Love, Me (4 page)

“Okay,” she acquiesced, pulling her hand back to rest in her lap. “I know, let's play.”

“Forget it.” Keeping his eyes on the road, Dakota added, “I'm not counting out-of-state license plates or anything remotely like that.”

“Good grief, what kind of women do you date—and what age? I meant let's play around with some song ideas. You never know, you might come up with a lyric or a good hook for a new song.”

“All right,” he agreed, but without much enthusiasm. “Go ahead and throw something out.”

“Black lingerie, red lipstick and motor oil,” she suggested.

“You have a really weird mind. Motor oil… where did that come from?”

“We passed a gas station back there. Anyway, the trick isn't to judge the ideas—just to play around with words. Go ahead, you try.”

“Go away… don't come back… leave me alone,” Dakota declared, glancing over to gauge Chelsea's reaction.

She clapped her hands together in mock delight. “Oh, the hermit song!” Then she shook her head. “Nope, it won't work.”

“Why not?”

“Because nothing rhymes with hermit, except maybe Kermit.”

“Ah, but you're wrong.”

“Name something.”

“Okay, how about permit?”

“Use it in a sentence,” she challenged.

“Okay.” He thought for a moment. “I've got it. You shouldn't be allowed out in that red miniskirt without a permit.”

Chelsea bristled. “I've just thought of another word that rhymes.”

“What?”

“Cram it.”

“Chelsea! I guess there's no hope at all of making you into a lady.”

“None.”

“It's a shame….”

“Why?”

“Because only ladies sing my songs.”

“Maybe that's why you're blocked.”

Dakota made no comment on her saucy remark. He stared straight ahead, his lips drawn together in a tight, angry line. The car began to slow and Chelsea wondered a bit anxiously if he was going to leave her on the road, miles outside of Nashville. She relaxed when Dakota geared down and turned into a long, winding drive.

The drive, edged with flower beds, led up a slight incline to a large, pillared house of light-colored brick that sprawled at the top of the hill. A steeper hill was visible behind the house, which, despite its size, nestled gracefully amid trees and gardens. The whole area, including the flower-lined drive, was illuminated with a soft white light.

Chelsea stared around her for a moment, then gave a long, low unladylike whistle of pleasure.

The house was that beautiful—a perfect home for him to bring a debutante to. But a debutante would probably swoon, not whistle, Chelsea thought wryly.

H
OURS LATER,
D
AKOTA
sat alone in his kitchen regretting the decision to ask Chelsea Stone to move into his house. What had he been thinking? He hadn't been thinking, that was the problem. He'd been angry about his writer's block and he wanted someone to take it out on. She'd made it easy by accepting the blame.

He tipped his head back and took a long drink of chocolate milk straight from the carton. When he caught his reflection in the chrome toaster on the counter, he smiled. He looked like a kid with chocolate all around his mouth. He felt like a kid, too—like a boy who'd just discovered the attraction of the opposite sex. He'd been all keyed up and unable to sleep since he'd shown Chelsea to her bedroom hours ago.

It had been that line about black lingerie and red lipstick she'd come up with that was to blame. He kept picturing her in nothing but.

Chelsea Stone. If he was entertaining any romantic notions about her, he must be crazy.

There wasn't one area of his life Chelsea would fit into. In her black leather and Chrome Heart accessories, she'd stand out everywhere she went in Nashville.

He imagined what it would be like to take Chelsea Stone home with him. He could just see her wearing her red minidress to one of his parents' charity galas. Hell, if he weren't already disinherited, she'd take care of it in a heartbeat.

Maybe that was why he found her so exciting, he thought, putting the half-empty carton of chocolate milk back in the refrigerator. Chelsea Stone was a woman outside his experience. She could care less that he didn't approve of her, that his family wouldn't. She didn't even seem to realize that she'd have to make some effort to fit into Nashville. It might be the seat of the country-music business, but its atmosphere was that of a small town.

Surely she didn't believe she could flaunt every convention and then win everyone over with his song.

What was he worrying about? There wouldn't be any song. He couldn't write. All his success had been pure luck. He was a fraud just waiting to be discovered.

All he needed was three verses and a chorus. Yet he couldn't string a sentence together, much less a verse.

Let's face it, he didn't really believe Chelsea could actually help unblock him; he'd invited her so he could torture her—pay her back for having wrecked his lucky car.

As he lay in bed an hour later, the provocative image of Chelsea in black lingerie still teasing his mind, he wasn't sure who was the one being tortured.

