Southern Comforts (16 page)

She was, a stunned Chelsea discovered, flat broke. Fortunately, she was able to borrow the money for plane fare against her advance from Mary Lou, who was delighted she was agreeing to write Roxanne's book.

“I don't have any choice,” Chelsea muttered. Having always taken money for granted, it was coming as a shock to discover that she suddenly didn't have any.

“This book will make a bundle,” Mary Lou assured her. “And meanwhile, you can live rent-free with Roxanne.”

“I'd rather not. It seems to me, if I'm as hot a writer as you and Roxanne keep saying I am, she should be willing to pay my living expenses at the Magnolia House while I'm working on the first draft of her book.”

“I'm sure that won't be a problem.”

That little item of business settled, three hours later, Chelsea was on her way back to Georgia.

And despite her lingering anger and shock, she found it more than a little ironic that fate had her beginning a new life in a state that had literally risen from the ashes.

L
ater, Chelsea would decide that her first mistake was allowing Mary Lou to talk her into flying back to Savannah first class.

Her second mistake was accepting the glass of champagne the flight attendant had offered the moment she'd settled into her seat.

Her third, and fatal mistake, was to continue to drink the entire flight. Upon landing, a cheerful skycap helped with her luggage and managed to pour her into the back seat of a taxi.

For this act of kindness, she tipped him nearly all the cash in her billfold. To his credit, he returned most of it, reminding her she'd need money for cab fare.

“That is so sweet of you,” she said, nearly moved to tears by this act of pure generosity. “I never thought I'd become so dependent upon the kindness of strangers.” A tear slipped down her cheek.

The skycap exchanged a look with the cab driver, who, accustomed to seeing the human condition in all its frailties, merely shrugged.

“So, miss,” he said, “where would you like to go?”

“Magnolia House.” She sniffled as she began digging around in her purse for a tissue. “In Raintree.”

“Raintree? That's quite a drive.”

“Oh. Of course, you're right.” She held out the bills the skycap had just returned to her. “Is this enough?”

“Sure. But wouldn't you rather call someone to come fetch you?”

Chelsea thought about that. Roxanne would send her assistant in a New York minute. But she didn't want to disturb Dorothy's evening. And she definitely wasn't up to seeing Roxanne right now. Jeb might come. If for no other reason than to live up to his idealistic role of the southern gentleman. But she had no business disrupting his life, either.

And then, of course, there was Cash.

Chelsea sighed. “No,” she decided. “I don't think so.”

“Okay. Raintree it is.”

As he pulled away from the curb, Chelsea settled back, relieved to have that little problem taken care of. Soon they were on the road leading outside of town. She put her head against the back of the seat, watched the lush green scenery passing by the window and idly listened to the broadcast of the Atlanta-Giants game on the taxi radio. When the Braves went down to defeat in the 10th inning, the driver cursed beneath his breath and switched off the radio.

“I'm sorry the Braves lost,” Chelsea said.

He shot her a glance in the rearview mirror. “That's okay. Can't win 'em all.”

“Tell me about it. After the way the Yankees broke my heart last season, I'm trying not to get my hopes up this year.”

“You must be a New Yorker.”

“I was born in Manhattan. How about you?”

“Born and bred in Savannah. My wife, by the way, is
from Raintree. It's a real nice little town. We've thought about raising our kids in the country, but there's not a lot of work out there.”

“No. There doesn't seem to be,” she agreed. “But, Savannah seems lovely, too.”

“It's a real pretty place,” he agreed. “And friendly. We get a lot of tourist business.”

“So I was told.” A little silence settled over them. “So you're married?”

“Yes, ma'am. Fifteen years last month.”

“Fifteen years.” She tried to imagine that. “Are you happy?”

“Sure.” He shrugged.

“Do you love your wife?”

This time the look he gave her in the rearview mirror was decidedly uncomfortable. “I suppose so. Oh, we have our fights, like every other couple—”

“Warings never fight,” she informed him.

“Every couple fights.”

“Not the Warings. It's unseemly.” She shook her head emphatically. “They have disagreements.”

“You a Waring?”

“No.” She shook her head again. “I almost was,” she added as an afterthought. “But I escaped.”

“Are we glad about that?”

This time she nodded. “Very glad. Extremely glad. Ecstatically glad.”

