Trying to see the picture that lay on top of the lowered casket, she pushed aside her insane attraction to her attorney and slowly maneuvered them closer the grave.
He pressed his lips together, nostrils flared. “I knew you couldn’t be trusted.”
“Well, you were so tired last night.” She tried to sound concerned. “And you must have been really sore. It would have been rude to disturb you.” Roxanne contorted the other way, drawing even closer to the edge. Close enough that she could lean out and peer into the grave at …
“Rude is getting someone out of jail only to have them ignore your wishes.” Malcolm jerked her back. She collided with his conservative-polo covered chest. She closed her eyes against the maelstrom of awareness, but all it did was heighten her senses. The heat from his body nearly scorched her, and the scent of him—masculine, clean, and sexy—enveloped her. Her eyes snapped back open. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” She leaned again, as much to put some distance between them as to see the picture.
“This is the last straw, Roxanne.”
“What?” She leaned out a little further, using Malcolm’s hold on her arm as an anchor. Even at this distance, his appeal was undeniable. Potent. Irresistible. If not for the story that lay so close at hand, she would turn into his arms, knock him to the ground, and straddle him then and there. She clamped a harness on her lecherous thoughts.
“From now on, you sleep with me.”
If words could echo under a tent top, his did. Fortunately, only a handful of people remained to hear his embarrassing outburst. But in a town the size of Jefferson County, it wouldn’t be long before everyone knew what he’d said. Roxanne stumbled and nearly fell headlong into the gaping grave.
“I mean, uhum … Oh, hell.”
Malcolm recaptured Roxanne’s arm and dragged her through the rain to his waiting car as the gaped-mouth citizens of Jefferson County looked on.
• • •
What a day this was turning out to be. At the rate he was going, today was going to beat yesterday for the record of All-Time Worst Day in the life of Malcolm B. Daniels IV. He shoved the soaking wet Roxanne into the previously dry interior of his car, then dashed around the back bumper and jumped in the driver’s side. He didn’t—couldn’t, even—risk a glance in her direction as he slammed the door shut, started the engine, and turned on the heater full blast.
The hurricane that had pounded the Gulf Coast the day before had brought with it cooler temperatures. At least the cold dulled the edge of his embarrassment. How could he have blurted that out in front of so many witnesses? Thinking about sleeping with Roxanne was one thing, but proclaiming it in front of half the town was another matter altogether. A matter that had to be dealt with and soon. If anybody asked, maybe he could blame it on the pain pills the doctor had given him last night. It was worth a shot.
The interior of the car was filled with the soft hiss of the heater, the rat-a-tat-tat of the rain on the roof, and Roxanne’s sweet presence. He turned to look at her and was captured. Dark hair dripping with summer rain, blue eyes as clear as the sky had been yesterday. Lips that beckoned his kiss—
“What were you doing back there?” He turned to stare straight ahead, the image of her in his peripheral vision still beckoning his libido.
“Selling Girl Scout cookies.”
Malcolm counted to ten, slowly and under his breath, but just loud enough Roxanne could hear.
“Okay. I thought maybe Truman would show up, and I might have the chance to talk to him.”
“And you thought a funeral would be a good place to conduct an interview?” He couldn’t stop himself from facing her. Yep, she looked just like he imagined. Even better.
He braced his hands on the steering wheel of his car and squeezed. His knuckles turned white, but it was better than reaching for Roxanne. Though at this point he couldn’t say whether he should make love to her right there on the spot, or if he should just strangle her and get it over with.
“It’s as good a place as any. Besides, I’m sure that if I asked, you would have driven me to his house and punched the button on my recorder.”
“Roxanne, we’ve been through this. There’s no need for you to hassle Truman, and there’s no need for you to attempt to uncover who killed Valentine.”
“That’s easy for you to say. It’s not your butt in the sling.”
“I thank you for your confidence in my legal expertise.”
“It’s not that, Malcolm, and you know it. The good citizens of Jefferson County need someone to take the fall for this murder. I’m a better choice by far than Martha Jean from the Piggly Wiggly.”
“I wasn’t aware that Martha Jean was a suspect.”
Roxanne rolled her eyes. “Maybe she should be. Maybe the entire town should be, but none more so than ex-Governor Silverstone.”
“He. Has. No. Motive.”
“What about the baby?”
“What are you talking about?” He shook his head and held up a hand to stay her reply. “No, don’t tell me. If this is another one of your harebrained ideas, I’d just as soon not know. I’m still soaking wet from the last one.”
“Whatever you say.” Her smile was cavity-inducing and totally innocent. She stretched out her hands and warmed them in the now oppressive heat blowing from the vents.
He wanted to know, but he didn’t want to want to know. Ah hell. Roxanne was rubbing off on him, and he couldn’t seem to keep a coherent thought in his head when she was around. Not a productive element for her case on Monday. Despite his reservations, he did need to know what she was talking about, but he wasn’t about to ask her now. So he would wait until she was ready to tell him. He could easily outlast her.
Seconds ticked by like hours, and the luxury car seemed to shrink to half its size. The words would eventually burst through her reporter’s impatience to tell the story.
