Love, Me (9 page)

“What about them?”

“Are you close to them?”

“No.” Her answer was short and final, and did not invite follow-up questions.

Dakota ignored the door she'd closed. “Why not?”

“I'm just not.”

“Look who's talking about being closed off from their feelings….”

Chelsea laid down her fork, and looked at him consideringly. Finally she made up her mind to discuss with him something she'd never discussed with anyone but Tucker.

“I ran away from home when I was a teenager.”

“That's a pretty dangerous thing to do, especially for a girl.”

“You're right, it is. But it wasn't something impetuous. My parents were abusive. I knew there was a very real chance I could end up dead, so the risk of running away was relative. I took care of myself by leaving.”

“Didn't your parents try to find you?”

“For that they would have had to sober up,” she said, getting up to clear the plates. Dakota sensed that it was painful for her to talk about her parents so he dropped the subject.

“So how good is this pecan pie?” Chelsea asked as she brought it to the table.

“Sinfully good,” Dakota assured her. He served them each a slice.

“Mind if we change that funeral music?” he asked. “It reminds me too much of dinners at home. Let's see if I can't find something a little more up-tempo.” He got up and played with the radio until he found a decent pop station.

“Rock and roll, Dakota? Isn't that heresy in this house?”

He made a mock bow and returned to his seat. “It's in your honor—Southern hospitality, you know. So, what do you think of the pecan pie?”

Chelsea took another bite of the still-warm pie. “Mmm… you were right. It is sinfully good. I can taste the rich, dark syrup.”

“I don't know about that. All I know is that I like it.”

“Close your eyes,” Chelsea instructed.

“Why?”

“Just close them.”

He complied. “Now what?”

“Tell me what your senses tell you.”

“I smell food.”

“What kind of food?”

“I don't know. Food.” He opened his eyes. “What did you expect me to say?”

She closed her eyes.

“I smell the wine in the stew gravy, the sweet fragrance of the geraniums blooming on the window-sill, the acrid burning of the candle wick, and the spicy scent of your cologne. I hear the radio playing a golden oldie, the whisper of the ceiling fan overhead, and your breathing. I feel the breeze from the ceiling fan and the light scratch of lace across my breasts.”

She opened her eyes to see Dakota's gaze on her cleavage. He looked up into her eyes.

“You can't write the kind of song I want, Dakota, if you don't allow yourself to really feel. When I sing, I sing from my heart. I can't sing a song that isn't written for me from the heart.”

On the radio Rod Stewart's raspy voice began one of his sexy ballads.

“Dance with me,” Dakota said, rising from his chair. “Let me show you how I feel.”

Chelsea melted into his arms. In her high-heeled sandals, she fitted against him perfectly.

Dakota was a good slow-dancer, his lead authoritative, his hold on her loose, yet possessive. As they swirled around the kitchen she drank in his seductive scent and reveled in the feel of his lean, hard body brushing hers.

He pulled her in closer and purposely slowed their steps until they were rocking gently together. She quivered as his lips caressed her earlobe, then kissed the spot where the curve of her neck met her shoulder.

There was no question that the dance was foreplay.

No question where the evening was leading.

No question how Dakota felt.

Until he bent her back into a low dip when the song ended. A dip that flashed the red teddy she wore under the body-hugging dress.

When he brought Chelsea out of the dip, she could see that his mood had changed. He released her abruptly and stepped back from her.

“What's wrong?” One minute she'd felt the heat of his full-out sensual assault; the next, she felt the iciness of his anger.

“There are a few things about you that are common knowledge, too, and the truth is I don't see myself writing a song for a woman with a tattoo no telling-where on her body.”

Chelsea went very quiet. So that was it. He'd come to his senses, remembering she wasn't good enough for him.

Her dark eyes flashed a white-hot fury. “It's not hard to tell where, Dakota. I'll show you.”

With that, she kicked off her heels, one of which bounced off his shin.

“Ouch!”

Ignoring his complaint, she peeled off her red dress and tossed it at him.

He caught it with one hand.

“What are you doing?”

She slid the straps of the red teddy from her shoulders, pushed it down and stepped out of it. She kicked it aside and walked toward him, completely naked.

“What are you doing?” he demanded, his eyes wide, drinking in her beauty.

“I'm satisfying your curiosity. You were speculating about where the tattoo is on my body. Now you don't have to speculate. She turned her leg so he could see the tiny rose and delicate script on the inside of her ankle.

“What does it say?”

“It's Tucker's nickname.”

“How charming.” His tone was condescending, a deliberate put-down. “And I suppose it's true that he has your name tattooed on his body.”

“That's right.” She did her best not to let the bright smile she flashed him quiver.

“How about you, Dakota?”

“What about me?”

“Aren't you going to show me your tattoo?”

