from the landing. “Malcolm Daniels. You should be ashamed of yourself, bringing a proper young lady in to spend the night.”
To Roxanne’s enjoyment, a dark flush started at Malcolm’s tie and worked its way up into his hair. But she was fighting a heat all her own. Every nerve ending where Malcolm’s fingers touched her sizzl
ed from the contact.
“It’s not like that, Miss Gertie. There’s a problem with the jail and—”
“Jail? Land sakes! Your guest can’t stay there. She can stay with me, but she’d have to sleep on the couch.”
“Miss Gertie, I promised to watch after Roxanne. She’ll stay with me.” He took another step toward the door.
“I won’t hear of it,” Miss Gertie stubbornly replied. “And Miss Lila would have a hissy dying duck fit. Since your guest can’t stay with me, she’ll stay in Miss Beulah’s apartment.” The elderly lady clapped her hands in excitement, and Pablo barked to echo the sound. “That’s the perfect idea. Miss Beulah won’t mind at all.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Malcolm protested.
“Who’s Miss Beulah? And what is a hissy dying duck fit?” Roxanne asked, gently pulling her arm from his grasp. It helped a little, but she was still painfully aware of him standing so close to her. She took a step to the right, trying to put some distance between them, but Malcolm immediately recaptured her arm and hauled her back to his side.
“It’s a perfect idea.” When Malcolm didn’t immediately agree, Miss Gertie continued. “We can’t have your guest’s reputation tarnished.”
Malcolm slowly shook his head, a small smile upon his lips. It wasn’t like she’d been arrested for murder or anything. “Oh, no. We can’t have that.”
“I wasn’t trying to escape,” Roxanne said.
“Whatever,” he replied.
“Good. I’m glad that’s all settled,” Miss Gertie said. “Besides, I’m sure Miss Kitty would enjoy the company, too.” She turned her wheelchair toward one of the three doors that Roxanne could see on the second floor.
“Malcolm,” Roxanne said softly enough that her voice wouldn’t carry in the great acoustics of the foyer. “I don’t want to stay with someone I don’t know.”
“Shhh,” Malcolm said.
“What was that?” Miss Gertie turned her chair and acted as if to head back to the railing.
“I said, goodnight, Miss Gertie.”
“Good night to you, too, Malcolm. And good night, Miss … Miss … ”
“Roxanne,” Roxanne supplied.
“Roxanne. What a beautiful name,” Miss Gertie murmured as she turned her chair toward the middle door. “I knew a Roxanne once. She was a dancer … ”
Roxanne waited until she was out of sight before turning to Malcolm. “I can’t stay with someone I don’t know.”
He clenched his teeth together and his jaw hardened. “You have two choices. Miss Beulah or me.”
“Aren’t there any other bedrooms?”
Malcolm shook his head. “The developer divided the house into four separate apartments. I live down here.” He pointed to the left and the door he’d been so bent on dragging her toward. “Miss Gertie—when I can keep her downstairs—lives across from me. Miss Beulah lives in the apartment above her—with Miss Kitty—and Lila lives in the apartment above mine.”
“And the third floor?”
“Storage.”
Roxanne chewed her lower lip. In a gigantic house like this, she could stay far away from him until morning, but he had just cut the size of the house into fourths. One look from those brown eyes, and he could multiply the amount of passion off the scale of finite numbers.
Thoughts of her and Malcolm locked into a lovers’ embrace blazed through Roxanne’s mind, countered with a scene of her and a blue-haired lady in a faded floral house dress playing cards until the wee hours of the morning. True, one did have more appeal than the other, but she still had to be sensible. She had to keep her hormones under control. In three more days she would never see Malcolm Daniels again. She pulled her arm from his grasp a second time.
“Miss Beulah’s,” Roxanne answered around the lump in her throat. Somehow the thought of never seeing Malcolm again didn’t set well with her. She swallowed hard as he picked up her bags and started up the wide staircase. Maybe it was Stockholm Syndrome or Post Traumatic Stress Disorder or something. She had found herself in a bad situation, and Malcolm had been her savior. Misplaced emotions, that was all it was.
Roxanne followed him, loving the feel of the pre-Civil War wood beneath her fingertips. Below her she heard doors open and knew that Miss Gertie had taken the elevator down to the bottom floor.
“Let’s set the ground rules right now,” Malcolm started. “The only reason I’m letting you stay at Miss Beulah’s is because of Miss Gertie. She may fancy herself a psychic matchmaker, but she would have another stroke if she thought anything sexual was going on downstairs. Be thankful, she’s saving what’s left of your reputation.”
“Psychic matchmaker?” Roxanne repeated.
“That’s one for your little paper.”
Roxanne ignored his barb and instead made a mental note to interview the woman the first opportunity she had. It never hurt to have stories on the back burner for those slow weeks.
