by JoAnn Ross
“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 back seat 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 life-style market, and her fans love her.”
It crossed Chelsea’s mind that were she to write the truth about the beloved life-style 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 l
ifted 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.
