Southern Comforts (13 page)

“Of course. I told you, Cash, although it might not be the kind of journalism that made my father famous, I truly love my work, and although things have admittedly been hectic this past year, my career has really begun to take off lately, and this opportunity to work with Roxanne, if I accept the offer, is bound to garner me a lot of attention. Especially since I'm also working on a novel that my agent assures me should sell and—”

“I'm not talking about work. I'm talking about your life.”

“But my work is my life.” She thought of his lovely riverfront home, complete with acreage. The boat, the car, the expensive jacket he'd worn to dinner last night. “You, of all people, should be able to understand that.”

“I do. To a point. But I guess I really wanted to know if you and the yuppie prince are happy together.”

“Of course we are.” Once again, her voice lacked conviction.

“He's the wrong man for you, Chelsea. Always was. Always will be.”

“And I suppose you're claiming to be the right man for me?”

“Hell, no.” This time his rough laugh held not a trace of humor. “But that hasn't stopped me from wanting you all these years. From thinking about the might have beens. And waking up from some hot dream and being forced to think of you clear across the country, lying in some other man's arms. In some other man's bed.”

“Actually, the bed is mine,” she corrected nonsensically. “I inherited it from my grandmother Lowell.”

“Quit splitting hairs. You know what I mean.”

“Yes.” Her voice was little more than a whisper. “Because I've felt the same way about you so many times.”

There was a little hitch in her voice that ripped at his heart. “Dammit, Chelsea.” He lowered his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. “You're not making this any easier.”

“I know.” She closed her own eyes and sighed. “I don't know what you want from me.”

“That makes two of us.” He tamped down his frustration. And his need. “Maybe we ought to think on it.”

Chelsea could tell it was not his first choice. If she were to be perfectly honest, she'd have to admit that it wasn't exactly hers, either. But it was the wisest course.

“That's probably a good idea.”

“Probably.” He felt every bit as unenthusiastic as she sounded. “It's undoubtedly the grown-up thing to do.”

“The mature thing,” she agreed. “The sensible thing.”

“Right.” The corner of his mouth tilted. “We'll take things slow. Get to know one another. Consider all the options, where we've been and where we're going. And then—” he bent his head and gave her a quick hard kiss that left her head spinning “—we can get naked and drive each other crazy.”

He was as outrageous as ever. Amused at the words she knew were not really a joke, Chelsea tried to remember the last time anything or anyone had made her laugh.

The late afternoon sun, riding low on the horizon, slipped beneath the awning to shine in her eyes, making her realize how long they'd been out on the river.

“We should probably be getting back,” she said.

Before starting the engines again, he paused, gave her another long look, then unable to resist touching her just one more time, ran a finger down her cheek. Her skin was warm and slightly flushed in a way that made him want to taste it.

“It's too late for going back, Chelsea. For either of us.”

Knowing in her heart that he was right, but not knowing what on earth she was going to do about these unruly feelings he'd triggered, Chelsea didn't answer.

 

After sending George on his way with $250 in cash, a bottle of Dom Pérignon and a promise to have the fifty thousand dollars for him tomorrow, Roxanne went upstairs, sat down at her dressing table and began rubbing moisturizer into her hands, which, appearances to the contrary, suddenly felt cracked and dry. She plucked a cotton boll from a Waterford vase, and brushed a fingertip over the hardened spikes sticking out of the fluffy white cotton.

Her mind drifted back, to those long hot miserable days of her childhood. While other children would be splashing down at the swimming pool, or watching movies in the air-conditioned splendor of the Fox theater, she'd been out in the fields behind their ramshackle tar paper sharecropper's cabin, chopping cotton. Although it had been hotter than blazes, the spikes on the cotton bolls could rip the skin, forcing her to wear long pants and oversize cast-off flannel shirts belonging to her brutal stepdaddy.

The work had been so backbreaking that by the end of the day, she'd be on her hands and knees, crawling down the endless cotton rows, carrying the sack on her back, earning a mere two dollars for every pound she managed to pick. Most of that two dollars, of course, Jubal would manage to drink away. And then he'd come home.

Remembering all those nights he'd come into her room, into her bed, forcing his disgusting, smelly bulk on her, she closed her eyes and moaned. A headache pounded behind her eyes.

Then she took a deep breath and told herself sternly that Cora Mae Padgett no longer existed. Roxanne Scarbrough had taken her place, and Roxanne was a force to be reckoned with. She tossed the cotton boll back into the vase and began massaging a ridiculously expensive, sweet-scented lotion into hands that had once, since you couldn't pick cotton while wearing gloves, been rough and cracked and raw.

