“I talked to the store clerk this afternoon. His affidavit will clear your name. There’s no need to try and find the killer. Come Monday, you’ll be free of the charges.”
Malcolm pulled his car through the circular drive. He switched off the ignition and turned in his seat to face his date. “This celebration means a lot to Truman, and Truman means a lot to me. Could you please put aside your search for the ultimate story and just have a good time? If not for me, for Truman. For his guests. Just for tonight, okay?”
It seemed like an eternity passed before Roxanne smiled and nodded. “All right,” she agreed. “But just for tonight.”
• • •
Roxanne couldn’t help but agree with Malcolm’s terms. A big part of her wanted to believe in Malcolm and his assurances that all would be back to normal on Monday. But she would have agreed even if he didn’t have the proof he needed to clear her name. She knew it was crazy, but somehow the evening seemed magical, and she didn’t want to spoil it. Maybe it was the dress. Or maybe it was oh-so-handsome Malcolm in that oh-so-fabulous tux. Or maybe she just owed it to herself to slow down a little and enjoy life. What did Stephen King say? All work and no play made Jack a dull boy. She had learned her lesson a long time ago.
She’d be the first to admit that she didn’t take things seriously. Not since she’d lost Dane, but this trip to Tennessee had almost been her undoing. Well, it really wasn’t the south that was the problem, nor was it small town life, but being accused of murder really did put a cramp in her style.
Just for tonight she was going to let it all go and simply have a good time with the man at her side. The tension left her shoulders for the first time since she’d crossed the state line.
“Valet parking?” Roxanne asked as Malcolm tossed the keys to his Mercedes to the uniformed attendant.
He shrugged. “It’s a big party.”
Roxanne took Malcolm’s arm as he led her toward Truman Silverstone’s country mansion. “Did I hear Miss Gertie refer to the estate as the White House?”
Malcolm nodded. “It’s sort of a joke concerning Truman’s political career. He didn’t actually make it to the White House, but everyone in Jefferson County thinks he should have, so his house got a nickname, so to speak. But if you say anything in front of Della, she’ll correct you. The paint color is actually egg shell.”
“But the Egg Shell House doesn’t have quite the same ring to it.” They said the words in unison, each finishing on a laugh.
Roxanne met Malcolm’s gaze, and it held. For a heart-stopping moment they just looked at each other, caught up in the magic of having something in common. Then the moment stretched into awkwardness, and Roxanne looked away.
“I’ll be sure not to mention the paint color in front of Della.”
“That’d be good.” Malcolm cleared his throat as they entered the house and joined the party already in full swing.
Big was not the word Roxanne would have chosen to describe the gathering. The party itself started in the formal ballroom, poured out onto the veranda and continued around the poolside. Finally, it trickled down onto what appeared to be an unused helicopter pad surrounded by lush gardens. Chinese lanterns of various jeweled colors lit the grounds with the help of many strategically placed tiki torches. A four-piece band played requests on a raised platform as the partygoers sipped champagne and nibbled hors d’oeuvres distributed by the uniformed wait staff.
“There’s got to be at least two hundred people here,” Roxanne breathed, unable to conceal the astonishment in her voice.
“More like three hundred.”
“And you think you’re going to be able to find Truman in this crush?”
Malcolm smiled, and Roxanne’s knees turned to water. “I know exactly where he is.”
True to his word, Malcolm led her straight to the man of the hour. Well, mostly. They did have to stop once or twice to shake hands and exchange niceties with some of the guests. Roxanne was sure the guest list read like a “who’s who” of Nashville and Washington society. Truman may have never made it to the White House, but he was still very well connected. There were so many familiar faces in the crowd Roxanne couldn’t help but wonder if this party was a breach of national security.
“There he is.”
Her gaze followed the direction of Malcolm’s point.
Even at first glance, it was very apparent that Truman Silverstone had a great lust for life. He was sitting on the diving board in a full tuxedo—Armani, no less—sans the shoes. The legs of the traditional black pants had been rolled up to mid-shin, and a pair of cheap rubber flip-flops sat close by on the concrete pool skirt. One foot dangled in the cool blue water and a tumbler filled with amber liquid was held precariously by the slender fingers of one hand. Other than the snowy hair atop his head and the spider web of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the man didn’t appear to be even a day over sixty.
Truman pushed himself off the diving board and slid his feet into the rubber sandals. He didn’t bother to un-roll his pant legs. The small crowd that surrounded him dispersed, and Malcolm moved forward to give the man who had raised him a manly birthday hug.
Roxanne knew a little about Truman Silverstone and his politics from her double major of journalism and political science during her college years, but what she knew of him from Miss Gertie was what intrigued her the most. A man who took in and raised his best friend’s child, who remained faithful to his first wife and remarried for love the second time around. Who maybe even killed out of passion—
She brought those thoughts to an abrupt halt. She had promised Malcolm she wouldn’t go down that road tonight and she had promised herself that this evening was as good as any to enjoy herself. No more murderous thoughts. Not tonight anyway. Tonight she was just a reluctantly invited guest of a terrifically fabulous party.
