She wrapped her legs around his hips, rocking against him, meeting him thrust for thrust as he entered and retreated, entered and retreated, until the friction became too much. The pressure inside her was more than she could bear. She could hold off her climax no longer and gave in.
Waves upon waves of bliss washed over her. Then with one final thrust, Malcolm cried out her name and joined her in release.
Roxanne wasn’t sure how long they stayed that way, locked together in the finest design. She only knew that she had made love with Malcolm, wild crazy passionate sex that most people only fantasize about.
She looked up and her blue gaze met his brown one. Tiny lines of worry had already started to pinch his forehead. She lifted her hand and smoothed her fingers against that wrinkle of reason.
He opened his mouth as if he were about to say something, when a sharp knock sounded at his door.
He uttered a blasphemy as Roxanne jerked her gaze away from his. It was better than the soul-deep stare that was beginning to develop between them. She could only imagine what he was thinking. He was probably already regretting what had just happened. He would have to be wondering how it was going to affect his career. Lila. Then there was the fact that Roxanne was leaving day after tomorrow.
“Miss Gertie,” she said, using his momentary distraction to scoot herself out from under him. He stood as she continued. “Miss Gertie said she was going to come over and get that book you were telling her about. She said that with all the excitement of tonight’s party—”
“That she wouldn’t be able to sleep,” Malcolm finished for her. He nodded and donned his pants, heading for the door before they were even completely fastened. But the look he gave her said things weren’t settled between the two of them.
Unable to find her jersey, Roxanne grabbed up Malcolm’s shirt and headed for the bathroom, or at least toward one of the doors she thought might be a bathroom. She needed some time to pull herself together. Miss Gertie had thankfully given her a brief reprieve. But once she had her book and was on her way back across the hall, Roxanne knew she and Malcolm would have to talk. But for now she needed to get herself under control, stop her legs from shaking, her insides from quivering.
She heard the click of the latch as Malcolm opened the door, not bothering to ask who was there.
“Excuse me.” The familiar cultured male voice stopped Roxanne dead in her tracks. “I’m looking for Roxanne Ackerman.”
Oh, God! It couldn’t be!
She whirled around just as Pierce stooped down and picked up her discarded jersey from where it lay so incriminatingly close to the polished toe of his designer shoe.
“Ah, Roxie … are you still sleeping in this ratty old thing?”
Roxanne closed her eyes and willed him away. But when she opened them again, he was still there. She smiled brightly to cover up the flood of emotions. “Hi, Pierce.”
She knew just how bad this looked as she clutched the sides of Malcolm’s over-large shirt around her nakedness. Pierce never missed a thing. That was what had made him so successful and such a pain in the rear. Roxanne knew he hadn’t missed a single detail of the scene before him. Even if he discounted the fact that she was wearing a man’s tuxedo shirt and nothing else, the apartment showed the telltale signs of their passion. Law journals and clothing littered the hardwood floor. The coffee table looked as if it had been placed by a blind man’s feng shui, and the sofa cushions hung drunkenly out of place. The studs that had once fastened Malcolm’s tuxedo shirt were scattered across the room.
“How did you get in the main house?” This from Malcolm.
“The front door was unlocked. I knocked, but, uh … ” He let his gaze travel around the passion destroyed apartment. “No one heard me.”
“Who are you?” Malcolm’s question was directed at the blond-haired man, though his eyes never left Roxanne. She couldn’t break her gaze with him, no matter how badly she wanted to. Mistrust had started to creep into his expression, mingling there with the worry she had seen earlier.
“It’s my turn, and I think I should be the one asking that.”
Malcolm nodded in a “fair enough” sort of way, then looked back to Pierce. “Malcolm Daniels,” he introduced himself though he made no attempt to shake the man’s hand. “Roxanne’s attorney. And you are?”
Pierce smiled, a cross between a jackal and the Cheshire cat. “Pierce Ackerman. I’m her husband.”
Chapter Fifteen
Husband? Husband?
