Southern Comforts (7 page)

Ignoring Chelsea's polite yet firm insistence, Roxanne's gaze circled the table, including the others. “Ms. Cassidy is a vital link in the chain of our success.” Although her bright smile didn't fade in wattage, her eyes were two sapphire blades. “We must all do our best to convince her to join us in our little enterprise.”

Once again Chelsea was surprised. She'd expected another tantrum, like the one she'd witnessed in New York. But instead, the woman was being unrelentingly cordial. Even friendly. Obviously, this overt southern hospitality was another carefully staged performance.

Before she could respond, the maid returned with crystal custard bowls of icy lemon sorbet to clear the palate for the next course.

“Tell me, Chelsea,” Roxanne said, “did you always want to be a writer?”

“For as long as I can remember. I've been accused of having ink in my veins.” Her father had told her that, Chelsea remembered with a little hitch in her heart. The day after
her sixth birthday party. It had been the last thing he'd said to her. Right before he walked out the door of their Park Avenue apartment. Never to return.

“I wrote my first story when I was five years old.” And had illustrated it with crayons on a roll of butcher paper Tillie had brought home one day with an order of lamb chops.

“Imagine.” Roxanne was eyeing Chelsea with the interest an anthropologist might observe a member of a newly discovered Stone Age tribe. “Knowing your own mind at such a young age. I'm quite impressed. But of course, I suppose that had something to do with your father's influence. Dylan Cassidy must have been quite a role model.”

It was certainly no secret that the Associated Press Pulitzer prize-winning reporter turned Emmy-winning war correspondent was her father. Neither was it common knowledge. Chelsea wondered if Mary Lou had mentioned it, or if Roxanne had done a little investigating on her own.

Her fingers tightened around the sterling handle of her fork. “My father was quite an act to follow.”

“Which is undoubtedly why you chose the type of work you do,” Roxanne decided. “Instead of concentrating on hard news.” Her tone was so smooth, her expression so pleasantly bland, Chelsea couldn't quite decide whether or not she'd just been insulted.

“Celebrity journalism is safe,” she agreed. “At least most of the time.”

That earned a faint chuckle from Cash. Glancing over at him, he gave her a quick grin of approval she tried not to enjoy.

“It must be exciting,” Jo said, seemingly unaware of the little drama taking place, “going to all those parties with movie stars and famous athletes.”

“Reporting on parties isn't the same as being invited to them,” Chelsea said.

“Still, I'd imagine it's a good way to get close to people.”

“It's one way.” Although glitzy parties did provide Chelsea the access she needed to her subjects, she'd overheard more than one celebrity complain that inviting the press to social events was like giving them a length of rope and inviting them to a hanging party.

“You know, I've never met a celebrity journalist before,” Cash said, entering into the conversation. “I have to admit I'm not sure what, exactly, it is you do. Although I suspect it's not quite the same thing as Hedda Hopper gushing about Joan Crawford's new fur coat or Elizabeth Taylor's diamond earrings.”

Chelsea bristled. Then tamped down her knee-jerk response to what she suspected might be sarcasm and decided to take the opportunity to enlighten him, and even more importantly Roxanne, about how she worked.

“Things have definitely changed since the job was created to lionize stars and to enable them to be worshiped by the masses, without being envied. The old movie magazines, of course, were mostly just promotional vehicles for the studios,” she allowed.

“There seem to be four schools of thought in celebrity journalism these days. Unfortunately the type that gets the most press, is the one who seems to admire any famous person who manages to get through a day without committing rape or murder.”

“And that's not you,” Cash guessed.

“Hardly. Others approach a story with their own prejudices, and if the facts don't fit their view of the situation, or the person, they ignore them.”

“I
do
hope that's not you,” Roxanne said.

“Not at all. Others have a reporting style more suited to “60 Minutes.” Sort of a ‘gotcha,' where they take shots at famous people and try to make their subject look foolish. Or guilty of something.”

“I know
that's
not you,” Jo said.

“I try to remain fair to my subjects and myself by reporting the truth,” Chelsea said. “Without any personal bias, and not worrying about whether or not it demeans or flatters the subject.”

“I remember reading a bio line about you in
Vanity Fair,
” Jo said. “It mentioned you beginning your own newspaper when you were still a girl.”

Despite her earlier discomfort with the situation in general, and Cash in particular, Chelsea laughed.

“I talked my great-grandmother into buying me a junior printing press when I was ten. The type was rubber, instead of metal, and each piece of paper had to be individually hand stamped, but I loved it.”

