Книга - Southern Comforts

Southern Comforts
JoAnn Ross


Welcome to Raintree, Georgia—steamy capital of sin, scandal and murderTo her fans, Roxanne Scarbrough is the genteel Southern queen of good taste—she’s built an empire around the how-to’s of gracious living. To her critics—and there are many—Roxanne is a tyrant. And now somebody wants her dead. Chelsea Cassidy, Roxanne’s official biographer, knows that Roxanne is determined to keep her dark secrets buried, whatever the cost.But when Chelsea begins to unearth the truth about Roxanne’s life, her search leads her back into the arms of her college love, Cash Beaudine—a man Roxanne wants for herself. And suddenly Chelsea’s investigation takes on a very personal nature—with potentially fatal consequences.










Welcome to Raintree, Georgia—steamy capital of sin, scandal and murder

To her fans, Roxanne Scarbrough is the genteel Southern queen of good taste—she’s built an empire around the how-to’s of gracious living. To her critics—and there are many—Roxanne is Queen Bitch. And now somebody wants her dead.

Chelsea Cassidy, Roxanne’s official biographer, knows that Roxanne is determined to keep her dark secrets buried, whatever the cost. But when Chelsea begins to unearth the truth about Roxanne’s life, her search leads her back into the arms of her college love, Cash Beaudine—a man Roxanne wants for herself. And suddenly Chelsea’s investigation takes on a very personal nature—with potentially fatal consequences.


Praise for the novels of






“[Ross] masterfully weaves a tale of momentum and curves. Between the intrigue and the steamy romance, you’ll be left breathless.”

—RT Book Reviews on Confessions

“JoAnn Ross takes her audience on a thrilling roller-coaster ride that leaves them breathless.”

—Affaire de Coeur on Confessions

“A steamy, fast-paced read.”

—Publishers Weekly on No Regrets

“A moving story with marvelous characters that should not be missed.”

—RT Book Reviews, 4 1/2 stars, on No Regrets

“JoAnn Ross masterfully paints a pictures of a magical, mystical land. With delightful touches of folklore storytelling, Ms. Ross tells a tale that delivers laughter, tears and so much joy.”

—RT Book Reviews on A Woman’s Heart

“A Woman’s Heart will find a place in every fan’s heart, as it is an extraordinary tale that will charm the audience. This is one time the luck of the Irish will shine on every reader.”

—Affaire de Coeur


Southern

Comforts

JoAnn Ross




www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk)


To Jay


Dear Reader,

Confession time—I’m one of those women who keep home decorating and craft magazines in business. In 1995, as I made plans for that year’s Christmas, I decided all our windows would have a wreath made from roses from my garden. And the big front-door wreath would be created from pinecones I’d not only gild myself, but would drive three hours to the mountains and personally gather.

A week before two parties (a dinner party Friday and a cocktail party for fifty of my husband’s business associates the next night), my roses—laid out in bins all over the floor of our garage—still hadn’t entirely dried. When my husband suggested I simply buy dried roses from a florist, I insisted they had to be homegrown.

Meanwhile, while waiting for my roses to dry, I set about creating a tabletop duplicate of the twelve-foot-tall Victorian Christmas tree I’d spent a week decorating.

Did I mention I was also writing toward a January 1 book deadline?

Somehow it all came together, but five minutes before the first guests arrived, when I was outside, hot-gluing the last of those gilded sugar pinecones onto the front-door wreath, I screamed, “All those people who encourage women to do this stuff must die!”

And that’s how Southern Comforts was born. I hope you enjoy Chelsea Cassidy and Cash Beaudine’s story, and I promise that no Diva of Domesticity was actually murdered during the writing of this book.

JoAnn


Contents

Prologue (#ub92a27d3-aae8-57bc-95fa-b47cb74b831a)

Chapter One (#ub8a5e7d4-8530-53f9-8873-369e4284b9a3)

Chapter Two (#u1812e69c-e000-55fe-ac9c-de2231372420)

Chapter Three (#uc6e04df8-d3be-5924-b5cb-0170334aedda)

Chapter Four (#ud26b3122-5a0a-5a16-b996-c6705b5356f7)

Chapter Five (#uf6ffff3e-ed48-5e4c-b62b-87f2c7e07fd7)

Chapter Six (#u7edb2c83-e6e9-51c9-a9a5-4c0cba8eef1b)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twenty-Four (#litres_trial_promo)


Prologue

1989

It was a night made for romance. Outside the ballroom of the Hillcrest Country Club, sparkling stars filled the night sky like diamonds scattered over a jeweler’s black velvet cloth. Music drifted on air perfumed with the scent of lilacs, accompanying the soft sighs and whispers of lovers who’d slipped away to steal kisses in the shadows of spreading chestnut trees.

Inside the ballroom, seated at a damask-draped table, Chelsea Cassidy watched her cousin, Susan Lowell, dance with her groom.

The bride was, as brides are supposed to be, beautiful. She also looked as if she were dancing on air.

“I still don’t understand.” Chelsea’s date, Nelson Webster Waring, complained for the umpteenth time that night. He shook his head as he cut into his prime rib. “Why did you feel the need to actually have your name on that tacky story?”

For the umpteenth time that night, Chelsea tried to explain. “In the first place, I don’t consider it a tacky story—”

“A woman baring her breast in public?” Nelson arched a patrician brow that reminded Chelsea too much of the way her mother had looked at her so many times over the years.

“To feed her child, Nelson.” A champagne bottle, nestled in ice cubes in which pink rosebuds had been frozen, awaited the wedding toast. Tempted as she was to open the dark green bottle, Chelsea reached instead for her water goblet, only to have it taken away by a tuxedo-clad waiter.

“The woman unbuttoned her blouse to feed her infant daughter,” she said. “As women have, thank God, been doing since the beginning of time.”

“Hopefully not in public parks.” He took another bite, annoying her further by chewing his usual ten times, as he’d been taught by some nanny. Chelsea wondered if Nelson would actually choke to death if he swallowed the damn piece of meat after only six chews.

“Kathy Reed pays taxes.” Chelsea snatched the refilled glass from the waiter’s hand before he could return it to the table. “That makes her the public.”

She took a long drink of ice water she hoped would help calm her. It didn’t. “Which, in turn, makes it her park. And it wasn’t as if she tore off her clothes and went skinny-dipping in the fountain, Nelson. She was behaving quite discreetly. People didn’t have to look.”

“We’re getting off the point.” His own irritation beginning to show, he stabbed a piece of potato. “The issue is not whether the woman’s behavior was proper. The issue is why you insisted on having your name linked with hers.”

“Because I’m a journalist.”

“You’re merely an intern at the Register,” he re-minded her.

“I start getting paid next week. When I begin working full-time.”

“As a Sunday lifestyle reporter. Which doesn’t exactly put you on a par with Woodward and Bernstein.”

“Thank you for pointing that out to me.”

He appeared unmoved by her sarcasm. “Why can’t you cover the summer social season?”

“The job of society reporter’s already filled. Besides, covering weddings and yacht regattas would bore me to tears. I want to write important stories, Nelson.”

“Like that unsavory date-rape series?”

“That unsavory series, as you call it, received a great deal of national attention, Nelson. I’d hoped you would be proud.”

“Of course I’m proud of you.” He lifted his gilt-rimmed coffee cup, signaling for a refill. “That goes without saying.”

Exchanging the water pitcher for a sterling pot, the waiter obliged. When his mocking dark eyes met Chelsea’s, she glared at him.

“But if you’re going to insist on writing about such distasteful topics,” Nelson continued, oblivious to Chelsea’s silent exchange with the dark-haired man standing behind him, “couldn’t you at least use a pen name? Like George Eliot?”

“Pseudonyms are for fiction writers.”

“Honestly, Chelsea, I don’t understand why you can’t be like other women. Like your mother. Or mine.”

Nelson’s mother was, if possible, even more rigid than hers. Margaret Waring clung to the old WASP belief that there were only three times a woman should have her name in the paper: when she was born, married and died.

Chelsea sighed. “I know.”

“Know what?”

“That you don’t understand.” She stood up and placed her napkin on the table. “Excuse me. I need to freshen up.”

The women’s lounge was deserted, allowing Chelsea the chance to try to regain her composure. During the past four years, while working hard at her studies, along with writing for the Yale Review, she’d managed to build a lucrative freelance career working as a stringer for a syndicate providing news copy and interviews for a group of small weekly papers along the eastern seaboard. If all that wasn’t enough to keep her busy, she’d also talked her way into an intern job on the local New Haven Register.

And then a close friend had made the mistake of getting drunk at a party after the annual Harvard-Yale football game.

The series of date-rape articles Nelson found so objectionable had not been easy to write. Many of the victims had suffered feelings of shame and guilt and it had taken Chelsea time to convince them that only by bringing the issue to the bright light of day could the stigma be burned away.

Although the intensely personal interviews had definitely not been popular with her mother or Nelson, they had been met with ego-boosting approval on campus and won her the offer for a full-time position at the Register after graduation. They’d also been picked up by a few weekly papers around the country, technically establishing her as a national journalist.

Which was, Chelsea thought as she dried her hands and began energetically brushing her hair, a pretty good start for someone who’d just graduated from college. Her famous father, Dylan Cassidy, had been a year older—twenty-two—before he’d gotten his first national byline.

She left the lounge and was walking down the hall on her way back to the ballroom, when, without warning, a hand reached out of a doorway, snagged her wrist and pulled her into a narrow dark room.

Before she could utter a word of protest, her mouth was covered by another in a deep, punishing kiss that literally took her breath away.

There was no light in the room, which, from the scent of disinfectant, she realized was a janitor’s closet. Since her eyes had not adjusted to the dark, she could not see the man whose lips were grinding against hers.

But Chelsea didn’t need to see. Because she had everything about him imprinted on every inch of her mind and body. It was as if she’d been bewitched by some black magic, she thought wildly, as she dragged her hands through his dark hair and pressed her body even tighter against his. From the first day Cash Beaudine had shown up in her dining hall, hired to bus tables at mealtimes, she’d fallen under his spell.

Unlike any of the boys she’d grown up with—boys groomed from infancy to take their places in boardrooms all over America—Cash was a rebel. He was Heathcliffe, James Dean, Billy the Kid and Butch Cassidy all rolled into one dark, dangerous, smoldering package.

Other than the fact that he was from the South and was attending the college of architecture on a work-study scholarship, Chelsea didn’t know very much about him. She had no idea about his family background, what religion, if any, he practiced, or his political affiliation. Their relationship was not based on any high level of communication.

It was lust, pure and simple.

And it was wonderful.

“Why the hell do you put up with that guy?” Cash growled as he thrust his hands beneath the full-skirted bridesmaid dress.

“I’ve known Nelson for years.” Although talking was never at the top of their list of things to do when they were together, this was not the first time Cash had asked that question. Her answer was always the same. “I’m going to marry him. When I turn thirty.”

If she married earlier, she’d lose the inheritance bequeathed to her by her great-grandmother Whitney. But marriage and money were the last things on Chelsea’s mind right now. She gasped with a combination of pleasure and anticipation as Cash pressed his palm against the already damp crotch of her seashell pink panty hose.

“You might be able to fool Nelson. You might even be able to fool yourself, sweetheart.” His mouth scorched a trail of flame down her neck. Chelsea tilted her head back, giving him access to her throat. “But you sure as hell can’t fool me.”

There was barely room for one person in the close confines of the closet, let alone two. Chelsea was firmly wedged between a wall of wooden shelves and Cash’s rock-hard body.

“You’ll never marry that cold-blooded, self-righteous yuppie creep.” As if staking his claim, he yanked the waistband of her panty hose down. His long dark finger combed through copper curls before probing moist feminine folds. “Not after being with me.”

“Is that a proposal?” If he were the last male on earth, Chelsea couldn’t imagine marrying a man like Cash. Of course, she considered as his intimate caress made her head spin, the thought of bringing Cash home to her mother, then sitting back and watching the fireworks, was definitely appealing.

“Hell, no.” As forceful a lover as he was, Cash was not without finesse. Two fingers had replaced the one and his thumb was doing incredible things to her tingling flesh.

“I’ve already told you, baby, I’ve got too many things I want to do before I tie myself down with a ball and chain. And even if I ever do decide to get married, it damn sure won’t be to any uptown Yankee girl.”

Despite her disinterest in marrying Cash, the Yankee reference stung. Refusing to give him any more power than he already held over her, Chelsea chose to concentrate on his unflattering description of matrimony.

“A ball and chain. What a lovely original metaphor.” Her voice dripped with sarcasm. Wanting to make him as desperate, as hungry as he was making her, she managed to snake her hand between their bodies and unzip his black waiter’s slacks. “I must remember to write it down.”

“You do that.” He was hard as marble in her hand. But much, much hotter. “When you can think again.” One last flick of that wicked thumb sent her over the edge. Even as she felt the first orgasm ricocheting through her, Chelsea knew there would be more.

Chelsea had never thought of herself as a particularly sexual person. Oh, she’d slept with Nelson, of course. After all, she’d known him all her life.

But this crazy time with Cash Beaudine had changed something elemental inside her. Since their first stolen time together, she couldn’t stop thinking of Cash.

Wanting him.

And heaven help her, needing him.

He’d filled her mind as completely as he’d filled her body. The more of Cash she had, the more she wanted.

Before the last of the ripples had faded, he’d set her away from him and was zipping up his slacks. “Let’s go somewhere there’s room to do this right.”

