Southern Comforts (26 page)

“That's a $250 shirt,” she complained when he chose a blue silk custom-tailored shirt.

“And worth every dollar, too,” he agreed, his cheer restored now that the power had shifted back to him.

Vowing that she was going to get rid of this evil monster—and soon—Roxanne watched him dress and imagined slashing the blue silk, and the flesh beneath it. Again and again.

It would almost be worth going to prison, she thought. But she had a horrible feeling that George was like all those monsters in the horror movies. Whatever she did to get rid of him, just when she'd think he was finally dead, he'd pop up again with that evil, devil's grin and try to destroy her.

The trick was to destroy him first.

But how?

 

After a long, love-filled night, Chelsea and Cash were having breakfast in bed, when the phone rang. Thinking it might be Roxanne, Cash scooped it up. “Hello?”

His response was greeted with silence.

“Hello?” he tried again.

“I was calling for Chelsea Cassidy,” the modulated female voice said. There was enough similarity in inflection to give Cash a very good idea who it was.

“The operator put you through to the wrong room,” he said, wanting to spare Chelsea having to come up with explanations she was not yet prepared to make. “Just a minute, and I'll go get her.”

He covered the receiver with his palm, earning a curious look from Chelsea. “Is that for me?”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Who is it? Roxanne? Surely not Nelson?”

“I think it's your mother.”

“My mother?” She unconsciously pulled the sheet up over her naked breasts. “She's calling me here?”

“Seems so. I figured I'd let her think you slept in your own bedroom.”

“Thank you.” Chelsea had a very good feeling what her mother was calling about. She sighed and held out her hand. “I'd better talk to her. Before she comes to the hotel and begins banging on our door.”

“The clerk won't give out our room number.”

“The clerk isn't
supposed
to give out our room number,” Chelsea corrected dryly. “But you've never seen my mother in action. Hello, Mother.” Chelsea forced a cheery, surprised tone into her voice. “How did you find me?”

“It wasn't that difficult,” Deidre Lowell said. “When Nelson told me you'd returned to the city this weekend, I simply began calling hotels. I started with the Plaza, then the Four Seasons and the Waldorf. Then I tried the Grand
Hyatt. To tell you the truth, Chelsea dear, the Paramount was very far down on my list of possible choices.”

Her disapproving tone suggested that Chelsea had suddenly taken to wearing leather and turned biker chick.

“I'm sorry you had to go to all that trouble.” Chelsea dragged her hand through her hair and wondered how it was, that no matter how old or how successful she became, her mother could make her feel like a seven-year-old with scraped knees again. “I was going to call you.”

“Were you?” Deidre's tone suggested she didn't believe it for a moment.

“Of course.”

“When? From the departure gate at La Guardia on your way back to Georgia?”

Chelsea closed her eyes as she felt the familiar frustration beginning to build. “Please, Mother, can we discuss this some other time?”

“There's no time like the present. What's your room number?”

“Actually, it's a suite. A two-bedroom suite.”

“And surely one of those bedrooms has a room number?”

Chelsea sighed, knowing that there was no point in trying to refuse her mother's demands. She revealed the number.

“Fine. I'll be right up.”

“You'll be what?” Chelsea gave Cash, who was sitting beside her nibbling idly on her shoulder, a panicky look.

“I said, I'll be right up.”

“You're here? In the hotel?”

“Of course. I'm calling from the lobby. The impossible young man at the desk refused to give out your room number. Even after I explained I was your mother.”

Chelsea silently blessed the desk clerk who was obviously made of tougher stuff than he appeared. “Why don't I meet
you downstairs?” she suggested. “We can go out to breakfast. It'll take me a few minutes to get ready, because I still have to shower and dress—”

“We can talk while you dress.”

“But—”

“Chelsea, you're my daughter. I've seen you without clothes. I'll be right up. I do hope you've at least ordered coffee from room service.”

Chelsea sat there, momentarily frozen, the receiver still to her ear, listening to the hum of the dial tone. Then, she leaped out of the bed.

“She's coming up here.” She ran into the adjoining living room and scooped up her discarded dress and shoes from the floor. “Now!”