“How innovative of you,” Roxanne said. “I'm quite impressed with your ambition.”

“I'm not sure I had any choice in the matter. As I said, I was born a writer.” Chelsea decided the time had come to turn the attention back to their hostess. “So, what made you decide to beautify the world, Roxanne?”

“Like you, I had no choice.”

The tiny pinched lines that suddenly appeared above Roxanne's top lip hinted at hidden depths. Perhaps even secrets. Everyone had secrets, Chelsea reminded herself. One of hers was currently sitting across the table from her. Her curiosity stimulated, she wondered what secrets she might discover behind Roxanne's attractive, carefully constructed facade.

“I have always had a deep visceral need to be surrounded by beautiful things.”

“Well, you've certainly managed to do that,” Jo piped
up enthusiastically in a way that had Chelsea thinking that she seemed more cheerleader than documentary filmmaker. “Your home is absolutely stunning.”

Roxanne's gaze swept around the room with obvious satisfaction. “Yes,” she agreed. “It is.”

The dinner of glazed carrots and snow peas, sweet potato soufflé, roast quail that had been boned, stuffed, then cunningly reassembled to look like its former self, was perfect. Roxanne, Chelsea suspected, would accept nothing short of excellence.

“This sure beats the hell out of the buckshot quail I grew up eating,” Cash drawled as he cut into the tender bird.

Roxanne shook her head in mock resignation. “What is it about southern gentlemen and their addiction to hunting?” She took a sip of wine and eyed Chelsea over the rim of the stemmed glass. “Tell me, Chelsea, dear, is your Nelson a hunter?”

Chelsea didn't know which she found more surprising: that Roxanne knew about Nelson, or the way Cash seemed to stiffen at the mention of the man he'd always insisted was so wrong for her.

“Actually, Nelson prefers golf.”

“A tedious pastime,” Roxanne scoffed. “All those men dressed in horridly garish clothing chasing a little ball around for hours and hours. I will never understand the appeal.” She turned toward Cash. “I assume you're a golfer.”

“Never had time to take it up,” he said, not mentioning that in the early years, he couldn't afford the balls, let alone the clubs. He turned the conversation to Roxanne's beloved Belle Terre, which she was more than happy to talk about for the rest of the evening.

Dessert was a rich bread pudding drenched in a caramel whiskey sauce that left Chelsea feeling soporific. Even the
caffeine in the French roast coffee blend couldn't overcome her sudden exhaustion.

She turned down the offer of brandy in the parlor. “As much as I've enjoyed this evening, I think I'd better take a rain check. It's been a long day.”

“I do wish you were staying in one of the guest rooms,” Roxanne complained. “Then you'd only have to go upstairs to bed.”

“It's so convenient,” Jo said, revealing that she was ensconced somewhere upstairs. “And far nicer than any hotel.”

“The offer is always open,” Roxanne said. “If you decide to change your mind.” She rose from the table to see her guest to the door. Dorothy, who hadn't yet finished her dessert, instantly jumped to her feet.

When Cash stood up as well, Chelsea first thought he was merely being polite. A minute later, she was reminded that manners—southern or otherwise—had never been his style.

“I'll drive Chelsea to the inn.”

The declaration affected Chelsea like a jolt of adrenaline.

“That's not necessary,” she and Roxanne said together.

“Really, Cash,” Roxanne continued, “it's Dorothy's job. For which, I might add, she's very well paid to do.”

“I need to see Jeb about some work he wanted done to his gazebo, anyway,” Cash said. “No point in Dorothy having to go out of her way.” Somehow, without using any outward force, he was deftly herding them all toward the front door.

“Roxanne, I can't remember ever having a better meal. It was a true masterpiece of culinary achievement.” He took hold of her hand and in a gesture that left Chelsea open-mouthed, lifted it to his lips. “Though spending time with you is downright hazardous to a man's waistline.”

“Don't worry, Cash.” Her voice was a sultry purr. “With
all the work you'll be doing at Belle Terre, you'll burn off any extra calories.”

Chelsea was uncomfortable watching Roxanne's avid, greedy eyes moving over Cash's face, eating him up as if he were a piece of rich, whiskey-soaked pudding. She cleared her throat, drawing Roxanne's attention back to her.

“Dinner was wonderful,” she seconded Cash's review of the meal. “What time would you like to get together tomorrow to discuss the book?”

“First you need to see Belle Terre. Why don't I have Dorothy pick you up at ten? We can drive out to look at the house, then discuss our little project after that.”

