Southern Comforts (15 page)

“You're running away.”

“I'm going home.”

“Same thing. You thought you'd safely locked away all your feelings for me—and about us—seven years ago. But then you came to Raintree, and Pandora's box got opened, and all those unruly feelings have broken loose. And you're scared.

“So you're running back to Nelson. Where you'll be safe. And secure. And bored to tears. Because your blue-blooded
Yankee wouldn't have a clue as to how to satisfy a woman of your fiery passions.”

There was too much truth in the statement to deny it. Chelsea wondered when Cash had gotten so insightful. Or perhaps it was merely that she'd become transparent. Neither idea gave her a great deal of comfort.

The row of seats was empty. Chelsea sat down in one. Cash took the one beside her. When he captured her hand in his, she didn't pull away.

“You don't understand.”

“I'm trying to,” he reminded her mildly.

“It's just that the past few months have been a bit of a strain. Okay,” she admitted to him—and to herself—“more than a bit. As much as I love my work, it seems I've been spending half my life on planes and in hotels.”

“Can't be easy, keeping up with the jet set.”

“It's not. Which is why I'm considering writing this book.”

“Not that I want to bad-mouth the lady, but I can't see how working with Roxanne would lower anyone's stress level,” Cash observed.

“Granted. But it would also give me the economic freedom to slow down. And to finish the novel I've been trying to write for the past two years.”

The same novel her mother refused to discuss. The novel Nelson jokingly called her own personal
War and Peace.

“I'll bet it'll be a crackerjack book, when you get it done.”

Like so much else about Cash, his easy words caught her by surprise. “You're just saying that.”

“I may have acquired some polish over the years, but I still speak my mind. And I don't say anything I don't mean. You're a talented writer, Chelsea. You've got a real knack of knowin' what makes people tick that should make you
able to create some powerful characters. And I know firsthand how imaginative you can be.”

A sexy glint flashed in his eyes, come and gone so fast that if she hadn't been watching him so closely, Chelsea would have missed it. “Put all that together in a novel and you can't miss.”

His instant, unqualified support caused a strange lump to form in her throat. “We're getting off the point again,” she said finally. “I came down here to Raintree for a new start.”

“And instead you discovered some loose ends you never knew you'd left untied.”

“Yes.” Her gaze met his. “What I was trying to explain was that you're a complication, Cash. At a time when I honestly can't handle any more complications.”

It certainly wasn't the most flattering thing he'd ever been called. Cash tamped down the prick to his ego and concentrated instead on the stress radiating from her too tense body.

“Seven years ago, you let me ride out of your life, Chelsea. Now, maybe that's what you had to do. What you should have done. Or maybe you made a mistake. I don't know and I don't care, because second-guessing the situation isn't going to get us anywhere.

“I know I should say I'm sorry I'm complicating your life, Irish. But I'm not sorry. And, to tell the truth, you're not the only one surprised by all this. Because I thought I'd moved on.

“I told myself I'd gotten over you and I'd almost—on the good days—made myself believe that. Then you walked into Roxanne's flowery parlor and I realized I couldn't breathe—”

“Cash—”

“Shut up.” His tone was mild; his eyes were not. “I'm going to get this out once and for all so you have something
to think about while you're on that plane. I'm through lying to myself. And I'm plum out of regrets. So, the thing is, whatever happens with you and Roxanne's damn book, I'm not going to lose you again.

“Whether you come back to Raintree, or I have to go to New York, I'm going to have you, Chelsea Cassidy. And you're going to love it.”

She blinked at his rough, almost threatening tone. “That's all this is about, isn't it? Sex.”

She smelled like sunshine and spring rains. And temptation. With a capital
T.
He could have strangled her for it. When he realized that fury was closer to the surface than he'd suspected, and fear right on its heels, he ruthlessly checked both emotions and reminded himself of exactly what he wanted to achieve.

“You're the one who keeps talking about sex,” he reminded her. “I'm not going to deny that I want your body. But as attractive and appealing as it admittedly is, that's just packaging. I want a lot more than that.”

She shook her head. “I can't give you what you want. Not now.”

“Now, there you go again, underestimating yourself.” He bent his head and brushed a light kiss against her furrowed brow. “I'd also like to say that I'm willin' to give you time to sort things out. But I can't promise that. Because there are always going to be choices to make, Chelsea. And there are always going to be problems. That's life. I'm not going to back off. Not this time.”