“So I gathered.” Cash followed her into the other bedroom, watching as she began tearing apart the bed, desperately trying to make it look as if it had been slept in.

She shot him a quick look, groaning when she noticed that he hadn't bothered to put any clothes on. “You'll have to get dressed. And try to keep her busy while I take a shower.”

“That'll take some time. Maybe you should just throw on a robe—”

“I have to take a shower! Or else she'll know what I was doing all night!”

Personally, Cash thought, taking in the sight of her swollen lips, and cheeks reddened from his beard stubble, Deidre Lowell would have to be blind not to know how her daughter—her adult daughter, he reminded himself—had spent the night. But since he didn't want to give Chelsea anything else to worry about, he didn't mention that.

“I'll do my best to keep her entertained.”

“Thank you. You truly are a sweetheart.” She pulled some underwear from the zipper compartment of her suit-
case, stopping long enough to give him a quick, heartfelt kiss on the way into the adjoining bathroom. “And whatever you do, don't let her intimidate you. If you give my mother an inch, you'll end up lying facedown on the floor with tank tracks running up your back.”

“I'll do my best to survive.” He kissed her back, then released her, closing the bedroom door behind him. He'd just managed to pull on some briefs, a pair of jeans and a shirt, when there was a brisk, determined knock on the door.

Buttoning the shirt, he left his bedroom, and although he didn't believe they'd get away with the ruse for a moment, he closed the door to hide any overtly incriminating evidence. Then he opened the door to the suite.

“Good morning, Mrs. Lowell.” He bestowed his most cordial smile on the woman dressed in the oatmeal-hued raw silk pantsuit. The style was classic, expensive but subdued. It reminded Cash of the outfit Chelsea had been wearing when he first saw her on television. Although the look had been all wrong for her daughter, he decided it suited Deidre Lowell perfectly.

He held out his hand. “I'm Cash Beaudine. It's nice to finally meet you after all these years.”

She looked at his outstretched hand with overt distrust. But good manners prevailed. She slipped her manicured hand into his, barely touching fingers.

“Cash Beaudine?” She frowned. “I don't believe I've heard Chelsea speak of you.”

“We knew each other a long time ago.” He moved aside, inviting her in. She brushed past him, surrounded by a fragrant, obviously very expensive cloud. “At Yale.”

“You went to Yale?” Her gaze swept over him, quickly, judiciously, and although her polite expression didn't waver, he knew he'd just been sized up and found lacking. His
sharp eyes noticed the way that little line had deepened between her brows when she took in his bare feet.

“Yes, ma'am. I majored in architecture.”

“Architecture?” This time a hint of blatant disbelief slipped into her tone.

“Chelsea has a very strong interest in the subject.”

“I wasn't aware of that.”

“Oh, she's quite an expert. We used to have many long discussions arguing the relative merits of the early 1900s Eclectic Period versus Post 1940s contemporary housing styles.”

His smile was as smooth as whipped butter. Deidre blinked, obviously trying to decide whether or not he was putting her on.

“Would you care for some coffee?” He turned toward the tray he'd brought into the living room from the bedroom. He figured she didn't need to know he'd dumped his and Chelsea's cups back into the pot.

“Thank you.” She sat down in a suede-covered tub chair and crossed her legs. When her back remained as straight as every old photograph he'd ever seen of Queen Victoria, Cash realized that it could be a very long morning.

“Cream? Sugar?”

“Just black.” She watched him fix the coffee, glanced over at the adjoining door, where the sound of running water had suddenly stopped. “So, Mr…. I'm sorry, but I'm terrible at names—”

“Beaudine,” he said helpfully, handing her the coffee.

“Beaudine.” She took a tentative sip. Then, apparently finding it acceptable, eyed him over the rim of the cup. “Your accent tells me you're not from New York.”

“No, ma'am, I'm not. I was born in Raintree, Georgia. That's a little town about thirty miles outside Savannah.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “I have some very dear friends in
Atlanta. Martin and Lucinda Callaway. I don't suppose you know them?”

“No, I don't believe we've met.”