She was, of course, being steamrollered again. But as exhausted as she was, Chelsea decided not to argue. “I'd like to see the house.” She turned to Jo. “But I have to ask that you don't videotape me at the site. Unless I agree to the collaboration.”

“Until,” Roxanne said coyly.

She may be tired. But she wasn't a fool. Chelsea tilted her chin. “Unless,” she repeated.

A significant little silence settled over the foyer as the war of wills was waged.

Roxanne was the first to back down. “Unless,” she agreed with a smile that didn't begin to reach her eyes. Chelsea knew the woman was not surrendering. Rather, she'd wisely chosen to retreat from the battlefield and fight another day.

Roxanne Scarbrough was outrageously egotistical. And, Chelsea suspected, ruthless. But she was also talented, intelligent and fast becoming an American phenomenon. Chelsea knew she'd never like the woman. But then again, when you earned your living as a celebrity journalist, it was probably best not to write about people you admired.

Once, when profiling Diane Keaton, Dominick Dunne had
revealed missing the actress the moment he'd dropped her off at her hotel. Chelsea could not imagine ever feeling that way about Roxanne.

“Well,” Cash said, seemingly determined to move things along, “we'd better get going.”

Chelsea said polite goodbyes to Roxanne, Dorothy and Jo. She did not say anything to Cash. Not on the way down the long brick sidewalk to the driveway, although she couldn't resist arching a brow at the black Ferrari.

As soon as she settled into the black leather seat, she leaned her head back, closed her eyes, and promptly fell asleep.

T
he unseasonably warm spring night was drenched with the sultry scent of sun-ripened flowers. The fact that he was too tall to drive the Ferrari with the top up had never proven that much of a problem for Cash. He simply kept an eye on the barometer, avoided getting caught in rainstorms if possible, and enjoyed the feel of the wind as he raced through the dark and nearly deserted streets of Raintree.

Achieving success in California had allowed him to return to Georgia in style. He'd come a helluva long way from that kid who'd been born in a sharecropper's shack and had spent his teenage years sneaking peeks through keyholes in the whorehouse. He was no longer the rough, angry young man who'd seduced a passionate, old-money WASP princess at Yale.

He'd come to terms with his past. Was pleased with his present. And definitely looking forward to the future, including the restoration of Roxanne Scarbrough's beloved Belle Terre.

So why was it, he wondered, slanting a sideways glance at the sleeping Chelsea while paused at the town's single
stoplight, that this redhead from his past could walk into a room and suddenly make him feel sixteen years old again? A hot, horny teenager who knew too much about sex and nothing about love.

He studied her profile and told himself that he'd certainly seen more perfect women. Her nose was not the classical slender style favored by girls of her New York set, but slightly pug. It was also familiar.

When Roxanne revealed that Chelsea's father had been Dylan Cassidy, he'd realized her illustrious family tree boasted an appealing crooked branch. Although he'd only been thirteen when the reporter had been killed in a civil war in some forgotten third world country, Cash remembered the man's death well.

Not only had he delivered the newspapers that carried the news in a half-page obituary, all the girls in the whorehouse practically declared a day of mourning. Dylan Cassidy—looking like Indiana Jones in his khaki shirt with the epaulets, along with that hint of brogue he'd brought to America with him from his Irish homeland—had apparently provided a dash of much needed fantasy for a group of women who'd given up fantasizing.

The light turned green. Cash stepped on the gas while doing some quick, mental arithmetic. Chelsea would have been ten when her father's bullet-riddled body being dragged through those dusty streets had been repeated in newscast after newscast.

Pity stirred. Cash tamped it down as he pulled up in front of the inn. As soon as he cut the engine, Chelsea woke up.

“I suppose I should apologize.” She shifted in the seat and ran her hands through the long slide of hair.

“For what?”

“For falling asleep. It wasn't very polite.”

“I don't recall either of us being all that concerned with
politeness.” He plucked the key from the ignition. “Not when we were spending every chance we got fucking our brains out.”

Ignoring her sharp intake of breath, he opened his door and unfolded his long length from the car. Before he could come around and open her door, she was standing on the sidewalk.

“You're still as rude and hateful as ever, I see,” Chelsea snapped as they walked into the cozy lobby.

“And you're still as drop-dead gorgeous as ever. Even if you are too damn thin.”

His hand was on her back in a possessive, masculine way that annoyed her. But not wanting him to think he held the power to affect her in any way, she did not insist he take it away.