This time he kissed her lips. A hard kiss that tasted of hunger, frustration and resolve. A kiss that made her head spin even as it left her wanting more.

“This wasn't supposed to happen.”

“Too late.” He kissed her again, this time letting his lips linger, nibbling at hers, creating a golden glow that shim
mered through her like liquid sunshine. Forgetting that they were in a public place, she lifted her hands to his shoulders and allowed herself to sink into the tantalizing warmth.

“Damn,” he muttered against Chelsea's mouth as the public address system announced the preboarding of her flight. “I guess you'd better get on board.”

“Yes.”

He tilted his head back and traced her still tingling lips with a roughened fingertip. “But you'll be back.”

“Yes.” Her entire vocabulary, which had always been her strength, seemed to have narrowed down to that single word.

Her mind still fogged, she was barely aware of standing up and making her way toward the departure door. Right before she handed over her boarding pass, Cash pulled her into his arms and gave her another brief hard kiss that left her breathless.

“Hurry back.”

“Yes.”

Her equilibrium shaken by Cash's mind-blinding kiss, Chelsea couldn't remember walking down the jetway and was only vaguely aware of the flight attendant welcoming her onto the plane.

As she fastened her seat belt buckle and looked out at the terminal, she could see Cash standing beside the wide window wall. When he realized he'd caught her eye, he flashed her another of his woman-killing grins and gave her a thumbs-up sign. Then walked away.

S
he'd planned to work on her novel during the flight to New York. But the words, which had always flowed so easily for her, refused to come. And her characters had suddenly turned as stubborn and silent as stone.

It was all Cash's fault, she thought furiously. He'd filled her mind, shoving aside all the other things she should have been thinking about—her novel, Roxanne's offer, Nelson.

She hated the way she'd felt that little burst of pleasure when she'd seen him standing at the departure gate, hated the panic she'd felt when his deep, drugging kiss made her feel as if she were sinking into quicksand.

What she had—what she'd always had—with Cash was hot and exciting. Chelsea couldn't imagine ever not wanting him. She didn't believe there'd ever be a time when just looking at the man couldn't cause that painful-pleasurable little hitch in her heart.

But there had to be more to life than sex. Like mutual respect. Commitment. Love.

Seven years ago, when she'd tried to picture a life with Cash, she couldn't do it. They were strangers who'd come
together in darkened rooms like thunder. And lightning. And when the storm had passed, she'd return to her own world. Her own safe, secure, familiar world, she admitted, thinking back on Cash's unflattering accusation.

Last year, when her schedule had begun to get more and more hectic and her life had seemed in danger of spinning out of control, she'd dragged herself to what had been billed as a quiet family dinner only to discover that Nelson had also been invited. While under normal circumstance Chelsea would have been more than a little irritated by her mother's blatant matchmaking ploy, on that evening, she had to admit that she found Nelson pleasantly familiar.

The on-again, off-again relationship they'd had since childhood had been in its off phase, after Nelson had become increasingly irritated at being stood up because Chelsea had hopped a quick jet to California to interview Sharon Stone, or flown to the Dominican Republic to track down rumors of a possible Madonna-Dave Letterman secret wedding. Understanding his pique, but unwilling to change her life, Chelsea had assured him she understood his need for a woman who'd live up to his expectation and wished him well.

That night, as they'd talked during dinner, she'd been surprised by the 180 degree shift in his feelings. Amazingly, he'd listened to her stories of celebrity gossip, which he'd always scoffed at as tabloid trash before.

She had just spent two of the most hectic weeks in her life at the part circus, part zoo that was the Cannes Film Festival, so when he invited her to spend a restful weekend with him at a quaint little bed-and-breakfast in Vermont, Chelsea had accepted.

And when, six weeks after that, he'd suggested living together, she'd agreed to that, as well. It was, Chelsea
thought now, one of the few things she'd ever done that had earned her mother's immediate approval.

“Everyone knows you've always loved Nelson,” Deidre had said over hearts of palm salad at her summer cottage at Newport. “Just as we all know you're going to marry him. And finally unite our two families.”

At the time, although she'd hated the way her mother had made her potential marriage sound like an old-fashioned dynastic merger, Chelsea had not disagreed. Especially since, now that Nelson was so much more supportive of her career, she suspected her mother was right. She probably would marry Nelson. Someday. When she was thirty.