Now they were as smooth as an infant's bottom, and her nails, which she had done every Thursday afternoon, were manicured to perfection. She'd put the torn and bleeding cuticles and pus-filled wounds behind her. At least she thought she had.

But then again, she'd thought she'd left George Waggoner in her past, too.

Unfortunately, she'd been wrong.

Dead wrong.

 

The afternoon on the river taught Chelsea two things. The first was that she still had unresolved feelings for Cash.

The second was that she needed to cut her hair. It clung hot and heavy to her neck and felt like a rug on her back. Acting on impulse, as she so often did, after Cash dropped her off at the inn, she turned around and walked two blocks to the Curl Up and Dye beauty salon across the street from the courthouse.

Forty-five minutes later, she was staring at her reflection in the mirror.

“Well?” the stylist, a young woman about Chelsea's age, asked nervously. “What do you think?”

Good question. And one Chelsea was struggling to answer herself. She ran her fingers through her boyishly short hair. “I look like Little Orphan Annie.” Once the heavy tresses had been cut to chin-length, her coppery hair revealed a soft, natural curl.

“It shows off your incredible eyes,” the owner of the salon, who'd watched the transformation, ventured encouragingly. Everyone had gathered around to view Chelsea's reaction, including the young man whose job it was to sweep up the long bright lengths of hair lying all over the black-and-white tile floor.

It certainly did do that, Chelsea considered, remembering what Cash had said about her eyes being too big. Now, they seemed to take up her entire face. She turned around, using a hand mirror to examine the curls at the nape of her neck. As she spun back toward the bright wall of mirrors, her new image caught her by surprise.

What she looked like, Chelsea decided, was a grown-up.

Until now, she'd never realized how childlike her long straight schoolgirl hair had appeared.

She grinned at this adult woman who'd been living inside her and ruffled the bright curls with her fingers again. “I love it.”

There was a collective sigh of relief.

Chelsea paid the bill with her American Express card, overtipping everyone from the owner to the shampoo girl. Forced to wait while the receptionist called for credit card's approval, she couldn't stop staring at her reflection.

A brave, strong woman was looking back at her. A woman capable of handling all storms that might blow her way. A woman who could handle Roxanne Scarbrough
and
Cash Beaudine without blinking an eye.

“I'm sorry.” The receptionist's quiet voice captured Chelsea's attention. To her horror, she watched as the young woman pulled out a pair of scissors and cut the gold card in half.

“What are you doing?”

“I'm sorry.” The receptionist repeated. Her expression and her voice confirmed her honest reluctance. “But I was told to confiscate your card.”

“Confiscate?”

That was ridiculous. She made a good living. She always paid her bills on time. She was a Lowell. A Whitney. Her family
never
had credit cards confiscated. Well, perhaps her father may have, she allowed reluctantly, if her mother's accusations about Dylan Cassidy's free-spending life-style were even remotely true.

“There's obviously a mistake.”

“I'm afraid you'll have to discuss that with American Express,” the receptionist said.

The owner, having noticed the problem, appeared beside Chelsea. “Perhaps another card?” he suggested easily.

It seemed a good idea. Until two MasterCards and a Visa
were also rejected. Horribly embarrassed and confused, Chelsea paid the bill in cash.

Embarrassed and angry as she marched back to the inn to call Nelson, she didn't notice the lone individual, standing beside the statue of Colonel Bedford Mallory, watching her with unblinking concentration.

“Don't worry about a thing,” Nelson assured her after she'd related her less than stellar experience. “It's merely a little mix-up with an electronic fund transfer. Melvin's getting it all straightened out. I was going to call you, but it slipped my mind.”

“Slipped your mind? Nelson, I'm down here all alone in a strange town, with useless credit cards, and it slipped your mind?”

“I've been a little busy myself, darling,” he said stiffly, revealing that she'd wounded his ego.
Tough.
“The stock market has been all over the place the past few days. I've been having to shift accounts like crazy just to stay even.”

Still smarting from having been so embarrassed, Chelsea managed to keep from responding. She knew that if she got started, she'd start shouting at him. And as difficult as Nelson was to argue with in person, trying to hash this out long distance would be futile.

“I'm coming back tomorrow evening,” she said in her coolest voice. The departure time on the tickets Roxanne had booked for her were not her first choice. When she'd called the airline to change to an earlier flight, she'd been told there were no available seats. “We'll discuss it then.”