Now that her eyes had adjusted to the light, she could see his devilish grin. It was arrogant, mocking and sexy as hell. “An uptown girl like you deserves more than a quick stand-up fantasy fuck in a broom closet.”

“Once again your mastery of the English language overwhelms me.” Chelsea was not by nature a sarcastic person. She had, however, recently resorted to snapping back at him in order to maintain some small sense of balance in this relationship.

Not, she reminded herself firmly, that two people having sex at every opportunity could be considered a real relationship.

“Besides, Susan will be throwing her bouquet soon. I have to be there.”

“Which would you rather have?” His deep voice heated her blood all over again. “A bunch of overpriced hothouse roses tied up in pink-and-white satin ribbons?” Taking hold of her wrist, he pressed her hand against his swollen groin. “Or this?”

What should have been an easy question was anything but. Chelsea thought of Nelson, waiting back at their table, armed with new arguments he’d undoubtedly worked out during her absence.

She also thought of tomorrow when she’d be off to her mother’s summer home at the Hamptons for a week’s visit before beginning work at the paper, and Cash would be on his way across the country to San Francisco. He’d landed a job with a famed international architectural firm whose name she recognized.

And even as she wondered how this rebel would fit into the buttoned-down world of designing high-rise office buildings for the corporate elite, Chelsea couldn’t help being impressed.

“You’d better make up your mind quick.” The thick, south-of-the-Mason-Dixon-line drawl was the same one he pulled out whenever he sensed her wavering. “Before we croak from inhaling too much Pine-Sol. Or your boyfriend suddenly stops thinking about himself long enough to notice you’re gone and sends someone to find you.”

Leaving with Cash Beaudine would not only be wrong, it would be the most outrageous thing she’d ever done. And for Chelsea, that was admittedly saying something.

She hesitated another heartbeat. Then, as she drank in the mysterious male scent emanating from Cash’s dark neck, Chelsea pictured the rumpled, unmade bed where she’d discovered the true meaning of passion.

Heaven help her, she was going to do it!

Five minutes later, she was sitting on the back of Cash’s jet-black Harley, racing down the road away from the country club. The wrinkled pink taffeta skirt was hitched up around her thighs, her arms were wrapped around his waist and her hair streamed out like a copper flag from beneath the black motorcycle helmet he’d stuck on her head.

It was a night made for romance.

A night when anything was possible.

A night Chelsea knew she’d remember for the rest of her life.


Chapter One

New York City, Seven Years Later

The Power Behind The Pretty Face



Roxanne Scarbrough is the doyenne of decoration, the maven of modern style. In addition to her monthly magazine, Southern Comforts, several New York Times bestselling how-to books, videotapes and a syndicated weekly television program, America’s favorite Steel Magnolia has inked a six-figure deal with Mega-Mart stores. Middle-class shoppers frequenting the booming, 347-store chain can now live and shop the Scarbrough way.

Mega-Mart’s budget for the new advertising campaign announcing their Southern Comforts line is 12 million, which should make the folks over at Chiat/Day a great deal more comfortable. Whatta deal! Whatta gal!

Adweek, March 26, 1996.

For a woman whose public image made Donna Reed look like a slacker, Roxanne Scarbrough proved to be a dragon lady extraordinaire.

Chelsea had never met anyone like America’s most famous southern belle. Which, for someone who had managed to survive interviews with both Madonna and Roseanne, was saying something. As she sat on the sofa in Good Morning America’s greenroom, waiting for her interview with Charlie Gibson, Chelsea watched Roxanne’s off-screen theatrics in amazement.

Since the limousine had delivered America’s most famous lifestyle expert to the studio from her suite at the Plaza an hour ago, she’d thrown a brush at the hairdresser who had quick reflexes and ducked just in time, stomped out of the room when the makeup woman had made the fatal mistake of suggesting a concealer to cover the faint scars from recent eyelid surgery, and managed to deride her personal assistant at every possible opportunity.

The makeup room was too hot. The greenroom too cold. The orange juice was frozen. And the Danish, horror of horrors, were cold.

“Honestly,” Roxanne huffed with a brisk shake of her sleek blond bob, “you Yankees have absolutely no sense of style!”

“I expect that’s why you’ve been invited on the program,” Chelsea replied blandly. “To bring culture to the philistines.”

Only the sharpest ear would have caught Chelsea’s veiled sarcasm. The glint in her green eyes would have warned anyone who knew her. As it was, the other woman was so wrapped up in her pique, it flew right over her head.

Roxanne’s gaze flicked over Chelsea like a medical researcher checking out the dog pound for potential experimental material.

“A hopeless task,” she asserted between bonded teeth, then announced to no one in particular, “This is a shitty time of day.”

When she pulled a cigarette from a crushed gold mesh pack and planted it between her lips, her assistant, a harried, pleasantly plump thirty-something woman, leaped to light it. Chelsea noted the lack of a thank-you. Perhaps no one had bothered to inform the southern doyenne of domesticity that slavery had been abolished.

“It fucks up my biorhythms.” The proclamation was exhaled on a cloud of noxious blue smoke that came puffing out of both nostrils like dragon fire. Chelsea said nothing. But she did wonder what the Steel Magnolia’s legion of fans would think of such earthy language escaping their guru’s glossy pink lips.

Roxanne glared around the room, which had nearly emptied; the third guest of the hour—an economist from Harvard scheduled to discuss the potential impact of baby boomers reaching Social Security age—had already sought sanctuary in the restroom down the hall.

“Where the hell is that boy with my tea?”

A moment later, one of the interns returned to the greenroom. His name was Brian, Chelsea had learned. The son of a West Virginia coal miner and truck stop waitress, he was a scholarship student from Penn. He was, he’d told her earlier, thrilled to have won this highly coveted internship. But of course, he’d shared that little nugget of personal information before he’d met Roxanne Scarbrough.

When she glimpsed the red-and-white tea bag tag hanging from the rim of the foam cup in Brian’s hand, Chelsea braced herself.

“What the hell is this?” Roxanne demanded.

“Roxanne,” her beleaguered assistant, Dorothy Landis, murmured, “it’s the tea you asked for.”

“This is not tea.” Roxanne crushed her cigarette out into a GMA ashtray with enough force to break the slim cylinder in two. Blazing blue eyes hardened to sapphire as they raked the cup the young man was holding.

“Tea is properly brewed in freshly drawn soft—but never chemically softened—water which has been heated in an enameled vessel. The leaves—preferably Imperial Darjeeling—should be dropped into the water just as it arrives at a brisk rolling boil, giving them a deep wheel-like movement, which opens them up for fullest infusion.”

Her voice, as it slashed away at the intern, was as sharp and deadly as a whip. “After which time it is poured into a scalded, preheated pot to allow the essential oils to circulate through the liquid.”

A very good four-carat diamond sparkled in the overhead fluorescent light as Roxanne reached out and plucked the white cup from the intern’s hand. “This is not tea,” she repeated. Turning her wrist, she deliberately poured the brown liquid onto his shoes.

Chelsea watched the bright red spots appear on his narrow cheeks. Fortunately, before the young man could make a mistake that might cost him his job, another intern appeared in the doorway.

“Ms. Lundon is ready for you now, Ms. Scarbrough,” she said.

Roxanne immediately stood up. Chelsea watched, fascinated in spite of herself, at the woman’s metamorphosis. Her perfectly made-up face softened, the hardness left her eyes and her lips curved into her signature smile. She ran her hands over her spring suit—pink with black piping, from this season’s Chanel collection, Chelsea noted—smoothing nonexistent wrinkles.

Then, without a backward glance, she swept from the room.

“Christ,” Brian muttered. He grabbed a handful of paper napkins and began swiping at his previously white Nikes.

Roxanne Scarbrough’s assistant’s brown eyes hardened. Brackets formed on either side of her thin lips.

“Someday,” Dorothy Landis said in a coldly furious, tight voice, “someone’s going to do the world a big favor and kill that bitch.”

Chelsea waited in the greenroom, watching the television as Roxanne taught Joan Lundon how to paint Easter eggs and decorate darling little baskets with organza ribbons and real grass, even though she had no interest in such overwhelming domesticity. She knew she should be concentrating on her own upcoming interview.

When inviting Chelsea to appear on the program, the Good Morning America producer had explained that the focus of the five-minute segment would be Chelsea’s recent magazine article profiling Melanie Tyler, an Oscar nominee who was currently dating a U.S. senator. A very popular senator rumored to have a good chance at the White House in the next election.

The idea that the outspoken, drop-dead gorgeous actress, known for her femme fatale roles, could actually end up First Lady had captured the interest of even those Americans who wouldn’t be caught dead watching Entertainment Tonight, or glancing at a tabloid newspaper.

The cover article had escalated interest in the actress while drawing additional attention to Chelsea. After the magazine first appeared on newsstands two weeks ago, she’d received calls from three publishing houses expressing interest in a book about her experiences rubbing elbows with the rich and famous.

Since graduating from college, Chelsea had been steadily making her way up the New York publishing ladder. Although she’d initially planned to follow in her father’s footsteps as a serious journalist, she’d come to realize she possessed a talent for making people comfortable enough to open up and share life experiences and insights.

She also possessed a natural curiosity that had been encouraged by her journalist father.

“Curiosity steams the engine of progress, Chelsea,” he’d told her time and time again whenever he’d return home from an assignment in some far-off locale. “Why do you think Columbus set out for the New World?”

“Curiosity,” she had answered from her favorite perch on his jean-clad knee.

“That’s right.” His voice, deep and rich and booming, was a welcome change from the usual hushed quiet of their Park Avenue apartment. “And what made doctors think common old mold could lead to the miracle of penicillin?”

“Curiosity!” It had been, hands down, her favorite game. “And what made man set out to discover that the moon wasn’t really made of green cheese?” she’d ask him in return.

“Curiosity!” they’d both shout, then laugh at the shared joke.

At the time, she’d had no way of knowing that the beloved game would lead her to a career writing celebrity profiles for Vanity Fair.

With a self-honesty that had always served her well, Chelsea realized her illustrious family name opened more than a few doors. But once they were opened, she had to work even harder to prove herself to those skeptics who believed her to be little more than just another connected society girl, playing at being a writer in between planning charity balls.

Having worked hard to get where she was, Chelsea should have been pleased with how far she’d come. After all, how many people had an opportunity to sit in the copilot’s seat while John Travolta flew his jet one day to Aspen, then discuss love and life with Brad Pitt over pizza at Spago the next? Although she knew writers who’d kill to be in her position, lately she’d been feeling as if she were in a rut. Or more accurately, a treadmill.

Deciding to straighten out her life later, when she had a moment to think, Chelsea focused her attention on the monitor. As she compared Roxanne’s bright spring suit to her own subdued outfit, she wished she’d stuck to her guns this morning when she’d come out of the bathroom and found Nelson laying out her clothes.

“I thought your taupe linen slacks and cream silk blouse would provide the perfect look,” he’d informed her with the easy confidence of a man accustomed to getting his way. “Casual enough for morning television, while being classically elegant at the same time.”

“I was planning to wear my new suit.” She’d found it last week at Saks, and although it was ridiculously expensive, she’d fallen in love with it at first glance.

“The peplum is too fussy for this time of the morning. Besides, the color clashes with your hair.”

“Red gives me confidence.”

“That may be. But this outfit will make you look confident.”

Swallowing her frustration, Chelsea had taken the blouse he held out to her. Lord knows, as her mother was always telling her, when God had been passing out style, she’d been at the back of the line, reporting on the event.

The fact that she could never live up to Deidre Lowell’s fashion-plate standard had never bothered Chelsea. Just as she usually didn’t mind allowing Nelson—whose intrinsic fashion sense rivaled her mother’s—to select her outfits for important occasions.

She might look elegant, Chelsea thought now. The problem was, she didn’t feel elegant. What she felt was irritated. And drab. Dammit, she considered with a burst of frustration, she knew she should have worn the red.

Raintree, Georgia

There was nothing finer than sex first thing in the morning, Cash considered as he engaged in some slow, postcoital caresses with the lushly endowed blonde lying beside him.

The bedroom was dark, lit only with the pale, silvery pink light of a new dawn. The sweet fragrance of Confederate jasmine wafted in through the open window, mingling with the woman’s perfume and the redolent scent of lovemaking.

“Nice,” he murmured as he nibbled luxuriously at her throat.

“Much, much better than nice.” Melanie Tyler linked her hands around his neck and treated Cash to a long, wet kiss. “If I’d only known southern men were so good in the sack, I’d have joined the Confederacy a long time ago.”

He chuckled warmly. “It takes two.”

Cash liked Melanie Tyler. A lot. And for more than great sex, although, he admitted readily, compatibility in bed was always a plus. He’d met her at the Magnolia House, an inn where her movie company was staying while filming a sprawling Civil War epic. Within fifteen minutes of meeting the actress in the lobby bar, they’d been tangling the sheets in her room. The affair had been going on for a month now and both accepted that her time in Georgia was at an end.

Melanie treated sex as a man did. She enjoyed it for what it was, took what she wanted, gave what she could, and when it came time to move on, she did. With no regrets.

“Oh, hell.” She leaped from the bed as if burned.

“What’s the matter?”

“I almost forgot. Marty called yesterday.” Marty, Cash knew, was her agent. “That writer who interviewed me for Vanity Fair is going to be on Good Morning America today.”

Cash leaned back against the headboard and enjoyed the view of Melanie fiddling with the television dial. The remote had disappeared early last night amidst the sheets. As much as he genuinely liked her, Cash could not imagine this free-spirited sex goddess living in the White House.