Roxanne Ackerman was someone’s wife. Son-of-a-bitch!
It was bad enough that he’d made love to Roxanne—or rather had sex with her. Yeah, that was all it was. Sex. Just sex. Just mind-blowing, frantic, incredible sex. And normally, mind-blowing, frantic, incredible sex was something Malcolm could live with—as long as it was with the right person. But the man in front of him had just informed Malcolm that he’d had mind-blowing, frantic, incredible sex with another man’s wife. This was not going well at all.
Even before the arrival of Pierce Ackerman, the situation could not be called optimum. Malcolm knew he could work out the damage control with Roxanne. She was a big girl. She knew the score, and she evidently wasn’t about to jump head first into a long term relationship. She already had a husband, and he had a fiancée—an almost-fiancée. Malcolm inwardly cringed. Somewhere in hell there was a special place for men like him.
Malcolm focused his attention on the polished intruder, still trying to sort through it all.
“Ex-husband.”
“Excuse me?” It took a second for Roxanne’s words to penetrate his whirling thoughts.
“Pierce likes to forget that we’re divorced.”
Malcolm felt a little of the tension leave his shoulders as Roxanne stepped forward and snatched her jersey from Pierce’s crooked finger. Her cheeks were stained dark pink, and her hands shook as she balled up the garment, somehow managing to keep the tails of Malcolm’s shirt together to cover herself at the same time.
“What are you doing here, Pierce?”
“I need to talk to you.”
“Ever hear of a phone? It’s a really great invention. They even have little ones you can take with you anywhere you go.”
“They only work if the person actually pays the bill.”
Malcolm swung his gaze back to Roxanne feeling very much like a spectator at Wimbledon. She nodded sagely. “So that’s why the damned thing is dead.”
“Imagine that.”
Roxanne shrugged as if cell phone bills were of no consequence. Malcolm supposed that after a person was charged with murder, things like mobile phones and their subsequent bills were of little importance.
“So?” Roxanne arched a dark brow at her ex and tapped her foot impatiently.
“What?”
“You wanted to talk? Talk.”
Pierce cut his eyes in Malcolm’s direction. “What I have to say does not bear the need of witnesses.”
Roxanne shook her head, and if Malcolm didn’t know better, he thought she was almost laughing. “Pierce, you amaze me. I think your shirt is even more stuffed now than it was when I walked out. Do you want to cut to the chase, or are we going to stand here all night?”
Ackerman looked ready to do just that so Malcolm mentally calculated the wisdom of excusing himself. The polite thing to do would be to go into the kitchen and make some coffee. That would give them time alone to talk, and Malcolm an outlet for the residual sexual energy he had never experienced before.
However, he had a pretty accurate notion that Roxanne didn’t want to be left alone with her ex. The gentlemanly thing to do would be to stay and offer her the support of his presence.
You’re her attorney, not her knight in shining armor, even if that’s what she told you the first time you met.
“Mr. Daniels is my attorney. Considering what I’ve been through in the last few days, anything you need to say to me should be said in his presence.”
The coffee could wait.
After all, it was well past midnight and he was jittery enough without adding caffeine to the mix.
Ackerman raised a skeptical brow at the mention of Roxanne’s relationship with Malcolm, but otherwise remained quiet on that matter. Instead he took a deep breath and let it out slowly as if gathering his words during the simple act of breathing.
“I need you to come back to Chicago with me. Your father had a heart attack this morning.”
Roxanne looked as though she has been sucker-punched. The color drained from her face, her body rigid and unmoving.
Malcolm felt rusted in place. He wanted to move, to go to Roxanne, and hold her close. But she wasn’t his to hold. No matter what had just happened between them.
“I’m sorry, Roxie. I didn’t want to tell you this way.” But you insisted wasn’t said, but still hung in the air between.
“I think I’ll go make some coffee,” Malcolm said.