“I don't have one.”

“You mean like you don't have a heart?”

“That's right,” he retorted. “But at least I don't get my kicks playing one lover off against another.”

“What's that supposed to mean?” Chelsea demanded, still too angry to be embarrassed that she was standing naked in Dakota's kitchen.

“It means you trying to seduce me while you and Tucker are lovers. Does it give you some kind of kick to wear his gift while doing it?”

“What are you talking about?”

Dakota nodded at the teddy on the floor.

So that was it. He'd seen the card. Dakota had been snooping in her room. And then he had the nerve to challenge her with his holier-than-thou attitude. She found herself wanting to strike out at him, wanting to hurt him as he'd hurt her.

“What's the matter, Dakota, you afraid you won't measure up to Tucker?”

That got to him. He gave up any pretense of control. He reached out, shoved his hand into her long curls and drew her to him, then lowered his lips to hers in a punishing kiss.

His mouth took total possession of hers, staking a claim that meant to erase any other. The hunger of his kiss was urgent, demanding her response.

She felt herself responding shamelessly, even knowing his kiss was one of anger and sexual jealousy. His kiss revealed a man capable of strong feelings.

“This isn't a good idea,” Chelsea said, her voice shaky, when he broke off the deep kiss.

“I think it is. We've both wanted this from the beginning. You know we have. Say it,” he coaxed, his breath warm on her ear.

“I want you,” she said as his lips moved down her throat, exploring.

“Come here, sweetheart,” he urged. He backed up until they reached the table, then he dropped down into the chair. Chelsea stood before him, held by his gaze.

“You're beautiful, sweetheart, you know that.” He used both hands to explore her body. His fingertips seared her skin wherever they roamed. She moved closer against his hands when they closed over her rounded breasts, then kneaded them gently.

She jerked involuntarily and sighed as his fingers tweaked their peaks. Moving ever lower, his hands measured her small waist and slid over her hips to cup her buttocks.

A slight gasp escaped her lips when he moved one hand back around to the front of her body to slip it between her thighs. He nudged her legs apart while the hand remaining on her buttocks pressed her to move against the hand that cupped her sex.

She found herself unable to resist his coaxing, felt herself irresistibly responding as waves of hot desire flooded her.

Whimpering when he thrust two fingers into her dewy mound, she began following his lead and moved against his insistent hand.

“That's it, sweetheart. Rock for me. Rock and roll. Let me see your pleasure. A little faster… now slower… Come on, sweetheart, you're almost there. Yes… that's it, sweetheart.”

Mewing and breathless, she came apart for him.

D
AKOTA PULLED
C
HELSEA
down into his lap, where he stroked her face and murmured sweet love words as she lay deliciously limp in his arms.

Her eyes fluttered closed and she reveled in his touch.

“Don't go to sleep on me now, sweetheart,” he said, loosening his tuxedo tie. “Give me a hand undressing here, would you? I'm feeling just a tad overdressed.”

Chelsea stirred. “We need to talk,” she mumbled, but she helped him push his jacket off his shoulders, then tugged it down his arms until he was free of it.

“Later. We'll talk later.”

His kiss silenced her objection. He didn't have to urge her to continue helping him undress; she took the initiative. Her hands reached to unbuckle the black cummerbund at his narrow waist. When the cummerbund dropped to the floor, she undid the tricky cuff links, then helped him shimmy out of his shirt.

She unbuttoned his pants, but his hands stopped her from going further. “I think I'd better handle this,” he said. He set her gently on her feet, then stood to undertake the precarious task of unzipping his very strained fly.

“No, I want to handle it,” Chelsea teased, pressing her hand against his fly and making the task even more difficult.

“Cut it out, woman,” he said with a stern look and ignored her giggles as he managed to undo the zipper without damage to his body. His pants fell to his ankles and he went to step out of them, but tripped when they caught at the shoes he'd forgotten to remove in his haste to shed his clothes.

He landed with a thud and a curse on the glossy wood floor of the kitchen. He sat up, yanked off one shoe, then the other, and tossed them at Chelsea who wasn't even trying to hide her amusement.

He finally kicked free of his trousers, and was reaching to shed his socks when Chelsea stopped him.

“No, leave them on,” she said, shoving him back down to the floor and covering his body with hers. “You'll be fulfilling a secret fantasy of mine—I've always wanted to make love to a man who was naked except for a pair of black dress socks.”

Dakota's blue eyes danced. “You're a
crazy
woman, Chelsea Stone.”

“And you're gonna love it, Mr. Stuffed-Shirt Law,” she promised.

Taking control, she moved to accommodate the hard insistence probing against her belly. Sitting astride him, she lowered her body and slipped his penis inside her.

He jerked beneath her at the contact. “Sweetheart, you feel like heaven. So wet, so ready for me. Please…” he begged.