“If you're happy, I'm happy,” he said.

“I am.” Her voice trembled. “R-really.” She was appalled to feel the moisture trailing down her cheeks. “In fact, I've never been happier.”

Chelsea stared blindly out the window again. “Wait,” she said, as she viewed the river. Suddenly, although she'd always prided herself on her independence, always insisted
that she didn't need anyone, Chelsea couldn't bear the idea of being alone. “I've decided I don't want to go to the Magnolia House, after all. Can you take me someplace else?”

“It's your nickel. I'll take you wherever you want to go. So long as it isn't out of state,” he tacked on. “I'd have to stop and call my wife and let her know I was going to be gone a while first.”

“That is so, so sweet.” More tears. Lord, Chelsea thought on some distant level, who'd have thought she'd be a sappy drunk?

Since she didn't know Cash's address, Chelsea had no idea how to find his house. She could remember its name— Rebel's Ridge—but that proved scant help.

Fortunately, the driver thought to call his dispatcher. Discovering that the private number was unlisted, the dispatcher looked up the number for the architectural offices of Cash Beaudine in the phone book. Since the office was closed for the weekend, the call was picked up by Cash's answering service, who patched it through to his home after being told it was an emergency.

“We got it,” the driver told Chelsea when the dispatcher radioed back with the address.

“You're so clever.” Her eyes began filling up again. “And sweet. Your wife is a very fortunate woman.”

“I'll tell her you said so.”

Having been forewarned by the dispatcher, Cash was waiting when the taxi pulled up in front of his house. He opened the door, paid the driver and added a substantial tip. “Thanks for bringing her here safely.”

“No problem.” He grinned, his teeth flashing in his dark face. “I think you've got some guy named Waring to thank.”

“Waring the weasel,” Chelsea muttered, stumbling a lit
tle as she stepped out of the cab. “No. A worm. Waring the worm. That's more like it.”

Wondering what the hell had happened in New York, Cash steadied her, then deciding that there was no way she was going to be able to walk up the sloping sidewalk under her own steam, hefted her up, flung her over his shoulder and carried her into the house.

“This is a sweet, sweet house,” she said, staring down at the gleaming pine floors. “But I wonder why I didn't notice when I was here before that you built it upside down.”

“It's not upside down. You are.” He strode into the living room and plopped her down onto the couch.

“Oh.” She glanced around. “You're right. It's not upside down.” She blinked. Once, twice, and then a third time. “But I think it's spinning. Like the revolving lounge at the top of all those Hyatt hotels. But faster.”

Despite the mascara streaks on her cheeks, Cash decided she was one of the only women he'd ever seen who could somehow manage to be gorgeous when drunk. “You're smashed, lady.”

“Am I?” She considered that for a moment. “I don't think so,” she decided. “Not yet.” She flashed him a smile designed to bring a man to his knees. “I don't suppose you have any champagne in the house?”

He did. In fact, he'd bought it specifically with her in mind. But Cash decided not to reveal that little fact. “Sorry.”

“So am I.” She sighed. “I've never been much of a drinker, but I have decided today that champagne just may be my favorite drink in the entire world.”

“I'll order a case first thing tomorrow.”

“Thank you.” She stood up, weaving like a willow in a hurricane. “You know, Cash,” she said, holding on to the
arm of the sofa, “I have a great deal of admiration for your architectural talents.”

“Thank you.”

“But I feel I must inform you that your floor is slanting.”

“I'll check it out.”

“Good. Because it makes it very difficult to walk.”

“Perhaps you ought to sit down, then.”

“Actually, I was thinking about lying down.”

“There you go. That'd probably be even better.”

“With you.” As Cash watched, she began unbuttoning her blouse.

“What are you doing, Chelsea?”

“What does it look like I'm doing?” When she got to one particularly stubborn button, she simply yanked on the silk, sending the small pearl skittering across the floor. She tugged the blouse free of her waistband and tossed it in the direction of an overstuffed chair. It hit the seat cushion, then fluttered to the floor like a wounded bird.

“It looks as if you're taking off your clothes.” He wondered exactly how far she intended to go with this little striptease. And more importantly, how far a gentleman should allow her to go.

Reminding himself that he'd never been known to be much of a gentleman, Cash decided there was no point in interfering with her performance. Not yet, anyway.