“They have a lovely home in the Buckhead area. A white Georgian that has always reminded me of that house in that movie. What was its name…?”

“Tara.”

“Yes, that's it. It's truly exquisite. And they have the most beautiful gardens. I've often told Lucinda that I would give anything to be able to get things to grow so well at my Long Island home. I suppose it's your climate. All that sun. And moisture.”

“Things do tend to get hot and steamy.”

Her eyes narrowed again, as if she suspected him of making a joke at her expense. “Are you employed here in the city?”

“Actually, I'm currently working in Raintree.” He couldn't resist tossing his résumé into the conversation. “Before that, I worked in San Francisco. As a partner at Mathison, Tang, Kendall and Peters.”

She arched a narrow blond brow. “That's a very well-respected firm.”

“So I was told when I was hired right out of school. Yale,” he reminded her easily.

“Yes. So you said.” She took another sip, then put the cup down onto the black kidney-shaped coffee table. “I have friends in San Francisco, as well. Pamela and Ramsey Jennings. Of Pacific Heights.”

Cash nodded. “Them, I know. I worked on an office design for Ramsey's law firm.”

He'd also slept with a very predatory Mrs. Jennings his first year in the big city. Admittedly a fish out of water in the lofty echelons of high society, at first the attention from all those rich, sleek, attractive women had him thinking he'd
landed in tall cotton. It hadn't taken Cash long to realize that Pamela and her pampered friends had considered him merely a sexual toy.

“May I ask what you're currently doing in Georgia?”

“I've established my own firm. I refurbish old houses.”

“How interesting.” Only the faint twitch of her lips revealed that she obviously considered this a step down from his high-profile commercial work in the Bay Area.

“I think so. I'm currently working with Roxanne Scarbrough.”

“So is Chelsea. Isn't that a coincidence?” Her deepening frown suggested she did not find it a pleasant or encouraging one.

Before Cash could respond, the bedroom door opened and Chelsea came out, wearing a halter-style dress with a very short flip skirt and white sandals. The fact that the huge white daisies covering the dress had been painted onto a fire-engine red field told Cash that she was not feeling as brave as she seemed determined to appear. More daisies bloomed on the scarlet acrylic earrings dangling from her lobes, and across the wide matching bracelet.

“Hello, Mother.” She brushed an air kiss against the older woman's powdered cheek. “This is a surprise.”

Deidre's eyes narrowed as they skimmed over her daughter in an obviously disapproving way. “This seems to be a day for surprises. Wherever did you get that dress?”

“At Saks.” When Chelsea twirled, like a little girl showing off a new party dress, Cash held his breath, waiting for a glimpse of silk panty, which fortunately didn't quite happen. “I thought it was fun.”

“Fun.” Deidre's tone revealed her belief that fashion and fun were mutually exclusive.

“Fun.” Chelsea tilted her chin. “As in, it makes me feel good to wear it.”

“Well, that's what's always been important, hasn't it, dear? That you feel good. Despite how your outrageous behavior affects others.”

Cash watched as Chelsea went as white as ice. Then red flags rose to wave in her too pale cheeks.

“What did you want, Mother?”

Cash gave her credit for a valiant attempt to change the subject. But Deidre was not prepared to relinquish control.

“At the moment, I wish to discuss your distressing lack of good taste. You look common. Good heavens Chelsea, you remind me of your father.”

Bingo. She'd just hit the bull's-eye. Chelsea rose to her full height, stiffened her spine and looked down at her mother. “My father was far from common. You know, Mother, you've been telling me all my life how much I reminded you of my father. And you know what? I'm tired of all that bullshit.”

Ignoring her mother's shocked gasp, she forged on. “I'm me. Chelsea Cassidy. Not Chelsea Lowell. Not Chelsea Whitney. And, thank God, I'm never going to be Chelsea Waring.

“Chelsea Cassidy,” she repeated firmly. She poked a finger into the bright yellow face of a daisy in the center of her chest. “No matter how hard you've tried to deny it, no matter how many headmistresses and sadistic Germanic nuns you'll pay to beat those Cassidy genes out of me, I will always be Dylan Cassidy's daughter as well as yours.”