Before he could even blush at her comment, a door upstairs opened and shut. The movement caught his attention, and even more so, the woman who now stood on the landing. She was … stunning.
Inwardly he groaned.
Her honey-colored hair fell just below her shoulders, a streak of platinum that surely came from a hairdresser’s artistic hand flowing down one side. Her skin was flawless, creamy, ethereal, her body svelte and graceful. And her eyes … dear lord her eyes were the unbelievable color of the Caribbean Sea. She was, without a doubt, the most beautiful woman he had ever seen—and brother, he had seen a lot of them. There was something familiar about her, something he couldn’t quite put his finger on.
Elliot plastered on a smile as she descended the stairs toward him.
Pablo barked a greeting from his perch in his aunt’s lap and stood, his tail wagging as she neared. His aunt’s reaction wasn’t much more subtle. If Gertie had a tail she’d probably be wagging it, too. Instead, she had an ear-to-ear grin, which showed just how much she thought of the beautiful woman who lived upstairs.
His aunt waited until the newcomer finished her descent before starting the introductions. “Elliot, may I present to you, Miss Lila McCreedy. Lila, my great nephew from Hattiesburg, Elliot Douglas.”
“It’s a pleasure meeting you.” Lila’s voice suited her perfectly. It was warm, thick like honey, attractive and sweet.
Suddenly images of her and him—naked—and a bottle of Sue Bee flashed through his mind. He quickly pushed the thought away. But not quick enough to stop the havoc it brought to his libido. He must have been working too hard lately. That was all it was. Well, that and the fact that he’d become a mite jaded and had trouble seeing past all the superficial to the person underneath, and therefore had trouble committing to a woman long enough to take her to bed. But only just lately. The past three months or so. Maybe four. Okay, okay, five. It had been five long months since that, and that was the only reason for his sudden burst of desire. For despite how beautiful Miss Lila McCreedy of Jefferson County appeared on the outside, she would be just like all the rest: shallow, neurotic, full of herself.
He took Lila’s hand into his own—because it was expected of him—brushed his lips across the petal soft skin—because it was expected of him—and smiled into her turquoise colored eyes—because it was expected of him. “The pleasure is all mine.”
The warmth of her hand seeped into his, and he felt a strange sense of loss when she pulled it away. She turned toward his aunt, her dress shimmering like a thousand stars on a tropical ocean.
“Are you ready to go, Miss Gertie?”
“Pablo and I have been ready since the day after last year’s party.”
Lila laughed, the sound like musical chimes.
Wait. Did he just think that her laugh was … ? Lord, he was in worse shape than he first imagined if he was waxing so much poetic. He cleared his thoughts and concentrated on the matter at hand.
“Do you want me to drive, Aunt Gert?”
“Well, I’m certainly not driving that tiny little death trap you call a car.”
A ninety-five thousand dollar death trap. But hey, that was what status symbols were for.
“I meant your van.” No sense explaining that it was hard enough for him to fit in the damned thing much less trying to get her wheelchair in the trunk.
“Oh, no.” She shook her head. “Pablo and I have a few last minute touches before we’ll be ready. You young people go on ahead.”
Elliot couldn’t help himself. His gaze roamed over his aunt in her formal gown and her prized Chihuahua in his doggie tuxedo. They looked ready enough to him.
“I don’t know where the former governor lives.” His protest was weak at best, and for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out exactly what he felt he should protest against. Being alone with a beautiful woman? Ridiculous. His aunt’s not-so-veiled attempts at finding him a bride? Always. He knew that she fancied herself both a psychic and a matchmaker, but there were times when he wished she would act like any normal aunt and buy him socks he wouldn’t wear for Christmas and cologne he’d pour down the drain for his birthday.
“Lila knows the way.”
“Of course,” his impromptu date acquiesced, with a bright and beautiful, almost practiced smile.
“She can tell you how to get there.”