“You’re not really going to marry that stuffed-shirt senator, are you?”

“That’s for me to know and you to guess, sweetheart.” She returned to the bed and snuggled up beside him as they waited through the segment where Roxanne Scarbrough was demonstrating how to prepare a proper southern Easter brunch.

The lifestyle demonstration ended. A commercial for a new, improved detergent was followed by another pushing the wonders of quilted toilet paper.

“How would you like to sleep in the Lincoln bedroom?” Melanie asked.

“I suppose it depends. Would I be sleeping there alone?”

She laughed. “Don’t be silly.”

Across the room, on the nineteen-inch television screen hidden away in an antique armoire, the commercials faded away.

When the camera focused in on a close-up of Charlie Gibson introducing the magazine writer, Cash knew he’d lost Melanie. Her sudden alertness reminded him of the way Blue, his old German shorthaired pointer, had reacted upon sniffing out a covey of quail. Looping his arm around her smooth, nude shoulders, he settled down to watch the interview.

From what Melanie had told him about the importance of this interview, Cash realized he’d formed a mental image of some hardened, thin-lipped, cynical Yankee journalist who’d seen it all and didn’t like much of what she’d seen.

As the camera shifted to the young woman seated across from Charlie, Cash experienced a white-hot jolt of recognition.

Although she was as beautiful as ever, Cash thought Chelsea looked tired. And if she’d chosen those obviously expensive sedate clothes to appear older and more sophisticated, she’d failed. Because the subdued colors only called attention to the gleaming copper penny hue of her long straight hair.

Her bright eyes—the color of new money—were wide and warm; her mouth smiled easily. The way she answered Charlie’s questions with brief, but thoughtful answers, revealed she’d matured. She’d also revealed a vulnerable, intelligent side of Melanie that even Cash, who prided himself on being able to read women, hadn’t discovered.

“I didn’t know you had a degree in economics from Johns Hopkins.”

“When I first started out in Hollywood, being smart wasn’t sexy.” Melanie didn’t take her eyes from the screen. “Hush. I want to hear what she’s saying.”

So did he. Chelsea Cassidy’s voice was still as smooth as heated honey. He could have listened to it all morning.

All too soon, the interview was over. When Cash found himself wishing they’d thought to tape it, so he could listen to those dulcet tones again, he decided that lack of sleep and too much champagne at last night’s wrap party for Melanie’s film must have killed off a few too many brain cells.

“Well, what did you think?”

“She was pretty good.”

She hadn’t known him long, but her next words proved that she’d come to know him well. “Christ, Cash, trust your hormones to leap to attention at the sight of a beautiful woman. I was talking about what Chelsea Cassidy had to say. About me.”

It was not Cash’s style to ignore one woman for another. Since he’d first lost his virginity in an upstairs bedroom of Fancy Porter’s whorehouse, Cash had prided himself on being an attentive, thoughtful lover. Fancy had taught him a lot of things that long hot summer of his fifteenth year. But the two most valuable lessons had been that a slow hand was worth a dozen quick fucks and treating a woman as if she were the only female in the world invariably paid off big time.

Concentrating on the woman who’d warmed his bed so well and so often these past weeks, Cash pulled Melanie closer. “You’re a lot better than damn good, sugar.”

“Well, I know that.” She pouted prettily and brushed some dark hair back from his forehead. “And, by the way, I think Chelsea is married. Or, if not married, seriously involved. While we were doing the interview, she got a call from some guy she was living with. Nelson somebody.”

So she’d actually gone and done it, Cash thought with a burst of cold, angry derision. She’d actually married that arrogant, pompous jerk.

“Not that I imagine a little detail like marriage vows would much matter to you,” Melanie said.

“I never sleep with married women.”

It was true. These days, anyway. Well, almost true, Cash amended as Lilabeth Yarborough came to mind. But hell, Lilabeth’s husband had left the former high school cheerleader and their three kids to seek his fortune on the NASCAR racing circuit, and although they’d never actually gotten around to signing the papers to make the divorce legal, Billy Yarborough hadn’t been back to Raintree for two and a half years.

“Besides, why would I want her?” He nibbled seductively at Melanie’s earlobe. “When I have you?”

“Damn. I don’t know what’s wrong with my mind today.” She was out of bed again like a rocket, scooping up last night’s discarded clothes which made a path from the doorway to the bed. “I’m sorry, Cash. But I’m booked on the ten-thirty flight back to L.A.”

Cash drove her the thirty miles into Savannah. After watching her disappear down the jetway he stopped at a newsstand in the terminal and bought a copy of Vanity Fair.

Over the intervening years, he’d managed to convince himself that those crazy six months with Chelsea had been nothing more than a particularly virulent attack of lust. He’d gotten over it. And her. He survived the uptown Yankee girl in the same way he might have survived some rare fever that having run its course, never returned.

As he sat in his Ferrari in the terminal parking lot, flipping through the glossy magazine to the article, Cash assured himself that he was only moderately interested in seeing if Chelsea had turned into as good a writer as she was a talker.

He hadn’t bought the magazine because he was interested in her personally. Because he wasn’t.

Not even a little bit.

The hell he wasn’t.

Casa Grande, Arizona

In a Motel 6 off Interstate 10, George Waggoner lay in bed, drinking from a can of Budweiser in an attempt to take the edge off the blinding hangover he was suffering.

Since the cut-rate motel didn’t feature dirty cable movies, he’d been forced to settle for network fare. As he made his way through the six-pack, he was only vaguely aware of the early morning newscast. He’d been in this motel room for most of the six weeks since his release from prison.

The money he’d managed to stash away during seven years in the pen was almost gone, eaten up by rent, cigarettes, booze and the occasional hooker. It was time to come up with a new plan.

Which was difficult to do when his eyes felt as if they were bleeding and some shitass maniac was breaking rocks inside his head.

And then he saw her.

George blinked and rubbed his hand over his aching eyes, at first thinking she was some sort of hallucination left over from last night’s binge. Like those bats in The Lost Weekend he’d watched on late-night television.

But no. The image flickering on the snowy television picture was unmistakable. Oh, she’d changed her hair. Her clothes may not be Kmart blue light specials anymore and her accent was a helluva lot more fluid than he remembered. But having known her intimately, George wasn’t fooled. Not one damn bit.

“Roxanne Scarbrough.” He barked a tobacco-roughened laugh as he watched her pour some unpronounceable French liqueur into a white bowl. “Where the hell did she come up with a name like that?”

Tossing back the rest of the beer, he climbed out of the too soft bed, retrieved his unwashed jeans from the floor, and yanked them on over his briefs. A black

Harley-Davidson T-shirt followed. Then his boots.

Since the motel wasn’t the kind to put out fancy writing paper for its guests, he went next door to the 7-Eleven, bought a tablet, a package of envelopes, a stamp and another six-pack. Then, on impulse, having already decided that his luck had just taken a decided turn for the better, he spent ten bucks on Powerball lotto tickets.

Not that he needed them, George told himself as he walked back to his single room. Because, hot damn if he hadn’t just hit his own personal jackpot!

He opened the tablet to the first page and began to write.

“Dear Cora Mae...”


Chapter Two

New York

While Chelsea knew her Good Morning America interview had gone well, the old feeling of dissatisfaction that haunted her too often these days returned as she arrived home.

“You were terrific,” Nelson assured her. “You were clever, intelligent and beautiful.” He touched a fingertip to the pearl gleaming at her earlobe. “In fact, you radiated a cool sex that reminded me a lot of Diane Sawyer.”

Chelsea viewed the gleam in his eyes and guessed what was coming.

“You know,” he suggested, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “I just had an idea.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, I do not want to become a television personality.”

“Why not? The money would be more than you’ll ever make at the magazine.”

“In the first place, I’m a print journalist—”

“At a time when papers and magazines are folding all over the country.”

She may be willing to let him choose her wardrobe. But her career was an entirely different matter. “I love writing, Nelson. And I’m good at it.”

“I’ll bet Diane Sawyer writes her own copy.”

Chelsea shrugged and tried to ignore the headache that was threatening behind her eyes. “It’s a moot point. Since I have no intention of even trying to break into an already overcrowded television market.”

“If it’s good enough for Barbara Walters—”

“When you go on television, suddenly how you look becomes every bit as important, sometimes even more so, than what you’re saying. And while we’re talking about Diane Sawyer, I read she received more viewer mail about cutting her hair than any story she’d ever done. You know I’m no good at things like clothes and jewelry and the latest hairstyle, Nelson.”

“Granted, you weren’t gifted with a plethora of style sense.” His blue gaze swept over her, approving of what he saw. “But that’s what you have me for, darling. Together, we’d make one terrific team.”

Looking at him looking at her gave Chelsea a very good idea of how Eliza Doolittle must have felt while undergoing Henry Higgins’s intense scrutiny.

“I never thought I’d find myself wishing for the old days.”

He arched a brow. “Old days?”

“Back when we were in college, and used to fight over the idea of my having a career.”

Like everyone else in his family, Nelson Webster Waring didn’t work. No Waring had worked for wages since great-great-grandfather Warren Waring, an old-fashioned robber baron, had made a fortune in railroads and western mining claims.

“Warings never fight. We have discussions.” He smiled. “And in defense of my behavior, most young men are horribly chauvinistic. Some of us are fortunate enough to have a clever woman who insists on dragging us from our caves into the modern world.”

Chelsea sighed and cast a quick, surreptitious glance at her watch. She was running late. As always, these days. “Could we discuss this later?” she suggested, even as she knew that on this issue, she would never budge. “I have a meeting at the office in thirty minutes.”

“How about over lunch at the Pool Room?” he suggested, knowing the Four Seasons restaurant to be one of her favorites.

“I’m flying to Toronto to interview Sandra Bullock this afternoon,” she reminded him. There were rumors of a romance with a recent costar she wanted to check out. More than that, she was interested in how the actress appeared to remain so centered as she rode the comet her acting career had become.

There had been a time when Chelsea would have braced herself for his complaint that she was working too hard. Strangely, since they’d gotten back together after an eighteen-month separation—during which time she’d concentrated on establishing her career while he’d seemed determined to date every deb in the city—she’d heard not a negative word about the hours she spent away from home.

“I’ll bet Diane Sawyer flies first-class,” he pointed out.

Giving him points for tenacity, Chelsea laughed. “Good try. But the flight’s not that long. And, since I’ll be writing the entire time, I wouldn’t notice the difference anyway.”

She scooped up the duffel bag she used as a purse. And, more important, with her hectic schedule, as an office in a bag. She kept it filled with pencils, notepads, a mini tape recorder for interviews, a toothbrush, makeup, tampons, and an extra pair of panty hose. So long as she kept the bag with her, she could be on a plane to anywhere within minutes. Chelsea would have felt naked without it.

She gave him a quick kiss. “Wish me luck.”

“You know I do.”

Although his tone was pleasant and matched his winning smile, Chelsea knew that the subject was far from closed. Once again she had a fleeting wish for those days when the only thing they argued about was whether she would work.

More and more lately, it seemed that not only was Nelson determined to act as her advisor and manager, he was also even more ambitious when it came to her career than she was.

As she sat in the back of the cab crawling through the crush of morning traffic, Chelsea decided that one of their problems was that Nelson had no career of his own to focus on. Perhaps, if she broached the subject carefully, she could make him see that by going to work, he’d be more personally fulfilled.

Today was Thursday. They had a long weekend ahead of them after she returned from Toronto. Plenty of time for an overdue, calm discussion. About her work, his lack of work, and where, exactly, their relationship was going.

Perhaps, she thought with a renewed burst of her typical enthusiasm, Sunday morning she’d make Nelson French toast. The fancy kind, with Grand Marnier, that Roxanne Scarbrough had demonstrated for Joan Lundon on the show.

Not to soften him up. But to show him how much she cared. How much she wanted things to work out.

Feeling reassured, Chelsea pulled a notepad out of her bag and began composing a list of questions for her interview with the woman Hollywood insiders were touting as the new Julia Roberts.

* * *

“I have your tickets,” Heather Van Pelt said, handing Chelsea an envelope as she exited the editorial meeting. “Your boarding pass is attached—you’re on the aisle, in the first row of first class. A driver and car will be waiting for you as soon as you clear customs, and I’ve upgraded your room at the Four Seasons to a suite.

“I thought it would give you more room to work,” she continued as she easily kept up with Chelsea’s dash toward the bank of elevators. The meeting had run long; if Chelsea didn’t leave now, she’d miss her plane.

“Did you clear the extra expenses with accounting?” Chelsea asked as she dug through her bag and pulled out the roll of antacids she was never without these days. Although the magazine had generous travel allowances, she wasn’t accustomed to a suite for overnight turnaround trips like this one.

“Of course.” Heather’s smile was calm and self-confident, befitting a young woman who’d grown up in the lap of luxury in Greenwich, Connecticut. “At first they weren’t all that enthusiastic about the idea. But I can be very convincing when I put my mind to it.”

Chelsea had not a single doubt of that. From what she’d seen, Heather’s talent for persuasion rivaled Chelsea’s mother’s. Since being hired after her graduation last June from Bennington, she’d made herself indispensable, even volunteering for personal errands, which made Chelsea feel a bit guilty. But not so guilty that she’d turn down any assistance that came her way.