“Go away… don't come back… leave me alone,” he muttered to the image, then punched his pillow and balled it under his head.

C
HELSEA COULDN'T BELIEVE
Dakota Law had actually asked her to move into his house.

It had been so easy. She hadn't had to scheme or plan; he'd just handed her what she wanted. It disconcerted her.

She stood at the window of the spacious bedroom Dakota had shown her to. It overlooked a small stand of white birch off to one side of the entrance. The delicate leaves on the trees trembled in the gentle breeze. They reminded her of how Dakota made her feel when he turned his clear blue eyes on her.

Maybe it wasn't such a good idea being so close to him. Sometimes when he looked at her as if she were a fancy truffle he shouldn't eat but wanted to, she liked it. But what was his problem? Was he afraid he might like her?

That was it. Dakota was really afraid of her. She smiled. She knew it instinctively.

And she knew why.

She knew from what she'd read about him that his family was in banking, was probably a stereotypical banking family whose men locked up their emotions in the bank vaults along with the money. But if that was true, then how could a man who came from a cold, unaffectionate family write love songs?

Just maybe, he'd come to realize he was faking it; realize he needed a passionate woman in his life.

Her.

What in the world was she thinking? From the fact that his family was in banking, she'd invented a whole history, a catalog of needs. But Dakota Law was probably better adjusted than she was. Which wouldn't be that hard, according to Tucker.

He didn't need a woman. He had that debutante-type assistant. And fans—thousands of adoring female fans.

Dakota was blocked because he actually believed that stupid car was magic.

He was nuts.

And her career depended on him.

C
HELSEA HEARD A
muffled, distant pounding.

She fought her way up from a deep sleep, but then the sound stopped.

She was drifting gratefully back to sleep when she heard it again.

She opened her eyes and blinked at the unfamiliar surroundings. The noise, she realized, was someone knocking at her bedroom door. This time it was accompanied by a sharp, insistent bark.

“Tucker, is that you?” she called out when the pounding ceased.

“Hell, no,” a voice growled on the other side of the door.

Chelsea recognized the voice and the excited yip that had come through the closed door. The annoyed response came from Dakota Law and the playful bark from his black Lab, Pokey.

She wasn't on the road touring with Tucker, and she wasn't in another strange hotel room. She was a guest in Dakota's home. Probably not a very welcome guest, but a guest nonetheless.

“Is this a fire drill?” she called out. It felt as if she'd just fallen asleep.

“Can we come in?” Dakota asked through the door, while Pokey scratched at it and barked.

Chelsea pushed herself up in bed, reached for the quilt and tucked it around her naked body. “Come on in.”

The door opened and Pokey bounded onto the bed and licked her face happily.

Dakota, who had just set down Chelsea's bags in a corner of the room, turned to remonstrate the dog.

“Pokey, beha—” he began, then stopped, looking stunned.

Chelsea followed Dakota's gaze and saw that Pokey's playful welcome had caused the quilt to slip, displaying her right breast. “Oopsies,” she said, adjusting the quilt.

Pokey plopped down beside her, panting and grinning like she'd known exactly what she was doing, and that maybe there would be a dog biscuit in it for her. Observing the sexy glint in Dakota's blue eyes, Chelsea wouldn't be at all surprised if that was true.

“Uh—” he swallowed dryly “—I had your bags packed and brought them over from the hotel.” He nodded toward them. “Breakfast is in half an hour—no room service, sorry. So haul your lazy bones out of bed. Come on, Pokey, let's go.”

When man and dog were gone, Chelsea let the soft quilt slip to her waist. The nipples of her breasts had hardened and had a warm, rosy blush to them. She hadn't been as impervious to the desire in Dakota's baby blues as she'd pretended.

She smiled as she shoved back the quilt and got out of bed, not quite sure who was going to drive who crazy during their attempt to get a song written for her.

She made short work of the unpacking, then showered and a half-hour later, descended the stairs for breakfast wearing a white T-shirt with rolled sleeves, a pair of men's boxers worn as shorts, and round sunglasses that were tinted bright blue.

She followed the sound of voices to the airy dining room where she found two things that surprised her. The focal point of the room, a battered oak dining table, was surrounded by mismatched chairs, each wooden curiosity painted a different color.

Even more intriguing, was the fact that seated to Dakota's left, barely visible behind the tall vase of snapdragons in the center of the table, was Melinda Jackson, Dakota's possessive assistant.