She smiled a little to herself and smoothed a few of the wrinkles out of the legs of her overalls. As she bent to her task, her heavy braid fell over her shoulder. She pushed it back, and Malcolm was captured by the slender column of her neck. The skin was smooth, the color of vintage porcelain. What would it feel like to trail little kisses down its length, then bury his mouth at the base of her throat?
More hours ticked by.
Roxanne leaned forward and ran her hands over her long braid of kinky hair, letting the warm air from the heater dry the dark mass. Malcolm couldn’t help but wonder if she was doing this erotic dance of waiting just to drive him insane. Or could she even sense the effect she was having on him?
Surely he couldn’t hold out much longer. Uh, he meant, she. Surely she couldn’t hold out much longer. Any minute now she would spill it all.
She reached for the tie that confined her hair. Malcolm was lost in motion. He could well imagine all those curly tresses cascading over her shoulders, spilling across them both if he gathered her into his embrace.
Sensations bombarded him like the raindrops from above. He wanted her. He wanted to bury his fingers in the richness of her hair. Feel her rain soaked body pressing into his.
The smell of her wildflower-scented shampoo wafted around him and lured him nearer and nearer still. He’d always been partial to wildflowers.
He leaned across the console toward her. The move was slow, deliberate. He offered her time to tell him to stop. Actually wished that she would. One of them needed to keep this desire in check. And right now that one of them didn’t appear to be him. No, it was time for the logical lobe of his brain to put a halt to this … this wonderful nonsense. He inhaled her sweet, sweet scent and met those crystalline blue eyes. He saw his entire career—past, present, and future—flash in their depths. Kissing her would be a mistake. A serious, perhaps life-as-he-knew-it threatening mistake.
He stopped a hair’s breath away, a little unsure of how he’d gotten so close to her in the first place. Her blue, blue eyes turned smoky and darkened as if she were thinking the same th
ing he was.
What harm could come of one little kiss? Why shouldn’t they do what they both so obviously wanted? Why not? Just why the hell not?
He closed his eyes, but not before he saw her lids flutter shut in anticipation. Then he narrowed the tiny gap that separated them. He had expected a kiss, the simple act of touching one set of lips to another. What he got instead was an explosion, a gas fire, and fireworks on the Fourth of July. Fan-tastic.
A groan of satisfaction rumbled up and out of his chest as he pulled her closer, as close as they could be with the console between them. His fingers buried themselves in her wet, curly hair and held her firmly in place for his kiss. His lips tumbled over hers, searching, exploring, memorizing every curve and nuance, because as fabulous and spectacular as this kiss might be, he should never, ever kiss her again. She was dangerous, not part of his plan, and sweet as honey.
Her lips parted beneath his as she breathed a sigh of her own. He accepted her invitation, and his tongue entered her mouth, seeking the inner recesses for the heady taste that belonged only to her. He wanted to be closer to her, his body pressed to hers. Naked. Inside her. Thrusting. Sweaty.
He felt her palms on his chest. Push me away. Pull me closer.
What was he doing? She was his client, for chrissake.
As quickly as he started it, Malcolm ended the kiss. He pulled her hands from his hair and forced his mouth to leave hers, sucking in big gulps of air to clear his head.
“That was—”
“A mistake,” she finished for him. His words exactly, but somehow, he didn’t like the fact that they came out of her mouth. That pretty, kiss-swollen mouth.
“Right,” he agreed tightly.
“Yeah,” she said, her voice still a little breathless.
“I think it’s best if we pretend like—”
“Like it never happened.” She did it again. God, he hated that. Almost as much as he hated the fact that she seemed to already be putting it out of her mind. She ran a hand over her disheveled hair, took in a shuddering breath, and then a calm seemed to drift over her like a hazy fog.
“Right,” he said between his clenched teeth. “Like it never happened.” He dragged in another breath. He could do it. If she could, surely he could too. Now if he could just convince the parts of him pressing against his zipper. “It was just a—”
“Kiss.”
A great kiss. “And you’ll be leaving soon.”
“And you’re staying.”
“Right.” He nodded his head, then just kept nodding like a fool.
“Right,” she repeated.
“So … ” He took a shuddering breath. “Tell me.” His voice was raspy with unfulfillment. He took another deep breath trying to get his libido back under control.
Get it together, Daniels.
“About what?”
“This crazy notion you have about Della being pregnant.”
“Oh. Right. While I was in Dr. Seager’s office last night, I happened to notice Della Silverstone’s file on top of one of the stacks.”
Her words crashed home, a desperately needed reality check. “Happened to notice? You were snooping.”
“Maybe I was,” she snapped in return, their unfulfilled desire making her as cranky as he. “But the file was lying out in the open, just begging to be snooped.”
To argue with her was an exercise in futility, somewhere in the neighborhood of slamming his head into a brick wall, but it beat the hell out of kissing her again and watching years of hard-earned, detailed career plans go up in the smoke of burning passion.
He returned to the original topic of conversation. “What baby?”
“Della’s pregnant, and I have come to the conclusion that the father of said child is none other than our dearly departed Jamie Valentine.”