Chelsea was looking out the window at the endless sea of puffy white clouds when she realized that she'd been lying. Not so much to her mother, but to herself. Chelsea had always prided herself on the journalistic detachment that made her an expert at reading others so clearly. But she was not at all accustomed to looking into herself. Now that Cash had triggered this unwelcome introspection, forcing her to face the niggling little suspicions she'd tried to ignore, Chelsea was discovering a few home truths.

She wasn't going to marry Nelson. Not someday. Not in two years. Not ever. Despite his seeming turnaround concerning her work, she'd not quite been able to shake that niggling little worry that after marriage, he'd revert to type and want her to become a malleable, decorative society wife. If that turned out to be the case, she knew she'd never be able to give him what he needed.

Now, for the first time, she realized that she'd had it all wrong. The truth was that Nelson would never be able to give
her
what
she
needed. He wasn't the kind of husband she wanted.

Which didn't mean, Chelsea reminded herself firmly, that Cash was.

 

The apartment was hushed. The only sound was the steady ticktock of the Seth Thomas mantel clock in the foyer. Hearing muted voices coming from the bedroom, Chelsea decided that Nelson must be watching television. Which was a little strange, since at this hour of the day he could usually be found in the study, tracking his trust fund portfolio on the personal computer linked to a Wall Street brokerage firm.

For someone who had no real responsibilities, Nelson's schedule had always been as rigidly set as a fly in amber. Mornings were spent with the
Times.
After that came a game of squash with friends, which helped him keep the trim, lean figure that looked equally attractive in custom-tailored suits, a tuxedo, or casual chinos and Ralph Lauren Polo shirts.

Lunch was at the august Knickerbocker Club, where he'd spend the early afternoon reading the
Wall Street Journal.
Then he'd return home to work on their investments. Dinner was usually eaten out. Then invariably, he'd be in bed before the end of the news. Alone, more often than not, Chelsea admitted, since she'd usually have to stay up to meet an article deadline.

The door to the vast master bedroom suite was ajar. The room was dark. But not so dark that Chelsea couldn't see Nelson pumping away at some woman, who was urging him on with an amazingly inventive stream of four-letter words, a running commentary of exactly what he was doing to her. What she wanted him to do.

They shifted positions, allowing the woman to look over his shoulder. As their gazes met, Chelsea recognized Heather Van Pelt.

Even as the truth of what she was seeing ricocheted around her mind, Chelsea told herself that she shouldn't be
surprised. And, since she'd already made the decision that she couldn't marry this man, she shouldn't be hurt.

But she was. Surprised and hurt and angry. Without a word, she turned away and headed back down the long hall.

“Nelson!” Heather tried to wiggle free, but he kept pounding into her. His grunts were coming faster now, and louder, signaling his approaching climax. “Goddammit, Nelson.” She slammed her hand against his shoulder. “Chelsea's home!”

He let loose a shout as he spilled into her, even as he was trying to pull out.

“What the hell did you say?” His face was red, his blue eyes huge and unbelieving.

She pushed him off her and scrambled free, searching around in the tangled paisley Pratesi sheets for her underpants. “I said Chelsea's home. She saw us, Nelson. She saw everything.”

“Christ.” He jumped from the bed and scooped up his discarded clothing.

“Chelsea.” Nelson was struggling into his pants as he chased after her. “Sweetheart. Wait. We need to talk.”

Sweetheart?
Chelsea stopped in her tracks. “There's nothing to talk about.” She felt the hot moisture filling her eyes and hated letting the son of a bitch witness her humiliation. “As they say, a picture's worth a thousand words.”

Nelson thrust his long aristocratic fingers through his blond hair. “I can explain.”

“I'm sure you can.” Tears threatened. She stubbornly blinked them away. “But it won't make any difference. Not anymore.”

His handsome face crumpled in distraught lines. He grabbed her arm. “Chelsea, be reasonable.”

She looked down at the male hand on her sleeve as if unable to recognize who it belonged to, wondering how it
had gotten there. On the verge of humiliating herself by bursting into tears, she welcomed the anger that steamrollered over the pain.

“You want me to be reasonable?” she screamed, momentarily forgetting the lessons learned at her mother's knee. Ladies always matched the fingertips of their gloves before putting them away, they always crossed their legs at the ankles, and they never, ever raised their voices.

“I think I'm being extremely reasonable, Nelson!” Her green eyes raked over him, stopping just below the belt. “Most women would be in the kitchen, getting a butcher knife to cut your fucking prick off!”