But she captured his wrists at his sides and bade him be still while she slid her lithe body back and forth along him. Her movements were exquisitely slow, sensual torture.

“I can't—” He lost control, biting down on his lip while he threw his head back and arched up with a powerful thrust. A loud groan of pleasure escaped his lips as he went rigid, suspended in the moment of mind-numbing satisfaction.

She felt him contract inside her, felt him shudder, and it tripped her own response. She came, then, with a series of little pants that exploded in spiraling points of intense gratification.

“Was I right?” she asked a few minutes later when they had caught their breath.

“I don't think anything gets any lighter than we just were.”

Chelsea smiled with satisfaction,

“It's too bad it was nothing more than just a game to you.”

“What?” Chelsea exclaimed, moving away from him.

“I said, it was too bad it was nothing more than a game to you.”

“You really believe that?” she asked, hurt and anger fueling her move to collect her items of clothing scattered on the floor.

“Shouldn't I?”

She stood before him with her clothing in the crook of her arm. “How can you… how can you say that?” she protested.

“I can say it because you get your jollies leading on two men. You get me so besotted, I lose my head and forget it's you and Tucker who are a team. I'm just the patsy. I've had to remind myself now that the flare of passion has cooled that you're using me for your career, that you want a song—not me.”

“That's rich, Dakota. You make these terrible accusations because you can't or won't admit your feelings for me. You're too busy protecting a heart you don't have. You… you…can just go to hell, Dakota.” She turned and stormed out of the kitchen. A moment later he heard her slam the door to her bedroom. The sound reverberated endlessly in his mind.

C
HELSEA AWOKE TO THE
sound of scratching on her bedroom door.

She rubbed her eyes and peered at the clock on the night table.

It was almost noon!

She sprang out of bed. She'd planned to be up and gone early. Though she'd considered it, leaving in the middle of the night was a bit dramatic even for her. And she'd wanted to track down Tucker to let him know they were checking out of Dakota's digs.

The scratching persisted, and she went to the door. She half expected to see Pokey's master standing beside her, an apology on his lips for believing she would lead two men on.

It had been wishful thinking on her part. The dog was alone and looking for someone to play with. She had her tennis ball in her mouth and a hopeful look in her eyes.

“Come on in, Pokey. You can help me pack.”

“Pack? What's going on?” a raspy male voice demanded.

Chelsea turned to see Tucker come hobbling into the room on crutches.

“We're leaving,” Chelsea said shortly. She pulled on a pair of jeans and tucked in the T-shirt she'd slept in.

Tucker eased himself down into a nearby chair, then leaned his crutches against the wall. Pokey bounded over to him, her tail wagging, the tennis ball in her mouth. Tucker took the ball and tossed it for her to catch.

“Are we leaving of our own accord, or were we invited to leave?” Tucker asked, as Pokey dropped the ball in his lap and waited for him to toss it again.

Chelsea went to the closet and began pulling her things off hangers. “Dakota Law is an egotistical, puritanical snob,” she announced. She fired clothes into her open suitcase as she spoke.

“Yeah, but why are we moving out?” Tucker asked as he continued his game of catch with Pokey. “You knew Dakota's finer points before you moved in.”

Chelsea stopped what she was doing and turned to Tucker.

“You want to know why we're moving out?”

“Bingo.” He grinned to infuriate her even more.

“We're moving out because I've decided Dakota's never going to write a song for me.”

“So, Dakota told you no and made it stick—is that what happened?” he asked.

Chelsea wadded the underwear she'd pulled from a drawer and threw it in a ball into her suitcase. “I didn't say that. What makes you think that?” she snapped.

“That's easy. You only get this angry when someone says no to you. I don't think I know anyone else in the world who hates not getting her way as much as you do, Chelsea.”

“I'm not angry,” she insisted.

“Ri-ight. You're a real puddle of sweet molasses like Miss Tennessee Prom Queen, downstairs.”

“Who?”

“Dakota's personal assistant.”

“She's here?”

“Yeah, she had a stack of folders and they locked themselves in the library. So, if you want to sneak out, now would be a good time.”

“I'm not sneaking out,” she lied.

“I see. Then Dakota knows you're going?”

How could he not know she was going? He'd been a real bastard last night. “Not exactly, but he told me what he thought of me in no uncertain terms.”

“You want me to beat him up?”

Chelsea stared at him and started laughing. “Yeah, with your crutches.” That was the thing about Tucker, he could always make her laugh.

“So, how's the Flood-Aid concert coining?” she asked. Her packing finished, she checked the room for any forgotten items.

“Great. We've lined up sponsors and a network commitment. Performers are coming out of the woodwork to volunteer their time. Both country and rock will be well represented, thanks to Dakota.”

