by JoAnn Ross
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…”
“Dammit, Chelsea.” He jerked her hand away before her stroking touch had him exploding. “I’m trying to be a gentleman.”
“I don’t want you to be a gentleman!” It was her turn to flare. “I want you to make love to me! I need you to make love to me! It’s only fair, after…”
Even as drunk as she was, she realized what she’d been about to say and quickly shut her mouth. So fast and so hard, her teeth slammed together, sending cymbals crashing through her head.
It wasn’t fast enough that Cash didn’t immediately catch on. “Ah, sugar.” He sighed, bent down and touched his forehead to hers. “If it’s a revenge fuck you’re looking for, you’ve come to the wrong place.”
He sounded as disappointed as she felt. She wrapped her arms around his waist and pressed her cheek against his chest. “I was going to break it off with him anyway,” she muttered into his shirt. “So why does it hurt so badly?”
Cash knew he was sunk when his need to comfort overrode his need to take. Although she hadn’t told him what had happened, he had a pretty good idea what she’d walked into when she’d shown up in New York hours before her scheduled arrival time.
“Sometimes wounded pride can sting worse than a broken heart.” His hands stroked her back. His lips brushed over her temple. �
��But the good news is that it heals a lot faster.”
“Really?”
She was looking up at him, hope and trust shining in her wet eyes. She was an emotional woman, Cash reminded himself. Even though she tried not to be. She was a romantic woman, even though he suspected she’d deny it with her last dying breath. And she was far more vulnerable than she allowed anyone to know.
He grinned. “Scout’s honor.”
She managed a smile at that. A wobbly smile that wrapped satin cords around his heart. “I don’t believe you were ever a Boy Scout.”
“You’re right.” He couldn’t have afforded the uniform, even if those stalwart leaders of young men had been willing to allow him into their ranks. Which Cash suspected they undoubtedly wouldn’t have.
He lifted both camisole straps, settling them back onto her shoulders. “The worm’s an idiot. You’re well rid of him.”
“Yes.” Of this she was absolutely certain. “I am.”
The room was spinning faster than ever. Chelsea felt as if she were on a runaway carousel. “I think I also may be very very drunk.”
“I noticed that.”
“Of course you did.” She gave him a blurry smile. “We’ve already determined that you’re an intelligent, clever man.” The mercurial mood swings she’d been demonstrating since arriving at his door had her full, unpainted lips turning down in a pout. “Even if you won’t let me seduce you.”
“Later,” he promised.
“How do you know I’ll feel like seducing you later?” Her tone suggested she just might refuse him for spite.
Cash grinned. At her. At himself. At this ridiculous situation. “I’ll take my chances.” He scooped her up in his arms and began carrying her down the hallway.
“Where are we going?”
“I’m putting you to bed.”
“Oh, goodie.” She leaned her cheek against his chest and sighed with feminine satisfaction.
“Alone.”
She looked up at him, surprised and more than a little disappointed. “I never would have expected this from you, Cash Beaudine.”
“Believe me, sweetheart, it’s coming as one helluva surprise to me, too.” He entered the bedroom, pulled back the spread and slid her between the sheets.
“I was supposed to check back into the Magnolia House,” she remembered suddenly. “Jeb may worry if I don’t show up.”
“I’ll call him and tell him you’ve been detained.”
“Thank you.” Every muscle in her body began to succumb to the blissful comfort of the wide bed. She could feel them going lax, one by one. Her brain was on the verge of shutdown. She closed her eyes. “For everything.”
There was no point in answering. She was already asleep. Her breathing was slow and deep. The lines in her forehead and the deep brackets beside her mouth softened.
Cash stood there, looking down at her, thinking how inviting, how right, she looked in his bed.
He sat down in the chair beside the bed and simply watched her.
Soon, Cash promised himself.
“I don’t understand,” Mildred Landis whined. “Didn’t you tell Miz Scarbrough that your mother was ill?”
“Yes, Mama,” Dorothy lied deftly as she cut the fryer into pieces.
“Then she should have let you come home early. So you could take me to the doctor.”
“Mrs. Wickersham already agreed to take you to the doctor, Mama.”
“But Mrs. Wickersham isn’t kin.” Mildred poured another two fingers of Johnnie Walker Red into her glass. Then, on reconsideration, added another splash. For medicinal purposes.
The glass was one of a set of crystal she’d inherited from her mother. The gold rims had been worn off over the years from heavy use. Mildred was not the first generation of Palmer women partial to spirits.
“It’s a daughter’s duty to take care of her mother.” She took a drink and enjoyed the warm feeling that flowed through her. She hadn’t gotten to the click yet. But it would come.
“Keeping my job is taking care of you, Mama,” Dorothy said. “Without it, we wouldn’t have the insurance that pays for all your doctor’s visits. And your pills.”
And the money for all the damn booze you guzzle down like tap water, she felt like adding, but having had to put up with Roxanne’s tantrums all day, Dorothy wasn’t up to arguing with her mother.