“All right then.” He leaned down and kissed his aunt on the cheek once again, getting a lick on the hand from Pablo for his efforts. “I’ll see you there.”
“Save me a dance,” his aunt called as he took Lila’s elbow and led her out to his low slung Jag. He opened the passenger’s door and helped her inside.
“Mind your dress,” he said tucking in the bottom before shutting the door and making his way around to the driver’s side.
They could have all gone together in his aunt’s handicapped van. But it seemed his aunt had other plans for them tonight. He should have known this was coming. Gertie had been trying to get him up here to meet Lila for close to two years now. Somehow he’d always managed to get out of her matchmaking. That time was over. The getting out part, not the matchmaking part. Gertie’s matchmaking attempts would never end. She’d go to her reward and try to get Sampson and Delilah back together. That was just the way she was, no changing her now. Tonight it seemed as if she had set her sights on him and Miss Lila McCreedy. And there was nothing either of them could do about it, but ride it out.
• • •
Plan B was coming along nicely. That was because it was a heck of a Plan B. Maybe just as good—if not better—than Plan A. Well, not really, because in Plan A she would have been in Malcolm’s arms all night with no one to interrupt. But Plan B was really shaping up.
Lila cast a glance at her date as he folded his length into the little car with a grace that would have emasculated most men. But Elliot Douglas was different. She just couldn’t figure out how. Or why. Or what difference it made. He was her date for one night. Her ticket to the future. The man who was going to help her—whether he realized it or not—get Malcolm’s ring on her finger.
Her plan was simple. Dance, laugh, and have a wonderful time at the party and thereby make Malcolm jealous. Make him realize that he couldn’t stand the thought of her in another man’s arms, and he must marry her—posthaste.
Only her darling Malcolm would use the word posthaste, and it made her love him all the more.
After everything her parents had put her through—and endured themselves—she hated using jealousy, but it was necessary. Ends justifying the means and all that.
But not that maddening kind of jealous where you forgot everything else. Just kick-in-the-pants jealousy. That’s all she wanted: Malcolm jump-started toward a proposal. Tonight.
Elliot—such an integral part of her plan—had turned out to be better than she could have hoped. Miss Gertie’s great nephew from Hattiesburg was handsome, handsome, handsome. Oh, sure, Miss Gertie had told Lila that her great nephew from Hattiesburg was a good looking man, but she was his aunt. She was supposed to say that. To find out that it was true was a pleasant surprise—a very pleasant surprise.
He was tall, too. Taller than she, despite her three-inch stilettos and runway height. But he didn’t have that I’m too tall for my own good shoulder slump and hunched walk. No, he stood proud, very much at ease in his own skin. Not too muscled, not too lanky, perfectly proportioned like a six foot six Adonis.
Apparently he was successful if the cut of his tux, the brand of his watch, and the price tag on his car were any indications. No one would go to that much trouble just to impress a blind date. He was, after all, a doctor.
A very handsome doctor.
He had thick, blond hair—not the shiny, silky, girly stuff like in a shampoo ad—but coarse, manly blond hair, the color of wheat just before harvest. His eyes were tawny brown, the exact shade of Lynchburg’s finest. He was lightly tanned, just enough to showcase his perfectly straight, perfectly white teeth.
>
In a word, he was perfect. The Ken to her Barbie. The man who was going to help her land Malcolm. It was going to be one perfect night.
“Your aunt tells me you’re a doctor.”
He nodded and murmured something that sounded affirmative, but he didn’t take his eyes from the road.
“That must be fascinating. Saving lives and all.”
He glanced over at her, those whiskey brown eyes as hard as Christmas candy and totally unreadable. “I’m a plastic surgeon.”
“Turn right at the next street,” she said with a vague little point in the direction she wanted him to take. “Well, that sounds very interesting to me.”
Again, he did that murmur thing that sounded halfway between uh-hum and a low growl.