“A woman can never be too thin,” she quoted her mother's axiom as she strode briskly across the pine plank floor.

“That's a crock. Men like a woman to have some meat on her bones. Something to hold on to while they're tangling the sheets.”

“Some men aren't fixated on sex.”

“Some men need to learn to prioritize.” His hand slid beneath her hair. His fingers cupped the back of her neck.

Chelsea tossed her head and inched away. “You've done your duty, Cash. You can leave now.”

“Without escorting you up to your room? Honey, I don't know how your Yankee fellas do things in New York City, but no southern gentleman worth his salt would let a woman wander around all by her lonesome late at night. Even in a friendly town like Raintree.”

“Good try. But we both know that you're no gentleman. You're just trying to talk your way into my room. And my bed.”

A couple approached. From their surreptitious, suddenly interested glances, Chelsea realized that they'd heard her gritty accusation.

“Actually, now that you mention it, though I've admittedly spent the evening thinking about what I was going to do when I finally got you alone, believe me, sugar, talking wasn't one of the options.

“Besides, if I wanted to jump your bones, I sure as hell wouldn't need to wait until we got to your room to do it. I'll bet the keys to that shiny black Ferrari parked outside that there's a janitor's closet around here somewhere.”

The couple was pretending interest in a revolving rack of bright postcards. At Cash's provocative suggestion, the woman gasped and out of the corner of her eye, Chelsea saw the man grin. Refusing even to acknowledge that reminder of her outrageous behavior on that last night they'd spent together, Chelsea balled her hands into fists at her sides and managed, just barely, not to slug him.

She was no longer the young dream-driven girl who'd been fixated on this man. She'd worked hard and achieved a measure of success. In fact, her celebrity profile of Tom Wolfe had even earned a begrudging, “Nice work, dear,” from her mother.

She'd changed over the intervening years since her time with this man. But the one thing that seemed the same, dammit, was the way Cash Beaudine could still get beneath her skin.

She began marching up the stairs, Cash right beside her. Openly fascinated, the couple followed at a discreet distance.

“You really haven't changed a bit.” Chelsea gritted her teeth.

“Not in any of the ways that count,” Cash agreed cheer
fully. His arm looped around her waist. “I still like my whiskey neat, my cars fast, and my women hot.”

He really was disgusting. And wicked. Wickedly handsome with a wicked tongue and, she remembered to her regret, wonderfully wicked hands. Refusing to dignify his remark with an answer, Chelsea refused to look at him.

But she was not unaware of him. The lazy sexual energy radiating from Cash was palpable. She thought of how, when he'd first walked toward her on that loose-limb stride, looking so darkly masculine that he literally overwhelmed the floral romanticism of Roxanne's parlor, he'd brought to mind a sleek black panther.

Now, he reminded her of a thick-maned lion, sprawled beneath a tree in the blazing Serengeti sun, lazily biding his time until he felt moved to pounce.

When she stopped in front of her door, the man and woman passed. But not without casting one last fascinated look back over their shoulders at Chelsea and Cash.

“Y'all have a nice night now,” Cash said affably.

Their faces flushed a matching scarlet as they hurried away.

“Alone at last.” Cash turned toward Chelsea, with that melting sexuality in his eyes she'd once found impossible to resist. She could suddenly feel the heat and steam of the South as he cupped her rigid chin in his fingers and without hesitation, took her mouth.

The explosion was instantaneous. At the first feel of his firm hard lips on hers, Chelsea felt a jolt that shook her all the way to her toes, like lightning shocking its way across a midnight dark sky. Before she could recover, molten heat began to flow thickly through her veins.

Her heart was pounding in her chest and in her ears like thunder. Chelsea couldn't think. Then, as he fisted his hand in the wealth of hair at the nape of her neck and yanked her
head back, holding her to the relentless kiss, she didn't want to think.

Unwilling to consider the rashness of her behavior while his ravenous mouth was creating havoc to every atom of her body, she twined her arms around his neck and clung.

Sensing her surrender, tasting her fiery need, Cash changed the angle of the kiss, lessening the pressure, but none of the power. The need to take raged through him; he'd been going nuts, sitting across the table from her, managing to keep up his end of the dinner conversation, while his mind was obsessed with wondering what she was wearing beneath that sassy hot pink suit.

He'd remained polite while Roxanne tried to stake her claim, but he'd watched Chelsea watching Roxanne's performance and knew she believed he was sleeping with his famous client. Which wasn't all that surprising, considering that he certainly hadn't been a monk when they'd met all those years ago.