Pierce nodded and took hold of Roxanne’s arm. Stepping over the legal journals that lay scattered across the floor of the apartment, he led her to the couch, stopping momentarily to replace the cushions. He sat and pulled Roxanne down next to him. She was stiff and tense as he put his arm around her and forced her head to his shoulder.
The two of them sitting so close together on the couch was the last sight Malcolm had as he started toward the kitchen to make coffee. This had to be, without a doubt, the most unique situation he’d ever found himself in. At least he couldn’t think of a time when he’d made love to a woman on a couch only to have her share it with her ex-husband minutes later. That had to be some kind of weird day record. If he knew it wouldn’t hurt his campaign, he’d call Guinness. On second thought, he’d be better off forgetting it all. As it was, it was going to take him a long time before he could look at that piece of furniture without thinking of Roxanne.
“It was a mild attack,” he heard Pierce explain. “Evidently, there was a doctor at the spa he had gone to, and he received immediate medical attention. They flew him back to Chicago. He’s at Mount Sinai in the cardiac ward.”
Just then a knock sounded at the door, and Malcolm switched back to open it. Surely that was Miss Gertie coming to fetch the book. He grabbed his copy of the latest John Grisham novel, then opened the door only to be pushed aside by the biggest Asian man he had even seen. This new intruder was at least six feet tall with straight, blue-black hair, and slightly tilted black eyes.
“Roxanne.” The man breathed her name as if it were a prayer.
She was on her feet in a flash. “Newland.”
“Come on in,” Malcolm said dryly as he shut the door behind the man.
“Ackerman,” the man Roxanne called Newland nodded toward her ex.
“Tran,” he returned with equal disdain.
“What are you doing here?” Roxanne asked.
“What’s he doing here?” Newland Tran jerked a thumb toward Pierce who jumped to his feet, his stance defensive.
“I think I could ask the same thing,” Ackerman retorted.
“I believe that’s my line,” Malcolm interjected.
“Who’s he?” Tran looked from Pierce to Roxanne for an answer.
“My attorney,” Roxanne said.
“At least that’s what they are calling it these days,” Pierce said snidely.
“That’s enough.” Malcolm’s tone was heavy with warning.
“Stop it, all of you. Neutral corners. Now.” Roxanne pushed them apart, somehow managing to keep Malcolm’s shirt closed and still retain her modesty.
“What are you doing here, Newland?”
“I got your message. I tried to call you back, but something’s wrong with your phone. I was worried, so I came as soon as I could.”
“I didn’t mean to concern you.”
Tran shrugged, his dark eyes trailing around the room. Malcolm could just imagine what it looked like to this newest newcomer. Scattered clothes, scattered magazines. And God help them, Roxanne’s torn underwear was still lying on the floor. He supposed it could be worse; he didn’t even know where his were. Malcolm bent down to retrieve the scrap of pink. He shoved it into his pants pocket as it all finally hit home with Tran.
“Wait a minute,” he said slowly. “You slept with a story. I ask you to marry me not even four days ago, and you come down here and fu—”
“Stop it,” Roxanne said sternly as yet another knock sounded at the door.
Surely that was Miss Gertie. Malcolm didn’t know if he could handle another of Roxanne’s lovers. He held onto the Grisham novel for luck.
“She’s not going to marry you,” Pierce scoffed.
“Shut up, Ackerman,” Malcolm heard Tran say as he opened the door to a sandy-haired man with vaguely familiar blue eyes. He was tall, tan, and bookish, like a surfing college professor.
“I’m looking for Roxanne Ackerman.”
“Come on in. I was just about to pour myself a drink.” Screw the coffee. He needed something strong and straight up.
Roxanne caught sight of the man and nearly tripped in her haste to throw herself into his arms, one hand still fisted closed Malcolm’s shirt. “Jonas.”
Make that a double.
“He’s okay. He’s going to be just fine, baby girl,” Jonas crooned, rocking her back and forth and smoothing his hands over her hair. His touch was possessive, his tone intimate.