“I told you, Chelsea, the problem is being taken care of. There's absolutely nothing to discuss.”

“That's what you think.” Before he could answer, she slammed the receiver back onto its cradle with more force than necessary.

She'd no sooner hung up when the phone rang. She
scooped it up. “I thought you didn't want to discuss it,” she snapped.

“Ms. Cassidy?” an unfamiliar voice responded hesitantly.

Hell.
“Yes?”

“This is Ms. Kinney. From American Airlines. I wanted to inform you that a seat has opened up in first class on tomorrow's 8:00 a.m. flight to La Guardia. If you'd like it.”

“Yes. Please, reserve it for me,” Chelsea said quickly, relieved that at least something was going her way. “Thank you. And I'm sorry for my rudeness. I thought you were someone else.”

“That's all right, Ms. Cassidy,” the smooth voice assured her. “It seems to have been that kind of day for everyone. I'm glad I could help.”

With that taken care of, Chelsea began to dial Nelson again, then decided against it. What he'd done was horrendously inconsiderate. Why give him time to think up more excuses? Arriving early would give her the element of surprise.

She went into the bathroom to take a shower to get ready for Roxanne's party. At first the sight of the unfamiliar woman in the mirror took her by surprise. Then she felt her irritation melt away.

All right, perhaps the people at the Curl Up and Dye thought she was a deadbeat. But at least, she thought with a quick grin, she looked damn good. For a deadbeat.

T
he party was everything Chelsea would have expected it to be. The food, prepared with recipes from Roxanne's book,
Entertaining for Special Occasions
was delicious, the wine flowed freely and the conversation was interesting and stimulating.

The life-style expert had pulled out the local big guns, introducing Chelsea to not only the mayor of Raintree, but the entire city council, two state legislators, and a Georgia Supreme Court Judge. Several members of the World Series Champion Atlanta Braves were in attendance, as was the South's most famous power couple, Ted Turner and Jane Fonda.

Besides herself, the other guest of honor appeared to be Vernon Gibbons, founder and CEO of the nationwide Mega-Mart discounting chain. Chelsea knew the multimillionaire to be a self-made man. She also determined, during their brief conversation, that he was more than pleased with his creation.

“So you're the little gal who's gonna write Roxanne's life story,” he said, looking her up and down as if she were
a piece of horseflesh he was considering buying for his famed thoroughbred stables.

“Nothing's been finalized yet.” She managed a distant smile as she tried, with scant success to retrieve her hand, which was still being held prisoner between both of his.

“You know,” he said, “I've been thinkin' about writing a book.”

What a surprise.
If Chelsea had a dollar for every time someone told her that, she could probably outbid Vernon Gibbons for that New England department store chain he was rumored to be trying to take over.

“I'm sure it would make fascinating reading,” she said politely.

“Of course it would,” Roxanne enthused. “Vernon's the quintessential American success story.”

“I've always been known for gettin' what I want,” he agreed. Although his tone was conversational, the rough lust in his gaze as it settled on Chelsea's breasts made her uncomfortable. “Maybe you and I could get together and discuss a collaboration of our own.” His eyes crawled downward in a way that made her feel as if he were stripping off her red silk suit. “After you finish workin' with Roxanne, that is,” he tacked on when Roxanne stiffened.

Unbelievingly, he was blatantly staring at the juncture of her thighs. Chelsea would rather collaborate with Charles Manson than spend five minutes alone with this man. She tugged her hand free.

“My agent handles all my business affairs.” Unfortunately, manners drilled into her from the cradle, and her unwillingness to create a public scene, kept her from slapping his face. But her tone turned Deidre Lowell cool. “And I'm afraid my schedule is already quite full.” She feigned a smile. “But I certainly wish you luck.”

Chelsea could feel his eyes on her as she walked away.
Although she was accustomed to men's glances, she couldn't remember ever feeling so violated.

In desperate need of fresh air, Chelsea slipped out onto the veranda. She was leaning against the balustrade, enjoying the sweet scent of Roxanne's spring garden, when she was aware of someone walking up behind her.

She turned around, afraid Gibbons might have followed her out and was surprised when she viewed the familiar face instead. “Well, hello.”

“Hello, to you, too.” Jeb Townely smiled down at her. “I like your hair.”

“Thanks. I think I like it, too.”

“So, do you want to mention something about small worlds? Or shall I?”

She smiled back and felt her earlier discomfort fading. “I suppose, considering how small Raintree is, I should have realized you knew Roxanne.”