Realizing that this wasn't the way to prove to her that she was wrong, Cash slowly, reluctantly released her mouth.

“You're still a helluva good kisser, sweetheart.” He released her hair, sliding his fingers the entire length through the bright strands.

“For a Yankee,” she repeated what he'd told her that first time he'd stolen a kiss.

It had been on a cold gray January day, beneath a leafless tree glistening with winter ice. Before his mouth had touched hers, she'd been freezing. When it ended, she'd been surprised that they hadn't melted all the snow in New Haven.

He smiled, sharing the memory. “For a Yankee.”

The warm smile threatened to be her undoing. Her hands were damp and that distressed her. She was trembling and that infuriated her.

“You realize, of course, that you had no right to do that.”

Temper suited her. Haughter didn't. She was a woman born for passion. Which once again made him wonder what the hell had made her think she could be happy with that tight-assed Yankee.

Cash nearly shook his head at the waste, then reminded himself that if Waring was keeping her satisfied, she wouldn't have responded so quickly, and with such unrestrained hunger to him.

“No right to do what? Kiss you?” He continued to play with the ends of her hair. “Or make you so hot you practically swallowed me up whole?”

She tossed her head, freeing herself, and moved away from him. “You know, it really is depressingly true. Despite the Ferrari and the Rolex, you really haven't changed, Cash.”

She tried to insert the key in the lock, but her hands were not steady and it took two tries before she managed to open the door. “Good night.”

“Not yet.”

Frustrating her further, he followed her into the suite. The moment she caught a glimpse of herself in the gold-framed mirror that was hanging over the antique Hepplewhite desk, Chelsea nearly groaned. There was no point in trying to pretend she'd remained unaffected by the power of Cash's kiss. Not when the evidence was written in bold script all over her face. Her pupils were still too dilated, her cheeks too flushed, her lips too swollen.

Cash came up behind her. “If I live to be a hundred, I'll probably never figure it out.”

Reluctantly, she met his puzzled gaze in the mirror. “Figure what out?”

“What it is about you that somehow makes you the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. You shouldn't be,” he
mused out loud. His eyes took a slow tour of her face. “In the first place, your eyes are too damn wide for your face. They always used to remind me of those paintings of waifs that were all the rage in Mega-Mart stores back when I was a kid.”

He flicked a casual finger down her nose. “Your nose is too pug, and if you look at it just the right way, it's a tad crooked. And your mouth is too big.”

The unflattering description stung. It shouldn't, dammit. But it did. “If this is the way you usually compliment a woman you're trying to coax into bed, Cash, it's no wonder you had to pounce on the first female you managed to get alone in a hotel.”

“I've never been one to turn my back on opportunity.” He put his hands on her shoulders as they continued to face the mirror together. He decided, for discretion's sake not to mention that he'd never felt the need to coax. Not when the women came so willingly, in such numbers, all by themselves.

He knew what they liked. In bed and out, which tended to make the affection mutual. Women came. Then they went. And since Cash had always had a rule about being up front about the fact he had no intention of settling down into a long-term, ‘til death do you part relationship, usually they parted friends.

Although he wasn't a man who enjoyed emotional entanglements, Cash could appreciate the irony of being reunited with the one woman who'd once, in another place and another time, had him actually considering marriage.

“It really is the damndest thing,” he said, shaking his head as he returned his thoughts to Chelsea's cockeyed, but appealing face. “One by one, your features are all wrong. But put them together and they make one helluva irresistible whole.”

Her hair still smelled like an Irish meadow of wildflowers after a summer rain. Drawn to the scent, he pressed his lips against the top of her head. “And that's why I kissed you, Chelsea. Because although it doesn't make a lick of sense, you're a drop-dead gorgeous woman that no man in his right mind could resist.”

“I suppose that explains it. You said it yourself, Cash. It doesn't make a lick of sense. Which can only mean that you're obviously out of your mind.”

“True enough.” He grinned. “I suppose, if you wanted to get real technical about it, you could say I'm still crazy after all these years…. Crazy about you.”

This wasn't going to work. There'd been a few instances during dinner when Chelsea had thought she might be able to pull this challenge off. But collaborating with a woman who gave new meaning to the word
temperamental
would be difficult enough. Throw in a former lover who knew how to push all her hot buttons, and the challenge suddenly become untenable.

“What do you want, Cash? Really?”

Good question. And one that other than getting Chelsea Cassidy naked, Cash realized he didn't really have an answer for. Not yet, anyway.