by JoAnn Ross
Chelsea woke with a splitting headache and a tongue that felt as if it had mysteriously grown a coat of fur while she’d been sleeping. Without opening her eyes, she reached out for her alarm clock. When she realized it wasn’t there, that she wasn’t at home where she belonged, her first thought was that she was back in the bedroom at Magnolia House.
No, that couldn’t be right. She remembered checking out of the inn. And going to the airport.
And flying back to New York.
New York.
The memory came crashing back. Nelson in bed with Heather. Nelson asking her to stay. Nelson having the nerve to accuse her of driving him into another woman’s arms with her own selfish neglect.
She remembered walking out of the apartment. And going…where? Although it was difficult to concentrate, she struggled to recall what she’d done next.
The bank. Where she’d learned that the man she’d tried so hard to love had robbed her blind.
She’d been in a state of shock, she remembered, as she’d left the bank and taken a taxi uptown to Mary Lou’s office. From there to the airport, where she caught the next plane to Savannah, then a cab to Raintree. Where she’d planned to check back into Jeb’s cozy inn.
So, that’s obviously where she was, after all.
Pleased to have solved that little puzzle, she forced her eyelids open. The drapes were closed, cloaking the room in a comforting darkness that while easy on her aching eyes, did nothing to help her figure out what time it was. She looked around, hoping to find a clock, when her gaze collided with Cash’s. He was sprawled in a chair not far from the bed.
“What are you doing here?”
He lifted a dark brow. “Where would you expect me to be? It is my bedroom.”
“Your bedroom?”
She sat up and looked around again, seeking some proof that he was lying. But the pillow case her head had been resting on all night told the truth. It carried his scent, revealing that somehow, she had ended up in Cash’s bed.
“I’m not at Magnolia House?”
“Since you weren’t in any condition to leave last night, I called Jeb and told him you’d be checking back in this afternoon. Unless you’d rather just stay where you are.” Cash liked the idea of keeping her in his house. And in his bed.
“No.” She shook her head then wished she hadn’t. “No,” she repeated, flinching. She tentatively lifted the sheet and noticed with some relief that she was still wearing her underwear. “Did we…? I mean, we didn’t…?”
“Did we, what?”
“Dammit, Cash, you know very well what I mean. Did we make love or not?”
“You can relax. Nothing happened, Chelsea.”
Oddly, she was vaguely disappointed. “You wouldn’t lie. Not about that.”
“No.” His answer was curt. Harsh. And although softly spoken, it made her head ache even worse. She began massaging her temples in a vain attempt to soothe the throbbing as she tried to recall how she’d ended up here, in Cash’s bed.
“I have my faults, Chelsea. But taking advantage of a woman in the condition you were in when you showed up at my door last night isn’t one of them.”
His smile was a grim slash completely lacking in humor. “Although, I’ll have to admit, you put what little character I have to the test when you started that striptease routine.”
“Oh, God.” Her memory flooded back, bringing with it a rush of humiliation. She suddenly remembered taking off her clothes. Remembered daring—then, heaven help her, begging!—him to make love to her.
She flopped back against the pillow, closed her eyes again and covered them with her arm. “I’m so embarrassed.”
“There’s no need to be. You’re not the first woman to drink too much champagne.”
“I’ll bet I’m not the first woman to come on to you, either,” she mumbled.
“No.”
“Well, that’s certainly honest.”
“I’ve never lied to you, Chelsea. So, there’s no reason to start now. Of course there have been other women in my life. Too many, at times, when I was younger and less discriminating. But none of them have anything to do with you and me.”
“It would if we were together.”
“If we were together, sweetheart, there’d be no reason for me to ever want any other woman.”
“That’s probably what all men say.”
With that single statement, she filled in the blanks of the questions he’d been asking himself all night long. “I told you, I don’t lie. If the reason you got drunk yesterday was because you’d found out your Yankee worm is a liar—”
“Not only a liar, but a cheat.” She sighed. “I caught him in bed with an editorial assistant from the magazine.”