“Oh, everyone knows Roxanne. If I had half the PR operation she has, the Magnolia House would be booked through the turn of the century.”

She laughed at that. “I think I'm supposed to become part of the machine.”

“So I hear. I guess that means you'll be staying in Raintree a while?”

“If I accept the offer.” She couldn't keep her personal doubts from her tone.

“Roxanne isn't the easiest person to work with.”

“Does that observation come from personal experience?”

“She redecorated Magnolia House for me. After Cash managed to turn it from a one-family house into an inn. I'm assuming, since he's working on Belle Terre, that you two have met.”

“Yes.”

“Cash is a good friend. Even if he did break my nose when we were kids.”

“He broke your nose?” Chelsea was appalled. But not particularly surprised, knowing Cash as she did.

“He didn't have any other choice,” Jeb said with a nonchalant shrug. “I was a smart-mouthed fourteen-year-old kid with more sass than brains. I called his mamma a name.” He frowned as he thought back on that day. “So, naturally, he beat the living daylights out of me.”

“Naturally,” Chelsea said dryly.

“Along with the broken nose, he knocked out my front tooth, blackened both eyes, and gave me a cut that took five stitches to close up.” He touched his finger to a thin white line beside his right eye. “See?”

Although she told herself that she was surely imagining it, Chelsea thought she detected a faint hint of pride in his tone.

“I've never considered violence any way to solve a problem.” The minute she heard the words leave her mouth, Chelsea wished she could take them back. She hadn't meant to sound so stiff-necked and preachy.

“That's because you're a woman,” Jeb said with a slow easy grin that assured her he hadn't taken offense. “Now, the way us guys see it, if anyone insults your mamma, or your sister, or your woman, well, you just don't have any choice but to defend their honor.”

She laughed at that. “Ah, we're back to the code of the Tarleton twins.”

“There you go.” His grin widened. “But it worked out just fine, because after I left the hospital emergency room, my daddy made me go find Cash and apologize.”

“You had to apologize to Cash? After he beat you up?”

“I told you—”

“I know. You insulted his mother.” Chelsea shook her
head, deciding that if she lived to be a hundred, she'd never entirely understand the male thought process. Then she tried to imagine Nelson behaving the way Cash had if anyone insulted her, and knew it would never happen in a million years.

“Now you're catchin' on,” Jeb said approvingly. “We've been best friends ever since.”

“Nothing like a broken nose to establish a little male bonding.”

“You still tellin' that old story, son?” An all too familiar voice came from a dark corner of the veranda. “Lord, I'm amazed you're still able to find someone who hasn't heard it.”

“Chelsea's new in town,” Jeb reminded Cash. “I figured she hasn't had a chance to hear what a hellion you were.”

“Were?” Chelsea couldn't resist asking as she studied him backlit by the discreet landscape lighting. Dressed in a dark gray shirt with a band collar and a pair of black linen slacks, he looked disgustingly sexy.

Jeb laughed at her accusation and even Cash chuckled.

“That's cold, honey,” Cash complained. “Even for a Yankee. But you know, it's the strangest thing.”

She waited for him to continue, but he just stood there, grinning down at her, with that wicked, good old boy glint in his eyes.

“All right,” she huffed finally. “What's the strangest thing?”

“The meaner you are to me, the more I like you.” He rubbed his chin and turned toward Jeb, who was looking at them with blatant interest. “You've known me, how long, Jeb? Twenty years?”

“About that.”

“So, in twenty years, have I ever revealed any tendencies toward masochism?”

“None that I could see.”

“I was afraid of that.” Cash sighed. “I must be a sick person. Sick or perverse.”

Chelsea made a face. “I'd guess the second.”

He shot Jeb a wounded, hound dog gaze. “I gotta tell you son, I'm definitely in a world of hurt when it feels so good to have a lady stomping all over my heart with her skinny spiked heels.” He turned back toward Chelsea who was enjoying herself too much for her own good. “I don't suppose you have any of those black leather thigh-high boots?”

She almost grinned but recovered. Why was it that Vernon Gibbons had made her feel so uncomfortable with a mere glance, yet Cash's outrageously sexual suggestion made her want to laugh? “I'm afraid I left them in Manhattan. With my whip and leather handcuffs.”

“Leather handcuffs.” He groaned. “I tell you, Jeb,” he said with another slow shake of his head, “I think I'm in danger of falling head over heels in love with this sharp-tongued, mean-spirited Yankee female.”

Love.
He meant it as a joke. But the word still ran through Chelsea like an electric shock. “I'd better be getting back,” she said. “I want to thank Roxanne for arranging this party on such short notice.”