“You really are a wonder,” she said with honest appreciation. “If things go well, I may actually manage to get another chapter done on my novel.” She’d been slogging away at the suspense story centered around the murder of a thoroughly unlikable movie star for the past two years; trying to squeeze time in between her hectic work schedule and her on-again, off-again, and now on again relationship with Nelson.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Heather said with another of those smiles that was as smooth as her sleek blond hair.

Although the job of editorial assistant paid starvation wages, Heather always managed to look as if she’d stepped right out of the pages of Town and Country magazine. Once, after Liz Smith had shown up at the office for a lunch date with Chelsea, the gossip columnist had declared that the new editorial assistant was Vanity Fair’s answer to Princess Di.

The difference, Chelsea had considered at the time, was that Heather Van Pelt possessed far more self-confidence than the most celebrated member of Britain’s royal family. She was also more ambitious. Chelsea knew Heather wanted her job. Since she didn’t have any intention of giving it up anytime soon, such single-minded zeal didn’t disturb her. Especially when it resulted in upgraded plane tickets and hotel reservations.

Raintree

Amidst the Camelot environs of her lushly wooded landscape, Roxanne Scarbrough sat in the library of her Tudor-style home leafing through the mail her assistant Dorothy Landis had left on her Louis Quatorze desk. On the corner of the desk, an electric fan was ineffectually attempting to stir the moisture-laden air.

Roxanne was not happy. Trust the air conditioner to choose today of all days to give out! The temperature outside was unseasonably warm for April. Although it was not yet noon, a thick, wet heat had seeped into the house through the window screens, permeating everything, making her sweat.

No. Ladies never sweat, she reminded herself with a brisk mental shake. As moisture beaded on her forehead and between the cleft of her breasts, she remembered telling Oprah about her southern grandmother’s stern edict that horses sweat, men perspired and ladies glistened.

Of course, beloved old Maw Maw, with her infinite wealth of southern aphorisms, was, like so much of Roxanne’s outwardly perfect life, a fictional invention. Still, the stories she’d spun during that afternoon taping had added a charming southern warmth to the interview.

The bundled-up Yankee audience, still shivering from the Chicago blizzard raging outside Harpo Studios, had, as always, eaten it up, and her clipping service subsequently reported that the “glisten” quote had appeared in sixty-five papers around the country over the next week.

It wasn’t always easy being Roxanne Scarbrough. But, she considered with a self-satisfied smile, no one did it better.

The breeze from the fan stirred the fragrance of potpourri she’d created from pink freesia and Lady Banks roses growing in the formal gardens.

When she’d first planted the garden, several members of the Raintree garden club had warned her against including the old-fashioned rosebushes. Local legend prevailed that when a Lady Banks got old enough to shade your grave, you’d die. Not the least bit superstitious, Roxanne had ignored the caution. But knowing a good story when she heard one, she’d included the myth in her latest lifestyle book, Strolling Through Grandmother’s Southern Garden.

She skimmed a fax she’d received this morning from her agent regarding Chelsea Cassidy. Although at first glance, she’d considered the writer to be a definite lightweight, the deft way she’d handled her interview and the Vanity Fair article Roxanne had read on the flight back from New York proved that appearances were definitely deceiving.

Roxanne had no concerns about the writer rejecting the proposal her agent was going to make. People did not say no to Roxanne Scarbrough.

Especially men, she considered with a slow smile ripe with feminine intent as she glanced over at the mantel clock. She should have left a half hour ago for her luncheon engagement. Not that she was in any particular hurry. It was, after all, a lady’s prerogative to keep a gentleman waiting.

However, in this case, it would be a blessed relief to leave the house. The stifling humidity clogged Roxanne’s lungs, making her feel as if she were trying to breathe underwater. Her dress—a silk wash of watercolor flowers with a dangerously plunging neckline, selected specifically for today’s lunch with Cash Beaudine—already seemed too hot and heavy against her heated skin.

Deciding to open one more piece of mail, she picked up a sterling silver letter opener in the Francis I pattern she claimed she’d inherited from her unfortunately deceased mother, and slit open a cheap dimestore envelope marked Personal that had been forwarded from the staff of Good Morning America. Obviously another piece of fan mail. Considering the inferior stationery, this was a person in dire need of lifestyle training.

The paper was badly ink stained, as if the letter had been written with one of those horrid plastic ballpoint pens one saw everywhere these days. As her eyes skimmed down the wrinkled page, Roxanne’s heart clenched. The scrawled handwriting was all too familiar.

“Dear Cora Mae...”

She pressed a beringed hand against the front of her silk dress and wondered if she could be having a heart attack. Black spots danced like whirling demons in front of her eyes.

Belying the fictitious Maw Maw’s now famous axiom, it was, indeed, sweat that puddled beneath Roxanne’s armpits and slithered wetly down her sides.

* * *

Cash was suffocating. The restaurant Roxanne Scarbrough had chosen for their luncheon meeting was one of those precious southern tearooms that had sprung up in plantation mansions all over the state, catering to a female clientele who preferred to pretend that William Tecumseh Sherman—or, as he was known around these parts, “that low-down Yankee pyromaniac”—had never set a booted foot in Confederate Georgia. Decorated in shades of peach and mint green, it boasted translucent china, sterling cutlery, glittering crystal, hanging plants and lace-covered windows. He’d been at the tearoom for nearly an hour. During which time Roxanne had pulled out all the stops in her attempt to convince him that he was the only man in Georgia, indeed, on the planet, capable of restoring her antebellum plantation house.

Located just outside Raintree, on the road to Savannah, if the woman could be believed, the mansion was a combination of Twelve Oaks and Tara, with a little Xanadu’s pleasure palace thrown in for good measure. To demonstrate she’d done her homework, she’d also brought along an attaché case of engineering reports, proclaiming the home to be structurally sound.

Roxanne tried tempting him with fame, assuring him that the project would end up featured in yet another of her bestselling books.

“You’ve no idea how many people buy these books,” she stressed over salads of spinach, bay shrimp, watercress and artichoke hearts. There was not a single offering of red meat on the menu. “People with quality who need my guidance when it comes to creating a stylish ambiance.”

She shared a conspiratorial smile. “And just think, when they read that you’re the man I’ve selected to create my dream home, why, your phone will be ringing off the hook.”

There’d been a time, not so long ago, when Cash might have found the idea enticing. But no longer. Not after his years in San Francisco.

“As attractive an idea as that might be,” he said mildly, “I currently have about as much work as I can handle.” His own smile did not reach his eyes. “Some people, it appears, have heard of me without the media hype.”

“Well, of course they have,” Roxanne said quickly. Switching gears with an alacrity that Cash found impressive, she appealed again to his ego. “But if you were to work for me—”

“With,” he interjected.

She arched a perfectly shaped eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“If I were to agree to do the job, which I’m not saying I am,” he drawled, “I’d be working with you, not for you. It would be a joint project, based on your vision, but I’d insist on input on all decisions.”

“Oh.” Cash was not all that surprised by the way she managed to frown without causing a single line in her forehead or her lips. Southern women had such frowns down to a science. “I’m not accustomed to collaborating.”

“I can understand that.” He braced both elbows on the table and eyed her over his linked fingers. “However, remodeling a house is not exactly the same as baking petit fours or creating gilded mistletoe Christmas wreaths. It’s a major construction project, often more difficult than the original work. It also requires the art of compromise between architect and home owner.”

“Compromise.” Her sigh caused her breasts to rise and fall beneath the flowered silk dress. Cash watched her mulling the idea over and decided it was not something she was accustomed to doing. “I could live with that,” she decided after a long pause. “So long as I had the last word.”

“Unless it involved structural integrity.” The words were no sooner out of his mouth than he realized she’d obviously take them as encouragement. “Then the decision would be mine.”

“Agreed.” She sat back in the velvet chair and crossed her legs with a satisfied swish of silk on silk. “So, when would you like to look at the house?”

“I haven’t said I’d take the job,” Cash reminded her.

“If you’d just look at Belle Terre, you might be more amenable. It’s horribly run down at the moment. I swear, it looks as if Sherman’s entire army had just finished sacking it. But I’m sure an artistic man such as yourself—” her voice lowered, thickening to molasses

“—will be able to see its true potential.”

She was definitely not a lady accustomed to hearing the word no. Cash had known women a lot like Roxanne Scarbrough in San Francisco, but most of them had been society wives, married to wealthy, usually much older men. Men more interested in making money than paying attention to their blond and bored trophy wives.

Which was where he’d come in. The same women who’d married for money and ended up being corporate widows, were often desperate for male companionship. Being male and available, Cash had done his best to oblige them.

Until one night when he’d been forced to climb out the bedroom window of a Pacific Heights mansion because his current lover’s stockbroker husband had arrived home early.

Shortly after that, realizing he was in danger of becoming a cliché, he’d resigned his partnership at the Montgomery Street firm and returned home to that very same place he’d worked like hell to escape.

Growing up on the wrong side of the tracks, he’d found Raintree creatively and personally stifling. Every conversation began with the opening line, “Who are your people?”

The answer to that had routinely kept him barred from country club dances and fraternity mixers. In a part of the country where family roots tended to predate the Revolution, having a sharecropper for a daddy and a mama who’d come from a Blue Ridge family known primarily for the high quality of their bootleg whiskey, kept him out of the social register.

His daddy had died when Cash was thirteen. Although his mother had done her best to look after them, money had become even harder to come by, which is how he’d ended up doing odd jobs at Fancy’s whorehouse on the outskirts of town.

It was there Cash had received a first-class education on how to sexually please a woman. Such insight had allowed him to coax more than his share of fascinated, daring debs into the backseat of his black Trans Am. The same belles whose fathers would have bolted the door and gotten out the shotgun if they knew a renegade like him was sniffing around their precious baby daughters.

Chelsea Cassidy had been one of those girls. He’d been thinking a lot about her since seeing her on that television program. Oh, Chelsea’s roots were deep in the rocky soil of New England, instead of the rich loam of the South, but she’d grown up pampered and privileged, and sexually repressed. It had, of course, taken no time at all to break down her sexual barriers. But the social parapets had proven a different story. Their entire relationship, if it could have even been called a relationship, had been a clandestine one, consisting of quick, frantic couplings like the one in the broom closet of the country club, or more leisurely lovemaking in his cramped rented room.

But she’d never—not once—allowed herself to be seen in public with her secret lover. And when the time came to choose a lifelong partner, it sounded as if she’d actually ended up with that self-centered prig she’d been unofficially engaged to since childhood.

“Mr. Beaudine?”

Roxanne’s annoyed tone brought Cash back to the subject at hand.

“I’m sorry.” He managed a smile much friendlier than his mood. “I was just thinking about your offer.”

Her eyes swept over his face. “I do hope your expression isn’t a true indication of your thoughts.”

“Not exactly.”

Forcing his mind back to business, Cash reminded himself that he’d always been fascinated by old houses. He loved their architectural individuality—so different from the cookie-cutter homes found in even new multimillion dollar neighborhoods. He was intrigued by their history and believed that, like dowager queens, even the oldest, most lived-in home enjoyed a certain inimitable dignity.

A man easily bored, he also enjoyed challenges. And from the way Roxanne had described the condition of her dream house, he suspected that the proposed remodeling project could provide the challenge of a lifetime.

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to look at the house.”

“You’ll love it,” she promised.

Her eyes glittered with a satisfaction she didn’t bother to conceal. And something else. Something Cash recognized as a feminine interest he had no intention of encouraging. She leaned forward, giving him an enticing glimpse of cleavage and placed a hand on his arm in a way that confirmed his instincts.

“So, when would you like me to give you the grand tour?”

“No time like the present, I suppose,” he decided. “As it happens, I’ve got the rest of the afternoon free.”

Her lips, painted a bright pink that had left a smudge around her teacup, turned upward in a satisfied smile that suggested she’d never expected any other outcome. “How perfect. I can’t wait to show you all my ideas.”

“It’s a little early for that. First I have to determine whether or not I think the house is salvageable. And whether I find it enough of an artistic challenge.”

“I don’t believe the second of your concerns is going to be a problem.”

“Why don’t we let me be the judge of that?”

There was a tug-of-war going on. As surely as if they’d suddenly begun pulling at opposite ends of the cream-hued damask tablecloth. As she viewed the steely determination in his dark eyes, Roxanne considered yet again that this man could prove a challenge.

At a time when she definitely didn’t need any more problems.

Still, she’d noticed how the young restaurant hostess kept looking at Cash and asking him if everything was all right. And after the past hour in close proximity to his dangerous masculinity that was proving overwhelming in such feminine surroundings, she found herself looking forward to the sexual perks of working intimately with this man.

“You’re going to love Belle Terre,” she assured him again, rising with a lithe grace that was the product of years of practice. “It’s marvelous. Even without the ghost.”

Cash was not surprised the house came with a resident ghost. It was de rigueur for homes of its era in this part of the country to boast of at least one.

Yet as he left the restaurant with Roxanne Scarbrough, passing the table occupied by a young woman whose flaming hair reminded him of Chelsea, it crossed Cash’s mind that he already had one too many ghosts in his life.


Chapter Three

New York

“So, how was Toronto?” Mary Lou Wilson asked.

“I’m sure it was delightful.” Chelsea’s irritated expression said otherwise. “All I saw of it was the airport and the hotel. I was hoping to interview Sandra on location, but a stupid rainstorm shut down shooting.”

The same rainstorm, it seemed, had followed her home. She scowled out the floor-to-ceiling windows of her agent’s Madison Avenue office and pretended interest in the Manhattan skyline. An icy spring rain streaked down the tinted glass.