Malcolm felt the flames of jealousy lick at his insides. He poured himself a triple shot of scotch and tossed back half of it in one gulp. It burned like fire on the way down and did nothing to help the acid building in his gut.
Then Roxanne pulled back and punched Jonas in the chest. “Just because you’re eight and a half minutes older, doesn’t give you the right to call me that.”
Malcom didn’t examine the relief he felt at learning Jonas was her brother, her twin. He let it wash over him and simply be.
Jonas chuckled. “Get your things. I’ll take you home.” He released her, then gave her a peck of a kiss on the forehead.
Tran was the first to protest. “If anyone takes her home, it’s going to be me.”
“I got here first,” Ackerman interjected.
“I hold her bond.” And for the second time that evening Malcolm had the upper hand.
“Excuse me?” All three men turned to stare at him.
“Roxanne’s been arrested for murder. She’s not going anywhere until after the preliminary hearing on Monday morning.”
“Murder?” they all repeated, then started talking at once.
“You never said anything about murder.”
“I thought you came down here to cover a convention.”
“When did you get arrested?”
Malcolm let out a shrill whistle, and the room fell silent. “Everybody, be quiet, and I’ll explain. Right after Roxanne changes into … something else … more … less comfortable.” He took her elbow and walked her to the door. He lowered his voice so only she could hear. “Go upstairs and get dressed. I’ll keep them from killing each other until you get back. Then we’ll work through all this together.”
Her blue eyes shone brightly with gratitude.
“I’m sorry about your dad.”
Roxanne just nodded. From the plethora of emotions chasing across her face, he knew she couldn’t answer any other way.
He reached for the doorknob just as another knock sounded.
“Are there any other men in your life you need to tell me about before I open this door?”
Roxanne shook her head. “And just so you know, Jonas is my twin. I divorced Pierce, and I’m not going to marry Newland.”
“Fair enough.”
He opened the door, hoping to see Miss Gertie and Pablo. Instead, a handsome man in his late seventies stood outside Malcolm’s apartment.
Roxanne shook her head. “Not one of mine.” She slipped past the man and was up the stairs in a flash.
“I’m looking for Gertrude Johnson.”
“She lives across the hall.”
“Thank you kindly.” The man dipped his chin, then headed for Miss Gertie’s apartment, a mixed bouquet of red roses and crisp white daisies in one hand.
Malcolm closed the door with a smile. Apparently Miss Gertie wasn’t going to need that book tonight after all.
• • •
“Favorite song.”
Lila sat at the end of her bed and waited for Elliot to answer. They’d made love again, and although it was good—okay, amazing, earth-shattering, and possibly even spectacular—they’d decided to take a break before shooting for magnificent. As it was, they were working their way through the thesaurus toward their “perfect” destination.
Lila had donned Elliot’s shirt and retrieved the last of their Piggly Wiggly purchases. Now they lounged on the rumpled bed eating pork rinds and drinking hot Dr. Pepper out of bright yellow Solo cups.
“Of all time or current top forty?” Elliot asked.
“All time.”
“Anything by Lynyrd Skynyrd.”
“Really?”
He shrugged. “Rock and roll. It’s my dirty little secret. What about you?”
“I like it all. Except rap. I can’t understand what they’re saying. And it’s too hard to sing in the shower.”
“You sing in the shower?”
Lila smiled. “It’s my dirty little secret.”
“I think that may be something I need to witness first-hand.” He reached out and caressed the arch of her foot. Up until today, she hadn’t thought feet were a particularly sensitive erogenous zone, but she had learned a lot about herself over the last couple of hours. A whole lot.
She jerked her foot away. “Stay focused.”
“Right,” he said. “What was the question?”
“It’s your turn.”
“Oh, yeah. Hmmm … ” He seemed to think about it. “Favorite Kama Sutra position.”
“Elliot.”
“Okay, okay. Favorite baseball team.”
“The Braves.”
She watched his face light up like a kid on Christmas morning. “No joke.”
Southern Hospitality (Hot Southern Nights) Page 22