“Roxanne has a genius for getting things done when she puts her mind to it,” Jeb replied.

“That's because she rolls over obstacles like a Sherman tank,” Cash added. “Not that she'd be real pleased with that analogy,” he decided. “Bein' that Sherman tends to be a four-letter word down here. After the war.”

“Between the States,” Jeb explained to Chelsea, who nodded. She'd already learned that lesson.

Glancing at her watch she decided it was time to leave. Before she made a mistake and enjoyed Cash's company
too much. “Although I'd love to stay here and listen to your war stories all night, I have an early flight in the morning.”

Cash hated himself for needing to ask. “Does that mean you're not taking the job?”

“No. It means I need to discuss the logistics of a possible commuter relationship with Nelson.”

Although she knew it was perverse of her, she enjoyed seeing the irritation move across his face. She did not mention that she and Nelson were going to discuss a great deal more than her possible collaboration.

“Need a ride to the inn?” Jeb asked, earning an even darker look from Cash.

“Actually, Jo has already volunteered. I think it's her turn to try to talk me into writing the book.” She held out her hand. “Good night, Jeb.”

“'Nite, Chelsea.” He enclosed both her hands in his in an interested, but unpushy way. “I sure do hope you decide to stay. And not just because you pretty up my house.”

“Lordie, how you southern gentlemen do go on.” She laughed at his light flirtation. When he released her hand, she bestowed a warm, sincere smile on him before arranging her expression into a polite mask as she turned toward Cash. “Good night.”

“Night, Irish. Sweet dreams.”

Both men watched her walk away. “Now that,” Jeb said, obviously enjoying the sway of her hips in the same red silk suit Nelson had vetoed for the “Good Morning America” appearance, “is one lusciously put together female.”

“She's also taken.”

“I heard Roxanne telling someone she's involved with some guy in New York. Is that the Nelson she mentioned needing to talk things over with?”

“That's the guy. And I notice her supposedly belonging to someone else didn't stop you from bird-dogging her.”

“Well, hell, Cash, the guy's just a Yankee. The way I see it, I'd be doing the little gal a favor to help her see the error of her ways.”

“It's not the damn Yankee who's got dibs on her.”

“Dibs?” Jeb gave him a blank look. Comprehension dawned. “Sweet Jesus, you're a fast worker.”

“Nothin' fast about it. Tell you what… Let's you and me go out and get drunk. And I'll tell you a story about Cash Beaudine's long-ago adventure in Yankeeland.”

Jeb's gaze went from Cash to inside the French doors, where Chelsea was saying goodbye to Roxanne. “I take it this tale involves a certain gorgeous redheaded writer.”

“You always were a quick study.” He put his arm around his longtime friend's shoulder. “And you look at Chelsea that way again—”

“What way?”

“Like a starving man staring through the diner window at a piece of hot peach pie with vanilla ice cream meltin' on top. Now, I'm not saying I can't understand the attraction, because I can,” Cash allowed. “But keep it up, and I'll have no choice but to kick out your lung. After I break your nose again.”

Jeb unconsciously rubbed the widened bridge of his nose. “As fond as I am of breathing, I gotta tell you, Cash, when you're talking about a woman that fine on the eyes, lookin' kinda comes natural.”

Cash had to give him that one. A man would have to be blind not to notice Chelsea Cassidy. And even then, her scent would get to him.

“You can look,” he decided magnanimously. “But that's all. Touch and you're a dead man.”

Jeb chuckled. “And to think people have accused you of bein' unreasonable.” He gave Chelsea one long last look, then sighed, knowing when he was licked. “Since the best-
looking female in Georgia's just been put off-limits, I may as well get drunk to soothe my wounded heart.”

“May as well,” Cash agreed, none too pleased with the idea that Chelsea was on her way back to his rival in the morning. “How about dropping into The Swamp Fox and shooting some pool?”

“I'd say that's a plan.” Jeb's natural good spirits returned. “Lilah Sue Jackson's had her eye on me for some time. Last time I was in there, she even gave me a free draft on the house.”

“Lilah Sue always has known how to squeeze a penny 'til old Abe cries uncle,” Cash said. “If she's giving away the profits, I'd say that's a right positive sign.”

“We had good times back in high school, all those nights down at the river watchin' the submarine races, before she married John Henry.”

“They've been divorced, what, six months now?”

“Seven.” Jeb grinned. “Maybe tonight's the night sweet little Lilah Sue's gonna get lucky.”