Somehow she got the feeling he didn’t want to talk about his work, but honestly, what were they going to talk about if not their separate occupations? It was in The Book, Ice Breakers For Dummies. Chapter One: talk about your job.
“You change people’s lives and make the world a more beautiful place,” she continued. For some reason, she couldn’t abide the silence that had settled between them. And on top of that, Plan B would never work if her date was barely speaking to her. “Helping women overcome insecurities and flaws.”
There went that noise again.
“I mean, some women just know how to turn a bad situation around while others need a little help. Take me for example, all my life I’ve been self-conscious of my birthmark and yet now it’s what sets me apart from the rest.”
He shot her a quick glance, his gaze melting over her in a way that made her want to squirm in her seat and check her hair regardless of the fact that she knew it was flawless. “Birthmark?”
She waved a hand around the streak near her left temple.
He gave a quick nod.
“You thought I’d dyed it, didn’t you?”
He had the audacity to look indignant. “Of course not.”
“Oh, don’t be coy. Everybody thinks I put it there myself. This day and age, people are doing all sorts of crazy highlights and colors.”
He shrugged, the elegant lift of those broad shoulders. “Maybe.”
“Turn left. Well, I didn’t, but I do use it to my advantage.”
“Against ‘the rest’?
“Yes.”
“The rest of what?”
“The other models.”
“And that’s what you are?”
“It’s what I do.”
“Like runway, that kind of thing?”
“I did that for a while, but it was too much pressure, and I was away from home all the time.” Away from Malcolm. “Now I do mostly catalogues, that sort of thing.” She tried to downplay her career. Tell a man that you posed half nude—never mind that you were wearing discreet undergarments—and they thought they could declare habeas corpus on your corpus.
Elliot took his eyes from the road long enough to press her with another hard stare. “I thought you looked familiar. Victoria’s Secret, right?”
She should have known. Every male worth his Y chromosome got the Victoria’s Secret catalogue by “accident” at least once in his life. No hiding it now.
“Yeah. Victoria’s Secret.” Now why when she said that did it feel like she had admitted to being Playmate of the Month? Heaven help her if he ever found out about SI.
“Is that what you’ve always wanted to do?”
Oh, so it was okay to talk about her job, but not his.
“Yeah.” But that was a lie. It was all she’d wanted to do until she actually became an adult and realized her looks weren’t going to last. Not forever. And not in a marketable sense. There was no way she’d be fifty and doing ads for laxatives and panty liners. She had to get out, and she had to do it soon. While she could still go out with her head held high. While it was still her choice.
“Well … ”
“Well, what?”
“There was a time when I wanted to be a kindergarten teacher.” Now why did she tell him that? She had never told anyone. Not even Malcolm.
“Really?”
She swallowed hard, but nodded. Now that her secret was out in the open it seemed to grow, bigger and bigger, until it could actually survive outside her own mind.
“Did you study Early Ed?”
This man had been to school for years and years, and it embarrassed her to tell him the truth. “Nnnoo,” she said slowly.
She’d learned what she knew of business and contracts the hard way. She had some not-so-on-the-level agents who taught her a lot. She was well spoken—thanks to her pageant years—and could hold her own in any situation. She had grace and style, but when her looks were gone, what was left?
“You could always go back to school.”
“Huh?” So much for well spoken, but his words took her off guard.
“I said you could always go back to school.”
She supposed that she could. Well, technically she couldn’t go back to school, because she had never been. But she could start. She’d just never thought about it. Huh.
“It’s the next house on the left.” She pointed the way, as she mulled over his suggestion. Go back to school, very interesting.
It was worth mulling over.
And more than anything, she was surprised. Never once did Elliot Douglas imply that just because she was beautiful she didn’t have any brains. Just quick as lightning he came up with a solution. Go back to school.
Maybe she would. After she and Malcolm were married. Maybe she would go to school.
It was a heck of a Plan B to Plan B.