Chelsea grumbled something disparaging under her breath, and felt small for doing it. “So what's left to be done?” She closed her suitcase and had to sit on it to lock it.

“We need to scope out a place to stage the concert.” Tucker maneuvered to a standing position and retrieved his crutches.

“I'll help out with that. Heaven knows, I'm not going to be busy recording a new song. How's your leg feeling? You haven't been on it too much, have you?”

“It's a royal pain—slows me down. But it could have been a hell of a lot worse. I'm not complaining, not that you'd listen to me if I did.”

“Come on, we're going where they have room service. You'll feel much better. You can order up a greasy burger and fries.”

“Oh, talk dirty to me some more….”

“Chocolate shake, butter-drenched popcorn, double-cheese pizza…” Chelsea continued, laughing as they started down the sweeping staircase to the entry hall.

When they had descended only a few steps, the door to the library opened.

Dakota's voice floated up to them, followed by Melinda's tinkling laugh.

Pokey, hearing Dakota's voice, dived through Chelsea's legs, upending her. The suitcase in her hand went sailing. As it somersaulted through the air it came unlocked and its contents rained everywhere.

Pokey, delighted with this new game, chased a balled pair of socks that rolled toward Dakota's feet.

Dakota bent to retrieve the socks from Pokey's mouth, then looked to where Chelsea was scrambling to her feet on the stairs.

“What… what's going on?” he asked.

“We were decorating for our going-away party,” Tucker said. “Looks kinda festive, don't you think?”

Dakota glanced around. His eyes came to rest on the chandelier, where an item from Chelsea's suitcase had landed. “Oh, my,” Melinda said from beside him.

Chelsea's gaze followed his and her stomach sank.

Her red teddy was draped over one of the chandelier candles.

Ignoring it, she scrambled to pick up the scattered contents of her suitcase.

Dakota bent to help her while Tucker made his way down the stairs. They gathered everything in quick order while Melinda looked on with distaste.

“Well need a ladder,” Dakota said, glancing up at what Chelsea was trying valiantly to pretend wasn't snagged on the chandelier.

“I could try to use my crutch to bat it down,” Tucker offered.

“Never mind,” Chelsea said, steering him toward the door. “You can keep it as a souvenir, Dakota.”

“A souvenir?” Tucker echoed, sliding her a look as they went outside.

“Just keep walking, Cheesebrain.”

C
HELSEA SAT ALONE IN
her room at the Opryland Hotel. Tucker had gone out to meet with someone about the concert. She'd begged off because she was still too wrung out by what had happened between her and Dakota.

The day was gray and rainy. It suited her mood. Her future looked equally bleak.

There wasn't going to be any song from Dakota.

She'd thought she'd had her future all figured out. Thought she'd known what she was doing.

Tucker hadn't been any help. He kept telling her that she didn't need Dakota.

She lay down across the bed and read the card.

D
AKOTA SAT IN THE
dressing room of his club, Dakota Country. He'd thought maybe singing would put him in a happier frame of mind. It hadn't. He'd just been going through the motions onstage.

For the first time in his life he was lonely. Hell, he'd been lonely with a crowd of people applauding him tonight.

It was time for him to ask himself some hard questions.

Chelsea had accused him of being unable to be close to people. That he distanced himself as a form of protection.

What the hell had she meant by that? he wondered, all the while knowing the answer in his gut.

Chelsea had seen through to his fear of being hurt. Had seen past the facade that hid the pain of his family's rejection.

Perhaps because she'd also been hurt, she recognized the reasons for the barriers he put up to avoid true intimacy. She'd gotten him to talk about his family—something he never did. They hadn't just made small talk; they'd connected.

And when they'd made love… Well, that had certainly blown him away. She'd been open and vulnerable with him. All he could ever have hoped for.

What made him crazy was the fact that he couldn't possess her; that she shared those same things with Tucker.

The problem with him was that he believed in true love.

And worse, it didn't stop him from loving Chelsea with all his heart, even though his head told him he was crazy.

So much for all her advice about how he had to feel with his heart, instead of thinking with his head. All he'd gotten for his trouble was heartache.

There was a knock at the door and he snarled, “Come in.”

Burt ambled into the dressing room, looking cautious.

“Yes, what is it?” Dakota asked, aware that he'd been meaner than a pit bull to everyone around him because he was eaten up with jealousy over Tucker Gable.

His loneliness intensified with every passing hour now that Chelsea had opted out of his life. She was a real pain in the butt, yet perversely he sorely missed her bugging him at every turn.

“A fan wanted you to autograph a T-shirt for her,” the drummer told him, tossing Dakota the shirt. “She's a real pretty redhead,” he added.

Dakota sighed. He was happy to autograph the T-shirt; it was just that it underlined how lonely being famous could be: Everybody loved you, and no one did.