Southern Comforts (22 page)

She also retrieved all the pieces of jewelry from the wall safe, except those Nelson had given her. She was vaguely surprised her jewelry was there and wondered if pawning the diamond earrings and matching necklace she'd inherited from her Aunt Julia Lowell was too tacky even for Nelson; or, since she so seldom wore them, if he'd simply forgotten they existed.

She'd give them to her mother, she decided. Or, on second thought, she'd save them for her own daughter.

Surprisingly, packing her clothes proved the hardest task.
Because it forced her to go into the bedroom, and face the bed—her grandmother's bed!—where Nelson had betrayed her.

Reminding herself that her nearly lifelong relationship with him had been over before she'd caught him tangling the sheets with Heather Van Pelt, Chelsea threw the contents of her closet and dresser into suitcases. Then left the apartment.

The Paramount was located in trashy, but always vibrant, Times Square. The moment Chelsea walked into the eerily quiet Philippe Starck designed lobby, she felt as if she'd suddenly stumbled onto the set of a film noir. Or
Barton Fink.
The vast interior, with its art deco styling and cool gray stone was part 1930s ocean liner, part Bat Cave. The architect responsible for the overhaul of the formerly SRO hotel had obviously been a man of unique vision. Chelsea immediately understood why Cash had selected it.

The people lounging around the lobby, uniformally dressed in black, possessed the air of the punk-international fashion and rock scenes.

The reservations clerk, a young man sporting a ponytail and wearing an ashram smock over his baggy black linen slacks, was surprisingly helpful, despite his exceedingly hip appearance. He welcomed her to the Paramount and summoned the bellman, who could have been his twin, to take her luggage upstairs to the suite.

His dark eyes scanned over the assortment of Louis Vuitton cases. Then he looked back down at his computer screen. “Mr. Beaudine booked the room for the weekend. Were you planning a longer stay with us?”

“Oh, no.” She managed a faint smile as she realized that even Elizabeth Taylor undoubtedly didn't travel with so much luggage for a mere weekend visit. Especially to a
hotel where a pair of black leggings and a black T-shirt would prove quite sufficient. “It's a long story.”

“Most of the good ones are,” he said agreeably as he handed her the key.

The suite was decorated in black, white and gray, which could have seemed sterile, but was anything but. In fact, it was decidedly sensual, which she attributed to the curving lines of the furniture and softly glowing art deco lamps. She had the bellman put her luggage in the second, smaller bedroom.

After he'd left, she went into the main bedroom, where her attention was immediately captured by the oversize headboard depicting Vermeer's
The Lacemaker.
An American Beauty rose lay on one of the white pillows, a hot scarlet note punctuating the cool tones of the room like the crash of cymbals in the middle of a slow, sexy alto sax jazz riff.

Comparing this almost spare decor with the gilt-and-marble opulence of the Plaza or the Four Seasons—which Nelson would undoubtedly choose, were he to recommend a hotel—Chelsea decided Cash could not have selected a more romantic location. Somehow it managed to be both exciting and soothing at the same time. Which, now that she thought about it, was exactly the way he always made her feel.

Feeling the need to wash Nelson—and the lingering depression that had attached itself to her while she'd been cleaning out the apartment—off her, Chelsea went into the black-and-white tiled bathroom and started the water running in the tub.

As she threw a handful of sparkling bath crystals into the tub, she felt like a high school girl preparing for her senior prom. Which was, of course, ridiculous.

But as she lay back in the silky, fragrant water, her mind on the evening ahead, Chelsea decided that wasn't such a bad way to feel.

 

It should be illegal for any woman to look so damn sexy, Cash thought as he entered the suite and found her waiting. It should be illegal for any woman to possess such power over a man.

Over the years he'd managed to convince himself that he'd put her out of his mind, but now he knew that was a lie. The truth was, that like it or not, he'd thought of her innumerable times during their time apart: whenever fat, fluffy snowflakes had drifted down from pewter clouds, when spring flowers opened to a benevolent sun, whenever stars sparkled diamond bright in an indigo sky. She was in his head, and in his blood. Whatever happened between them, Cash knew that he was doomed to spend his life thinking of this woman.