Pokey lay near Dakota's feet, her tail thumping on the hardwood floor. Unlike Melinda, the dog was happy to see her. Melinda had shown no surprise when Chelsea entered the dining room, but the look on her face left no doubt that she wasn't one bit happy about Chelsea's presence in Dakota's home.

“Well, you finally decided to join us for breakfast,” Dakota said as he stirred sugar into his coffee. “Melinda fetched your things from the Opryland Hotel for me, and I invited her to join us for breakfast. Help yourself to the spread on the sideboard. My cook still thinks he's cooking for my band on tour, so there's plenty.”

“Dakota, you should have told Chelsea we dress for breakfast in the South,” Melinda chided.

“I am dressed.” Chelsea picked up the plate from the place that had been set on Dakota's right.

“Don't you worry what people will think about your dressing that… that way? I would never have the nerve.” Melinda's venom was obvious despite the sugarcoating.

“It never occurs to me to worry what people will think of me,” Chelsea replied. “I'm more concerned with what I think of them.”

Chelsea helped herself to the food on the sideboard. She split a flaky buttermilk biscuit, ladled it with sausage gravy seasoned with pepper, then poured herself a tall glass of tart, pulpy lemonade.

When Chelsea took her place at the table, Melinda began discussing business with Dakota, deliberately excluding Chelsea.

“I've had another call from a firm wanting to sponsor your next tour. What do you want me to tell them?”

Dakota took a sip of his coffee. “What company? “You know I've decided against cigarettes and liquor.”

“I know. But this is different. The company makes boots, and they want to design a special boot for you to wear while you're performing. You'd get a percentage of every boot sold and they'd pick up the tab for sponsoring the tour, as well.”

“Tell them I'll do it, if he won't,” Chelsea chimed in, not letting Melinda cut her out of the conversation. She'd decided Melinda would be even more fun to annoy than Dakota.

“I don't think—” Melinda began.

Dakota cut her off. “Chelsea's right, it is an attractive offer. See if you can stall them for a while. I don't want to go out on tour until I have a new album to promote, and as we all know, I still need to write one more song for the album.”

Melinda frowned, but made a note on the small pad beside her plate. She toyed with a melon ball, while consulting the rest of her list.

‘If you're still having a problem coming up with a new song for the album, I don't see why you don't just cover someone else's song and finish the album. Then you'd be off the hook with your record company,” Melinda suggested.

“She's right. And if you don't want to do a new song, you could do a golden oldie,” Chelsea added. “Or, I know, why not record one of your old songs with a new arrangement. Something like Neil Sedaka did with ‘Calendar Girl'?”

Dakota pushed his plate away and shook his head. “No, it has to be a brand-new song. It's what my fans have come to expect and I'm not going to start disappointing them at this stage of my career.”

“But you're already in trouble with your record company because you've missed two deadlines on this album. They're going to suspect you have a serious problem, like drugs or alcohol. They aren't going to be patient much longer.” Melinda slipped her list into her briefcase with a look of disapproval on her face.

“Just stall everyone, okay? I'll come up with a new song.” Dakota picked up the newspaper and scanned the morning headlines.

“You want to talk about trouble, now those poor people in the Midwest have real trouble,” he said as he read the front-page story. “Floodwaters have peeled away entire sections of highway, washed out bridges and knocked out water and power stations. The town of Des Moines, Iowa, is pretty much shut down, according to this.”

“Iowa? That's where Tucker is,” Chelsea said, tugging the newspaper from Dakota's hands.

“Honestly, neither of you have any manners to speak of,” Melinda said in disgust. “You don't read the newspaper at the breakfast table.”

“You do if someone you love is stranded in the middle of a natural disaster,” Chelsea retorted. She quickly scanned the newspaper's account of the flooding, then passed the paper back to Dakota and excused herself. “I'm going to call Tucker and make sure he's all right.”

“Do you think it's wise to have that woman in your home?” Melinda asked, when Chelsea had left the dining room.

“What do you mean?”

“What will people think? Look how she carries on with that guitarist of hers onstage. I've heard their show is shocking when they do concerts together.”

‘It's only an act,” Dakota said, sounding unconvinced himself. “Fans of rock and roll expect to see a sexier show than country-music fans. You can't just stand in one place and sing when you're a rock star.”

“That's why rock and roll isn't our kind of music,” Melinda sniffed.

“Things change, Melinda. Look at Garth Brooks and his high-energy show. And now that Chelsea Stone is planning to move over to country, I suspect things will really heat up.”

“Maybe Chelsea will flop,” Melinda said on a hopeful note.