Malcolm closed his eyes. After a moment of grossly over-rated stress-relieving deep breathing exercises, he opened them again. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this.”
“Scoff all you want. I saw the records. Della’s pregnant, and Valentine’s the father.”
“It said that. On the records. That Valentine is the father.”
“Well, no. Not exactly. But it doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure that one out.”
“No, only a tabloid reporter.”
“Creative journalist.”
Malcolm shook his head. “Why are you so certain the baby’s Valentine’s? Truman may be getting on up there, but I imagine it all still works. I heard that Cary Grant fathered a child when he was in his seventies.”
“That’s not true.”
“Well, it’s possible for a man to still father a child when he’s reached that age.”
“Malcolm, if the child was Truman’s don’t you think he would have told the entire town? But he hasn’t. Because he doesn’t know. And why doesn’t he know, you ask?”
“Actually, I didn’t.”
“Because he’s not the father.” She smiled a self-satisfied smile.
“And you came to this conclusion on your own?”
“Uh-huh. Put the facts together myself.”
“Just where, pray tell, did you learn to do that? Did they teach Fact Putting Together 101 at the Academy of Psycho Tabloid Reporting?” Malcolm held up a hand to stay her protest before she could voice it. “My apologies. I’m sure it was a senior level class at the University of Creative Journalism.”
“Go ahead. Make fun of me. I’m sure the judge will be pret-ty interested come Monday.”
“Roxanne, as your attorney, I must advise you not stand up in a court of law and slander the Silverstones.”
“But if it’s true—”
“It’s not.”
“And I can prove it—”
“How do you propose to do that?”
“All I have to do is talk to Della Silverstone—”
“No. In her condition, she doesn’t need to be subjected to your cockamamie ideas.”
“So you believe she’s pregnant.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“Then what did you say?”
“I say this conversation is over.” Malcolm put the car into gear and directed it back onto the cemetery road. He needed to get them somewhere public. The Lord and half of Jefferson County knew he couldn’t be trusted with her in private. Something he didn’t understand himself.
“Hide all you want. It won’t change anything.”
Even as she said the words, Malcolm knew they were true. But was she talking about their kiss, or the murder? He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t ask.
Chapter Eight
Malcolm pulled his car into the parking lot in front of Len’s Diner and chanced a look at the sexy reporter seated next to him. He hadn’t been able to even glance in her direction since he’d driven away from the cemetery. Hadn’t wanted to deal with the dichotomy of emotions she brought out in him. He put the Mercedes into park, his hands still shaking from the anger at finding her at the funeral and the aftereffects of their searing kiss. Why, oh, why could she—of all people—do this to him? Maybe it was a vitamin deficiency. Or maybe he was having some kind of pre-mid-life crisis. Once she was safely on her way back to Chicago—sans her story, of course—he was going to schedule a complete physical with ol’ Doc Seager.
“What are we doing here?” Her voice was quiet as if she had finally realized that Malcolm was at his breaking point. He sure as hell knew it.
“I thought we might get some breakfast.” He was starving. After all, he’d missed supper the night before. Right now eating out would serve a dual purpose. One, it would ease the rumbling in his stomach and the pangs of a nagging headache and two, it would give him something to do with Roxanne that kept them in public.
“It’s nearly three o’clock. Where I come from that’s almost time for dinner.”
“Around here, dinner is eaten at noon.”
She frowned. “What do you eat in the evening?”
“Supper.”
“Okay then.”
Her tone was just slightly patronizing.
“Have you ever heard that saying, ‘when in Rome’?”
“Yeah, yeah.” She shook her head and grabbed her leather tote bag from the floor between her feet.
“Well, I’m hungry. I didn’t get to eat breakfast this morning, so I’m going to eat it now.” He got out of the car, and Roxanne followed suit.
Once inside the diner, Malcolm knew everything was going to be all right. At least for now. He wasn’t much of a comfort-eater, but he was a southern man born and bred. He’d had opportunities to eat at the finest restaurants in Nashville, even the nation’s capital, but he liked his biscuits and gravy, black-eyed peas, and turnip greens. Len’s had been serving home cooking for forty years, and Malcolm had been eating here as long as he could remember. Yes, sir, a little country ham and red-eye gravy, and he would be good as new.
• • •
Roxanne looked around at the inside of the diner in awe. She tried not to gawk and look like an out-of-towner, but what did it matter? Everyone in Jefferson County knew who she was, and they also knew that she didn’t belong here. So she stared. It gave her something to do besides obsess over Malcolm’s kiss. And obsess was exactly what she was doing about that. Oh, she had tried to act like it didn’t matter when they were in his car, but it did matter—a lot. Never, ever before had she been kissed like that. Like she was to be savored and devoured all at the same time. It made her want more. And even stranger, Malcolm’s kiss made her want to forget all about the murder charges and career making stories and just lose herself in him.
No, it was much better to think about the diner. And what a diner it was. Len’s was a trucker’s dream. Set close to the old highway and filled with artery-clogging, grease-dripping, old-fashioned southern cooking, Roxanne was surprised that Malcolm even knew such a place existed, much less risked eating there.
Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights) Page 11