“That's very smart of you, Cash. But then, I've always known you were intelligent. Even when we were at Yale.”

She moved on to the skirt, unfastening the back hook. Cash decided that the sound of the zipper slowly lowering was the sexiest thing he'd ever heard.

He also realized he'd better at least make an effort to stop her from doing anything she'd regret in the morning.

“Chelsea—”

“I mean, sometimes, I'd wonder about it,” she mused,
cutting him off in midwarning. “How someone like you—a bad boy rebel from below the Mason-Dixie line—actually managed to slip past the guardians of eastern seaboard gentility. But then I decided that you must be very very smart. And gifted.”

The skirt slid down her hips, landing around her feet. She stepped out of it. When she looked as if she were about to fall on her face, Cash reached out and caught her arm.

“And I was right,” she said. “Although you do seem to have trouble with sloping floors.” She glanced out the windows at the river. “It must be because you built your house on a hill.” She nodded. “That's undoubtedly it.”

She was now down to a skimpy little lace-and-silk camisole adorned with flowers that looked as if they'd washed off an impressionist painting, matching panties and a pair of lace-topped nylons. Beneath his fingers her skin was as smooth as the silk now decorating his heart pine floor.

When she slipped a strap off her shoulder, a streak of chivalry he'd never known he possessed steamrollered over his desire to watch the floral camisole join the rest of her clothes.

“Irish, do you have any idea what you're doing?”

“Of course.” She took in a deep breath that caused the camisole to slip enticingly. “I told you, Cash. I am taking off my clothes.” She slipped the other strap down. “And then I'm going to let you make love to me.”

“That's very generous of you.”

His dry tone managed to infiltrate itself into the alcohol-induced fog surrounding her brain. “You certainly don't sound very pleased about the proshpect.” She stumbled over the last word.

He viewed the hurt rise in her eyes and was sorry he'd been the one to put it there. But, dammit, if he took advantage of what she was offering, if he allowed himself to do
what he'd been wanting to do for days, for weeks, ever since seeing her on that damn television program, he suspected she'd be a lot more upset when she woke up tomorrow morning.

“I want you, Chelsea. But not this way.”

“What way is that?” It took a special woman to even attempt haughter while drunk, clad solely in her underwear, but Cash had to give Chelsea credit for pulling it off. Almost.

“Drunk. And obviously upset. When we do make love, I want to be sure you'll remember it. And, more to the point, I want you to know who it is you're in bed with. I won't settle for being a substitute for any man. Especially some Yankee weasel.”

“Worm,” she corrected.

“Worm.”

She took a deep breath that sent the camisole slipping down the slope of her breasts, to cling tenuously at the tips. The slightest movement, the merest touch, would send it the rest of the way to her feet.

“And for the record, you wouldn't be a substitute, Cash.” Her thickened tongue got all wrapped around the words, but she managed to make herself understood. “In fact, since a certain recent incident in my life has made me decide that honesty is the best policy—the only policy—I must admit that the worm was always a substitute—and a poor one—for you.”

Damn.
Cash could have throttled her. It was bad enough that she showed up at his door just when he'd been fantasizing about all the things he should have done to her yesterday afternoon on his boat.

Hell no, that wasn't enough for her. She had to do a goddamn impromptu striptease in his living room, then, just when he was trying his damndest to keep his itchy hands
off her creamy flesh, she had to announce that all the time she'd been with the weasel—the worm, he corrected—she'd been thinking of him.

He could have her, Cash knew. Right now. Right here. He could drag her down onto the sofa, rip those silky panties off and get her out of his system. Once and for all.

He ran his hands down her arms, linking their fingers together. In an inordinate test of willpower, he drew her to him, until they were touching, thigh to thigh.

“We seem to have a little problem here, Chelsea, darlin'.”

He was so close. So wonderfully close. She could feel the heat coming from his body, seeping into her bloodstream, her bones. She tilted her head back and looked up at him. “The only problem I can see is that you're wearing too many clothes.”

“Lord, lady.” He laughed, but there was no humor in the rough sound. Only pain. “You sure make it hard for a guy to do the right thing.”

“What if I don't want you to do the right thing?” She slipped her hand from his and pressed it between them. “And speaking of hard…”