“That’s got to hurt,” he allowed.
“You don’t seem all that surprised by the revelation.”
“Actually, I’m not. Since the guy was screwing around on you back at Yale.”
“He was?” She couldn’t believe that. “Why didn’t you say anything?”
“I figured you had an open relationship. Since you weren’t exactly faithful at the time, either,” he reminded her.
“That was different,” Chelsea muttered, unwilling to concede that she wasn’t exactly on firm ground here. “Nelson and I weren’t living together back then. We weren’t seriously discussing marriage.”
“What you had with Nelson—” he heaped an extra helping of scorn on his rival’s name “—doesn’t concern me. It didn’t back then, and it doesn’t now. The point is that you’re not the first woman, or man, for that matter, to have an unfaithful lover.
“So now that you’ve discovered that your blue-blooded fiancé is a two-timing bastard, you move on. And forget it.”
“Move on with you?”
“I have a few things in my favor,” he said mildly. “I don’t snore, I don’t steal the covers, I don’t lie. And my male ego’s strong enough that I don’t have to pump it up by screwing around on a woman I’m supposed to be committed to.”
“Next you’ll be assuring me that you can make the earth move.”
“That goes without saying.”
His smile was too appealing. Too enticing. “I think I could have accepted Nelson being unfaithful,” she admitted quietly. “In fact, I honestly wasn’t all that surprised. It was the other thing that set me off.”
“The other thing?” He ran through a list of possibilities. “This assistant,” he said carefully, “it was a female?”
“What?” Deciding the alcohol must have killed off a great many brain cells, Chelsea didn’t immediately get his meaning. “Oh, yes.” She laughed. “Nelson isn’t gay. Not that there’s anything wrong with being gay,” she said quickly.
“Nothing at all,” he agreed. “And now that we’ve both proven ourselves to be properly politically correct people of the 90s, you want to tell me what, exactly it was, that decided to make you try to drown the guy in champagne?”
“He mugged me.” She remembered, as she’d left the bank, thinking he’d been no different than those street criminals who came up behind you at the automatic teller, held a gun to your head and demanded your money or your life.
“Mugged?” He was out of the chair like a shot, his hands curled into fists at his sides. Chelsea stared up at him, stunned. He looked like a man about to commit mayhem. Or murder. “If he so much as laid a finger on you—”
“No!” She reached out ineffectually. “I was speaking metaphorically, Cash. What I meant was that he stole all my money.”
It was the one thing he never would have considered. Cash would have been no more surprised if she’d told him that her Yankee worm had taken up with aliens from another planet.
“You’re kidding.”
“Believe me, being broke is nothing to kid about. He cleaned me out. Lock, stock and mutual funds.” She sighed. “I kept telling myself on the flight back down here that money isn’t everything. But it’s embarrassing to have to borrow lunch money from
your agent.”
It occurred to him that seven years ago he may have actually enjoyed this little reversal in roles. Now, hearing the news, he could only feel a cold fury at Waring. And sympathy for Chelsea.
Although perhaps, he considered, there was a silver lining to this. “How are you planning to afford the inn?” Even as he called himself a bastard for enjoying the idea, it crossed Cash’s mind that perhaps she’d have to stay here with him.
“That shouldn’t be a problem. My agent is working something out with Roxanne.”
“So you’ve decided to take the job.”
“It’s not as if I have any choice. I told you, Cash. I’m flat broke. I need the money.”
“There’s always your job on the magazine.”
“Journalism doesn’t pay very much,” she admitted. “I never could have afforded to live the way Nelson and I did if I hadn’t had family money.”
The inheritance from her father, which consisted mostly of two life insurance policies, had gone into interest bearing bonds that had provided a small, but steady income. Then there were various bequests from grandparents and other assorted Whitneys and Lowells that had allowed her to live comfortably.