Malcolm wrapped his warm fingers around her upper arm and pulled her forward until she was standing just a little in front of him. She tried to ignore the sizzle that zinged where his skin touched hers. Why was she attracted to this man who was so wrong for her? A man who belonged to another. It just wasn’t fair.
She shot a look back to see his face just before he spoke, then turned her attention to the man in front of her as Malcolm made the introduction.
“Truman Silverstone, may I present to you, Ms. Roxanne Ackerman of Chicago.”
“Oh, the Yankee,” Truman said with a sage nod.
Roxanne immediately fell in love with the man. He was so genuine and open. Not at all like she thought he’d be. Once again, she was glad she had made that promise to Malcolm. Although her career would benefit greatly with an exclusive on the Silverstones, she would rather just relax and get to know Truman the man and not have to worry about a story. Oh, well, first time for everything.
“It’s a pleasure,” she said, a smile tugging at her lips as she held out her hand to him.
Truman took it, but instead of a shake, he raised it to his mouth and lightly brushed his lips across her knuckles. “Likewise.” His dark blue eyes twinkled with mischief as he smiled in return.
Roxanne met his sapphire gaze and immediately knew that no matter how much the reporter in her wanted it to be true, Truman Silverstone was no more a murderer than she was.
• • •
Lila resisted the urge to tap her foot—it wasn’t becoming. She tamped down the need to cross her arms in front of her chest—it wasn’t becoming, and it would ruin the line of her dress. She resisted the compulsion to excuse herself and locate a ladies room to find out what was the matter with her appearance. Something had to be wrong. Terribly wrong. She and Elliot had been at the party for nearly twenty minutes, and he had yet to look at her.
In the car she could pass off his inattention on driving unfamiliar streets, but now it seemed as if he were purposefully ignoring her.
Oh, he had done all the right things, all the proper things. He’d helped her out of his tiny little car and up the stairs that led to the
mansion, then around back where the party was just gearing up nicely. He’d snagged them both a drink, and was now sipping his with elegant ease, while the look on his calm face was just a clever mask for the expression she knew to be hidden underneath: I’d rather be anywhere but here. Not once had he looked at her.
Was her lipstick smudged? Did she have something stuck in her teeth? Or the worst, did she have something hanging out of her nose? Yuck!
She discreetly wiped the back of her hand against the potentially offending body part, but deep down she knew that wasn’t the problem. The problem was that Elliot Douglas from Hattiesburg didn’t like her, and that was something Lila McCreedy from Jefferson County wasn’t used to experiencing. She was more accustomed to men falling at her feet, tripping over themselves to get her a drink, pulling out the chair for her, and otherwise making her life a more comfortable place. Yet this man seemed immune.
She didn’t garner so much attention in Jefferson County. This was her home. These people had seen her at her worst, during her formative years, the era of braces, legs too long, fuzzy hair and pimples. Not that she had many of those, of course. She was, after all, a beauty queen. But even in New York and LA she reigned among the beautiful people of the world. Men would cross the continent to worship at the Temple of Lila. But not this man, this doctor from Mississippi.
Then it hit her like the first cool splat of a spinach body wrap.
He was gay. Miss Gertie’s nephew from Hattiesburg was gay.
That explained everything.
She inwardly sighed. Not that it mattered to her one way or the other, but his sexual preference didn’t mean she had to spend the evening on the fringes of the party like some pathetic wallflower.
“Elliot,” she started in that purr of a voice she had perfected long ago. “Will you dance with me?” She trailed her fingers down his arm.
He looked down at where her hand lay on his sleeve, then back up into her eyes.
“Of course.” His words were cool and detached.
Lila couldn’t help but think what a disservice his preference was to women everywhere. He was so masculine, so perfect, so … oh, well.
He swept her into his arms with an accomplished grace that belied his superior height. His steps were practiced but smooth, skillful but executed with an ease that said he was used to holding his own on the dance floor, regardless of the gender of his partner.
Lila curled her hand against his chest and glanced up at him. His square jaw was set in a rigid line, the small cleft in his chin only visible at this distance.
What a waste.
“Elliot,” she started, her voice low so that no one could overhear, but yet loud enough that he would be able to understand. “I know your secret. And it’s safe with me.”
He looked startled for a brief second, then that mask closed over this handsome face once again. “And what secret would that be?”
She raised an eyebrow and quirked one side of her mouth in that oh-don’t-be-coy kind of way. “Oh, don’t be coy.”
Elliot executed a skilled turn, nearly sweeping Lila off her feet—a strange sensation for someone a hair’s breadth shy of six foot in her stocking feet.
“Coy? Would you care to elaborate in words that are not such an insult to my masculinity?”
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.”
“Come again?”
Lila took a deep breath. She had said a lot of things to a lot of people in her life, but she had never said these words to anyone. All the homosexual men she’d had the honor of meeting were very much at ease with their sexual orientation. They made no bones about it. Some of them were downright flamboyant. But they were mostly from San Francisco and New York, Athens and Milan. Elliot was from oh-so conservative Mississippi.
“Your masculinity. I’m talking about your masculinity.”
He frowned, his brows slanting down to match the corners of his mouth. “I’m not sure I like where this conversation is headed.”