While working with the actress’s publicity people to move the interview to Chelsea’s suite, it had crossed her mind that she should have asked the overly efficient Heather to arrange for the sun to shine.

“I’m sorry it didn’t turn out well.”

Chelsea shrugged. “It was a good interview. I just wanted more. But cutting things short did allow me more time to work on my book.”

Mary Lou smiled at her client. “Now that is good news. And speaking of good news,” she segued smoothly into the reason for having called Chelsea to her office, “it appears that interview with Charlie Gibson may just change your life.”

Chelsea opened her mouth to point out that her life was just dandy, thank you. But of course, that wasn’t exactly the truth. She wasn’t happy, dammit. And, despite her growing success—success that Heather would undoubtedly be willing to sell dear old Grandmother Van Pelt to achieve—she hadn’t been for a long time. Once again she felt as if she were spending her life on a treadmill.

No, Chelsea considered, she felt more like Lucille Ball in that old chocolate factory episode. The more she achieved, the faster and faster she needed to work to stay ahead.

“All right,” she said when her agent paused for an unnecessarily lengthy time, “I’ll bite. What are you talking about?”

“I had an interesting offer for you after the interview aired.”

Chelsea thought about Nelson’s ongoing argument that she belonged on television. “If it’s from the network, suggesting I replace Joan Lundon, tell them the answer’s no.”

“Actually, the call was from Roxanne Scarbrough.”

That was a surprise. “What in the world could America’s Diva of Domesticity want with me?”

“She’s looking for a biographer.”

“No way.” Chelsea folded her arms across the front of her silk jacket. In defiance of the weather, her suit was a splash of bright sunshine yellow. “I’d rather swim naked in the East River with a bunch of killer sharks than work with that woman.”

Mary Lou’s eyes narrowed, revealing surprise at Chelsea’s adamant refusal. “Am I missing something here?”

“Let’s just say that Roxanne Scarbrough and I had a slight personality clash and leave it at that.” Actually, it had been dislike at first sight—as clear and strong as one-hundred-proof grain alcohol.

“Roxanne thinks the world of you.”

Chelsea seriously doubted that Roxanne thought of anyone but herself. It also did not escape her notice that her agent and Roxanne Scarbrough seemed to be on a first-name basis.

“Tell me you’re not that Steel Magnolia from hell’s agent.”

It was no secret that Mary Lou Wilson had migrated to Manhattan from somewhere in the deep South. Indeed, the agent, while outwardly appearing the epitome of New York chic, went out of her way to cultivate her image as a publishing outsider. Chelsea had noticed, on more than one occasion, that the more prolonged the contract negotiations, the more Mary Lou’s voice took on a sultry slow cadence of the South, causing more than one misguided editor to let down her guard. Which with Mary Lou, Chelsea reminded herself now, was always a mistake.

“As it happens, Roxanne is one of my oldest clients,” Mary Lou confirmed.

“And one of the most profitable, too, I’ll bet,” Chelsea muttered.

She glanced around the professionally decorated office, seeing it with new eyes, now that she realized the attractive furnishings she’d always admired had undoubtedly been selected by the most vicious mouth in the South.

“You know I never discuss other clients’ earnings,” Mary Lou said mildly.

“I can’t believe you can even stand to be in the same room with that woman.” Chelsea studied the exquisite Ming vase on its ebony pedestal she’d always admired and wondered if it had been purchased with Mary Lou’s fifteen percent of Roxanne Scarbrough’s latest bestselling cookbook, Just Desserts.

“Roxanne is a bit of a challenge from time to time,” Mary Lou admitted with what Chelsea decided had to be the understatement of the millennium. “But she’s garnered the major percentage of the lifestyle market, and her fans love her.”

It crossed Chelsea’s mind that were she to write the truth about the beloved lifestyle maven, all those fans would disappear like Roxanne’s famous beer-battered popcorn shrimp at a Super Bowl party.

Although she’d throw herself off the top of the Empire State Building before admitting it, she’d actually tried the recipe at her last party and earned raves from all the guests. Even Nelson, who considered himself a gourmand, had been impressed.

“Why doesn’t she have her usual cowriter do the book?”

“Glenda Walker is excellent at interpreting Roxanne’s creative vision to the written word. But something like an autobiography is, quite honestly, beyond her talents.”

“You know I don’t want to ghostwrite.” And even if she did, Roxanne Scarbrough would not be on the top of her list of potential subjects.

“Roxanne has already agreed to give you coauthor credit.”

“Which still means she’d get fifty percent of a book I wrote.” Fifty percent less Mary Lou’s agency percentage of both their earnings, Chelsea amended, growing more and more uncomfortable with this entire situation.

“Actually, Roxanne suggested an eighty-twenty split. With you getting the larger share.”

“I don’t get it.” Chelsea blinked. Her fingernails drummed a rapid staccato on the wooden arms of the cream suede chair as she tried to figure out Roxanne Scarbrough’s angle. From what she’d witnessed in the greenroom, generosity was not the woman’s strong point. “What’s the catch?”

Mary Lou frowned. “You and I have a seven-year relationship.” There was an unfamiliar edge to her usually smoothly modulated drawl. “Surely you aren’t implying I’d suggest anything that wouldn’t prove beneficial to your career?”

Chelsea winced inwardly. Terrific career move, insulting your agent. “I’m sorry. Of course I’d never imply any such thing.”

Her recent restlessness made it impossible for her to think while sitting still. She stood up and began to pace, her short pleated skirt swirling around her thighs.

“It’s just that I can’t figure out why Roxanne would want me to work with her on her autobiography.”

“That’s simple. Thanks to the Melanie Tyler interview, you’re currently the hottest young writer in town. She also read your Vanity Fair article and decided that you’re very good at what you do.”

“I suppose I should be flattered,” Chelsea said reluctantly, pausing in front of the Ming vase. It really was lovely.

“This isn’t about flattery. It’s about money. As I told Roxanne, you’re got a helluva career ahead of you. It certainly wouldn’t hurt her to hitch her already successful wagon to your rising star.”

“Even if I were a reincarnation of Truman Capote, why would she be willing to give up such a large portion of potential earnings?”

“That’s simple.” Mary Lou folded her hands on the top of her glossy desk. Her smile reminded Chelsea of a Cheshire cat. “She has this idea—and by the way, I agree—that the book, like her consultant agreement with the Mega-Mart stores, will serve as a marketing tool for all her other projects.”

Eventually making her far more profit than royalties from her autobiography would ever earn, Chelsea considered.

“That makes sense.”

“Although she’s extremely talented, Roxanne’s true genius has always been marketing,” Mary Lou agreed.

In spite of herself, Chelsea was tempted. It certainly would gain her a great deal of international exposure, since Roxanne Scarbrough was a household name all over the world. But still, the idea of working with the unpleasant woman was less than appealing.

On the other hand, eighty percent of a guaranteed bestseller was nothing to sneeze at.

“Her last three books stayed at the top of the Times list for six months,” Mary Lou said.

“The offer is tempting,” Chelsea admitted reluctantly.

“It could catapult you into superstar ranks. Then, of course, there would be the additional audience you’d pick up. An audience that would provide a built-in market for your novel. When you get it finished.”

“Hopefully in this lifetime,” Chelsea muttered. Heaven help her, she could feel herself being drawn to the bait. Which wasn’t all that surprising, since she could probably name five writers off the top of her head who’d push a rival beneath a crosstown bus for the opportunity she was being offered. But still...working with Roxanne Scarbrough?

As much as she liked and respected Mary Lou, Chelsea reminded herself that the agent could be devious. Especially when working to clinch a deal. Refusing to be steamrollered into anything, she lifted her chin in a stubborn angle.

“I’ll have to think about it.”

“Of course.” Mary Lou sat back in her chair and gave Chelsea a pleased, satisfied smile. “And while you’re thinking, why don’t you get out of this terrible weather?”

“Good idea. Why don’t you call my editor and have her assign me an article about snorkeling in the Bahamas.”

“Actually, I had somewhere closer in mind. Roxanne thought you might want an opportunity to speak with her personally, at her home in Georgia, before coming to a decision. I agreed it was a good idea. She would, of course, pay all your travel expenses.”

Promising to give Mary Lou an answer by the end of the week, Chelsea left the office. As she dashed through the cold rain toward the battered yellow cab the doorman had hailed for her, Chelsea couldn’t deny that the idea of a few days spent lying poolside in a warm southern sun sounded more than a little appealing.

It would also allow her a breather from her recent nonstop schedule. It would force a time-out in her ongoing argument with Nelson. Just the memory of how she’d spent the weekend had her digging in her bag for her roll of antacids.

Despite the French toast—which unsurprisingly, hadn’t turned out nearly as well as when Roxanne had prepared it for Joan Lundon—despite the fact that she’d told him time and time again that she was a print journalist, he’d spent the entire two days pushing the idea of her “branching out” into television.

As she chewed the chalky tablets she seemed to be living on these days, it crossed Chelsea’s mind that the concentration required by ghostwriting Roxanne Scarbrough’s biography could take her mind off her problems.

While giving her a whole set of new ones, Chelsea considered as Roxanne’s furious eyes and pursed lips came to mind.

Raintree

It was the house that cotton built. Constructed in 1837, prior to the Civil War, it was the same Greek Revival style made familiar the world over by the most famous movie ever made about the South. Twenty-two Doric columns—three feet in circumference and forty feet high, Cash estimated—surrounded the two-story house, eight in front, and seven on either side.

“The walls are eighteen inches thick.” Roxanne ran her hand over the exterior facing. “And the bricks were made right here on the property.”

“By slave labor.”

She shot him a surprised, faintly censorious look. “That wasn’t unusual for the time.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right.” Deciding that if he was going to allow political correctness to enter into his business decisions—especially in this part of the country—he’d be broke before the end of the year, Cash put aside his discomfort with how the house had been constructed.

“Your porch is crumbling.” He put a booted foot on one of the boards, crushing it like an eggshell. “It’s about to cave in.”

“So we’ll replace it. Surely that shouldn’t be so difficult.”

“No. But it’s the first thing that will have to be done, or workers won’t be able to get into the place safely.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” She rewarded him with an admiring look. “How clever of you.”

“Not clever. I’m just not wild about the idea of having some plasterer break his neck.”

Before risking the porch, he spent a long time examining the foundation. It appeared to be solid. And the cracks could be easily fixed.

“I realize you’ve already had an engineering report,” he said, looking up at the massive columns. “And the foundation certainly looks secure. But since these are supporting the roof, I’ll want them professionally inspected, as well.”

“I certainly don’t want the roof caving in during my gala open house ball,” she agreed.

He had to give her credit for having a vivid imagination. The place, which was even more of a challenge than he’d expected, reminded him of the house the Addams family might live in were they to decide to relocate to the old South. But she was already planning balls. Which figured. Balls were a traditional southern event—like high school Friday night football—planned with all the attention that the Joint Chiefs of Staff gave to planning an invasion. And with as much hoopla and pageantry as a New Orleans Mardi Gras.

“The house has a marvelous history,” she told him as she followed him through the rooms. Lacy spiderwebs hung in all the corners, draped over fireplace mantels. “It was built by a young man, Edwin Blount, a distant cousin to Eugenia Blount Lamar.”

The name had been dropped as if he were expected to know it. He didn’t.

“Eugenia was a president-general of the Daughters of the Confederacy,” she explained at his politely blank look.

“Ah.” He nodded. “That Blount.”

Her eyes narrowed momentarily, as if suspecting she’d heard a tinge of sarcasm in his mild tone. Obviously deciding she’d imagined it, she went on with her story.

“They were to be married in the gardens out back. But the bride ran off with her daddy’s cotton broker on the day of the wedding. Poor Edwin.” She sighed dramatically. “It was a terrible scandal.”

“I can imagine.” Cash’s mutinous mind conjured up another image of Chelsea, seated behind him on his Harley, escaping from her cousin’s wedding.

It had been their last night together. And their hottest. He could remember every single detail except how many times she’d come. They’d both lost track long before dawn. Before he’d taken her back to her safe, traditional, old-money life. And her stiff-necked boyfriend.

What would have happened, Cash wondered, if she’d agreed to go to San Francisco with him that night? Would they have gotten married? Would he have become successful—and in turn, rich enough—to turn his back on the career he’d sought with such single-minded determination, to return home to his roots?

Hell. Reminding himself that Sunday morning quarterbacking was an amateur sport, and that thinking about might have beens was for losers, Cash returned his thoughts back to Roxanne’s running monologue.

“Of course the poor man couldn’t possibly live in the house,” she was saying. “Not after having received such a crushing emotional blow. Not to mention such a public humiliation.”

As he ran his fingers through the dust coating a nearby window, Cash murmured something that could have been an agreement.

“So he sold it to Ezekial Berry. Who was, of course, a descendant of the Virginia Berrys of Atlanta. His wife, Jane, was one of the Chattahoochee Valley Fitzgeralds. She was pregnant with their first child at the time.”

There was simply no escaping it. Who are your people? Cash decided that the old European aristocracy had nothing on southerners when it came to tracking ancestral bloodlines.

He wondered how anxious Roxanne Scarbrough would be to work with him if she knew his background. “The window glass has lost a lot of glazing,” he said. “But the majority of it, at least on this floor, seems in good shape.”

“Well, that’s good news.”

“It could be all you’re going to get.” He crossed the room. “The plaster’s a mess.” He picked at the cracked and broken wall. “See this?” He plucked out some black fibers and handed them to her.

“They feel a bit like paint brush bristles.”