“I certainly hope not. She's going to sing one of my songs.”

“You're really going to do it, then? You're going to write a song for her?”

“I'm going to give it a shot. But right now I feel like a game of tennis.”

“But I'm not dressed for…” Melinda said, looking down at her pastel business suit.

“Oh, no, I meant with Chelsea. I need you to stall off the record company and the boot company. Let me know how you do. I'm counting on you.”

“I'll take care of everything. Don't worry,” Melinda replied, determined to make herself indispensable to him. Let Chelsea play tennis with him. She would be gone from Dakota's life in a few days or weeks, while Melinda planned to become a permanent fixture.

Excusing himself, Dakota got up from the breakfast table to go and find Chelsea. Melinda remained in her chair for a few moments, dreamily doodling a familiar signature in her mind—Mrs. Melinda Law.

She, not Chelsea, was the right kind of woman for Dakota. It was only a matter of time until Dakota realized the perfect bride for him was right under his nose. She hoped it would be soon. As it was, she'd already changed her mind three times in the past two years about what kind of wedding veil she wanted.

One thing was for certain, she thought, looking around the dining room. These stupid Crayola-colored chairs were going to be the first thing to go when she took over as mistress of the house.

She'd replace them with something tasteful and dignified. Something unlike Chelsea Stone.

Mrs. Melinda Law… Yes, that had an impressive ring. A ring that would finally silence her mother's bragging about Melinda's two well-married
younger
sisters.

B
ACK IN HER ROOM
, Chelsea flopped down on the brass bed to place her call to Tucker. She was relieved to hear his voice.

“Tucker, I was worried when Dakota read me the newspaper this morning, and I heard how bad things are in Iowa. Are you and the band okay?”

“Wait—wait a minute, back up. Dakota read you the newspaper this morning? Is that what you said? What's he doing reading you the morning newspaper, Chelsea?”

“Nothing. I've just moved into his house so we can work things out, that's all.”

“Work things out? What things?”

“I found out the reason Dakota has been so awful to me is because he's frustrated,” Chelsea explained.

“I know the feeling.”

“Knock it off, Cheesebrain. He's frustrated because he has writer's block.” It had been a relief to know he hadn't disliked her on general principle. That would have been nearly impossible to remedy. But writer's block; how hard could that be to break?

“Writer's block? But what's that got to do with you? I don't understand.”

“He's angry with me because I'm the one who wrecked his car.”

“That's hardly news, babe.”

“I know that. But what I didn't know was that he'd written all his hit songs in the back seat of the car I totaled. And now he can't write anything because he thinks the car was his magic charm.”

“So show him some of your magic charm—you know, the stuff you use on me to get your way all the time.”

“I do not.”

“Right. But what's all this have to do with you staying at Dakota's place?”

Chelsea rolled over on the bed. “I'm staying here because I'm trying to help him get over his writer's block. I feel guilty, Tucker. I'm the cause of it. He blames me.” She did feel guilty—not just about the car, but about the fact that most of her concern for Dakota had to do with his inability to help her if he couldn't write.

“And you're really buying this? I think I'd better stop by Nashville and see you after we finish our stop in St. Louis. Ahh… oow-weee!”

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing. I'm just sore, is all.”

Chelsea laughed. “You'd better retire after your St. Louis gig, Tucker. If playing in a band makes you sore, you're really old.”

“I'm sore from sandbagging. The band and I pitched in for a couple of hours to help out. It was the least we could do for a town that gave us a sold-out show.”

“Is the flooding really bad where you are?”

“It's pretty awful here in Des Moines. No water to drink, and the power's out, too. You wouldn't believe the damage a flood is capable of doing. The rising water is awesome.”

Chelsea heard a knock on the door and a familiar bark. “Hang on a minute, Tucker,” she said, then called out to Dakota to come in. Pokey bounded in with typical exuberance, while Dakota remained standing in the doorway. “What's the phone number and address here?” she asked him, then relayed the information to Tucker.

“You be careful driving, Tucker,” she admonished. “And be sure to call me when you get to the Riverport Theater in St. Louis, okay?”

“You worry too much, babe,” Tucker complained.

“Just promise you'll call me.”

“Okay, okay. I'll call as soon as we get into St. Louis tomorrow.”

“Good.”

“But babe, you've got to promise me one thing, too.”

“What?” she demanded.

“That you'll give me a massage when I get to Nashville,” he said, groaning.

“Just get here in one piece and I'll give you all the massages you want,” she promised, and hung up.