Maybe it was like going swimming for the first time in the spring. You know that the water’s going to be icy cold, but you jump right in anyway and deal with the shock later. So she jumped. “I know you’re gay, all right?”
His bark of laughter drew several pairs of curious eyes to them. “Really?”
Poor man. He still thought he had to hide it—even from her. But she needed his cooperation if tonight was going to work.
“I won’t say anything, Elliot. Does your aunt know? Of course she doesn’t. Why else would she be so hell-bent on finding you a wife?”
“Because she’s a meddling old woman. I’m sure you’ll do things like that when you’re eighty-two.”
“Elliot,” she chided. She might not be able to entice him sexually, but she could still charm the pants off him—figuratively speaking. She was a southern girl, born and bred, and there wasn’t a man alive—heterosexual or otherwise—that she couldn’t bend to her will, one way or another.
He pinned her with an incredulous scowl. Pretty convincing despite the evidence stacked against him. “I’m not gay.”
“There’s no need to pretend with me. I mean, you’ve hardly looked at me since you picked me up. We’ve been at this party for half an hour. This is our first dance, and I had to ask you.”
“And those are the ‘facts’ you’ve used to base your assumptions?”
“It’s enough.”
“Not on my planet.”
“So you’re telling me that you’re not gay.”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”
“And I’m supposed to believe this.” Even to her own ears she sounded catty. But she couldn’t help herself. No one had ever treated her this way—like she was invisible, even ordinary. Quite frankly, she wasn’t used to it.
He shrugged like he hadn’t a care in the world. “Believe what you want.”
“Without any proof?” Just when had she turned into such a bitch?
“You want proof?” That’s when Elliot Douglas pulled her close, so close their bodies slammed together and the length of his desire was unmistakable.
The action took her breath away. His heat burned through the material of her dress to scorch her thighs, and she resisted the impulse to melt into him.
No, pull away. She resisted the urge to pull away. More than anything, she couldn’t let him see the effect he was having on her.
“I won’t tell you you’re the most exquisite woman here,” he drawled in her ear, the languid quality of his voice sending shivers through her.
His cheek was pressed to hers, and she was oh-so aware of him. The breadth of his chest, the strength in his hands, the size of his—
“You’ve been told that way too many times before.”
“Then why haven’t you looked at me?” She’d meant to sound all business. She supposed she did, if her business was answering the phones at a 976 number.
“Because, sweetheart, I have no desire to be just another notch on your garter belt.”
His words were like a bucket of cold water on her from-out-of-nowhere, why-am-I-feeling-like-this? passion. Well, they were like a glass of cold water. Because there was no way around this: Elliot Douglas had some sort of hold on her own libido. Despite the fact he had loosened his embrace, she could still feel every place where their bodies had touched.
“Are you implying that I’m easy?”
That sardonic brow shot upward again. “You do the math.”
Lila felt heat rise to her cheeks that had nothing to do with Tennessee in August and everything to do with passion and anger and the man still holding her, still dancing with her.
“I know how women like you are.”
“Oh, you do?” She wasn’t sure she liked the route of this conversation. No, she was positive. She didn’t like this at all. “Just how is that?”
“You’re fraught with insecurities and have a list of neuroses as long as the Mississippi and twice as wide. You need to constantly be reminded of how beautiful
you are in order to keep your head above water. And, sugar, I just don’t have that kind of time.”
Her palm itched to slap his smug, handsome face.
“So even though my body might want to bury itself inside you, unlike those puppy dog boys you surround yourself with, I can keep my Mr. Happy in his place. You’ll have to find someone else to make you feel beautiful tonight.”
Lila blinked at him once. Despite the ping of desire, she didn’t want him for that. She wasn’t so insecure. She needed a little reassurance from time to time, but she didn’t sleep around. She hadn’t even slept with Malcolm in … well, in a long time. No, her insecurities stemmed from something more altogether. But there was no way she was admitting that to Elliot.
“I’ll have you know, I’m practically engaged,” she said.
“Oh, you are?”
“Yes, I am.”
“To whom?”
She tossed back her hair for emphasis. “Malcolm.”
“Hmmm … ” He nodded sagely. “Malcolm Daniels?”
“Of course,” she managed to grit through her clenched teeth.
“Isn’t that him over there with his hands all over that little brunette?”
She didn’t know whether to believe him or not. She stared at him a full minute before tearing her gaze away to search the crowd for Malcolm.
Damn, she had been so involved in arguing with Elliot she hadn’t noticed Malcolm had arrived, Yankee reporter in tow. That Yankee also happened to be the brunette he did indeed have his hands all over. Hands that should have been holding her.
She turned her full attention back to Elliot, tilted her head back, and smiled as if he’d just said the funniest thing. Then, despite the heat that emanated from him, she moved in a little closer.
He raised one brow, but otherwise made no move to put any distance between them. “Are you trying to get me to change teams?”
“Oh, Elliot, I’m just dancing with you.” The smile on her lips started to feel like those wax mouths that the kids bought on Halloween.
“Sell it somewhere else, sweetheart.”
“You think it’s more than that?”
“I know it is.”
Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights) Page 16