“Close. It’s hair. Curried from the backs of horses or hogs undoubtedly raised on the plantation. Builders used it to help hold the plaster together.”

“How ingenious.”

“It’s also expensive to replace.”

“Surely they don’t use hog hair any longer?”

“No. Although, the technique’s the same, with plaster or strands of Fiberglas in place of the hair. But a good plaster man is hard to find these days. And when you can find one, he doesn’t come cheap.”

She tossed the black hairs onto the scarred wooden floor. “I told you, Mr. Beaudine, money is no object.”

Her words reminded Cash that he’d definitely come home to a new South. A booming South. A South on the rise. And riding that tide of economic prosperity were new people, creating new jobs, making new money. And spending it with an enthusiasm that made the old southern aristocracy sit up and take notice.

“Now where have I heard that before?” he murmured as he squatted down and frowned at the ominous trail of sawdust running along the baseboard.

“In this case it’s the truth,” she snapped, abandoning her spun sugar demeanor. “This home is my pièce de résistance. It’s the culmination of my life’s work. Everything I’ve done, everything I’ve struggled for, ends here. There will be,” she repeated firmly, her eyes as hard as stones, her lips pulled into a thin line, “no expense spared to do this correctly.”

Cash couldn’t help being impressed with her resolve. But he was still not entirely convinced. As they finished the tour of the house, risking the treacherous stairs to examine the second floor, he wondered if she realized that this project was a helluva long way from creating the ultimate Easter basket.

“That’s another thing.” He leaned against the crumbling wall of the grand entry hall, folded his arms across his chest and looked down at her. “You’re going to have to decide whether you want to renovate Belle Terre. Or restore it.”

“Renovate, restore, what’s the difference?” She was clearly growing impatient at his unwillingness to embrace her latest enterprise.

“There’s a big difference.” As her tone grew more harsh, he purposely kept his mild. “A restoration is a pure as possible replication of a home to its original state. While a renovation is exactly that—rebuilding to update the home with modern conveniences, to make it new again. And if authenticity has to fall by the wayside, too bad.”

Her frown revealed that she’d not exactly thought this little dilemma through. Cash wasn’t surprised. He’d discovered that most people had a rather serendipitous view of turning some crumbling ruin into an exact replica of its former glory, while also wanting to toss in a few Jacuzzi tubs, microwave ovens and media walls for comfort and convenience.

“As a purist, I believe I’d favor restoration.” Her gaze slowly circled the high ceilings and hand-carved moldings. “However, having seen the bathrooms, I have to admit that there’s a great deal to be said for renovation.”

Her eyes, which revealed intelligence and resolve along with the first sign of concern Cash had witnessed, met his. “I don’t suppose we could combine the two?” she asked hopefully.

“That’s usually the way it’s done.”

Her relief was palpable. “Then that’s what we’ll do. This project is incredibly important to me, Mr. Beaudine. I have a film crew on hand to document the reconstruction. I’m also in the process of negotiating with a writer, Chelsea Cassidy, to collaborate on my autobiography, which will, of course, include the restoration of Belle Terre.”

“Chelsea Cassidy is your biographer?” Having grown up having to fight for everything he’d accomplished, Cash had never been a big believer in fate. The idea of Chelsea coming to Raintree to ghostwrite Roxanne Scarbrough’s life story had him reconsidering.

“You know Ms. Cassidy?”

“I read her article in this month’s Vanity Fair.”

It had managed to be interesting, amusing and insightful. All at the same time. Which had been a surprise. He’d known that Chelsea was intelligent. And ambitious. But since their relationship hadn’t included much conversation, he’d failed to realize she was extremely talented outside the bedroom.

“Considering her lightweight subject matter, the article was quite entertaining,” Roxanne sniffed. “She does, however, happen to be the most sought after writer in her field. It’s quite a coup that she’s agreed to write my life story.”

Roxanne failed to even consider the possibility that Chelsea might refuse the assignment.

“Won’t it be difficult to collaborate?” Cash asked. “With her living in New York and you here in Raintree?”

One thing he didn’t want to do was to agree to take on such a Herculean restoration project only to discover that the owner of the house was spending most of her time in the Big Apple instead of where she belonged—on the job site making decisions.

“I’m sure it would be, if that’s the way we were working,” Roxanne agreed. “However, I intend for Ms. Cassidy to move into my house with me. That way, I can continue to oversee the restoration of Belle Terre and she can get a true feel for who I am. And how I work.”

It was the truth, so far as it went. The one part of her answer that was an out-and-out lie was the idea that anyone would learn the truth about who she really was.

That idea brought back George Waggoner’s letter. And caused another bubble of icy panic.

“We should discuss my fees,” Cash said. “I’m not inexpensive.”

“I didn’t expect you to be. I demand the best, Mr. Beaudine. And am willing to pay for it. I was also told by your other clients that you usually work on an hourly basis, rather than a flat fee.”

So she’d checked him out. That wasn’t so surprising, Cash decided. It also revealed that she had a sensible head on those silk-clad shoulders. Since his return to Georgia, he’d had more than one prospective customer want to hire him simply because of his illustrious reputation.

And then there were always those lonely wives who were more than willing to have their husbands pay to knock down walls and change rooflines while they received a little personal fix up in the bedroom.

Those jobs Cash had steadfastly refused.

“Flat fees are easier to calculate with new construction because there aren’t so many surprises. With renovations, hourly fees seem to work best. Another way we can do it, since we’re probably going to exceed whatever schedule we come up with by several weeks in a project this big, is for me to bill you twenty percent of the total construction costs.”

“I believe I prefer that last option,” she mused. “However, we’d have to negotiate the payment schedule.”

“Of course.”

“And what extras you intend to bill for. Such as which of us pays for inspections, blueprints, telephone calls, fax charges and such.”

“You’ve done your homework.”

“Of course. I didn’t reach the heights I’ve reached by being foolish about money, Mr. Beaudine.”

Cash nodded. “I’m beginning to understand that, Miz Scarbrough.”

“Then do we have an agreement?”

He glanced around the house, thought about the challenge it represented and knew that it could be a pile of crumbling bricks covered with Spanish moss and kudzu vines and he’d have no choice but to take it on, now that Chelsea was part of the picture.

“If we can work out the details,” he said, not wanting to let Roxanne think she could win the upper hand that easily.

She waved off his qualification. The diamonds adorning her fingers and wrists glistened like ice in the late afternoon sun streaming through windows in need of reglazing. “I’m sure there’ll be no problem.” She held out her hand. “Shall we shake on agreeing to come to an agreement, at least?”

Cash took her outstretched hand. “Looks like you’ve just hired yourself an architect.”

Arizona

George Waggoner sat in the seat of the Greyhound bus speeding across the Sonoran Desert, stared blearily out the window and decided that this had to be the shit ugliest country he’d ever seen. It was all dirt. And rocks. Hell, it reminded him of somethin’ a tomcat would crap in.

“And on the eighth day, God looked down, slapped his forehead and said, hot damn, I finally found the place to put the world’s litter box.”

Enjoying his little joke, he chuckled, which in turn drew a nervous smile from the young woman sitting across the aisle from him. George glared back.

Another goddamn slant-eye. Just like the one behind him. And the wrinkled up, yellow-skinned old bitch in front of him. Christ, the entire country was being overrun with the chinks, wetbacks and rag heads. Pretty soon there wouldn’t be any room left for the real Americans. He took a slug from the bottle of rotgut whiskey he had wrapped in a paper bag and waited for the kick.

They weren’t like the niggers back home, either. Back in Georgia, blacks with any brains at all could take one look at him and know that it was better just to stay the hell out of his way.

But these assholes were different. They were pushy. All the time crowding in where they didn’t belong, talkin’ their gibberish about Christ knew what.

Hell. It was bad enough that the government didn’t do anything about keeping them out. Personally, if he was the president, he’d go on television and declare a national hunting day on immigrants. Make a bundle off sellin’ the hunting tags that would pay off the national debt, and let good old boys like George Waggoner take care of the problem.

And not just a day, he decided. Hell, just pass a constitutional amendment making it open season on everyone who wasn’t a red-blooded American. That’d be a guaran-goddam-teed way to solve the problem.

He took another pull from the bottle. Then pointed his index finger at the woman across the aisle, aimed and pulled the trigger. In his mind’s eye, he received a certain satisfaction from imagining that sloped head explode like an overripe crenshaw melon dropped onto the sidewalk from the top of the prison tower.

She gasped, her gaze locked on his, like a scared mouse hypnotized by a swaying cobra. Enjoying the fantasy, and her fear, he winked.

Visibly trembling, she jumped to her feet and hurried back up the aisle to the restroom. George barked a cigarette-roughened laugh that degenerated into a rattling cough. Then he settled back in the seat, returned to his bottle and contemplated the look on little ole Cora Mae Padgett’s face when he showed up on the doorstep of Roxanne Scarbrough’s fancy mansion.


Chapter Four

New York

Although Chelsea’s suit was comparatively restrained, the emerald color proved a stunning foil for her brilliant hair. As she dashed into the Plaza’s Palm Court, heads swiveled, watching her make a beeline for a table across the way.

“I’m sorry I’m late.” She bent down and kissed her mother’s cheek. “I didn’t think I’d ever get out of that interview with Bruce Willis.”

Deidre Lowell managed a brittle smile. “You could have simply informed the man that you had a luncheon date with your mother.”

Chelsea grinned, still riding the high of her successful morning. “I suppose I could have tried that,” she agreed. “But then I would have missed the neatest story about the day he and Demi took the kids to the zoo, and—”

“I’m sure it’s a delightful tale,” Deidre cut her off. “However, I have an appointment for a facial at two, and since I don’t dare keep Rodica waiting, I suggest you sit down and order.”

The cool, perfectly rounded tones were all it took to puncture the little bubble of happiness Chelsea had been riding due to her successful morning. She’d discovered at an early age that unless she tried very hard to avoid it, conversations with her mother usually resulted in her apologizing. A bit resentful at feeling like a chastised six-year-old, she did as instructed.

They managed to exchange a bit of small talk about her mother’s book club group and numerous charitable activities while they waited for their orders to be delivered. By the time their salads and cups of Earl Grey tea were delivered, Chelsea had actually begun to relax. Which was, of course, always a mistake.

Deidre’s gaze swept over her. “You know, dear,” she said, “you really need to get your hair trimmed. You’re starting to look like the Longworths’ sheepdog, what was his name? Mercedes?”

“Bentley. And I’ve been busy.” Hating herself for falling into old patterns, Chelsea brushed her bangs out of her eyes.

“So Nelson has been telling me. He says your career has been taking up a great deal of time recently.”

Chelsea would have had to have been deaf not to hear the scorn her mother had heaped on the word career. She told herself that one of these days she was going to get used to the unwavering disapproval.

After all, her mother had made her feelings known from the beginning. In fact, frustrated by a teenage Chelsea’s total lack of interest in proper pastimes such as dancing school at the Colony Club, tennis at the Meadow Club, and regattas at Newport, Deidre Lowell had shipped her off to Switzerland to be schooled in womanly graces.

Those four years in exile, were, thus far, the worst experience of her life. Even worse than her mother’s bitter divorce from Chelsea’s father when she was six. Or the death of Dylan Cassidy when she was ten.

Rather than deter her daughter from her chosen goal, all Deidre Lowell (she’d long since dropped the Cassidy acquired upon her ill-fated marriage to Chelsea’s father) managed to do was make the flame burn hotter. Brighter. It was during those years when she’d been banished abroad that writing became the only fixed star in Chelsea’s firmament.

“It’s been hectic,” Chelsea allowed. “But I’d rather be too busy, than have no work at all.”

Her mother didn’t answer. But the way her lips drew into a tight disapproving line spoke volumes.

“Nelson said you’re going to write a book about Roxanne Scarbrough.”

“I’m considering it.”

“Who on earth would buy such a book?”

“Perhaps all those millions of people who buy her lifestyle books,” Chelsea said mildly. She refused to be drawn into a position of defending a woman she didn’t even like.

“She’s nouveau riche.”

“I don’t know about the nouveau. But you’ve got the rich part right.”

“Honestly, Chelsea.” Deidre frowned and took a sip of tea from the gilt-rimmed cup. “Must you joke about everything?”

“I’m sorry. It’s just that I’m not sure people care about things like that anymore, Mother.”

“I believe you’re right.”

“You do?” Chelsea took a sip of her own tea and contemplated ordering champagne instead. After all, any occasion when she and her mother actually found something to agree about should be celebrated.

“Of course. And that,” Deidre said stiffly, “is precisely what’s wrong with this country. People have lost all sense of values.”

“I don’t believe gilding a few pomegranates will lead to the downfall of western civilization,” Chelsea argued lightly.

“Laugh if you want to, but the woman is a menace. Would you believe that I found Tillie in the kitchen, watching her television program and practicing folding napkins into the shapes of swans?”

“That is hard to believe.” Chelsea decided that if the longtime Lowell housekeeper, a woman infamous for having things her own way, had actually become a fan, it was no wonder Roxanne topped the NYT bestseller list week after week.

“I nearly had a heart attack,” Deidre, who’d never been known for overstatement, said grimly. “I really don’t believe you should encourage such things, Chelsea.”

“I haven’t made up my mind whether I’m going to take the offer, Mother.”

“An interview with some self-appointed style maven is not exactly on a par with achieving world peace,” Deidre stated in the superior tone Chelsea knew well.

“True enough. But it could be important to me. It could mean a lot of national publicity.”