Chapter Ten
Malcolm was more than a little nervous about having Roxanne in Truman’s home for an entire evening. There was no telling what she would do. One thing was certain. He had to set some ground rules with her right up front. Or at least he would try. Just as soon as she made her way downstairs from Miss Beulah’s apartment.
He prowled in front of the staircase and checked his watch. So much for getting to the party a little early. As it was, if he and Miss Ackerman left now, they would be lucky to arrive only fashionably late.
“Roxanne,” he called up the gently winding staircase. “We need to leave. Roxanne.” A little louder this time. “Rox—!”
The door to Miss Beulah’s apartment opened. Roxanne emerged and floated down the staircase.
At least he thought it was Roxanne. The smiling woman descending toward him looked like Roxanne. Mostly. She had the same crazy curly hair that Roxanne had, but instead of pulled back into a braid, the riotous curls were haphazardly piled on top of her head in a sexy, messy up-do. Her customary cutoffs and T-shirt had been replaced with a stunning vintage Oriental ensemble reminiscent of Audrey Hepburn. But the body encased in all that form-fitting silk didn’t belong to the ultra-thin actress. Instead, the dress showcased all the curves that Roxanne’s regular attire had kept hidden from view.
Yet it was her shoes that threw him for a loop. Gone were the chunky Doc Martens to be replaced by sexy sandals. Strappy, black, and oh-so … sexy. Had he mentioned they were sexy?
Malcolm reached up and ran a finger around the collar of his tuxedo shirt.
Why was it so damned hot in here?
Roxanne smiled as she reached the bottom of the stairs, and Malcolm felt a little more of his sanity wane. He needed to call Lester Voyles and have him check the air conditioner. Sure, it was the middle of August, but it was way too hot in here.
“Well?” Roxanne turned around, giving him a three hundred and sixty degree view.
“Nice shoes,” was all he could manage to croak.
“You like them?” Roxanne struck a pose, a sparkle flashing from the silver toe ring she wore on her left foot.
Like them? He wished he could slip off those damn-sexy, strappy things and spend all night nibbling on her …
Whoa, Nellie. He needed to get control. And fast.
“I—I thought you only wore boots.” He definitely needed to call Lester
and have that air unit serviced. It was way, way too hot.
She shrugged, and he found himself loving the rustle of the aged silk. “I didn’t think they went with the outfit.”
“No,” he managed. He was doomed. Doomed. Doomed.
He’d never considered himself to be a man with a foot fetish, but it seemed the old adage was true: things change.
Maybe, just maybe, he could keep it together tonight as long as he didn’t look at her feet. That shouldn’t be so hard, he thought. In fact, that should be a piece of cake. No problem at all.
“Shall we go?” He held out an arm, and she looped hers through as they headed for the door.
Funny, but in all of the time he had spent with her, he hadn’t noticed that the top of her head was almost at eye level to him.
“I never realized you were so tall,” he commented as he helped her into his car. It seemed like a safe subject. Safer than talking about her—
“It’s the shoes.” She dimpled at him prettily. Malcolm felt a sinking feeling start in his gut and spread throughout his entire body.
Doomed.
“Uh, Roxanne,” he started as they drove toward the White House. It was a little easier to talk to her in the car. Inside the German make, he could concentrate on the road before him, on the actual driving. It wasn’t so easy to see her feet and those …
“Ahem.” He cleared his throat and his thoughts. “I’m really looking forward to this party tonight.”
She turned, her brow furrowed with a small frown. “It sounds like fun. Is it a surprise party?”
Malcolm chuckled. “You don’t give a seventy-five-year-old man with a bad heart a surprise party.”
“Good point.”
They smiled at each other as they continued toward Truman’s. Malcolm collected his thoughts and tried again.
“Tonight, I uh … ”
She turned toward him, that same look on her face.
“Can … I mean … ” Where had all his communication skills gone? “I want you to behave at the party.” Apparently they had skipped town with his diplomacy.
She arched one dark brow. “Behave?”
Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights) Page 15