“And now it’s all gone?”
“All but my trust fund.” Fortunately, her great-grandmother’s attorneys had drawn up an ironclad trust that, even with all his slimy, sneaky tricks, Nelson hadn’t been able to get around.
“Of course. The trust fund.” Cash nodded. Obviously among the wealthy, broke meant something different than it did to the rest of the world’s mere mortals. “Since you brought it up, may I ask how much we’re talking about?”
“Two million dollars. Give or take a few hundred thousand.”
“Two million?” He shook his head in self-disgust. And he’d been feeling sorry for her? Hell, suckered again, Beaudine.
“But I can’t touch it for another two years. So, for the time being, I’m still broke.”
“Can’t you borrow on the funds? Use it for collateral for a loan?”
“No.” It was her turn to shake her head. “My great-grandmother was very specific about that. Since she wanted her heirs to understand the value of work, she arranged it so we couldn’t come into wealth at too young an age. She was also an early feminist, which is why, I suppose, she put in that other clause.”
“What clause?”
“That if any female heir marries before her thirtieth birthday, the trust reverts to charity.”
Suddenly, he understood everything. “That’s why you always said you were going to marry the worm when you were thirty.”
“Yes.”
“So you could get the money.”
“It’s quite a lot of money,” she felt obliged to point out.
“I’m not arguing that. I’m just finding it interesting that love comes with such a convenient price tag among the upper classes.” He folded his arms and looked down at her. “So, what’s the cutoff point?”
“Cutoff point?” Her head was throbbing, her eyes felt as if they were bleeding, her mouth was as parched as Death Valley, and her stomach was anything but steady. She really was not in the mood for an in-depth discussion of her distressing financial situation.
“There’s an old joke,” he said, not answering her directly. “About a man who asks a woman if she’ll go to bed with him for a million dollars. When she immediately agrees, he asks her if she’ll go to bed with him for five dollars. Well, of course she’s insulted. So she asks him what he thinks she is.”
“‘We’ve already determined that,’ the man tells her. ‘Now we’re just establishing price.’” Cash’s lips curled in an unappealing smirk.
“If your great-grandmother’s trust fund was five dollars, you’d have married the worm and not given it a second thought. But two million was enough to wait for. There’s a pretty big range in between. I was just wondering what your price is, Irish.”
“I don’t want to discuss this with you right now, Cash,” she said, hedging the issue until her head stopped pounding enough to let her come up with an answer. “The fact is that right now, I don’t have a penny to my name.
“And yes, I could stay on at the magazine, but my editor was one of the people advising me to take a leave of absence to collaborate with Roxanne. She’s already made a substantial offer for first serial rights.”
“So, looks like you’re going to be sticking around for a while.” His tone was casual, but she could tell he liked the idea. The funny thing was, as irritated as she was at him for his attitude concerning her trust fund, she liked the idea, too.
“Yes,” she said. “I guess I am.”
After a shower and a light breakfast of cinnamon toast, tea and fruit, which Cash prepared and her stomach, amazingly, accepted, Chelsea began, just barely, to feel like a new woman.
Cash drove her to the inn, carrying her bags into the cozy lobby.
“Thank you,” she said. “For everything.”
“You don’t need to thank me, Chelsea.”
“Yes, I do.” She nodded. Then cringed as the movement sent boulders tumbling around in her head. “Perhaps I can buy you lunch. Or dinner.”
“Are you asking me out on a date?”
“Of course not,” she said a bit too quickly. “I was simply trying to repay your hospitality.”
“Darlin’, any time you want to come sleep in my bed, you’re welcome. And you damn sure won’t have to buy me lunch afterward. Besides, a woman in your situation should watch her pennies.”
“Oh.” Amazingly, she’d put her financial fix out of her mind. Even more amazing, and depressing, was the knowledge that he was right. She couldn’t believe that she couldn’t freely buy a man a damn cheeseburger.