“That’s precisely what disturbs me,” Deidre complained. “All this striving to get your name in the magazines. And newspapers. Good grief, Chelsea, you sound just like your father.”

Despite her frustration, that icy remark drew a quick grin. “I’m going to take that as a compliment.”

“You would.” Deidre shook her blond head. “I don’t understand you.”

“I know.” And never had, Chelsea tacked on silently. “And as much as I’d love to try to explain it to you again, you have a facial to get to. And I have to try to track down John Kennedy Jr. I heard the most amazing story this morning—”

“You know I refuse to listen to Kennedy gossip, Chelsea,” Deidre cut her off.

“I know, but—”

“Joe Kennedy was nothing but a shanty Irish bootlegger who married above himself. Even though Rose was Catholic, she could have done much better.”

“I know you believe that—”

“It’s the truth. However, speaking of marriage, when are you and Nelson going to start planning your wedding?”

“How about the year 2002?”

“I do so hate it when you’re flippant, Chelsea.”

Chelsea sighed. All her life she’d been inexorably maneuvered into an alliance between the Lowell and Waring families. Recalling all too well the acrimonious fights that had shattered her parents’ marriage, Chelsea had feared repeating their mistakes. But whenever she tried to explain her concerns, Nelson would calmly point out that since Warings never fought, she had nothing to worry about. Even knowing that was true, Chelsea was still not ready to take the risk of making their relationship permanent.

“Nelson agrees we should wait. If nothing else, there’s my trust fund to consider.”

“I don’t know what was in your great-grandmother’s mind when she came up with that ridiculous restriction. However, it’s not as if you really need the money since Nelson is certainly well off in his own right. And the longer you wait to start your family, the more difficult it will be to bear children.”

Chelsea decided this was no time to point out that Rose Kennedy was forty-two when the youngest of her eight children had been born.

“I’m not ready to have children, Mother,” she repeated what she’d already said so many times before. Although her mother didn’t appear to have a maternal bone in her body, lately she’d begun to display a very strong sense of dynasty. “Right now it’s all I can do to juggle my career.”

“Well, of course you’d hire a nanny,” Deidre said. “If you insist on continuing your work, a child needn’t interfere with your writing. Or your life.”

“I have no intention of handing my child, when I do have one, over to some stranger.”

Having grown up in the rarified world of nannies and housekeepers and private schools, Chelsea had vowed to create a better, warmer world for her own children. She was looking forward to baking cookies, volunteering at school carnivals and attending Little League games. Just not now.

Deidre arched a perfectly shaped blond brow. “I suppose that criticism is directed at me?”

“No.” Chelsea took a deep breath. Why was it that conversations with her mother always turned out like this, she wondered miserably. “Of course not. I only meant that I wanted to be a more hands-on kind of mom.”

“That’s what you say now.” Deidre gave her daughter a knowing look across the table. “The first time you change a diaper or go hours without sleep because of a teething baby, you may change your mind.”

The idea of Deidre Lowell dirtying her manicured hands by changing a diaper made Chelsea smile. “I guess that’s a risk I’m going to have to take.”

“Again, I’m not surprised. You always have been a risk-taker, Chelsea.” She put her napkin down onto the table and stood up, prepared to leave. “Just like your father.”

As before, she did not make it sound like a compliment. Having apologized enough for one day, Chelsea took it as one.

After a week of uncharacteristic vacillation—during which time she changed her mind at least a dozen times, although she still had misgivings about the proposal—Chelsea decided to take Roxanne Scarbrough up on her offer to visit Raintree, Georgia.

Since Raintree was too small for its own airfield, Chelsea was required to land in Savannah. From the air, the riverside city looked like an island, surrounded by pine forests and salt marshes. As the plane touched down on the runway, Chelsea, who’d never considered herself at all psychic, started to shake inside, like a tuning fork trembling at a discordant chord.

As promised, Roxanne’s assistant was waiting for her as she exited the jetway.

“Hello, Ms. Cassidy,” Dorothy Landis greeted her with a welcoming smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Hi. It’s good to be here.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, but Chelsea was trying to keep an open mind.

“Ms. Scarbrough is so pleased you decided to take her up on her offer to visit us. She’s personally prepared the guest suite for your arrival.”

Being forced into meeting with the doyenne of decorating was one thing. Spending even one night under the same roof with the unpleasant woman was decidedly less than appealing.

“I’d planned to check into a hotel,” Chelsea hedged as they made their way through the passengers crowding the terminal.

When Mary Lou had assured her all the arrangements had been made, she’d conveniently withheld this vital bit of information. Chelsea decided she and her agent were going to have to have a little chat when she returned to New York.

The friendliness momentarily disappeared from the assistant’s eyes, leaving behind the hard edge Chelsea had witnessed in the greenroom. “That’s certainly not necessary. Besides, Ms. Scarbrough insists you stay with her.”

“Then I’m afraid Ms. Scarbrough’s going to be disappointed.”

Dorothy gave her a long, thoughtful look. Then, apparently recognizing tenacity when she saw it, shrugged her acquiescence.

“Raintree has a lovely old inn. We’ll stop there on the way to the house.” That matter settled, Roxanne’s assistant turned to more practical concerns. “Let’s retrieve your luggage, then we can be on our way.”

“We can skip the baggage claim.”

“Surely you brought more than this single bag. And your—uh—purse.”

Chelsea almost laughed at the disparaging look Dorothy gave her well-worn leather duffel bag. The same bag her mother had once declared to resemble a pregnant sow. “It’s all I need. Since I’m not going to be here all that long.” Chelsea figured it would probably take twenty-four hours, tops, to confirm that there was no way she would be able to work with Roxanne Scarbrough.

“Oh, dear.” Dorothy’s pale hazel eyes held little seeds of worry. “Ms. Scarbrough was expecting you to stay at least the week.”

“It appears this is Ms. Scarbrough’s day for disappointments.”

Dorothy gave her a judicial sideways glance. “Do you know, I believe we may have misjudged you,” she murmured. “I’m getting the impression that you’re a great deal tougher than you appeared the morning we met in New York.”

“Unlike your employer, appearing on national television isn’t exactly a normal, everyday occurrence for me.”

“Ms. Scarbrough certainly has a great deal of media experience,” Dorothy agreed mildly. “In fact, a television crew is in Raintree, taping a documentary on her career.”

An autobiography and a documentary. Chelsea couldn’t decide whether to be appalled or impressed that the woman whose sole claim to fame was arranging flowers and setting luxurious lifestyle standards no mortal woman could possibly hope to achieve could have been put on such a lofty pop culture pedestal.

The setting sun stained the sky over Savannah the hue of a ripe plum. The air was perfumed with the scent of flowers and a hint of salt drifting in from the marshes surrounding the city, and the sea, which was twelve miles down the winding Savannah River. The lovely old houses with their great verandas and lacy railings and fences reminded her of New Orleans.

“This is truly lovely,” Chelsea said as they drove through the city.

“It is, isn’t it?” Dorothy said. “There’s a local saying that Savannah is a lady who keeps her treasures polished for the pleasure of her guests.

“The city was originally established in 1733, by James Oglethorpe, to practice agrarian equality. The idea was that the goods the settlers produced would be sent back to enrich the British Empire.

“He laid the city out in squares, on the Renaissance ideal of balance and proportion. It was the loveliest city in the South. And one of the few that managed to save its grand old homes from General Sherman.

“You know, of course, that Sherman virtually destroyed Atlanta on that sixty-mile-wide path of destruction to the sea.”

“Even we native New Yorkers have seen Gone With the Wind,” Chelsea said with a smile.

“Hollywood couldn’t even begin to describe the horror that no-account Yankee wrought on our people,” Dorothy muttered bitterly, as if the Civil War had just ended yesterday. “By the time he reached Savannah, it was obvious diplomacy was in order. A delegation of businessmen rode out to meet him and offered him one of the finest houses in the city as his headquarters.

“Fortunately, the general accepted the offer and moved in. Which saved Savannah from the fate of Atlanta.

“During the 1950s the city fell into decay,” Dorothy continued her travel guide spiel. “Wrecking crews were demolishing the mansions for their handmade Savannah gray bricks to build suburban homes, destroying what Sherman had left standing a hundred years earlier.

“Finally, civic pride rose to the rescue. And now Savannah’s inner city is one of the largest national historic districts in the nation. The people repolished the lady’s jewels and tourism is booming.”

They left the city, driving past the mysterious marshlands, along the Savannah River through a backcountry bursting with tropical lushness. Dorothy pointed out fields of tobacco, rice, soybeans and peanuts.

They’d been driving for about thirty minutes when they came to a small community of unhurried, shady streets. The green-and-white sign at the town limits welcomed visitors to Raintree, Georgia, est. 1758. Population 368. Gateway to the Gold Coast.

Although Chelsea thought that the slogan might be overstating the town’s importance, she could not fault its beauty.

The buildings lining the main street were draped in a dreamy embrace of oak and moss, surrounded by an explosion of fiery pink azaleas. White-pillared gas lamps with round white glass globes were beginning to flicker on.

They passed the commercial center, two blocks of stucco-covered brick buildings with wide awnings that made the town look as if time had stopped there. A pair of old men in bib overalls played checkers in front of a store, as Chelsea suspected old men had been doing in that location since the town was established in the 1750s. In the window, signs advertising a sale on six-packs of Dr Pepper and a new three-day checkout period for the latest videocassettes provided a faintly jarring note to the languorous scene.

In the heart of the town—surrounded by a wide square of diagonal parking spaces—a courthouse glistened as white as new snow. A carillon of chimes pealed out the hour on the towering clock. It was, Chelsea noted with a glance down at her watch, ten minutes late.

“That’s Colonel Bedford Mallory,” Dorothy said, pointing out a marble statue of a confederate soldier astride a horse. “He’s a local boy who distinguished himself under General Johnston at the Battle of Kennesaw Mountain. Every Confederate Memorial Day, the ladies of the Raintree Garden Club decorate the statue. They also decorate the graves of both confederate and union soldiers in the cemetery.”

Once again, Chelsea had the strangest feeling she’d stepped back in time. “Do you have any industry in Raintree?”

“Industry? Like a carpet mill? Or furniture factory?” When Chelsea nodded, Dorothy shook her head. “No. Although we’re on the river, we never really became an industrial center. It’s still mostly agricultural, although more and more of the farmland is being sold off to build homes for people who work in Savannah, but want to escape the hustle and bustle of the city for the small-town life.”

Chelsea decided not to mention that being accustomed to Manhattan, Savannah had seemed far from bustling. “Well, Raintree certainly looks like a tranquil town.”

So tranquil, Chelsea mused, that if she did decide to stay, it might be difficult to get into the proper mood to work on her novel. If she’d ever seen a place less likely to harbor thoughts of murder and mayhem, it was this one.

“It’s quiet,” Dorothy agreed, “but like all small towns, it does have its hidden depths. And its secrets.”

“I love secrets,” Chelsea confessed cheerfully as Dorothy pulled the car up in front of a lovely two-story building. The red bricks had faded over the years to a soft pink, but the shutters framing the windows were a bright fresh white. The windows glistened, brilliant red azaleas and creamy magnolias overflowed clay pots on the wide and inviting front porch.

“Oh, this is wonderful!” Chelsea said as she entered the cozy lobby that reminded her more of a private home than a hotel. The scent of fresh-cut flowers perfumed the air.

“Welcome to the Magnolia House,” the man behind the hand-hewn counter greeted her. He looked around thirty, with friendly blue eyes and tousled blond hair. His soft drawl gave evidence of local roots.

After introducing himself as Jeb Townely, her host, he filled out the paperwork quickly, then carried her bags up to her second-floor room.

“I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” he said as he opened the door. More flowers bloomed in vases on a small cherry writing desk and atop the dresser. There was a tray with two glasses, a bottle of mineral water and a tin of cookies on the table. The bed was canopied, and like the rest of the furniture, appeared to be a genuine antique.

“I think I may just stay forever.” Chelsea could feel the tensions of her day melt away as she drank in the cozy ambiance of the room.

“I know the feeling.” His smile deepened to reveal the dimples on either cheek. “Magnolia House has been in my family for nearly two hundred years. After three failed peanut crops in a row, I decided the green thumb possessed by all the other Townelys just passed me by. So, I opened the house up as an inn, and—” he rapped his knuckles on the desk “—so far, so good.”

“I don’t know a thing about the hotel business, except for having stayed in too many over the past few years. But I think you’ve done a marvelous job.”

“That’s real nice of you to say, Miz Cassidy.” He handed her the key. “If you need anything else, I’ll do my best to oblige. Just dial the operator. Anytime day or night.”

“Don’t tell me you operate the switchboard, too?”

“No. I hired a nice widow lady who likes a chance to talk to people,” he said. “But, since I live here, I’m usually around.”

“Doesn’t that make for a twenty-four-hour day?”

“Sometimes. But I like making people comfortable. Besides, although my daddy couldn’t teach me farming, he did manage to drive home the lesson that no southern gentleman worth his salt shirks his responsibility.”

“Didn’t the Tarleton twins say much the same thing? At the barbecue at Twelve Oaks? Right before they went rushing off to get themselves killed in the war?”

“Chivalry is not always as easy as handing out battle site maps and delivering ice to rooms,” he allowed with another friendly grin that had Chelsea thinking he might have been a bust at growing peanuts, but Jeb Townely was a natural-born innkeeper. “You all take care now,” he said as he left. “And, Dorothy, tell your mama hey for me.”