Another rule broken. Ladies never cursed. As for the F-word, her mother had never felt the need to even mention such a taboo.

He cringed at both her tone and her words. Desperate, he handed her a piece of blue-and-white pottery. The Chinese bowl had been a Christmas present from his Aunt Marian, Chelsea remembered.

“Perhaps you should throw something,” he suggested helpfully. “It might make you feel better.”

It might. If she threw it at his cheating head. “The only thing that would make me feel better would be shooting you through your miserable black heart.”

Despite the circumstances, Chelsea found herself momentarily enjoying the image of Nelson with an enormous smoking hole in the center of his chest.

“But since you're definitely not worth going to prison for, I'm sure you'll understand if I choose not to stick around and have a civil chat with you and your bimbo.”

Plucking his hand off her sleeve, she turned and continued toward the front door, managing, somehow, to walk as sedately as a woman on the way to one of her mother's book circle meetings.

“You wouldn't leave for good? Not over a single indiscretion?”

Stopping again, she turned around. “Are you telling me that this is the first time you've slept with another woman?”

Relief swept over his features. “Yes. Of course. Heather just came by to drop off some papers from your office. Research for that Val Kilmer piece.

“Wanting to be polite, I offered her some coffee. Then one thing led to another and pretty soon she started coming on to me and, well, hell, Chelsea, I'm only human. But I promise, darling, it will never happen again.”

First
sweetheart
and now
darling.
Chelsea decided that he must be going for some sort of record. She also knew that he was lying.

There'd been so many hints of infidelity, beginning when he'd disappeared for hours during their vacation trip to London three months ago, she realized now. But unwilling to believe she could have made the mistake of agreeing to marry a man who was so horribly wrong for her, Chelsea had purposefully overlooked them.

“If you actually expect me to believe that this is the first time you've gone to bed with another woman, you must think I'm either incredibly naive or stupid.” Her voice cracked. Chelsea drew in a painful breath. “And while I'll reluctantly admit to being the first, Nelson, I am
not
stupid.”

“It's the truth,” he insisted, not at all convincingly. When she gave him a long hard stare that told him she wasn't buying his pitiful story for a minute, he said, “Besides, if you'd only be honest with yourself, Chelsea, you'd have to admit that what happened was your fault.”

“My fault?” So much for remaining calm. Her voice went up several octaves, nearly high enough to shatter the Baccarat crystal vase filled with American Beauty roses on
a Chippendale table beside the door. “How the hell was you sleeping with my editorial assistant my fault?”

“If you'd been home more, if you hadn't gone running off to Georgia—”

“
You
were the one who insisted I go to Raintree.
You
were the one who was pressuring me into the collaboration with Roxanne Scarbrough in the first place.
You
were the one who kept telling me that I'd regret passing up such a potentially profitable career opportunity.”

“That's true,” he admitted reluctantly. “But if you'd paid more attention to my needs when you
were
at home, I wouldn't have been forced to turn to another woman. The only reason I was vulnerable to Heather's seductive wiles was because I wasn't being satisfied at home.”

He nodded to himself, obviously pleased with his analysis of the situation. “You know what they say, Chelsea.”

She folded her arms across the front of her silk blouse. “What do they say?”

Her tone—as cold and dangerous as melting ice on a glacier—flew right over his handsome blond head. “That another woman can't break up a happy home.”

It was, Chelsea realized, probably the first true thing he'd said thus far. It was also the single statement she agreed with.

“You're right.” Although she knew she still had a great deal of pain and anger to deal with, at the moment, Chelsea felt a soothing calm settle over her. “Neither one of us has been happy for a long time.

“Goodbye, Nelson.” She turned away again and resumed walking toward the door.

“Where the hell do you think you're going?”

“On a treasure hunt.”

“A treasure hunt?” He stared at her. “Where?”

“That's none of your business.”

Finally, unable to resist, she swept the vase off the table, causing a dozen red roses to hit Nelson smack in the chest. With the satisfying sound of crystal shattering on the marble floor, she left the apartment, literally slamming a door on this sorry chapter of her life.

Since she was, as she'd told Nelson, no fool, Chelsea went straight to the bank to close out their accounts. Less than thirty minutes after discovering her fiancé in bed with another woman Chelsea learned that Nelson was guilty of a great deal more than being a common, garden-variety philanderer.

He was a crook. Having depleted his own trust fund, he had continued to run up credit card charges while hiding the bills from her. In addition, he'd raided their savings and overdrafted their joint checking account.