He ran a finger down her nose in an affectionate gesture that carried no sexual overtones. “I’d offer to spring for lunch, but I’m afraid I’ve made other plans.”
“With Roxanne?” The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them. Damn. It wasn’t any of her business who he spent his free time with.
“No, not Roxanne.”
“Oh.”
He knew she was dying to ask, understood pride was standing in her way, and decided to help her out. “I promised a friend we’d go out and drown some worms.”
“You’re going to drown worms?”
She looked so appalled by that idea, Cash laughed. “Fishing, city girl. We’re going fishing on the river. See if we can hook a few catfish.”
“That sounds nice.” She wondered if the friend was tall, blond and buxom.
“You don’t have to clean them. But Jamie likes getting out on the boat.”
“Who wouldn’t.” Obviously blond. Platinum, no doubt. With big southern hair tailor-made for a beauty queen tiara. And she’d undoubtedly have a perfect figure, the kind made for swimsuit competitions and Playboy auditions. Chelsea envisioned a Miss April clone lounging on the deck of Cash’s boat in an itsy-bitsy bikini. “It’s a lovely boat.”
He’d lost her. Cash could feel her retreating mentally from the conversation and wondered what he’d said wrong.
“How about I take a rain check,” he suggested. “Tell you what, if we catch enough fish, I’ll treat you to my own recipe for fried catfish. I hate to brag, but even Jamie swears it’s the second best in Georgia.”
“I suppose Jamie makes the first best?” she asked acidly as her rebellious mind conjured up the blonde wearing high heels, a towering chef hat perched atop her platinum bouffant, and a frilly apron over her swimsuit while cooking up a mess of fried catfish for her talent competition.
“Actually, his mom owns Catfish Charlie’s. She holds the title for the best catfish in the state.”
“His mom?” Chelsea stared up at him. “Jamie’s a man?”
“An eleven-year-old boy.”
“A boy.”
Cash grinned when he heard the obvious relief mixed in with her surprise. “You were jealous.”
“Don’t be silly.” She tossed her h
ead and lied through her teeth. “I was not.”
“You were.” Rocking forward on the balls of his feet, he placed a quick light kiss against her tightly set lips. “And I gotta tell you, Irish, it makes me feel damn good. Since I’ve been jealous of the worm for years.”
“You were? Why?”
“Because he had you, of course.”
She’d half expected him to mention Nelson’s wealth, or family ties. His admission came as a surprise and a pleasure. “That’s a sweet thing to say.”
“It’s the truth. As for Jamie, his dad Charlie and I were fishing buddies back when we were in high school. He died a couple years ago, and Sharleen’s been working her tail off, like a retriever during quail season, struggling to keep the business afloat by herself and trying to keep an eye on a growing boy.
“When Jamie got caught shooting out windows with his BB gun on a bunch of tract houses under construction last fall, I stepped in and took him under my wing.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
Cash shrugged. “To tell the truth, it started out as a favor to an old friend. Then I realized that I’m the one getting the benefits from the deal. Jamie’s one terrific kid.” He smiled. “Maybe one of these days you can come over and the three of us can go out on the boat. Make a day of it.”
“I’d like that.”
It was the truth. And although she didn’t realize it now, later Chelsea would look back on this conversation and realize this was the moment when she’d fallen in love with Cash.
Chapter Fifteen
Although her head was splitting and her stomach felt as if giant condors had taken up residence in it, as she rode out to Belle Terre with Roxanne, Dorothy and Jo, Chelsea decided that was a small price to pay for yesterday’s indulgence.
Workmen crawled all over the plantation house, like industrious worker ants on a hill. Painters were sandblasting years and layers of paint from the brick exterior; at one end of the house, a scaffolding was being erected in order to repair the chimneys.
“Fortunately, the inspection didn’t reveal any major structural flaws,” Roxanne said. “My contractor, Mr. McBride, assured me that all we need is a little mortar mix.”