“You won’t have a key to Miss Beulah’s door or the front door,” Malcolm continued. “You cannot leave without my permission.”
Anger rose in Roxanne’s chest. He was treating her like a common criminal, even after his spiel about the gun being planted in her car.
“What if there’s a fire?”
“There won’t be,” he gritted.
“What will Miss Beulah and Miss Kitty say about an accused murderer staying with them?”
“Miss Beulah’s not here.” Malcolm sat her suitcase down and reached into his pocket for the key. “And she would agree with Miss Gertie about your reputation. She may be one of the few female Elvis impersonators, but she’s still very conservative at heart.”
“She’s a what?” Roxanne asked, barely registering the fact that she’d forgotten to ask what Miss Kitty would think about her.
“She’s a female Elvis impersonator.”
Roxanne’s anger fizzled. “Just where did you find these women?”
Malcolm shrugged. “They came with the house.”
“Kinda like a furnished apartment?”
“Something like that. One day I plan to restore the house to the way it was before the War, but until then—”
“Miss Gertie, Miss Lila, Miss Beulah, and Miss Kitty all need a place to live,” she finished for him.
“Right,” Malcolm said as he ushered her into Miss Beulah’s darkened apartment.
“So where’s Miss Beulah?”
“She’s gone to Memphis for—”
“The Fourteenth Annual Are You Lonesome Tonight Tribute, Festival, and Craft Show,” Roxanne finished for him. “I know all about it.”
“Oh, right. I’d forgotten you said that you were on your way to Memphis.” His tone indicated that he’d forgotten nothing, he just hadn’t believed her. “Well, since you were already headed to Graceland, I suppose Miss Beulah’s apartment won’t bother you.” He flipped on the light switch, and Roxanne gasped. Every available surface was covered, decorated, and adorned with Elvis memorabilia.
“She also does dryer lint sculptures and hand-knitted show costumes.”
“Like the white outfit he wore in Vegas?”
“The very same.”
Roxanne cautiously picked up a gourd in the shape of the King’s head. “Very interesting.” She didn’t even know that they made all this … stuff. Too bad Roxanne would be gone before Miss Beulah returned from Memphis. The elderly, female Elvis impersonator would made a great cover story. Maybe after all of this was over she could come back for an interview.
A meow sounded from another room. Roxanne looked up just as a very pregnant calico cat ambled into the living area. The poor feline looked as if she could give birth at any moment. “What’s that?” she asked, not nearly as shocked by all of the Elvis bric-a-brac as she was a live animal.
“Roxanne Ackerman, meet Miss Kitty.”
Roxanne took an involuntary step backward, hoping the horror of the situation didn’t show on her face. “A cat? You expect me to stay here with �
� a … a cat?”
“You’re not allergic, are you? Because if you are, you’ll have to stay downstairs with me.”
“I’m not allergic,” she replied, taking another step away from the roly-poly, purring beast. “It’s just that—” She didn’t want to explain her feelings to him. Didn’t really know how, even after three years. “Animals are so … dependent. They’re such a … responsibility.” Like a baby. And she had vowed never to be responsible for another living creature—not ever again.
Malcolm gave her a strange look, but didn’t question. “They need food and love,” he said. “Just like people.”
“Don’t think I’m going to feed … her. Because I’m not. I won’t be responsible for … her.” Or her babies. “That wasn’t part of the deal.”
“Fair enough. Miss Gertie’s been feeding her since Miss Beulah left. I see no reason for her to not continue. Remember what I said about the keys. I’ll come get you in the morning for breakfast. And no funny business.”
Roxanne met his eyes and awareness coursed between them. An awareness that could oh-so quickly burn into flat-out desire. The furry feline that she was to share the apartment with faded into the back of her mind as her attraction for her attorney resurfaced.
“Good night then,” Malcolm said as he slowly backed through the door. He seemed as reluctant to leave as she was to see him go, though his hesitation was probably more over concern about her trying to escape than desire.
“Good night,” Roxanne echoed as he pulled the door closed on the awkward moment that stretched between them. It was better this way. She had no more business making love to Malcolm than she did trying to take care of Miss Kitty.
Roxanne stood in the shrine of a living room and fanned herself into a cooler state before she realized she forgot to tell Malcolm what she’d found out about Della Silverstone.
Hormones in check, she picked up her suitcase. Maneuvering around the life-sized cutout of Elvis in Blue Hawaii, she sidestepped the cat and finally wound her way into the continued shrine in the bedroom.
Despite her attraction to Malcolm and the unwanted company of a pregnant cat, she had to keep her focus. She was, after all, a professional. She couldn’t let a litter of kittens and a gorgeous attorney make her forget the murder rap and a possible death sentence.
Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights) Page 9