Ignoring the litany of complaints she’d been hearing all her life, Dorothy skinned the chicken, cutting away the pebbly flesh and fat. If she allowed herself to actually listen to her mama, she’d probably start to scream. And the problem with that was, she wasn’t sure if once started, she’d be able to stop.
She began dipping the chicken pieces in the milk. With her mother’s voice droning in her ear, she let her mind to wander to New York. And to Chelsea Cassidy.
The writer’s refusal to immediately succumb to Roxanne’s will was making Dorothy’s life a living hell. Roxanne was not easy to get along with at the best of times. When she wasn’t getting her way, she could make the Wicked Witch of the West look like unrelentingly pleasant Melanie Wilkes by comparison.
Even as she wished Chelsea would agree, so they could all get on with their lives, Dorothy secretly admired her gumption. It took a lot of nerve to stand up to Roxanne. Lord knows, she’d never been able to manage it.
Of course, if she didn’t have Mama…
“Are you listening to me, Dorothy Rose?”
“Yes, Mama,” Dorothy murmured obediently. The air seemed to be growing thinner by the minute. There were times when she found it difficult to breathe around her mother.
“Then why didn’t you answer my question?”
“I’m sorry.” She dipped the chicken into the bread crumbs. “I guess I was thinking about work.”
“That’s all you think about,” Mildred complained, her false teeth clacking. “Your precious work. If you thought half as much about your poor ailing mother as you do that fancy career of yours, all the time jet-setting up to New York City—”
“I’m Ms. Scarbrough’s personal assistant. I have to go where she wants me to go.”
“Even if it means abandoning me?”
“I’d never abandon you, Mama.”
That was, heaven help her, the unfortunate truth. Dorothy frowned as she thought about her sister, happily living in Minneapolis with her husband and two children. And her brother, a police captain in Albuquerque. They’d both escaped, leaving her here in the house they’d all unhappily grown up in, trying to please a woman who steadfastly refused to be pleased.
“That’s what they all say,” Mildred muttered.
She’d heard this before, more times than she could count. How everyone had run off, allowing her mother to play the role of the martyr. A role Dorothy suspected she relished because it gave her an excuse to drink. It never occurred to Mildred that her drinking was what had run all the other members of her family off in the first place.
“What was your question, Mama?”
“What question are you talking about?”
“You asked me a question,” Dorothy reminded her.
“Oh. That’s right. I wanted to make sure you’re not using whole milk on that chicken.”
“It’s Pet evaporated skim milk, Mama.”
“Good. Because I gotta watch my cholesterol. The doctor says my heart could go at any time. Just stop. Like an eight-day windup clock on the ninth day.”
Doc Roberts, who’d taken care of the Landis family for years, had assured Dorothy that her mother’s heart was as strong as a mule. And it wasn’t as if she did anything to put a strain on it. Days were spent lying on the sofa, devouring the National Enquirer and the UFO Newsletter and watching television.
To make matters even worse, this past year, as her drinking had increased, she’d started confusing old movies with reality. The Exorcist had her convinced Satan was living in the attic and it had been nearly impossible to get her to take a bath after she’d seen the dead woman in the tub in The
Shining.
Just last week Sheriff Burke had called Dorothy at work with the unwelcome news that her mama had taken a potshot at the mailman with the 12-gauge Ithica shotgun Irwin Landis had left behind when he’d escaped his alcoholic wife and their nightmare of a marriage fifteen years ago.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with the police nowadays,” Mildred had complained bitterly as Dorothy had driven her home. Unfortunately, the mailman had insisted on pressing charges. “Joe Burke oughta be goin’ after that serial killer, instead of arresting a potential victim.”
“There isn’t any killer, Mama.”
“Then you want to tell me why that man came to the house, if not to kill me? A person is most usually dead before skinning.”
“No one was going to kill you. Or skin you, Mama. Mr. Littleton has been our postman for years. He’s come to the house nearly every day since I was a little girl.”
“He was going to skin me. Then he was going to eat me,” Mildred insisted. “With a fine Chianti.”
“Oh, Lord.” Comprehension came crashing down. Stopping at the sign at the intersection a few blocks away from the house, Dorothy lowered her forehead to the steering wheel and prayed for strength. “You’ve been watching Silence of the Lambs, haven’t you?”
“Always hated Chianti,” Mildred muttered. “It’s too damn sweet for my taste. I don’t know how those eye-talians can stand to drink it. But then again, what can you expect from damn wop foreigners?”
The next morning Dorothy had called the cable company, and cut off access to The Movie Channel.
“Don’t worry, Mama,” she said now as she put the chicken in the oven. “I got this recipe right out of Oprah’s cookbook. It’s about as healthy as you can get.”
“I’ll bet Oprah would take care of her mother,” Mildred muttered, returning her focus to herself, as always. “’Specially if her mama were on the brink of death.”
That said, she tossed back the drink, then held her glass out for a refill.
Chapter Fourteen