“You look damn good for someone who spent the afternoon sweeping up the cold ashes of a lifelong relationship,” he said. It was the truth. She was wearing a brilliant red off-the-shoulder dress that ended high on the thigh and fit her slender curves like a tomato casing. A trio of thin glittery gold chains dangled from each earlobe.

She shrugged, drawing his eyes from her legs back to the creamy flesh of her shoulders. “As you said, they were cold ashes.”

Cash had to ask. “Any regrets?”

“Not a one.” When she shook her head for added emphasis, her hair bounced enticingly, making his fingers practically itch with the need to run through those silk copper curls. “I told you, I'd already decided to break it off. In a way, I suppose Nelson actually did me a favor. After his little afternoon delight with Heather, I don't have to feel guilty.”

“You haven't done anything to feel guilty about.”

“Not yet, perhaps.” Her green eyes were giving him a gilt-edged feminine invitation. “But the night's still young.”

Cash let out a long breath he'd been unaware of holding. “Let me shower and change and I'll take you out to dinner. Somewhere special. Like Lutece. Or the Rainbow Room. I remember you liked to dance.”

Not that they ever had. They would have had to have gone out in public for that to have happened.

“You don't have to change.” Chelsea thought he looked wonderfully sexy in the jeans and denim shirt.

“Yes, I do.” He'd gotten a sniff of himself in the elevator coming up from the lobby. Although he was not ashamed of good honest labor-induced sweat, neither was its aroma all that conducive to romance. “I won't be long. If you're hungry, I can order some cheese and crackers from room service.”

“No. I'm not that hungry.” Not for food, anyway, she amended silently as her eyes fell on that intriguing dark triangle of flesh framed by the open neck of his shirt.

He watched the desire rise in those incredibly expressive eyes and felt the familiar stirring deep in his groin. “Do you have any idea what it's always done to me when you look at me that way?”

His voice was rough. And pained. And thrilling. “Yes.” She met his gaze with a level, absolutely honest one of her own. “Because I always feel the same way whenever you look at me.”

Cash had been anticipating this moment since learning that Chelsea was coming to Raintree. He'd planned to seduce her, to bed her as many times as it took to get her out of his mind. But now, looking down into her face, he re
alized that somehow, when he wasn't looking, he'd gotten caught in a snare of his own making.

“I won't be long,” he repeated. Soft, warm feminine desire radiated off her in waves. If he didn't move now, it would be too late.

It was not her first choice. But, Chelsea reminded herself, they had all night. “I'll be waiting.”

Exhaling another long deep breath, Cash continued to look at her for a long, silent time. Then reluctantly left the room.

He turned the shower on cold, and stood beneath the icy spray, willing it to temporarily sate his hunger. He'd waited too long for this not to do it right. He'd decided a night on the town was in order. Belatedly remembering they were right in the middle of the Broadway theater district, he wondered if he should have the concierge call around for tickets to a show.

Damn.
He should have thought this through more carefully. The problem was, he considered as he ducked his head beneath the shower head, causing the glacial water to stream down his face, his plans for the trip had centered around ensuring that Chelsea didn't return to her Yankee worm, checking out Roxanne's millwork, then making love to the woman who'd been driving him nuts for weeks.

Over the years, as part of the sophisticated veneer he sometimes donned as camouflage for the poor sharecropper's kid he'd once been, Cash had developed a polished, highly effective courtship ritual. Which had uncharacteristically flown out the window the moment Chelsea had walked into Roxanne's parlor.

He was going to do better, Cash decided. Beginning now.

He was as good as his word, taking less than ten minutes to shower and change, emerging from the bedroom, clad in
a charcoal Armani suit, white silk shirt and Confederate red silk tie.

“Gracious.”

“Something wrong?” He felt like a fool for needing her approval. But, dammit, he did.

“No.” She continued to stare at him in a way that wasn't entirely flattering. “That suit's just very…New York.” He would not have looked out of place on Wall Street. Or Madison Avenue. Indeed, she considered, he looked exactly like the type of man her mother would be thrilled to have her bring home.