“I’ll do that.”

Chelsea thought she detected a lack of enthusiasm in Dorothy’s tone at the mention of her mother, but knowing that she was expected at Roxanne’s for dinner, she didn’t dwell on it.

Chelsea took less than five minutes to hang up tomorrow’s suit and freshen up. Then they were on their way again.

Roxanne’s Tudor house was set in the center of a rolling green lawn that could have doubled as a putting green. Pear trees sported fluffy spring blossoms, daffodils lined the sidewalks in a blaze of saffron and gold and the dogwoods were beginning to bloom. Chelsea remembered Roxanne saying something to Joan Lundon about a new house she’d bought.

“I’m amazed anyone would be willing to give this up,” she murmured.

“Ms. Scarbrough has always enjoyed a challenge. And Belle Terre certainly is that. Personally, I think she’d be better off taking a page out of Sherman’s book, torching the place and starting over.”

“But that wouldn’t play well in a documentary.”

Chelsea’s dry tone earned a faint smile. “I suspected I was going to like you,” Dorothy said.

As she got out of the car, instead of the traffic and siren sounds she was accustomed to, Chelsea heard mockingbirds and wrens flitting from branch to branch in the maples flanking the driveway.

The muscle that had formed a steel band around her forehead loosened. Perhaps Mary Lou was right. Perhaps a change was just what she needed. And where else better to recharge her internal batteries than in a friendly southern town that defined serene?


Chapter Five

If the outside of Roxanne Scarbrough’s home reminded Chelsea of an English manor house, the foyer was reminiscent of Monet’s gardens at Giverny. Flowers bloomed everywhere, on the floor, the walls, and along the molding at the top of the high foyer ceilings.

Although she hated to give the unpleasant lifestyle expert credit for anything, Chelsea had to admit that she was very, very good at creating a picturesque and inviting stage for herself.

“Ms. Scarbrough always has drinks in the front parlor before dining with guests,” Dorothy informed her as she led the way across the sea of pink marble scattered with antique Aubusson rugs.

The room was small. And decidedly feminine, more boudoir than parlor, which was why the man standing beside the fireplace seemed so rivetingly male. He was turned toward Roxanne, engaged in conversation, allowing Chelsea to view only a rugged profile. He held a glass of amber liquor; the cut crystal looked dangerously fragile in his long dark fingers.

When Roxanne murmured something that made him throw back his head and laugh, the rich dark sound stirred deeply hidden, but strikingly familiar chords inside Chelsea.

“Well, we finally made it,” Dorothy announced their presence, her matter-of-fact tone sounding like a strident, off-key note in the lush intimacy of the scene.

Both Roxanne and the man turned toward the door. As his too familiar, darkly mocking eyes locked with her wide, disbelieving ones, Chelsea drew in a sharp, unwilling breath.

For an unmeasurable time—it could have been seconds, or an eternity—they just looked at one another across the lushly romantic room. He lifted his glass in a mock salute.

“Hello, Irish.” His smile was more challenge than greeting.

The name was one he’d sometimes called her on those rare light, almost comfortable moments, after the hunger had been temporarily satiated. But there was nothing comfortable or light about her feelings as she heard it now.

He knew! The words ricocheted in her head as she glared back at him. From the wicked gleam in his eyes, she guessed he’d known she was going to be here, and was enjoying this moment considerably.

Her temper rose. Although it took Herculean effort, she managed to force it down, turning her anger from heat to ice. “Hello, Cash.”

The voice she heard coming out of her mouth could have belonged to her mother. Although Deidre Whitney Lowell would eat her quilted Chanel handbag before ever permitting herself to be openly rude, she could, with a brief, dismissing glance or a murmured statement, make her target all too aware of her extreme displeasure.

Having been on the receiving end of that chilly disapproval more times than she could count, Chelsea knew it well. Well enough to have no difficulty imitating it now.

Roxanne’s suddenly sharp gaze swung from Cash to Chelsea, then back to Cash again. “I had no idea that you two were acquainted.” She did not sound overly thrilled by the discovery.

“Chelsea and I are old college friends,” Cash revealed. Although he was talking to Roxanne, his gaze stayed on Chelsea’s face. “From Yale.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?” There was a challenging, almost petulant edge to the older woman’s voice. “When I first mentioned that Ms. Cassidy was my biographer?”

“We were discussing Belle Terre at the time.” His gaze, as it moved to Roxanne, was as mild and unruffled as his tone. “I didn’t see any point in getting sidetracked with inconsequential issues.”

So now she was an inconsequential issue? Even though she told herself that he wasn’t important enough to be able to hurt her, Chelsea’s chin came up. “I thought you were living in California.”

“I was.” He began moving toward her, striding across the tulips blooming on the needlepoint carpet underfoot. She’d forgotten how tall he was. How strong. And how his body possessed a lethal sort of grace that had always reminded her of a panther.

Accustomed to his former uniform of jeans and a T-shirt, she’d thought it had been his clothes that had given him the look of a rebel. But now, taking in the sight of him, clad in a casual, loosely constructed, yet obviously expensive cream linen jacket, ivory cotton shirt and oatmeal-hued slacks, she could still feel a dangerous energy radiating from him. Like the hum of the ground beneath your feet right before lightning strikes.

Her quick glance took note of a gold Rolex watch he certainly hadn’t been able to afford when she’d known him. He’d traded his scuffed leather boots in on a soft gleaming pair of silvery lizard cowboy boots that managed to scream wealth and independence all at the same time.

He stopped inches away from her, the tips of his boots nearly touching the toes of her hot pink high heels. When she didn’t offer the hand that was hanging stiffly at her side, he reached down, unclenched her fist, and laced their fingers together with a casual air that seemed as natural to him as breathing.

Cash Beaudine had always been an intensely physical man. And not just in bed. Whenever he spoke, he’d gesture, using those strong dark hands so capable of causing havoc to every nerve ending in her body, to emphasize his words. During their few conversations, she could recall, all too well, how he constantly ran his fingers across her shoulders, down her arms, played with the ends of her hair, stroked the back of his hand up her face.

“I’ve spent the years since graduation in San Francisco.” His thumb stroked intimate circles of heat against the sensitive flesh of her palm. “Now I’ve come back home.”

Chelsea’s stomach clenched at the unwelcome news. They’d be having snowball fights in Raintree’s town square before she’d take on a project that would have her staying in the same town with this man.

“I hadn’t realized this was your home.”

“I thought you were old friends.” Roxanne was watching them carefully, as if aware of the undercurrents humming between them.

“We were acquaintances,” Chelsea retorted, retrieving her hand with a jerk. She didn’t know which of them she was more furious with: Cash for toying with her emotions, or herself for letting him get under her skin.

He flashed the sexy, wicked smile she remembered all too well. “Friendly acquaintances.”

His voice deepened on the correction, causing another significant pause to settle over the room.

Just when she thought she was going to explode from the tension building up inside her, a petite young woman came dashing into the parlor on a whirl of filmy black-and-brown gauze skirts.

“I’m sorry I’m late! I’ve been on the phone with my money people, Roxanne. They love the stuff we’ve shot so far....” Her voice drifted off as she viewed Chelsea.

“Oh, hi. You must be Chelsea Cassidy.” Her light brown eyes, barely visible beneath bangs longer than the rest of her short-cropped sable hair were sparked with intelligence. Her smile was friendly and open. “I’m a fan. I love your writing. It’s so energetic. And fresh.”

She held out her hand. Her nails, Chelsea noticed irrelevantly, had been chewed to the quick. “Jo McGovern. I’m filming a documentary on Roxanne’s restoration of Belle Terre.”

“I’ve heard about it. It’s nice to meet you.” Chelsea managed a sincere smile. “And thanks for the kind words about my work.”

“I meant them. Roxanne says you’re going to be writing her autobiography, so I guess that means we’ll be working together. Sort of.”

Before Chelsea could answer that she hadn’t yet come to any decision, Roxanne deftly broke into the conversation.

“Would you care for a drink, Chelsea?”

“No, thank you,” Chelsea said quickly. Cash had already upset her equilibrium. The one thing she didn’t need was any alcohol.

“Well then, since we’ve all been introduced to one another, and been brought up to date on where we’re living, I suppose it’s time we go in to dinner.” Roxanne placed her hand on Cash’s arm, obviously expecting him to escort her into the dining room.

With a slow smile, he accepted. Dorothy followed behind the pair.

“Isn’t Cash Beaudine the most magnificent man you’ve ever seen?” Jo murmured to Chelsea as they brought up the rear of the little parade. “If I’d known Roxanne was going to hire him to restore her home, I would’ve paid her for the chance to do this documentary.”

“I suppose he’s good-looking.” Chelsea shrugged. “In a rather rough-hewn sort of way.”

“Just the way I like my men,” Jo said with a quick bold grin that, with her short, perky hairstyle, made her resemble a pixie. “I already spend too much of my time working with the artsy-fartsy Village types. When it’s time to let loose, I want my men rough and tough and basic. A good ole boy with an edge. Like this one.”

Not knowing exactly what to say to that, Chelsea merely murmured a vague response. It did cross her mind, however, as she observed Roxanne’s red nails glistening like fresh blood on the sleeve of Cash’s cream linen jacket, that Roxanne Scarbrough and Jo McGovern shared the same taste in dark, dangerous men.

As she once had.

But those days were nothing more than a youthful, rebellious fling. If there was one thing the loss of her beloved, larger-than-life father had taught Chelsea, it was to invest no more in a relationship than she could afford to lose. Cash Beaudine didn’t mean anything to her now, because he hadn’t meant anything to her then. The only thing they’d had in common was sex. Pure and simple. But it was over.

They’d made a clean break. And never looked back.

It had been better that way, Chelsea assured herself as she found her name on the dining room table, written in a flowing calligraphy on an ivory card held between the petals of a red porcelain rose.

As she sat down in the needlepoint chair seated across from the object of all her internal distress, Chelsea found him watching her, with that mocking, knowing way he’d always had, and couldn’t help remembering that night, standing in the window, watching him ride out of her life.

At the time, she’d thought it would be forever.

Unfortunately, she’d been wrong.

The dining room was decorated in the same floral style as the rest of the house. Somehow, it managed to be both rich and light at the same time. Like lemon meringue pie. Or an airy puff pastry filled with rich, sweetened cream.

The curved legs of the Queen Anne table and spiderweb-backed chairs were distinctly feminine and vaguely sensual. The carpet was a monumental achievement of Persian woven art portraying a graceful pattern of curling vinery resting on a butter-toned field. Scattered across the luminous, thick-piled rug were colorful, fanciful birds and prancing dogs. Water lilies, reminiscent of those hanging in the Metropolitan Museum, floated serenely on the mural painted on the far wall. Lighted glass cabinets lined the other walls, filled with floral-patterned china.

“I’m a hopeless flower addict,” Roxanne said over the soft, melodious strains of Chopin piped into the room through concealed speakers as she noticed Chelsea’s study of her collection. “Like Monet, or Renoir, I must be surrounded by flowers.”

“I would imagine that makes you very popular with the local florists.” Chelsea’s gaze was drawn to a lush display of two dozen full-blown pink roses that had been casually, yet artfully arranged in a sterling champagne cooler atop an antique green marble-topped hunt board.

Roxanne laughed, seemingly delighted at the suggestion. “All the best florists in the state know my name.”

“Which isn’t surprising,” Jo said with a burst of youthful admiring enthusiasm. “Since I doubt if there’s anyone in America who isn’t familiar with the name Roxanne Scarbrough.”

“Aren’t you sweet? But I fear that’s an exaggeration, dear.” As a silent servant arrived with their salad plates, Roxanne rewarded the filmmaker with a smile that was a twin of the one she’d flashed so easily at Joan Lundon. “Hopefully, by the time we finish restoring Belle Terre, that will be true.”

The Caesar salad had been dressed in the flavors of the South with peanut oil, country ham and corn bread croutons. It was unusual and delicious.

“I can’t wait for you to see Belle Terre, Chelsea,” Roxanne said as the servant whisked away their empty plates. “It’s such an exciting challenge. And Cash has promised to restore the grand old house to its former glory, haven’t you?”

Chelsea, watching closely, couldn’t help noticing that the bright smile warmed and turned decidedly more intimate as it was turned on the only male in the room. Her first thought was that there was a lot more going on here than just a professional collaboration. Her second thought—and the one that truly concerned her—was why she should even care.

“I’ll give it the old college try.” He returned the smile with a friendly one of his own. And although he wasn’t addressing Chelsea directly, she had no doubt that the college reference was for her benefit. Reminding her of a time she thought she’d put safely behind her. A time when she’d realized she was coming too close to surrendering her heart along with her body. A time when her self-protective instincts had kicked in, making her refuse to look any further than their next clandestine meeting.

“I’m not certain I’ll be staying long enough to see the house,” she said, wanting to put her cards all on the table right now so she wouldn’t end up feeling obligated.

“You never know,” Roxanne said agreeably, surprising Chelsea with her sanguine attitude. Her only sign of discomfort was a faint toying with the ruby-and-diamond ring adorning her right hand. “You wouldn’t be the first northerner to fall in love with Raintree and decide to stay.”

“As lovely as the town is, I sincerely doubt that will happen.” Growing up in Manhattan, Chelsea had always thrived on the pulsating, hectic beat of the city. What New York’s critics called gritty and exhausting, she found energizing.

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 openmouthed, 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.


Chapter Six

The 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 cheerfully. 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.





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