“I would have brought my blue-and-white striped seersucker, but last time I wore it in Manhattan, everyone kept mistaking me for Matlock.”

The smile took the bite out of his words, allowing her to smile in return. “I'm doing it again, aren't I? Stereotyping you.”

“A bit.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Don't worry about it.” He crossed the room to her. When he put his hand on the side of her face, his touch proved both soothing and enticing. “I didn't want you to be embarrassed. In case we run into anyone you know.”

Once again he reminded her that not only had they never gone dancing in public, they'd never even gone to a restaurant together. Chelsea's eyes misted.

“I could never be embarrassed by you.” She covered his hand with hers. “Not even back then.”

“That's funny. I don't recall being asked to be your date for your sorority graduation dance. Or the winter carnival, or your cousin Susan's wedding at the country club, or—”

“All right. I get the point.” Thinking back on her behavior, which was far more suited to her pretentious mother, Chelsea felt a rush of embarrassed heat, the bane of all red-
heads, flush into her face. “I guess I was a snotty brat. So why did you put up with me?”

“I told you, you had a great ass. Besides,” he touched his lips to hers, letting her feel his smile, “you were a terrific lay.”

Her laugh expelled her tension. “Well, that's certainly honest.”

“I told you I'd never lie to you.” He tilted his head back, looking down at her as he ran his hands over her shoulders, down her arms and linked their fingers together. “So, are you saying you were attracted to my brilliant, incisive mind?”

“We were young,” she hedged. “We had sex on the brain.”

“We may have been young.” With only the slightest tug, he drew her closer, until their bodies were a mere whisper apart. “But the thing is, Chelsea, I always have sex on the brain whenever I'm around you.” He lifted her hand to his lips and touched the tip of his tongue to the center of her palm, causing a flare of heat. “Which is why we'd better get out of here before I give in to temptation and find out if you're wearing anything beneath that dress.”

“I wouldn't mind staying in.” His eyes, his touch, the sensual kiss, all conspired to make the blood thicken, then simmer in her veins. “And sending out for room service later.”

This time the invitation was unmistakable. Once more Cash managed, just barely, to resist. “I've waited too long not to do this right. We're going out to dinner. And maybe the theater, if the concierge can round up some tickets, then dancing.”

“As lovely as that sounds, I don't really feel like spending most of the evening in a theater with a bunch of strangers. How about a compromise? We can eat dinner here, in
the hotel restaurant, and afterward, come back to the suite and dance to the radio. Alone.”

She was a siren. A witch. Cash doubted he'd ever be able to deny her anything. “Sounds like a plan.”

Surrendering to the lure of her softly parted lips, he lowered his head and kissed her, his passion laced with the edgy frustration of a hunger too long denied. Chelsea responded freely, her emotions flowing from her to pour over him.

“Lord, you feel good.” He released her hands and drew her against him, pleased to feel her body warming as the heat rushed to the surface of her smooth, perfumed and powdered flesh.

His teeth nipped and nibbled, his tongue stroked the wounded flesh before plunging, deep and greedy, causing a soft moan to escape her ravished lips.

Her head was spinning. Sensation after sensation tore through her. Her hands dived beneath his suit jacket to explore the ridges of muscle at his back. Hunger met hunger, need fueled need. Embers she'd once believed cooled sparked and burned like wildfire through the blood.

He dragged his mouth from hers and began planting kisses up the side of her face, her temples, her eyes, along her jaw. With a soft, shuddering sigh, she tilted her head back, offering him access to the creamy column of her neck.

Her skin was as hot as molten lava, her heart was beating wildly in her throat. Cash touched his tongue to the pounding bloodbeat and imagined he could taste her desire. He felt the vibration of her moan as he returned his mouth to hers, cupped her hips in his hands and pressed her tight against his aching erection.

The kiss went on and on, pulling them both deeper and deeper into a smoky, tumultuous world. When he realized he was on the brink of dragging her to the floor and peeling
that skintight, scarlet-as-sin dress off her, Cash forced himself to pull back. Just a little.